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secretobsessionstuff · 10 months

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Sick Micah at formal event

Inspired by THIS post, and here's a little snapshot of it:

A and B are in an extremely formal situation where they are required to stand for long periods of time.

A has been running a pretty nasty fever since the night before, but they both HAVE to be there (think of a social event that will impact their whole career, so they really have no choice but to go).

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Sometimes Micah felt sick over the idea of being an adult. The very concept of taxes made him want to puke. And as life would have it, the one night when he was excited about being grown and taking on new responsibilities was the night when he felt like puking for real. This wasn’t the psychosomatic queasiness that came from paying his bills; it was the type of queasiness that came from a bug in his digestive track.

He'd been up all night with Alexi. His lovely, perfect boyfriend had sat with him on the bathroom floor while he vomited and dry heaved for hours. Now, that same lovely, perfect boyfriend stood with him at the thirtieth anniversary for Phoenix Fire Press. That was the publishing company that was going to publish Micah’s very first novel. This evening was a big deal, not just because it was a milestone for the medium company, but because they were opening their business to new potential shareholders. Micah had been given an invitation to attend the event in hopes that he would invest in his future at the publishing company.

The one downside was that the talk of owning shares and how that whole process worked came at the end of the evening. First, they had to celebrate the many new authors who had joined them in the past year, Micah included.

The night dragged on for quite some time. Micah couldn’t say how long because his sense of reality was altered by the heat in his brain. He saw mirages everywhere he looked, like blurry lines of text or the sweet promise of his bed. He must have caught his head from rolling off his shoulders a million times.

“Oh, good, you’re still conscious,” Alexi said as he came back to Micah, holding glasses of water. “I thought I’d come back and find you on the floor.”

Micah could not remember what sarcasm even was, therefore, he did not return the jest. “Lexi, how long have we been here?”

Alexi almost—almost—spilled the water all over himself when he turned his wrist to check his watch. But he caught himself in time, placing the glasses down on a ledge before seeing that they’d been at the event for a little over an hour. He told Micah this who simply groaned.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Alexi gently rubbed his thumb over Micah’s flushed cheek. His skin was hotter than phoenix fire. “The fever reducers aren’t working, eh?”

“No,” Micah grumbled as he wrapped his arms around his stomach. None of the meds he took were helping. The nausea hadn’t lessened and neither had he aches in his body. He was just a blob of pain and useless medication that floated thickly through his bloodstream.

They’d gotten to the event late (on account of Micah needing to retch emptily on the side of the road), meaning there was only standing room available. All the tables had been taken. It seemed the Press hadn’t bet on this many people showing up. But they were a reputable company that would only go up; it was no wonder that many people were interested in owning shares. Micah had been ecstatic about the idea of investing in something that he was passionate about. He loved the publishers, and editors, and marketing team at Phoenix Fire Press. He wanted to grow with them. He wanted to recreate himself with this opportunity. This was an adult opportunity that he was ready to take on.

But all he wanted was to curl up in his bed and cry. He didn’t feel very adult in that moment, with his aching tummy.

He shifted his weight from one foot to the next, trying to remain upright and sooth the aches from standing so long. The balance needed to do this was not there, and twice and had to catch himself before he fell. His vision darkened at the edges with each attempt. Micah put his hand over his eyes and moaned.

“Micah, you’re shaking,” Alexi whispered from behind him.

“I can’t do this any longer.” His voice wobbled with emotion.

Suddenly Micah felt Alexi’s hands on his waist. He let himself be pulled back against his boyfriend’s chest. It was strong and secure; he could so easily let go of the tension in his shoulder if he…could…just…

“It’s okay. Lean on me,” Alexi whispered in his ear. His breath was warm on Micah’s neck. The poor sick boy shivered despite the heat that Alexi felt radiating off his back. He swore he could see the air make lazy waves around them.

Micah didn’t need to be told twice. He dropped his shoulders, let his head fall back against Alexi’s chest just under his chin, and allowed himself to be enveloped in his boyfriend’s embrace. Some tension sloughed off his muscles. His eye closed immediately, and the sound of the event became a distant white noise.

But before he gave in entirely, he craned his neck to get Alexi’s attention. A kiss on his temple let him know that he had it. “Give me a nudge when they start talking about the shareholders.”

“I will.” Alexi’s lips fluttered softly over his temple. “Just relax. I’ve got you.”

Alexi was pleased with the heavy weight that settled in his arms. It meant that his boyfriend got a small rest, even if it wasn’t of the best quality. He wouldn’t feel much better until he could lie down for real, close his eyes, and forget about the world. But this was a start.

While Micah drooped, his fever rose. It burned in his face, turning his cheeks into red roses. Little blooms of heat sprouted beneath his eyes. Alexi worried that Micah would burn up into ashes, and that he wouldn’t rise again. He’d been so sick all last night and throughout the day. He was surprised that Micah had enough fluid left in his body to turn his eyes glassy, what with all the sweating and vomiting and diarrhea. This bug was testing him, but he knew that Micah would pull through.

But just then, Micah didn’t have the energy to keep pushing. Alexi could feel his boyfriend slipping in and out of consciousness. He shifted and repositioned himself so that he could keep Micah from slouching or crumpling to the floor.

They went on like this for another twenty minutes, until the MC announced that the company was moving into a new stage. Interested parties were encouraged to listen and consider becoming new shareholders. The press had received three impressive grants which allowed for development and expansion. They wanted all their clients and peers to consider taking a chance on the business. Together they would grow exponentially over the next thirty years. There was much talk about rebirth and protentional and fiery passion. Of course, a bunch of literarily nerds would lean heavily into the metaphor.

Speaking of leaning heavily, Alexi nudged his boyfriend awake. “Honey, this is it. We’re almost done.”

“Is it time?”

“It is.”

Alexi helped Micah to stand up straight on his own. They stood now face to face. Micah’s face was sweaty and flushed, but also ready to wear a mask of health. Micah blinked hard, rolled his shoulder to wake up his sore muscles, and kept his head high. Alexi only saw the smallest knit in his eyebrow because he knew of the many emotions that ran through his boyfriend’s mind.

“Micah, I know you’re nervous about the future, but I also know this is right. You’re going to grow as a writer and as member of this team. It’s scary starting something new, but I’ll be with you for the whole thing.”

Micah sighed and closed his eyes. “Thank you for supporting my decisions. It feels easier with you here.”

Alexi kissed him on the nose. “Go on. I’ll be here when you get back, unless of course you want me to come?”

“No, I want to start this on my own. I’ll tell you all about it later.”

“Sure.” Alexi had a pretty good hunch that later meant much later.

And his hunch turned out to be right, because his boyfriend returned nearly an hour later, frazzled by the social interaction and exhausted from the ache in his bones. He shuffled his feet on the floor, looking like a zombie who had no business being in a nice suit at a fancy meeting.

Well, the meeting was over, and judging by Micah’s expression of relief, it went as well as it could have. Things were in motion now and their shared financial future was tied to a company that Micah was proud to work with.

The light in the halls dimmed and brightened in time with the beating of Micah’s sluggish heartbeat. As he walked back to his boyfriend, happy about leaving soon, the beating in his chest got stronger and faster. He felt sweat prickle the back of his neck and nausea bubble in his stomach. As soon as he was within arm’s reach of his boyfriend, he let the veneer of health crack and slip from his face, a grimace of pain and discomfort contorting his features.

Alexi hugged Micah to his chest. “Oh, baby, you’re so sick. Can you make it to the car?”

Micah shook his head and mumbled into Alexi’s neck. “I’m gonna throw up.”

With the gurgling growing louder in Micah’s tummy, he felt himself being pulled to the washroom. As expected at the end of a big event, the washrooms were flooded with people milling around. Micah moaned and covered his mouth with his hand.

“Come on, this way,” Alexi said quickly, pulling his boyfriend along.

They hoped over a thick velvet rope that was meant to block guests from going to the second floor. Screw the fancy obnoxious rope with its condescending sign; Alexi wasn’t about to let Micah embarrass himself in front of the people he just attached his future to.

The second floor was closer to heaven than any skyrise because it was peacefully quiet and the washroom was unlocked, Halleluiah! Without another soul around, Micah was able to get sick in peace. He dropped to his knees in front of the toilet and retched up bile and blue Gatorade. It was all he’d been able to force down his throat before the start of the event. The yellow and blue fluids coming up from his stomach made for an odd sight in the toilet, not that Micah had his eyes open to appreciate the science of colour.

“There you go, baby.” Alexi rubbed his boyfriend’s burning hot back. “You did so well tonight.”

“Did I miss it?” Micah slurred out with saliva dripping from his lips.

“Miss what?”

“The share thingy.” A yes, the most adult sentence Micah had said the entire night. “It’s gonna start soon I think.”

“No, no love. You didn’t miss anything. Everything is okay.” Alexi ran his hands worriedly over the sweat stains that dripped down Micah’s spine. Even through the blazer, his fever was raging. “You’ve got to take this off, Micah. Your temperature is soaring.”

“What if someone comes in?” Micah said after spitting a glob of spit into the toilet.

“No one will. I’ll watch the door, if that’ll make you feel better,” Alexi promised, already slipping Micah’s arm out of his sleeve. He got the blazer off and started to unbutton his dress shirt before Micah put his hands over his. “What is it, babe? I’ve got to bring your fever down.”

“Your hands are cold.” Micah shivered. “I’m freezing.”

“I know.” He kissed the side of Micah’s fiery head. “It’s just your fever playing tricks. Trust me. I’m going to get you through this.”

Micah was too tired to put up a fight. He let Alexi undress him from the waist up. He shed his layers like feathers that burned in a fire. Though he was sick and miserable now, tomorrow he would rise from his sleep, ready to start a new day as a new man, or at least a marginally healthier man. In any case, the future was bright and waiting.

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fuckin-sick-bih · 6 months

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Burning Ice

Fandom: Marvel: Loki (TVA era specifically) Summary: Loki is feeling a little overworked and under the weather... and then he really takes a nose dive. Not to fear, the TVA's best agent is on the case! CW: s2 spoiler mentioned in passing but not discussed in depth mess (spray), handkerchief, fever, whump, negative self-talk, Jotun Loki, crying (I feel like I'm missing tags, let me know if I can do better!) Word Count: 2223 words MINORS DNI Author Note: Blue Loki makes an appearance... This is very much a fever fic with snz IMO so... do with that what you will. Translation: "Streð mik" means "fuck me" in Old Norse, according to my 5 minutes of internet searching.

Standing before the beverage machine, Loki rubbed scathingly at his temples, which quickly turned into a rub of tired eyes. With work at the TVA piling up, Loki began to feel significantly less and less God-like. He sniffed and turned the dial on the blasted machine for a cup of tea for something to soothe his aching throat. It had been like this since he woke up this morning.

Dry, aching, scratchy. He turned his head to suppress a slight cough into his shoulder as the drink machine sputtered out the last of his black tea. It was nothing like the luxurious herbal remedies of home, but it would have to do. He pushed back his long, dark hair from his face and turned to head back to his cubical with the cup in hand.

Loki eased back down into the desk chair with a little sigh through his mouth, not currently trusting his nose. It had been rather congested since this morning as well. He sipped at the tea, grimacing when it tasted like half-flavored leaf water and moved a few files to set down the cup.

The steam still coming off the cup had gotten his nose running, however, and with the runes blocking his magic now broken… He summoned a handkerchief in a small flash of green and instantly felt like he’d run a mile. A little gasp was punched out of him, and he slumped in his chair, clinging tight to that handkerchief he’d conjured. Delicate with green and gold embroidery.

“You doing magic over there? Thought we agreed that was for emergencies only?” said Mobius suddenly.

For a split second, Loki gathered the soft cloth into a tight fist to hide it from view as he glanced up only to find Mobius hadn’t bothered to poke his head over. He must have only noticed the flash of green from his magic. Perceptive, Loki would indeed give him that.

“Just a small charm, I assure you. Nothing nefarious. I just-” Loki abruptly cut his sentence short as he felt a burning tingle in his sinuses. No. This was absolutely not the time for this. It didn’t seem like his body cared much for his whims at the moment, however, as he sucked in a sudden and sharp hitch of breath. “J-huh-! H’TSHue!”

In an instant, the handkerchief flew to his face to try and catch the spray. “Pardon me,” He mumbled, giving a little sniff and wiping as he spotted Mobius now pop up like Rattatosk the squirrel.

As he balled up the handkerchief once more in his hand, Loki sniffled and reached for the still-steaming cup of tea. All the while, he could feel Mobius’ eyes on him, making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end. “I believe the phrase is take a picture; it’ll last longer.” He scoffs over the top of his cup before having another sip of the disappointing liquid.

“You’re sick,” Mobius says, blinking a few times at Loki, who stubbornly meets the agent’s gaze only to find… concern.

“I’m fine,” Loki assured him quickly and set down his cup to resume his lengthy dig into all the paperwork he had left to finish.

While Loki may not have been directly watching Mobius, he was privy to every movement of his coworker from the corner of his eye. The silver-haired man had moved out of his cubical to stand at the edge of Loki’s. “Like the time you were time slipping kind of fine?”

Now Mobius was leaning on his desk, invading Loki’s personal space in a sense, and the god reared his head back like a snake.

“It’s fine, Mobius.”

“’Cause you don’t look fine.”

“I’m fine.”

“You look like you’ve been hit by a bus. No offense.”

An exhausted little sigh slipped out of Loki, who pinched the bridge of his nose. This time, Loki’s voice came out softer, with less defensive venom. “I’m alright, just tired, and want to finish this paperwork.”

Mobius was crossing his arms across his chest and frowning at him. “Alright,” He pats Loki’s shoulder, giving it a little squeeze before turning to leave. “I’ll let you work on that.” As Mobius was about to round the corner out of sight, he called over his shoulder, “Be back in a little while!”

Loki blinked sluggishly at his coworker’s odd behavior, frankly too tired to think too hard about it. He sniffled again and grimaced at the sound of it now, rather glad to be alone after the wet snuffle.

The realization he was alone now was a somber one. Still, he was grateful in a way. Mobius didn’t have to be around to witness his misery.

His misery seemed only doomed to increase as the tickle in his nose reignited after a quick swipe with the handkerchief. “Hh’etchhue! Huh… hhh-! Ugh… Streð mik.” Loki swears under his breath, bringing the cloth to his quickly reddening nose. Even with the soft handkerchief he’d conjured, the steady sheen of mess around the rim of his nostrils demanded constant attention.

So much so he could barely work. And when he wasn’t working, he was sneezing or coughing into his handkerchief. It went on like that for a good hour or so.

Just as he could feel that tickle starting to swell in the depths of his nasal passages again, making his lungs stutter in their rhythm for a moment, he heard footsteps. Panic flares in Loki’s chest. He hadn’t realized how much time had passed, how little he’d gotten done, how poor the quality of his craft would Odin…

“Hey… Woah,” Mobius had a hand on his shoulder and was turning him in his seat. Mobius. Not Odin, like his mind had been screaming in fear.

Loki rattled out a hefty sigh of relief and sagged a little. “It’s just you…”

Mobius looked perplexed for a few seconds, a steaming travel cup in one hand and a bag tucked under his arm. “Yeah, just me, pal. You sure you’re feeling alright?” One of the agent's hands came up to feel Loki’s forehead. “That’s some fever. When were you gonna tell me you weren’t feeling great?”

A thick, almost gurgling snuffle comes from Loki, and he grimaces at himself before lifting the soft cloth to scrub at his itchy nose some more. “I wasd’t- oh for…” He gives his nose a quick, productive blow into the handkerchief and groans a little afterward. “I wasn’t planning on telling you… I thought I’d finish up here and ride this out somewhere quiet alone.”

The expression on Mobius’ face looked pained to Loki, though he struggled to piece together why at the moment. Different theories danced around in his mind until he realized Mobius was speaking to him. “- take you somewhere to eat this and lay down. How’s that sound?”

Loki gives a slight hum of acknowledgment to agree to whatever Mobius is saying. Trusting that whatever Mobius has in store for him is good news, Loki gets to his feet only to sway slightly. “Woah- I’m alright.” He says quickly, assuring Mobius, who had shot out a hand to rest on his lower back. “What did you say we were doing?”

They were already walking down hallways and making too many turns for Loki’s fevered brain to even begin to try and comprehend.

“Somewhere comfortable for you to rest a while,” Mobius answered him and patted his back a little. “And somewhere you can drink this tea and eat this nice soup I went and got you.” Soon enough, they entered into a comfortable enough-looking room that had a bed. It was similar enough to a plain bedroom with 70’s era-looking TVA technology.

Right away, Mobius went to set down the cup and bag of food before checking the room’s thermostat. “You Norse Gods like it warm, I guess? Or do you have like… an eternal summer?”

The innocent ignorance made Loki smile a little to himself as he moved further into the room, taking it all in curiously. “We have seasons on Asgard, but no… I like it a little colder.” He admits, nostrils suddenly twitching as that tickle rears its head again while his chest swells. “Hh-! Oh, come on, now? R-Realleh’Tshh! Ng’XtSHue! EgH’Tshiew! Huh…”

Loki had been sluggish, and his reaction too slow to cover entirely, misting the air in front of him with his sneezes. “I’m terribly sorry, Mobius.”

“Bless you, nothing to be sorry for. You’re sick.” Mobius waved a hand at him after having set the temperature for the room to be a bit cooler than average. “There. Maybe that’ll help that fever, too. Try the tea. Heard you coughing from down the hall.”

By now, Loki was easing onto the bed to sit and hesitantly reached out to peek into the travel cup. “Trusting you not to poison me.” He jested, raising the cup to Mobius before taking a sip and letting out a delighted groan when the tea tasted divine. Even with his nose practically stopped up, he could taste it. “Mobius, this is fantastic. Where did you get this?”

The agent rocked on his heels with his hands in his pockets, smiling slightly. “Secret little café I know of. The soup is from a place nearby. I’ve been trying to figure out your taste profile. You’re not necessarily a fancy guy, but you’re a quality guy, I think.” The smile on Mobius’ face is almost playful, and if Loki had the energy, he’d make it into a verbal sparring match.

“Perhaps I am. Thank you, Mobius. For all of this.” Loki murmurs quietly and sips at the tea some more, letting the delightfully herbal wave wash over and soothe his sore throat.

Mobius took his hands out of his pockets and sat on the edge of the bed beside Loki. “Y’know, for some reason, it never occurred to me that you could get sick… I just- I guess I just figured you couldn’t.” And the look on Mobius’ face could only be described as… remorseful.

Still, Loki struggled to understand why.

“I got sick rather a lot as a child, actually,” Loki says quietly, not even sure why he’s saying it. Something is making his tongue feel loose, and for a moment, he does wonder if Mobius poisoned him. “Strength is heavily prized where I come from. Strength, health, and physicality… in Asgard and Jotunheim. I was abandoned for being-” The tears welling in his eyes were against his will, and Loki could feel the tightness in his throat as he struggled to breathe through the emotions threatening to overwhelm him.

A warm hand reaches out to rest on his thigh and squeezes gently. “For being sick…” Mobius finished quietly as he put the pieces together. It was only then Loki realized Mobius was probably one of the few who had ever bothered to look for Odin, gathering him up as a child on the Sacred Timeline.

“Is that why you didn’t tell me?” The agent asked him quietly, to which Loki gave a slow nod, sniffling against the renewed congestion that had only gotten worse with the tears now streaming down his cheeks.

A bitter little laugh escaped Loki, who tried to wipe away the tears from his cheeks, eyes red from crying, but perhaps also just a shade redder than that. “I’m quite the Jotun runt. So small I fit in with the average-sized Aesir or Midgardian. I mean I’m…” The tears began to redouble as Loki felt woozy, practically hysterical.

Then, all at once, he let the façade drop.

Pale skin drained of any color it had left to a blue hue, and the ridged and raised lines of Jotun markings appeared. Loki fixed a red-eyed gaze upon Mobius, who stared back with those increasingly painfully kind eyes. Part of Loki wanted nothing more than to lash out. To demand to know why he wasn’t recoiling.

“I’m pathetic…” he finished softly.

Mobius scooted closer to him on the bed and wrapped an arm around him, Loki finding himself sinking into that warmth with shocking ease. “If even Gods get sick, then I think we all deserve sick days, huh? How about it?” A warm hand rubbed slowly at his back, and Loki leaned further into Mobius. “I’m not going anywhere, Loki. Just rest. I’ve got you.”

Already, Mobius was gently extracting the travel cup from his limp blue fingers, and Loki was fading against his friend’s shoulder, feeling utterly exhausted and fevered. “Wake me if we get a case…” He mumbles softly. “I’ll be… fine.”

“Okay, Loki,” Mobius said soothingly, gently helping ease him back into the bed to lie underneath the blankets.

Still, a blue hand shot out to grip Mobius’ wrist tightly. “Don’t go?” He pleaded desperately, afraid he’d be left alone now that he was tucked in and settled.

“Hey, hey, I’m not going. I’m right here. Look.” Mobius kicked off his work shoes much like he’d slid off Loki’s and slid right into bed next to him. “See? Right here. By your side.” Their hands clasped together on top of Loki’s slowly rising and falling chest while the God of Mischief sniffled thickly.

“Thank you, Mobius.” And just like that, Loki’s eyes fluttered closed, and he was out like a snuffed torch.

#snz #snzfic #fever whump #fever fic #L/oki #mess #tw mess #handkerchief #whump #whump writing

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acasualcrossfade · 26 days

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Fever Care

Rating: T | Words: 829 | CW: none | Ao3

Written for Whumpril: day 2– Sweat

Eddie takes care of a feverish Steve.

Eddie rushed as he filled a glass of water and wet a cloth, hating to spend even a few seconds away from Steve and his fever. Eddie squeezed the cloth to damp, not bothering to dry his hands before heading back to their bedroom. Steve still lay curled on his side, his sweaty hair dampening the pillowcase a darker blue.

At the sound of Eddie returning, Steve pried open one tired eye.

“Hey, got you some water,” Eddie started as he sat on the edge of the bed. He’d changed out of his jeans and shirt for work and into sweatpants and one of Steve’s old tees. Eddie kept his hair tied back in a loose bun, wanting nothing to come between him and taking care of his sick boyfriend.

Steve groaned as he pushed himself to his elbow. He’d stripped off his shirt sometime in the night, and still felt too warm as the covers fell away. His arm shook with the effort to sit, and was thankful when Eddie guided him the rest of the way to upright. Steve whined at the movement and effort, and only wanted to sleep.

Eddie pressed a kiss into Steve’s damp hair. “I know you’re tired, babe,” Eddie soothed as he watched the numbers climb on the thermometer. “We’ll get you some painkillers and then you can sleep, okay?”

Eddie ran a hand over Steve’s temple and down to his neck. Eddie reached for the glass of water on the bedside table. “Here, sip this. Slowly, okay? And then, take these.”

Steve took the pills from Eddie and swallowed them with a wince, and managed half the glass of water before pulling away. He felt awful, and even the effort to drink felt like too much.

“I’m not liking the look of this fever, Steve,” Eddie mumbled, biting his lip in worry. He pressed the back of his hand against Steve’s forehead, then reached for the thermometer. “Here, open up.”

“You jus’took it,” Steve mumbled around the thermometer under his tongue.

“I know,” Eddie worried. “But you look worse than you did an hour ago.”

“Gee tanks,” Steve grumbled with the thermometer under his tongue. Steve let his head fall into Eddie’s chest as Eddie cuddled him closer.

“Well, the meds should kick in and help.”

Steve pouted around the thermometer but nodded as the device beeped.

“100.5. You don’t do anything halfway, do ya, Harrington?”

“Mm-mm. N’m’glad you’re here,” Steve mumbled into Eddie’s shirt, shifting so his arms wrapped around Eddie’s waist as he leaned into his chest. The aching in his bones was heavy and it felt as if he was trapped in molasses. Steve was heavy on Eddie’s chest, the fever sapping his energy.

“Course I’m here.”

“Didn’t wan’to keep you home.”

Eddie looked down at Steve on his chest. “You didn’t want to keep me home?”

“Kieth’s a menace. N’you just started there.” Steve’s voice was a hoarse mumble.

Eddie stroked Steve’s shoulder. “Doesn’t mean you should be alone, though. Especially when you’re not feeling well.”

Steve whimpered and hugged Eddie closer.

“Besides,” Eddie continued. “I can handle Kieth. Remember how he tried to tell me rings weren’t company policy?”

Steve let out a weak laugh. “Failed at that.”

“Exactly. And now I wear extra just to piss him off.” Eddie pressed another kiss to Steve’s head. “When did you start feeling like this?”

Steve shifted against Eddie’s chest. “Yesterday. Felt kinda…weird. N’hot.” Steve managed a weak shrug. “N’it’s summer.”

Eddie nodded. “And nothing else feels weird? Your stomach or anything?”

Steve shook his head and pulled out of Eddie’s arms. “Jus’ feels like I swallowed knives.” He fell back to the bed and turned to his side, trying to find a comfortable position. His limbs were heavy and even laying down, his head still pounded in his ears.

Eddie placed a loving hand on Steve’s bare shoulder and reached for the cool rag. “This fever has you burning up.”

Steve could only groan in response as he pushed off the rest of the blankets around his legs.

Eddie ran the rag over his temples and neck. The cool touch felt like a miracle and Steve let his eyes slip closed as his body cooled slightly.

Eddie continued his ministrations until Steve curled on his side and Eddie stroked the cloth over his cheeks.

Steve mumbled a word as he let sleep start to pull at his mind. “Stay?”

Eddie gave Steve’s shoulder a squeeze and he carefully climbed on the bed so he lay next to Steve.

It took Steve a minute to turn over and into Eddie, snuggling up against the man’s side with his head back on Eddie’s chest. Steve hummed contentedly against Eddie, letting the rhythm of Edde’s breath be a lullaby.

Eddie stayed with Steve until he fell asleep, occasionally carding his fingers through Steve’s sweaty brown hair.

And Steve slept, knowing that Eddie was right there if he needed anything.

#whumpril #whumpril day 2 #whumpril2024 #sweat #steddie #steddie fic #steddie whump #sick eddie munson #caretaker steve harrington #caretaking #fever fic #whump writing #acasualcrossfade writes #thunderously_halo writes

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angstyaches · 8 months

Note

thinking about mitsuko and bastian rn 😈

can you write sick bastian with caretaker mitsuko? we’ve never seen him sick before, right? 🍄

Hahaha OOPS, this got long.

Context: Takes place shortly before they become a couple (I thought that would be better, for the ✨angst✨). Also: a gold star for anyone who knows why Mitsuko growls and pulls away near the end 👀

Word Count: 4,700ish

CW: work stress, sickness, fever, dizziness, confusion, vomit, hiding sickness, food description, pining.

___

Sucking in air through a mask – when most of that air seemed to be made of steam – was proving more and more difficult as time went on. Bastian was starting to see stars at the edges of his vision, and it was getting less and less likely that he could keep powering through the ache that was building in his temples.

Somehow, every time he felt he was about to lose all feeling in his body and black out on the floor, he kept going.

He wasn’t sure if that feeling was met with relief, victory, or disappointment.

“Mendoza!” a raspy voice from across the kitchen barked over all of the other noise – the hissing, the crackling, the whooshing, the bubbling.

Bastian’s skeleton almost leapt out of his skin. For a heavy smoker with bad lungs, Chef Yamashita could make himself heard when needed.

“I need that sauce now!”

“Hai, Chef…” A spike of adrenaline made Bastian’s hands move faster.

For the next twenty seconds or so, his heartbeat was the loudest sound in the kitchen. He blinked and found himself dishing up food with hands that trembled like he was caught up in an earthquake, not in the average Saturday-evening-dinner-time rush.

As the bowls were promptly swept away, Bastian found himself wondering – with a queasy feeling in his stomach – whether the presentation had been up to scratch. He’d been focusing so hard on not spilling something over the edge of the bowl, he hadn’t paid much attention to how it had looked in the bowl. Oh, well. If he’d fucked something up, the owner would read about it online and Bastian would get an earful later.

It was, quite simply, not his problem right now. That was all he had, and he clung to it desperately.

Realising he had nothing to work on for the next few minutes, Bastian ducked away to the bathroom. As rare and wonderful as a toilet break could be, fresh air would have been much more appreciated; unfortunately, the restaurant was on the seventh floor and the only outdoor space adjacent to the kitchen was on the fire escape, and… well, Bastian could do without a bout of vertigo on top of everything else.

He gulped nervously just at the thought of it, his legs swaying as he pictured himself suspended on nothing but a sheet of metal.

As soon as he was alone, Bastian tugged off his face mask and gulped at the air. It wasn’t much cooler in here, but it was marginally less humid than the kitchen. In the mirror, his entire face glistened with sweat, beads of it glistening in the thick strands of his beard. He grimaced as he noticed that the mask in his hand was soaked through, almost transparent. He’d need to grab a fresh one at some point.

Bastian grimaced as he pulled his hand towel out of his pocket and scrubbed it unceremoniously over his face and neck. He ran cold water over his hands and wrists and splashed his cheeks with it. He felt slightly better, his soul no longer eager to evacuate his body to escape the stifling heat. But now that relative silence settled around him, he could no longer ignore the throbbing on either side of his skull, like a big set of tongs was squeezing him and preparing to flip him over.

He planted a hand on the edge of the sink, not liking how weak his arm felt under the weight of his body. The black lines of his tattoos started to swirl back and forth as he stared at them, so he shut his eyes.

And that was so much worse.

Nausea bubbled in the pit of his stomach, hot and acidic, like Bastian had swallowed something nuclear and it was cooking his insides. He threw that onto the ever-growing list of things he just didn’t have time to deal with.

Any second now, he’d hear Chef Yamashita roaring for him.

Five more seconds, he told himself, drawing a deep breath and savouring the tepid ceramic against his palms and the muted murmur of activity on the other side of the walls. None of it was particularly pleasant, but he knew he’d miss it once he was back out there amidst the hustle, bustle, and craziness. Five more seconds, and I’ll get back out there.

___

When he finally broke free of the kitchen and started making his way through the cramped, busy dining space towards the elevator, Bastian was just about ready to drop. He almost seriously considered curling up on the floor and going to sleep under one of the tables, just so he wouldn’t have to make the journey home.

But he forced himself into the elevator and slumped against the wall as the thing moved. His stomach protested at the disorienting shift, and before the doors opened, Bastian had muffled two thick, acidic burps behind his fist.

When the lift opened and the street came into view, so did a woman with two long, smooth pigtails tied at the crown of her head. She was wearing a pair of silky black shorts, and a cropped, puckered white blouse decorated with frills and bows. Her platform Mary Jane shoes made her look taller than she really was, but Bastian knew she’d still go up onto her toes when she hugged him.

He started to move a little faster, no longer caring about the dizziness in his head or the lurching in his stomach. He didn’t care about anything then.

Just Mitsuko.

She looked up from her phone – knowing her, she’d probably been playing Mario Kart – and her face lit up when she saw him coming. God, she was an oasis in the desert, a cool waterfall in the middle of a damp jungle, and all he wanted to do was lose himself in her.

“Hello!” She treated him to a gorgeous little two-handed wave.

Bastian couldn’t even greet her. He just sort of fell against her, scooping her body close to his own.

“Aw,” she said softly, rocking up onto her toes, just like he’d known she would.

For a couple of seconds, Bastian was surrounded by pure bliss. She smelled like honey. Did she know she smelled like honey? Did she intentionally smell like honey?

Then Mitsuko touched her heels to the ground again and freed one arm from the embrace. She seemed to be trying to do something with her other hand. He was in no way ready to end the hug, but it occurred to Bastian that he was pinning her inconveniently in place.

Plus, it wasn’t fair to subject her to the ungodly amount of sweat that was pouring out of him. He stepped away from her, but she didn’t seem at all disgusted or concerned. After all, it was Japan in August, and Bastian worked in an enclosed, fast-paced environment. With fire and hot water.

“Here you are. A present.” She handed him a can of his favourite cold coffee – which he immediately lifted and pressed against the side of his neck, all without breaking contact with her stunningly dark eyes.

“O-oh... thank you,” he said. There was a slight tremour in his voice. He couldn’t recall ever getting emotional over coffee before, but this coffee, coming from her? It seemed to break and heal something in him all at once.

Mitsuko’s eyelids dipped, and her smile deepened.

Bastian followed her out of the building, his smile wavering as the outside air hit him in the face and the throat. The sun had gone down, but the concrete and tarmac remembered the heat of the day, and spewed it back up at the people trudging home or to the izakaya. It was so humid, and Bastian was so thirsty, he was certain there was more water clinging to the outside of his skin than inside his body.

“So, wh-what are you doing here?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t miss you.” Mitsuko smirked over her shoulder. “I just wanted to take a walk.”

Bastian hurried to keep up with her energetic pace. Droplets of sweat clung to the back of his neck and his forehead. “Sure you did, cool girl.”

“And… to get McDonald’s.”

He fidgeted with the pull ring on the can of coffee she’d given him, feeling the condensation from the metal mingling – but not mixing – with the sweat on his hands. With how his stomach felt, the last thing he would have done after work was drink a coffee.

But she had gotten it for him. She had anticipated that he’d appreciate something cold after work. Not only that, she had... gone out of her way to see him? She was wonderful. And right now, the coffee was an extension of her, so it would be wonderful, too.

He cracked the can open and took a short swig. A sickly fluid started to flow into the gaps under his tongue, accompanied by a sharp tingling in his cheeks.

“How was work?”

“Oh, just…” Bastian pressed a finger to his mouth as the sweet, milky liquid seemed to stick in the back of his throat even after swallowing twice. He coughed to clear his throat, eyes widening as it occurred to him that he might just throw up from the contraction.

Thankfully, one more careful swallow got it down, and kept down everything that was already there. The over-production of saliva seemed to fade, too.

Mitsuko cocked her head as they walked, the slightest concern tugging at her face.

“It was just… so busy.”

“Mmm. You look busy.” Mitsuko shook her head at herself. “Mmm? No… dono yo ni...”

“I look like I was busy?”

“Yes. You look bad.”

Bastian let out a weak chuckle. “Mitch. We don’t say that.”

She turned her gaze up towards him, curious.

“’You look bad’ doesn’t really mean ‘you look like you feel bad’, it… It sounds the same as ‘you look ugly’.”

She shook her head and flicked the back of her hand towards Bastian’s torso. When it brushed against his stomach, Bastian had the strong urge to pin it there, imagining that it would soothe the ache a little.

“You’re handsome,” she said matter-of-factly. “You know this.”

Bastian almost choked on a sip of coffee. “Do I?”

“Yes, you do.”

He tried to mimic the inquisitive look she’d given him a few months ago, which made her crack another smile as she shrugged.

“You have so many photos of yourself.”

“I what?”

“On your smartphone!”

“Those – I-I – when did you...? Those are for checking my beard after shaving!” Bastian rubbed self-consciously at the side of his neck, instinctively feeling out how bad the stubble below his jawline was. “There are angles you just can’t get with a mirror.”

“You can delete them after look, then.”

“Okay, I also like tracking the progress of its growth…” Bastian poked Mitsuko’s shoulder. All he wanted was to keep hearing her voice. In fact, it was possible that her presence – in addition to the fresh(er) air – was healing him a bit, because he couldn’t stop smiling. “And what are you talking about, cool girl? How many selfies do you have on your phone?”

“They’re for my Insta!”

“It’s the same thing.”

Mitsuko shook her head and caught hold of his elbow. “Crazy boy.”

Bastian felt himself flush. He’d never had any friends who were big on physical contact, but she seemed to feel it was normal and acceptable. He wasn’t complaining; he just hoped she would assume he was sweaty because of the weather, not for some other reason.

He enjoyed walking with her, and listening to her talk about her day, so much that he didn’t mind walking with his head spinning and his stomach doing flips. He took tiny, frequent sips of his coffee and found it wasn’t so bad. He was thirstier than he’d realised, and it was helping to cool him down.

His pace did slow, however, as Mitsuko pointed towards the McDonald’s sign. The yellow ‘M’ had no business glowing so brightly amongst the cluster of signs full of kanji that Bastian couldn’t read. Even katakana was proving tricky for him in this state.

“You... weren’t joking about wanting McDonald’s?”

“Nope! Do you want something?” Mitsuko asked.

He peered up into the restaurant. The tills were close to the door, to prioritise takeaways, which made the ten people waiting to order and collect their food seem like a dense crowd.

Not to mention the smell of potato fries sizzling in oil hit him like a punch to the gut; after being stuck in the kitchen all day, the last thing he wanted was to be surrounded by the smell of food.

“No, no.” Bastian was trembling, his stomach rumbling uncomfortably. “I’ll wait for you here. I already had dinner at the restaurant.”

The flicker of surprise in Mitsuko’s eyes made his stomach flutter.

“Okay,” she said, but she didn’t let go of his arm. As much as he adored being so close to her, Bastian prayed she let go soon, because he was certain that he was going to need to burp in the next minute or two.

Luckily, she pulled away, blissfully unaware of the chaotic tossing of his stomach.

“Just a moment.”

“Take your time.” It was hard not to sound like he was begging.

He grimaced as he watched her go inside, and let the fake smile drop away as soon as she was gone.

He took a few steps down the street and sagged against a wall. Traffic noise swirled in his head and seemed to come from all around, not just the road. He felt sweat droplets coarse down through his leg hairs. He had stomach cramps so intense that it was a miracle he’d been standing and walking upright this entire time.

“Urp – ugh.” Bastian smacked his lips, wishing he could dispel the sweet flavour of the coffee. The last thing he’d eaten had been a portion of fish and rice mid-morning, and on top of everything else, he was tasting it again now. Right down to the parsley seasoning.

His stomach rumbled again, and he felt the vibrations all the way up in the back of his throat.

Not good. He’d have to think of some excuse not to keep hanging out with Mitsuko. He needed to get home. He was headed for a disaster, and he’d rather she were nowhere near him when that happened.

The way she’d looked at him just now... Was it possible that she was feeling something similar to what he was feeling? Not the nausea, dizziness, and general unpleasantness, but... the other feeling? The one that had prodded at his mind, kept him awake, made his heart skip beats, ever since they’d become friends?

It sounded too perfect to be true. But if there was a chance, he wasn’t about to mess it up.

“Hey.”

Bastian jumped, swallowing a mixture of saliva and acid. He smiled weakly at the sight of Mitsuko stepping out of the restaurant. Crap. He hadn’t even had a chance to get any burps up, or to think of an excuse to go home.

“Hey. That was... quick.”

“Uh-huh.” She was propping up a paper bag between her belly and her elbow. “It’s called fast food, Bastian.”

“Yeah, that’s... true.”

Although Mitsuko was clearly ready to get going, Bastian couldn’t bring himself to hoist his body away from the support of the wall, but he knew he needed to. Mitsuko hadn’t noticed his unusual posture yet – she was busy rummaging in her paper bag for a couple of fries, which she popped into her mouth – but she would, and she’d worry.

Oh, but the smell of the food was outside with him now, turning his stomach with its aroma of salt and grease.

A few more minutes, Bastian told himself. A few more minutes, and he could break down. Once he’d made his excuses, he just needed to get to the station, say goodbye to her, get on the train, and get home.

He could do this.

He stood up straight with a smile.

Mitsuko pulled her hand out of her McDonald's bag. She was holding a chicken nugget between her fingers, but instead of bringing it to her mouth, she was extending it towards Bastian.

"Would you like one?"

Bastian took one look at the crispy, gnarled coating of the nugget, and his teeth did him the unnecessary favour of conjuring up how the spongy texture of the chicken would feel as he bit through it.

And suddenly he was bent double, retching from the very pit of his stomach, as Mitsuko tottered backwards on her chunky shoes.

"Bastian!" she screamed.

His first instinct was to beg her not to be so loud, not to draw any more attention to them; but before he could say anything, he was doubling over again, his insides roiling and clenching as he dispelled some more thick, orange vomit onto the sidewalk. It splattered out in tiny droplets, speckling the concrete, and Bastian couldn’t help but wonder how many times this particular path had been the victim of someone’s stomach contents.

Mitsuko had a hand on his back, and she was fretting away in quickfire Japanese that his brain couldn’t even begin to keep up with. It wasn’t until she switched to English again that he began to feel like she was actually speaking to him.

“Bastian, how long do you feel sick?”

“I –” Bastian raised his head, and Mitsuko’s face split into two blurry copies of itself. He sagged against the wall again, clumsily sidestepping the pungent puddle he’d created. “Since I – mmph – ”

He broke off into a wet belch that felt like it had gurgled up from very low in his stomach, even deeper than his belly button. He gently pressed a hand to his queasy gut; he’d resisted doing this so far, but since being humbled by the reality of puking in front of her, he wasn’t so much bothered anymore.

“I’m s-sorry, Mitch.”

Her dark eyes widened as she tilted her head, peering up into his face as though she’d lost something in the thickness of his beard or his eyebrows. “Why are you sorry?”

“I didn’t want you to...” Bastian paused, eyelids fluttering against a wave of vertigo. He held fast against another bubbling belch that tickled his throat, and managed to swallow this back one down. “To see me like this.”

“Crazy boy. Dousho ka na...” Mitsuko mumbled, rummaging in her handbag for her phone.

That’s it, Bastian thought, panic seizing hold of his thumping heart. She was surely about to block him on social media, walk away, and never contact him again. And who could blame her? He was a disgusting mess, and she was stunning, elegant, perfect.

A burning streak of annoyance spliced the nausea for a moment. How had he let himself consider that she liked him?

He lowered his gaze, and it was then that he realised her glossy platform shoes had been in the splash zone during that second, powerful heave. His sick was streaking against the toes and buckles, and tiny splatters had made it into the white, frilled cotton of her socks.

Shit. Bastian didn’t often cry – didn't often feel the need – but a sob pressed on his sore, abused throat just then. Either the fever was truly messing him up, or he was in way deeper than he’d even realised.

She was the coolest girl he’d ever met, and he was a sweaty, struggling entry-level cook with barely-passable Japanese and what was possibly the most toxic-smelling stomach acid on Earth. He wished he could have at least moved away from the mess before collapsing against the wall.

While Mitsuko was on her phone, the blurry shape of a passer-by caught Bastian’s hazy attention. The person turned their head to scowl at his vomit on the ground, but instead of eyeing him next, they eyed Mitsuko. She was oblivious, still tapping at something on her phone screen, but it made Bastian’s blood boil and his sickly stomach drop.

Mitsuko didn’t deserve this kind of negative attention. She deserved to wear her pretty shoes and to eat her chicken nuggets in peace.

Oh, god, those damn chicken nuggets. Even though Bastian hadn’t put one in his mouth, the memory of the thought of the taste and texture rolled his stomach over yet again. He shut his eyes and pressed his lips together in a pitiful show of defiance, even as his body instinctively leaned to the side. The surface of the wall tugged on the fibres of his shirt and felt abrasive against his shoulder.

“Oh –” Mitsuko exclaimed softly, and suddenly a gentle yet sturdy hand was propping him up by the waist, so that he didn’t slide down the length of the wall and end up falling hip-first into his own sick. “Kawai so, Bastian. Are you okay?”

He responded with a thick mouthful of bile, noisily ejected. Mitsuko was out of range this time, but even if she hadn’t been, he wasn’t confident that he could have avoided her shoes.

“A taxi is coming,” Mitsuko said, with a tone so reassuring that Bastian wanted to wrap it around himself.

“Wh-what?” he stammered, the weight of his own saliva slurring his speech.

“We’ll take a taxi to your apartment now,” Mitsuko said. “If you are sick tomorrow, we’ll take a taxi to a clinic.”

A clinic? Through the hellish fever and nausea, Bastian almost chuckled. In his family, a visit to the doctor – or, God forbid, the hospital – was reserved for when someone was literally in danger of dying, not for chills and some tummy issues.

He knew Mitsuko was bring serious, though, because a few months ago, she had mentioned that her sister Yumi had visited a doctor when she’d had flu symptoms for more than two days.

What a different world he lived in now.

“Ah... I think this is ours.” Mitsuko was peering up the street, straining to see around the traffic that had built up at the nearest pedestrian crossing. The hand supporting Bastian’s waist smoothed a little reassuring circle through his shirt. “Ja. Yatte mi you. Are you ready?”

“Mm,” Bastian grumbled miserably. He was still processing the fact that she was even still here, let along that she was trying to help him.

Mitsuko wrapped her arms further around Bastian’s waist, tugging him towards her. Lips trembling and legs like jelly, Bastian turned his gaze towards her in disbelief. Was she... trying to make him lean on her? On her, whose head barely crested his shoulders in platform shoes?

“M-Mitsuko, I’m..” Bastian swallowed, trying not to focus on the churning in his stomach or the fact that she was holding him so tightly even now that he three times sweatier than before. “Too heavy for you.”

“I’m strong, Bastian. Believe me.”

In the moment, he found that he did believe her. Not that he had much of a choice. It was her or the wall, and he didn’t quite fancy camping outside the McDonalds’ all night.

He wasn’t sure if he blacked out, or if the fever warped his perception for a little while, but everything that happened between the sidewalk and the front door of his apartment was a nonsensical chain of confusion.

He slumped across the back seats and Mitsuko pulled his head to her shoulder; he was almost certain that was real. He hoped it was, anyway. She rubbed his shoulder – probably oblivious to how her touch set his skin ablaze – and whispered reassuringly as he struggled not to vomit on the floor of the car. He was fairly sure that all happened, too.

But Mitsuko had... Well, she’d said she was strong, but as far as Bastian could tell, she practically carried him all the way from the taxi, up the stairs, to his apartment. She didn’t scoop him up and hold him bridal-style or anything, but Bastian had the faint sense that, while he was leaning on her, she took about 90% of his weight the entire time. Impossible, of course, and therefore almost certainly a fabrication of his overheating brain.

“Should’ve tidied,” he heard himself mutter as they walked into his one-room apartment.

Mitsuko blew a little raspberry as she led Bastian, hobbling, to his unmade futon. “It’s nicer than Kaz’s place.”

He shivered as he lay, getting listlessly lost in the depressing thought that she put him in the same category as her younger brother.

But then he felt her gently unbuttoning his shirt. He swallowed thickly and tried to remain as still as he could, seated at the edge of his futon while she crouched in front of him. She had seen his bare chest and stomach before, at the beach, but his head felt like it was boiling from the inside as he became more and more exposed.

Mitsuko then slipped her hands inside his open shirt, brushing the fabric back towards his shoulders, attempting to get it off of him.

And then she jolted back from him, and let out a deep, animalistic growl.

A growl? Surely that wasn’t right. Bastian’s brain must have been muddling things up again. Still, he frowned up at her, reckoning he definitely looked as pathetic as he felt.

“A-are you okay?” he croaked.

“Yes...” Mitsuko stared blankly into the air, squeezing the fingers of her own hand as though they hurt. “Sorry.”

She didn’t make another attempt to remove his shirt, or mention it again; something must have distracted her. Bastian was probably reading too much into it, thanks to the fact that his thoughts felt like scrambled eggs. In the end, he shrugged the shirt off by himself and dropped it on the floor.

He didn’t remove the thick, silver chain that bore his grandfather’s crucifix. He rarely did, unless he was shirtless outdoors, where it might leave an odd tan line.

“Okay. Lie down,” Mistuko said.

Bastian did. His pillow case was crisp against his cheek and smelled faintly of plastic; he still hadn’t washed his bedding since buying it. He was suddenly a little self-conscious about how flimsy his life in Tokyo must have looked. He had been so exhausted after work every night that he hadn’t even unpacked all of his boxes yet.

Anyone might have thought that he was ready to leave the country at a moment’s notice.

And the last person he wanted to think that was here, nearly over his futon.

“Kawai sou,” Mitsuko whispered. She brushed a hand over Bastian’s hair, and he honestly thought he might float away to Heaven. Her hand was... shaking a little, but maybe she was just stressed out by how sick he was. “Did you feel sick at work today?”

Bastian sighed. “A little.”

Mitsuko shook her head. “A little?”

“A... A lot.”

Now it was her turn to sigh. “You work too hard, Bastian. You have so many new things in your life. It’s too much.”

Bastian felt his lower lip start to quiver.

“You have to be... kind to yourself,” Mitsuko whispered, with a wisdom and a sobriety that didn’t exactly match her personality. And yet, it seemed as familiar to him as her bouncy pigtails, her teasing smile.

He reached up to take her hand in his, hoping she could see past the clamminess and appreciate his appreciation of her. She let out a low sound – it could almost have been described as a wince, but again, Bastian could have sworn it'd been a growl – and pulled her hand free, but immediately gave Bastian her other one.

Odd. But before he could begin to question it, his ears were being treated to her soft voice again.

“You shouldn’t be alone when you’re sick. Kazuhito is going to bring his extra futon,” she said. “So I can sleep here and be here when you wake up.”

Bastian swallowed over the pain in his throat. He couldn’t believe he was spending the night with Mitsuko for the first time ever, and he was about ready to black out already. Not to mention he was probably going to sweat himself silly and spew his guts at least once during the night.

“Th-thanks, cool girl.”

“You’re welcome, crazy boy.”

#StW Bastian #StW Mitsuko #sickfic #emeto #emeto sickfic #emetophilia #stomach ache fic #fever fic #hurt comfort #hurt and comfort #anon #mushroom anon #🍄 anon

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empresskaze · 2 years

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Sicktember day 11: Emergency Room/Ambulance

~~~~

"D-Dearest," Gabriel’s voice shook as he whispered. "Do you know where we are?"

Liam head throbbed as he felt Gabriel’s cool hand cup his face. His eyes heavy, stinging with pain, fluttered open enough to see the tear stained face of his beloved looking at him with worry not suited for those beautiful eyes.

"I'll wager...a guess..." He felt so heavy as if gravity only focused on him.

"I k-know you don't like hospital but I-I didn't know what to do." Gabriel hiccuped, tears began welling again. "I couldn't get...your fever down and...uh...oh heavens, Jasper wife...the red-head..."

"Celeste." Liam rasped as he tried to sit up.

"Yes, thank you dear, I'm awful with names...oh don't sit up." Gabriel rested a hand on Liam’s shoulder easing him back. "Please, lay back, the nurse said you're quite dehydrated, conserve your strength." Gabriel let out a wavering breath and rubbed his forehead briefly.

"How'd...we get here?" Liam tried focusing on Gabriel but the fluorescent lights of the ER burned his eyes, the humming aggravating his head.

"Jasper drove us." Gabriel fussed with the blanket and then brushed Liam’s matted hair from around his pale face, his flushed cheeks the only hint of color. "He asked me to...text him..." Gabriel looked away embarrassed, "When you're released, he went to fetch his friend from work."

Liam nodded then winced as everything hurt currently. "Did...whoever saw me say when that might be..." He was happy he was already too dazed for his anxiety to bother him.

Gabriel shook his head, "You need fluids," He motioned to the IV, "and your fever must get under control." He rubbed his forehead again.

A pang of worry hit Liam’s chest, "Love, I'm not...going anywhere, why don't you take a cab home and rest."

"I'm fine..." Gabriel said wishing his voice didn't betray him. "I'm not leaving." He took Liam’s hand on his, rubbing the top with his thumb.

Liam’s dry cracked lips managed a smile, "I knew you wouldn't." He closed his eyes falling back into a dreamless sleep.

#sicktember #sicktember 2022 #sicktember day 11 #fever fic #fevers #hospital #kaze writes: liam and gabriel #I don't torture Liam a lot but when I do it's fevers #or anxiety #kaze writes: drabbles #Also I love worried fessor #sick fic

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moondirti · 2 months

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𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( PART 1 of 2 )

DEAD DOVE. RATED R. HORROR/SMUT. 6k. – AO3

please please please read the warnings under the cut before reading. this is leagues darker than my usual work. it is a dark fic, and you know your limits better than i do.

warnings: discussed cannibalism. graphic depictions of gore. vomiting. killing/butchering animals. violent thoughts. malnutrition. alienation/isolation. manipulation. corruption. mentions of somnophilia. dark!ghost – i.e. simon does not conform to human morality. afab reader using she/her pronouns.

inclusivity note: the reader is described as smaller than simon, but he stands at 250 cm in his true form (8"2), so i assumed everyone – if not, most – would fit that category. she's also malnourished/sick at the start and so there are some references to unhealthy weight loss

Situated between a dense network of ancient oaks, a lesser demon would have mistaken the cottage for a boulder had they spawned further than ten metres away. Save for the warm orange glow illuminating its arched windows, the home married perfectly to its surroundings – disfigured and hideous, walls warped by unevenly stacked stone and a roof bowed under a thick blanket of snow. Overgrown bushes stick out from under its gnarled fence, dead branches desperately reaching, and the ivy he assumes was once adhered to its front has since been ripped out by the storm, whipping in the howling wind.

But Ghost is no lesser demon; in fact, he’s far above this whole affair. Something of his rank answering the summons of a novice who could offer no more than sheep’s liver buried in their front yard was an occurrence practically unheard of. For good reason, too. He’s dangerous in the right hands, willing to resort to lengths that even the devil wouldn’t dream of so long as he receives proper payment. Most power-hungry neophytes would slaughter, have slaughtered, to have him as their familiar. Even then, he is above their grovelling.

So, to be lured out of respite by sheep’s liver, of all things…

He supposes he has no excuse for it, not that he has to explain himself to anyone. Perhaps he’s here only to satisfy his curiosity. The call hadn’t come from the lips of someone who’d been practising – sharp and sure, roused by a brand of audacity special to cocksure practitioners – but from someone softer. More sceptical. It’s unusual that an occultist would have both knowledge and skill to summon a familiar, yet still be suspicious as to whether they even exist at all. He’s not so much offended, then, as he is morbidly interested in what reaction his appearance would incur.

Disgust. Terror. Reverence.

Warmth pools in his belly, blood oozing in fat globs to fuel the flame that compels him to head into the small home. It’s hard to make out what’s inside merely by looking through the windows; the glass has glazed over from the contesting temperatures on either side of it, painting a bleary picture of a fire silhouetting vague shapes. The doorstep creaks under his heavy foot, but nothing – from what he can see – moves in response to the disturbance. It’s late, he knows. If it weren’t for the thick clouds shrouding the sky, he would see the moon sinking towards the west horizon. Anyone with any sense in this world knows to be asleep during witching hour.

The doorknob is round. Brass. Worn by a hand that’s gotten very good at grasping it in the same manner every time. Ghost takes a moment to digest what that tells him about his new client before turning it and ducking inside. He was right to assume it’d be unlocked. While he’d have been able to find a way in otherwise, the silly little oversight manages to elicit more excitement in him than necessary. Their mistake is added to his quickly growing character evaluation. A routineer. Garden-variety mortal, too naive for their own good. Someone isolated. Someone–

Small.

Size has always been relative for something of his stature. At two and a half metres, he’s able to tower over even his own. But it truly hits him, right there, how long it’s been since he last encountered a human. He tries to tally the decades in his head, only to fail and fail again by fault of distraction. It shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does. She fulfils every bit of what he expected, after all; plain, though younger than the typical practitioner of familiar-summoning ability. Fast asleep on a threadbare couch. Drowned in clothing, skin dewy with sweat. A book abandoned, open on her chest, stuffed with spare pieces of parchment and illegible annotations. Ink-stained fingertips.

But his hand could crush her head if he was truly compelled to do so. He could scoop the bare ankles currently peeking out of her quilt and throw her over his shoulder like wild game, skinned and simple to carry back to hell. He remembers the fallow deer he’d feasted on just last week, belly soft as he sunk his teeth into it, and considers letting his appetite get the best of him with the one that’s unwittingly made herself available tonight. Crack open her ribcage to gorge on the gooey insides that no doubt taste like honey to a monster with his appetite. Bury his snout into her sweet-scented neck and get a sense for prey that can fight back, if just barely.

But the moment passes. In her slumber, she shifts to lay on her side, spooning the grimoire closer. The minor hint of life reawakens another, more primaeval urge in him, last felt aeons ago when he was a younger fiend and the world had been a much more vulnerable place.

(The urge to take, to bend and break to fit his fancy. Chewing on cartilage until it smacks like gum between his maw, flossing the foul curl of his canines. To sink his claws into tender calves and carve an irreversible Ghost-shaped hole in her home, a haunting so stubborn she’ll turn to a fake God to try and expel him.)

And it’s violent. A rather restive longing. But placed next to the patience he’s learnt in the centuries since, he makes his choice. A natural conclusion to a creature who’s always gotten what he’s wanted.

Yes, he’ll stay. Be here when she wakes and revel when those eyes widen at the sight of him, darkening the corner of her room. He’ll stay; trail around and observe as she tries to make sense of her routine in light of the beast looming over her shoulder. He’ll stay, maybe ravage what's between her legs, devastate her sense of preservation and instead make her beg for the damage. Fall short on his duties as a familiar. Stay until he gets bored, when he’s had his fill of the crying and the quaint box she calls home. When playing with his food any more will lay the morsel to waste. Only then will he finally tear into the temptingly delicious meal in front of him.

For now, though, his neck aches from having to stoop under such a low roof. He resorts to a bygone human form instead, one he consumed ages ago – bones snapping, flesh dimpling, folding, morphing into a much smaller thing, a man – and waits.

Morning finds you doubling over the side of your couch to retch up what little food you had scavenged the previous evening.

The loss is sore. Your stomach protests as the stale bread and water emulsion punches up your throat, emptying out onto the hardwood floor. Acrid. Bitter on the back of your tongue, sharp like the cramps that erupt in your abdomen once you lay back down. Sweat plasters baby hairs to your forehead, crawling down your back and pooling underneath your bandaged breasts. You wipe it off with trembling hands, kicking the suffocating quilt until it slouches off the armrest on which your feet lay.

Last night’s fire is little more than smouldering ash. Still, the cottage maintains a pervasive heat, the air buzzing with an unnamed vigour. It’s unlikely that the blizzard has ceased long enough for the snow blanketing your home to melt – and given the walls’ remarkable ability to release warmth faster than they absorb it, the current temperature is enough to confound you.

Likely a fever, you think, pressing knuckles to your temple. The timing is unfortunate enough, though something about your conclusion falls apart when tested against the churning of your gut. You’re clearly unwell, that much is apparent by the bile spoiling your floor, but you’d be a fool to miss the supernatural root of it. Like a perpetual tremor, never waning despite the way your muscles flare. A delirium that unfurls from your nape to slowly embrace your ears. You blink, trying to make sense of the queasiness that continues to wrack you.

You’d run out of herbs two days after the blizzard snowed you in, the remaining potions lining your pantry ones best left untouched. It couldn’t have been anything you took, then. Nor was it a spell; the last one you’d cast was an ignition charm you’ve performed so often you know its effects like the planes of your cheeks. You cycle through yesterday's happenings with febrile imprecision, sipping long gulps of oxygen to tame the queasiness lapping up your chest. Like bailing water out of a quickly sinking raft. Cupping it in your palms and throwing what you can overboard. You get nowhere, and your nausea only worsens.

You’d gone to sleep with your grimoire in hand. Had you cast something while in a hypnagogic state? Possible, though rather uncharacteristic. Your fingers dig into the cushion gutters, poking for any sign of the thick book. As a migraine begins to tear at your skull, your search borders on unhinged. Pillows fly across the room, cushions following suit. The quilt billows as you air it several times over, providing some fleeting – yet much needed – airflow.

You’re so focused on finding it that you almost miss the fact that the charred voice behind you is not your panic made material. Not the voice inside your head.

“Under the couch.”

This one is hoarse. Deep. It almost instantaneously shatters the heavy atmosphere cloaked over your shoulders, breaking your pyrexia with a sharp shiver down your spine. Pure ozone injected into the bubble you’ve made for yourself, the one you thought was so secure. Where the knife you taped to the underside of your table has remained untouched in the years since you moved in, unneeded. Hunched the way you are now, you can see it. Glinting as a mocking smile does; all teeth. Too far for you to retrieve without alerting your intruder. Too far for it to be an option. Your instincts rear.

Slowly, you crouch lower, hand skimming under the couch. Your pinkie grazes the well-loved leather of your grimoire’s cover. It manages to ground you to the situation at hand, though the reality is far more horrifying than what you could’ve conjured on your own. Distorted still, rippling with the impact of your fear. Paralysis battles adrenaline – your mind freezes with the shock of drowning, your body championing for survival. It doesn’t give you time to catch up.

Wood splinters under your heel as you twist, springing in the general direction of the voice. Heavy book in both hands. Your shoulders square, steadying as hinges to your attack. The figure is just visible; you barely make out the silhouette of its head before you aim for it.

But it grabs your wrist and flings your grimoire across the room in a fraction of the time, the spine splaying open onto an adjacent wall. Your stomach capsizes. The raft tips, flips, sends you crashing into frothing waves. Migraine blinding you for a brief, horrifying moment; one where you can’t see the thing shackling your wrist, or anticipate the hard kick it gives to your ankles. You buckle with the pain, held up by one heavy paw. A low whine syphons from your chest.

“Enough of tha’, now.”

Your vision comes into focus several seconds later. Still watery, brine spooling over your eyes, readying them for pruning, but clear enough to make out the depth of this ravine you’ve shipwrecked over. And it’s–

Uncanny. Teetering the thread between jarring and inhumane. Nothing about it – you’ve a hard time believing the moniker of ‘man’ – strikes you as superficial. Nothing skin-deep. Like a mountain seen breaking the horizon line from continents away, its rocks humming a song too closely resembling a banshee’s shriek for it to be alluring. Something concealed within its caves; underground, bubbling, molten. An impetus for myths, undiluted by tired parents using it to scare their children into bed. Still crowned by its original savagery, conceptualised centuries ago by a peasant who made the mistake of getting too close.

But it isn’t a concept, you quiver. It’s here – fleshly, corporeal. And it's even made an attempt to look human. As if you wouldn’t feel it itching to burst out of this skin, suffocated by too small constraints. Over six feet and then some, shoulders doubling yours and fingers that stretch a bit too long, a bit too thick. No face: everything but its eyes covered in knitted headwear, framing the pair of pale pupils, shadowed by a heavy brow.

Some suicidal, hare-brained part of you wonders what would happen if you were to lift the bottom of its mask. (What you would see. How it would react.) But the compulsion is quickly stifled by another wave of gagging, empty stomach looking for anything to regurgitate. The thing masquerading as a man catches on fast, flipping you so your back tucks against its chest. You end up projecting water over the carpet, coughing until your head pounds like a ripe bruise. It’s then that you realise your condition has everything to do with its presence, souring now that you’re practically nestled against its abdomen.

“What…” You question between dry heaves. “What are– What do y-you want with me?”

“Better question ‘s, wha’ do you want?” It murmurs back, rumbling too close to your ear. Rot thickens its breath, potent enough that it draws the tears already dotting your lash line. No doubt a corpse remains stuck somewhere down its gullet, stored away for later. No doubt you’ll join it soon, gnawed on until your flesh falls off the bone. The perfect victim; all alone, the town pariah. A witch by the common man’s standards. Cast out to a dismal forest to die.

“I don- I don’t–”

“Summoned me, didn’ you? Dug a nice little hole and all. Well,” His hand shifts, clasping tighter around your struggling arms. “I’m ‘ere now. ‘Bout wha’ you expected?”

You use your retching as an excuse to play a game of catch up, squeezing the last of your tears out. Your memories bleed into one another, ink on wet parchment. Summoned. Dug a… hole, to call on this thing of supernatural proportions currently occupying your home. Why would you want that? What have you done? The past year has been marked by loneliness of a drastic degree, certainly, yet–

And then it comes flooding back to you.

(Washing the salt off of preserved sheep’s liver. Fastening it to a bouquet garni with twine. Folding the modest sacrifice under layers of earth. Pouring milk onto the upturned dirt.)

“Aren’t you supposed to be an– an animal… Or something.” You choke.

(You never thought it’d work: this magic amateurishly scribbled onto the back of your book by a hand long necrotized. The runes had been difficult to fathom on their own. And the way the spell had sounded on your clumsy tongue made you sure you’d done it wrong. It was purely a pursuit of curiosity. Something to keep you occupied, for lack of anything else to do.)

“Or something.” It answers.

A familiar. Yours, to be precise. In service to you since it took the offering you fashioned. Or, of greater import, one that can’t do anything to you lest you ask for it.

(Foolish to think you can clamp a collar on a feral beast and expect it to heel.)

The girl has a harder time adjusting than his original estimate.

Of course, there’s the illness. The affliction that plagues all mortals who come in contact with a demon for the first time. She’s violently sick for days, verging on the full first week of his arrival. Constantly bent over herself, holding a metal pail close for the inevitable purge of bile, that which her liver overproduces to compensate for a lack of food. Her under eyes blacken five shades darker. Her cheekbones grow more pronounced. Ghost watches it all with a macabre sort of interest, unable to take much satisfaction in the affair as his meal withers away before his very eyes. Wrists thinning into willow branches. Lips flaking like dead bark.

He's almost tempted to do something before she begins to recover herself. Gets more used to his unnatural presence, it seems. Gradually. Slow.

It starts when she wakes up one morning, having slept in later than he’s known her to, hiccupping but otherwise solid. After laying on the couch for an hour, she limps off with dwindling energy to fry a batch of velvet shank for breakfast. The meal is hardly enough for one, yet she plates two-thirds of it for Ghost and places the dish on the table he’s commandeered for his own. It’s a kind gesture; he doesn’t have it in him to be kind about it, though. Yet before he can criticise her efforts, she waddles off to pry a window open. Frigid winds encroach on her sheltered home at once, snow flurrying in, but she braves the cold until a crow lands on the windowsill.

“Hello.” She croons, smoothing a knuckle across its crown. “Sorry I’ve been away. Here,” Digging into her breast pocket, she pulls out a handful of chokecherries and feeds them to the bird. “make them last. Supply is low.”

The crow merely picks them off her palm, coos lost in the roaring storm that batters at the door. For the first time since his arrival, Ghost is tempted to bleed into the shadows. The affair he’s made voyeur to is delicate, an understated glimpse into a life entirely foreign to him. It aches when he can’t piece together why she would give up her food for nothing in return, or why she treats him the same way she does a feral bird. He thinks it must be ego, this snarling anger in his chest.

So when the crow flies off with a final farewell pet down its back, he hardens into a nastier version of himself. Ghost still hasn’t touched the paltry breakfast when she turns her attention back to him, a fact she meets with a gingerly raised eyebrow.

“’Fraid I won’t eat tha’, pet.”

She takes a moment to process his epithet of choice, eyes narrowing in an almost comical turnaround of her previous gentle expression.

“Wouldn’t it be the other way around?” She scoffs.

The indignation alone should be enough to incense him further, never mind the apathy she adopts when she shucks the contents of his plate onto her own and marches back to the couch. It doesn’t. If anything, he calms a little at her willingness to take away what she so graciously offered. The cat does have claws, then. Albeit petty, piddling little claws – like the runt of a litter who’s learnt to bite back at anything that gets too close – but a fire, nonetheless. He appreciates that, perhaps more than he assumed he would.

Her sickness, he finds, is not the only issue.

Ghost lacks context for her situation – why she lives alone when the closest towns are just bordering the forest, or why no one ever seeks her out – but it does not escape him that the girl isn’t properly socialised.

In the centuries since they first emerged, he’s absorbed a keen sense for mortal behaviour. Credit to their alarming predictability, pattern recognition has halved the effort needed for his hunts. Not that he pretends to be at one with their psychology, but it’s easy to pin just where exactly she deviates from the norm when his strategy for ravaging her depends on it. More than once, he finds himself inexplicably engrossed in her habits.

Given her home is limited to the living room, kitchen, and washroom, she struggles to find a space where she can escape his oppressive presence. Ghost does not make it easy for her, either. He could choose to blend into the darker corners of her cottage, embodying the moniker he’d been given all those years ago and disappear almost completely – or enough to give her a mental break. But the mood strikes him more often than not, and he’ll loom over her like a spectral shadow, looking to provoke the grave mood swings that seize her like Satan does his miscreants. By far the most entertaining outcome had been when overstimulation trounced her usual level of tolerance and she pulled a knife on him, zeroed in on his jugular. He’d managed to scruff her by the nape until she wore herself out – which isn’t to say she didn’t put up quite a fuss.

Since then, she has yet to lash out to such an extreme, instead locking herself in the washroom when her temper skyrockets. Ghost is almost disappointed.

That’s his pet at her worst. At her best, she opts for quiet coexistence, either whispering to the crow who visits daily and appears to be her only friend, or cradling that ugly book in both hands. The back of the couch where she lounges most often obscures his view of her, but he’ll get the occasional vision when she pokes her eyes above the top to check on him. He maintains eye-contact – the heavy, uncomfortable kind that engenders pure humiliation and pummels her back into place, eyebrows furrowed and contentment spoiled – until the boredom gets to him.

The next time she sneaks a peek, then, he effects a gruff “Still ‘ere.”

She keeps to herself after that, nose buried in her grimoire like a chastened fawn.

It takes three weeks for her to settle into normalcy. By that time, Ghost’s patience has already started to wear thin.

The girl operates under the impression that he can’t do anything unless she orders it of him. He doesn’t blame her, credulous thing that she is. The notion is generally accepted by most of her grade, propagated by some text meant for beginners, written by a man who lacked the subtlety to discern between rules and good form. It’s true that familiar’s tend to only perform feats their counterparts ask for, but only because to do otherwise is bad practice. What else motivates a symbiotic relationship if not trust? Dependency?

Of course, that’s if a demon has anything to gain that a human can provide. He’s always found it to be a little more than pathetic. Reared to hunt, formidable in his thaumaturgic ability – Ghost has lasted centuries by remaining self-sufficient, unwilling to lean on the inferior class of rational beings. Unwilling to do their dirty work in exchange for blood he could obtain very well on his own. At least, that had been the conviction when he’d answered her graceless summons, bent on killing both his curiosity and hunger with one stone.

But something about her had made him glad to abide by the niceties. Had soothed the spring of his haunches as he prepared to pounce, or otherwise convinced him to play passive until golden opportunity struck. He’d wanted her to have as much a hand in her own unravelling, like a frog brought to a boil, entirely oblivious of its impending death until much too late. Her erroneous understanding of their dynamic, then, had paired nicely with his purposes. So he led her on to believe it, wasted most of his days amenable at the dining table as if waiting for instruction. As if she was the one in control, buzzing to shatter the perception when she inevitably asks something of him.

What he’s found, unsurprisingly, is that she’s blossomed under the reassurance. The initial fear that gripped her once she realised he wouldn’t be going away has since watered down to a weak, background agitation. He tastes it in the air; the mild unease as she flits about her cottage, the first thing to go when something else captures her attention. The way she hardly takes note of him anymore, waking up or retiring to sleep with nothing but covert glances to where he monopolises space.

So that feeling of frothing irritation returns at her docility, only more powerful than it had been when she’d offered her last chokecherries to the crow. No witch or wizard of her acumen has ever been so lacking in spite – and from what little she’s allowed him to see of her outbursts, he knows she isn’t short of it either. Yet she’d given up so quickly. Forfeited her home and comfort to a monster she hasn’t attempted to make any use of. And fuck– if that isn’t what he’d wanted. He needed her secure in him, pretty and soft enough that she’d be tempted to trade him for favours, for little feats of magic or the completion of chores she no longer has to worry about now that she doesn’t live alone.

Nevermind the detail that she refuses to ask anything of him; it still claws at him the wrong way, razor-sharp and deadly as it tears up his throat. This anger on her behalf. A compensation for the response she should be having. It stirs him when he realises that, for all intents and purposes, what he feels is pity. Perilous, committed sympathy.

There’s a reason he steers clear of it, too. Quick to snowball. He already feels it growing, avalanching into the hollow recess where he’d suppressed the soul of his first meal. Something shifts, then. He can’t place it. Just knows that the outcome he’d envisioned – where her bones serve to pick his teeth of the soft flesh from her thigh – is no longer a viable option. Just knows that his intentions with her mutate into something perhaps more dangerous, a little more unhinged. To weed out the wickedness he’s only seen in flashes. To see her corrupted into a far worse version of herself.

It’s late into his twentieth night when Ghost decides to do something about it.

He wedges back into her cottage when dawn splinters over the virgin snow. If he were a passionate man – not this hellhound trailing blood behind him like breadcrumbs – he’d remark on the way the tepid sunlight stains the forest in shades of peach and lurid blue. But the crow between his teeth hangs limp, and he’s hurried for the best way to present his gift, too absorbed in the task at hand to pay much mind to scenery.

The house is as tranquil as it always is at this time. Suspended in amber, a fossilised quaintness he’s grown used to. Golden, almost sticky slow. She’s still fast asleep on the couch, soft snores whistling from underneath a patchwork quilt (which smells so much like her that, to his mutt senses, they’re one-in-the-same form.) Despite the precarity of the moment, he makes no effort to keep quiet. His natural disposition isn’t prone to making any unintentional noise though, and so the only thing he disturbs are the dust motes bobbing in suspended animation.

Ghost places the dead bird on the table. It won’t be long before the blood drains from the punctures in its neck, and he prefers his meat iron-rich and wet, so he makes quick work of morphing back into his human form and washing his muzzle clean. There’s a sick thrill that curls in his gut; something like adrenaline, ozone-rich. Ruthless. He holds a crystalline picture of her reaction to the slaughtered friend he dragged into her home; angry, doe eyes glazed with tears as she yells at him for acting against her best wishes. Bad dog. Perhaps she’ll pull the dagger she keeps taped to the bottom of the table to indulge a sense of security. Perhaps she’ll drive it into his chest. That’s for hoping.

Standing over her now, he imagines the way her serene face morphs into something foul when she’s pushed to her limits. His cock twitches at the mental picture, aching behind the confines of his pants. A heavy hand moves to adjust it, stilling once it cups his balls to consider whether it’d be overkill to tug it over her face while she remains nice and still like this. It would be – not anything he’s above, granted, but excessive nonetheless. Besides, she’ll have plenty of time to accept the attention. Learn to love it, even.

When she wakes, Ghost has already plucked the crow. The feathers pile in the centre of her round dining table – distinctive even when detached from a body, meant for her to draw parallels to the game he currently masticates. Yet she hardly notes his presence at all. Instead, the unsuspecting thing merely clears the sleep from her bleary eyes, weighed down by a heavy cloak of sloth, more focused on wiping the drool off her chin than him. If she had been, perhaps the pieces would fall that much faster; at least, that’s what the quick-tick rap of his pulse insists upon.

But he’s no over-eager brute. He can wait.

Yet he is tense when she shuffles to and from the bathroom, bare feet padding along hardwood. Like a flood, his body grapples against the tidal urge to grab her jaw and force her gaze upon his bloody teeth, sharpened and marred behind the mouth of his true form. Look at me. Have you no survival instinct? There is a threat in your home and you parade in front of it, blind as a mole. You’ll get eaten like this. You’ll be condemned to hell between the jowls of horrible men.

(More monster than ever, really. Even like this, bound by his approximation of what a mortal man looks like, his face remains stuck to its original construction. The knitted mask he wears is more for her sake than his; he’s never been able to replicate the particulars of humanity. The delicate planes of their lips or the angles their noses protrude at. Better not to try, then. Better to hide it all away.)

It’s as she scrounges for breakfast that she finally heeds the pinpricks of blood dotting the floor. Fat, dark splotches draw a clear line from the doorway to a very calm Ghost, sat with his thighs spread over her too-tiny chair. He’s yet to finish his meagre meal – each bite seasoned with a satisfaction that bloats heavy in his stomach – hence the evidence of his crime still paints the corner red. A violent picture. Distressing, if he were to interpret the way her brows knit tight.

Crimson meat marbled ivory. Wings pried off a picked apart ribcage, shanks sucked clean of slightly tougher muscle. Still intact are the heart, tongue, liver – their membranes dissolving to soak into the table. The smell of death will be hard to rid of, he’s sure, much like the inedible parts of the bird that scatter carefully in front of him. Its glossy black talons. That tell-tale beak. Feathers on which her eyes linger, like she recognises the sheen but is too upset to connect it to the crow she fed daily. Her only friend.

She steps closer. Ghost devours every minute expression that flits upon her face. For the expressiveness of her pupils – contracted, small like organic pearls – she doesn’t portray much externally. Her fingers wring her skirt, twisting and twisting until it wrinkles in the impression of her thumb. Her lips purse into a thin line. But as far as his sharp observation goes; no tears. No ugly rage rippling her cheeks.

“What is this?” She asks in a small voice.

“Breakfast.” He says. It isn’t the response she’s looking for, and a frown tugs at her mouth. Not necessarily sad. Her hands release to clench at her sides. He smiles behind the mask. He can’t help himself.

“I didn’t tell you to do this.”

The smile breaks into a low chuckle. “No?”

“No.” Shaking her head, emotion surges up her throat. It bubbles thick and forces her to adopt a higher pitch to overpower it. “You brute. I-If you could’ve done whatever… whatever you wanted t-the whole time–”

“C’mere.” His hand snakes around her wrist, using it to wrench her closer. He consciously keeps his grip light – too much force and he could easily shatter bone – but the girl does not share his concern. She pulls and fights and stubbornly protests his direction.

“No! Get the fuck off! Get out!” She heaves. Seethes. Spittle launches from her tirade, her nails digging into his palm. She looks for blood but he won’t give it to her. She’s doing well, but not well enough. Eventually, he is able to pull her onto his lap, locking thick arms around her squirming form. “You bastard. You monster! I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll murder you in your sleep and feed your rotten insides to the maggots. Let me go!”

He’s blood-filled in his trousers. The hefty bulge knocks the small of her back and of all things, that’s what gets her to suddenly slacken. Though her chin tips to rest between her collarbones, lashes deliberately cast down. Refusing to meet his eye for all she’s worth. Good, he thinks, a warmth blossoming in his chest.

“You ough’ to know your friend didn’ put up a fight.” He starts, nosing the part in her hair. Despite his knitted mask serving as a direct barrier between them, he can smell the pine and juniper berry soap she uses to wash up. Sharp. Sweet. Particularly potent behind her ear, where he considers her lobes like low-hanging fruit.

“Shut up.”

“Need to hear this, pet.” She doesn’t listen, naturally, hips bucking wildly the instant he loosens his hold. His fingers bruise when he readjusts her on his thighs. “Need to know it was your fault as much as i’ was mine. Yeah? Y’let it grow too comfortable. Fed it daily and robbed i’ of its ingrained fear of strangers. In the end, it got much too friendly. Didn’ have the sense to fly away when I approached it.” Her breath pinches into a piercing whine. Ghost likens it to the kettle she keeps over her stove, waiting for steam to burst out of her ears.

It does not come. Instead, she cries. Beads of brine break her waterline, streaking miserable paths down her cheeks. He’ll grant her this: she does not sob unreasonably. Her hiccups are limited to if and when the air hardens in her lungs. He lets her have a moment before continuing.

“S’what happens, see. You get complacent, ‘n’ next thing you know, you’re meeting your God. Tell me, pet: do you think the afterlife would be pleasant to a witch?”

When she doesn’t respond, he bounces a knee to knock some sense back into her. Her weeping starts anew, only this time accompanied by a stuttered acknowledgement.

“Hm?”

“N-No.”

“No. ‘Course I could ‘ave told you that much, but it’s importan’ you come to the moral of the story yourself. Fight, or die.” Ghost strokes the goosepocked flesh of her upper arm, voice softening to deliver the final part of speech. It’s treacherously low, ultimatum like powdered ash cushioning the roughness in his throat. “And believe me when I say, dying ain’ the better option. There are far worse fates than me in Hell.”

He does not know whether it lands like he wants it to. If it accomplishes anything at all. But she doesn’t attempt to peel herself off him in the aftermath. Instead, she mourns herself dry for the next hour, snivelling wretchedly on his lap.

When her crying stops, the air is still laden with something. Hesitation rolls off her in waves, dense with the renewal of fear. He supposes it must be hypocritical of him, to both strike her with terror and expect her to overcome it, but he hums anyway, nudging her temple off his shoulder in an appeal to state what’s on her mind.

What comes instead is a deceptively simple question.

“What’s your name?” She asks. Doesn’t demand of him to tell her. Doesn’t set up grounds for him to ask for something in return. He can either answer, or not. She leaves the choice up to him. Clever girl.

He grapples with it a moment too long. A long dead man beats at his ribcage and demands to be heard. A meal he never managed to digest. Hissing. Snarling. S-Si-Si–

“Ghost.”

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drivergemini · 2 years

Text

hellfire baby :: e.m.

summary: when starting a new campaign, the hellfire club didn’t except to see a toddler sitting in their club leader’s throne

content warning: parenting & pregnancy, talks about teen parenting, swearing, basically really fluffy, child’s features mostly based off of eddie

word count: 1013

when all of the hellfire boy’s entered through the theater room’s doors, they felt a huge rush of excitement. eddie had been hyping up his new campaign for about a month and told everyone that he was going to do something real special for their first meeting.

what they did not expect was a small little girl, maybe around 1 or 2 years old, sitting in their dungeon master’s place. she had a pink dragon onesie on and her big brown eyes stared back at the group.

“why good evening lovely gentlemen.” eddie popped out from behind his throne, holding a small sandwich bag filled with ‘star wars’ cookies. he handed it to the child with barely any acknowledgement and she gladly grabbed it with eager hands. “are you lads ready to start this wonderful campaign?”

each boy had their own looks of confusion on their faces. they looked at eddie and then the child, then back again.

“eddie why the hell is there a baby here?” dustin was the one who spoke up.

eddie’s face sported a wide grin. “well guys i would like to introduce you to the surprise i mentioned.” he scooped up the little girl and presented her to the d&d club memebers. “everyone this is my daughter mei. say hi mei mei.”

“hi mei mei.” the little voice spoke a she waved a tiny hand to the boys. she tugged her onesie hood down, reveling long, brown hair, just like her dad’s.

“daughter? eddie we didn’t even know you could speak to girls?” mike chimed in.

“well wheeler, if it matters to you, i don’t speak to girls because i already have my fiance.” he raised his eyebrows at the last part.

you see, eddie munson didn’t become a super-super senior because he was dumb. he became a super-super senior because he accidentally got his high school girlfriend pregnant. they had been together since they were 16. eddie and y/n were going great until the summer before their senior year. y/n’s pregnancy took a large toll to both of their academics, so eddie decided he would try and lighten his girlfriend’s stress load. on april 29th, 1984, their daughter was born.

he thought y/n’s future was too bright for her to be held back, so after she gave birth he let her continue as an almost normal high school student. eddie didn’t get to graduate that year. but he did get to hold his baby as he watched the love of his life walk the stage.

he didn’t graduate his second senior year either. he was too caught up in healthy parenting and making sure he was there to watch his daughter’s firsts. he watched her first steps, her first time eating solid foods, and even heard her first word. ‘dragon’.

so here he was, his third senior year, finally ready to walk that stage.

as eddie finished up the story he heard a sniff. all heads turned toward the direction of lucas.

“dude that story was so beautiful. i didn’t even know that.”

“yeah most people don’t except a few people who were in school during that time like harrington. but y/n kind of chose to drop off the map so it isn’t talked about much.” eddie sat down in his chair and placed his daughter on his lap. “now that introductions are out of the way, shall we get started?”

eddie’s new campaign was centered around exploring an abandoned gem mine to figure out what was terrorizing the near by townsfolk.

“so little dwarf, you enter the cave with your mates behind you. as you guide them with your light, the air becomes increasingly warm. as you approach the growing heat, you see a shimmer of pink scales.”

“munson you did not...” dustin starts as his hands grip the table.

“you raise your torch higher and you see her in all her glory...” eddie lifts mei off of his lap and places her in the middle of the table. “mei the fire breathing dragon.”

all the boys start to exclaim in frustration. what kind of sick father makes his own kid the first boss of his d&d campaign? eddie munson that’s who. after explaining they all need a time out to discuss, they all huddled in the corner.

“dude what are we going to do? we can’t slay the dragon. i mean look at her, she’s adorable!” dustin whispered.

“i mean honestly if you think about it, it’s just a game.” mike said. typical.

“yes but the moral principal of it is, eddie knows that we would have to be sick son’s of bitches to kill a kid. especially his daughter.” dustin explained frustrated.

him and mike felt a little wedge between their legs. they all looked down to see mei still holding her bag of cookies.

“tooktie?” she raised it up to the air, offering the boys a share of her snack.

each boy took only one, while politely thanking her for sharing. she unwedged herself from the huddle and waddled towards her dad.

“juice peas?” she said to him, pointing to a sippy cup sitting on the table. he handed her the cup and looked at the clock on the wall.

“unfortunately boys, time is up for today’s meeting.” eddie tsked.

just as he said that, y/n opened the door to the club room and walked in scanning around. each person all had their eyes on her.

“mommy!” mei squealed, running towards the young woman. she jumped into her arms, y/n picking her up and spinning her around.

eddie grabbed a small child lunch box and walked towards the two girls. “as you see i can't stay any later than i’m supposed to tonight guys. but this will give you some more time to think about your next move.”

he trailed behind the two girls, waving everyone goodbye.

as the door closed, each hellfire member could hear a faint, “eddie why is our daughter talking about slaying a dragon?”

followed by “edward munson why did our daughter just say son of a bitch?”

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fluff #stranger things #stranger things fic #stranger things one shot #stranger things 4 #eddie munson my beloved #parenting fic #the baby fever has been real yall #hellfire baby sushihousebread

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creative-caramel-coffee · 21 days

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The Spiders Sister - Chapter 1

Summary: Reader gets caught hiding out in the avengers tower. In the end it turns out for the best.

TW: non-sexual nudity, illness, fainting, swearing

Words: 4.1K

A/n: Super long first chapter

маленький паук – Little Spider

It defiantly wasn’t part of your life plan to be living with your bother again in your adulthood.

You had spent an excellent few months on your own having finally moved out of May Parker’s apartment, it had been perfect. Well … as perfect as life could be for a parker.

Then … you guessed it … parker luck struck again. There was a huge fight, one you had been itching to join but your brother, peter parker, had it covered. And since nobody knew that you sometimes wore the spider-man suit when peter wasn’t able to, it would all be over if two Spider-Man’s ended up fighting some of the weird aliens that had invaded New York.

You see, you and your brother had more in common than most siblings did. Peter parker had been bitten by a radioactive spider on a school trip as was known to a few people. But, at the same time, you had been eighteen and chaperoning the field trip.

When peter had snuck off to the side you had gone after him. When he was bitten, so were you.

But for now, you had decided to try and stay away from the superhero lifestyle. But when the itch came, peter lent you his suit so you could scratch it.

You had helped him refine his web-fluid and had your own web shooters as well as one of his old suits just in case. May knew about you and peter after finding out a while ago. However, peter and you had kept everything about your existence from the avengers so you could live a semi-normal life. At least for now.

But the day the avengers were fighting off the aliens, New York had taken some heavy damage. You had been running a small illustration business out of your apartment in queens. Your apartment … which was now levelled in the fight was gone. Along with your business.

Since you had moved out young, May only had one spare bedroom in her apartment which peter was occupying. Leaving the Parker’s with one option.

As peter had a room in the avenger's tower, you could stay there or with aunt may. Peter being Peter didn’t want to ask tony if he could stay in the tower for the unforeseeable future without arousing questions. So, you had been secretly living in the tower for about three days now.

Peter brought you food and had bribed Jarvis to keep your existence a secret. You had his old suit if you wanted to leave the tower, you could swing away instead of walking through the building and getting caught.

It was a pretty solid plan and it had been working pretty well. Until the day you got sick.

Peters' bedroom in the tower was on the floor with the other avengers, meaning you had to be somewhat quiet so Natasha, clint or the others didn’t find you. But it had begun to get colder out, and Peters old suit didn’t have a heater. It had been made before tony had found out spiders, including peter and yourself, can't thermoregulate. And swinging around New York without a heater in the nippy winter air had left you with a pretty nasty cold.

Unlike peter your powers didn’t give you super healing. In fact, your powers differed from peters in more ways than one. For one thing you had small fangs which you could retract, they didn’t do much, but they were cool, and peter was mildly jealous. Another thing was you had taken on aspects of jumping spiders as you could jump higher due to your super strength and some weird spider quality peter lacked.

Like peter the bit had given your excellent eyesight, increased metabolism, a lack of thermoregulation, the weird sticky thing, the spider sense and super strength and the allergy to peppermint. But due to sharing the suit anytime you went out as “Spider-Man” you had to refrain from using your own unique powers, so you didn’t give anything away.

The thermoregulating thing may have finally come back to bite you now that you were in peters old suit. After taking one of his patrols for him so he could finish his assignment and you could get out of his room in the tower, the cold had made you sick. Heres the thing about having a high metabolism when you don’t have an increased healing factor. It went one of two ways. Either you had flash colds which were taken care of quickly and at a much faster rate than the average human, or if it was stronger than your immune system, it was quickly made into a bigger problem than it should have been due to your body processing things faster and speeding up its strength.

Anytime this had happened in the past, due to not being able to go to a regular hospital, you had thanked the gods for May choosing a career in nursing. Though she had been able to treat you superficially with regular medicine and not anything made for super soldiers or spiders as that was a Bruce banner specialty that was unique to the tower's med bay. So, you often just had to ride it out and if things got really bad, peter would try and smuggle you some of his medicine out of the tower for you.

So, this is where you ended up. Curled up in Peters bed in the tower, stifling rough sounding coughs into his pillow and making a mental note to wash his sheets soon. You were doing your best to remain quiet and not alert either of the super spies to your presence or any of the other avengers. You thanked Thor that only you and peter had super hearing which meant you could usually tell if someone was in the halls.

Feeling miserable you buried yourself further into the sheets and shivered, it was so cold but in reality, you probably had a high fever. Your lungs let out a wheezing noise whenever you exhaled, and you were beginning to think maybe your asthma was back. Unlike peter you had not been so lucky as to have had it cured by the bite.

Your asthma puffer was one of the few things that survived your apartment being destroyed. As you laid in bed feeling awful you thought back to that day.

You thanked the gods you had been out at the time. You had gone to a coffee shop downtown with your sketchbook, laptop and usual things you took out, including a range of art supplies and of course your emergency puffer which peter had managed to smuggle out which had doses that worked with your metabolism.

You were broken from your daydreams as another harsh coughing fit wracked your body. From what you could hear nobody was in the halls, but you did your best to keep quiet regardless. The wheezing that trailed after each breath was getting worse and your lungs were feeling tight.

You had been trying to use the puffer sparingly so it didn’t run out because you didn’t know if and or when peter could get you another. But as drawing breath grew harder you made the executive call to use it. You rolled over in the bed and threw an arm down to fish around for your red backpack. Finding it you fiddled with the zip before your fingers wrapped around the cool plastic of the device. Tony being tony had insisted it have a Spiderman case thinking it was peters which ended up being rather ironic as it was fitting for you too.

You tried fruitlessly one last time to draw breath before achieving nothing but a crackling wheeze. Screw it. You uncapped the red lid and held it to your lips, propping yourself up on an elbow in an attempt to sit u straight to take it.

You exhaled and inhaled repeating it once more before drawing in a lungful of the super-medicine. Almost straight away you began to feel better. Your fast metabolism speeding up the medicines process.

Feeling like you could breathe again you replaced the cap and put it on the nightstand before curling up in the sheets again feeling cold still but also slightly damp from the thin layer of sweat that had been forming all morning.

You were dressed in spider-man pjs which had a thin t-shirt and long pants. You had considered getting up to grab one of peters hoodies to get warm or another blanket but the idea of standing up made your head spin.

You nestled back into the sheets and let your eyes fall shut despite it being almost midday. The curtains were drawn and so it didn’t bother you too much. You began to drift off into a semi-peaceful sleep broken by harsh coughing fits which were becoming harder to stifle in your half asleep and fevered state.

Meanwhile the avengers had just finished their morning training session, one which Peter had joined for once. Peter being Peter had barely broken a sweat and as a result had opted to hang out on the communal floor while everyone went o freshen up.

Stark had designed the tower well. With Peter’s bedroom being on the same floor as Natasha’s who was rather protective of her younger spider counterpart as well as Wanda’s, Yelena’s, Kate’s and a few spares. The rest of the avengers were a floor above.

At first peter had been a bit miffed about being on a floor of just girls but he ended up liking it a lot. And he had a second bedroom in the master suite with tony and Pepper which he proffered anyway. The one on the avenger's floor was more for if Tony and Pepper were away, and he wanted to be around the others.

Natasha was headed for her room after waving goodbye to peter who had settled down to watch more star-wars, when she paused in the hallway.

Retracing her steps she found herself stood outside peters bedroom door. Frowning she pressed an ear to the door and froze. Someone was inside and coughing. Knowing it wasn’t peter, nat carefully twisted the door handle.

Peter being peter had prepared for almost anything. As soon as Natasha had set foot inside peters room Jarvis had alerted peter of her presence.

Meanwhile Natasha peered into the dimly lit room. The lump in the bed was wriggling around and coughing. Nat was on high alert by now. She realised this person was ill but how had they managed to get in without Jarvis knowing? And why were they in peters bed?

She crossed the threshold and walked over to the bed. Taking note of the backpack on the floor and puffer on the bedside table as well as your spider-man pjs which had been a gag gift from Peter last Christmas.

Nat stood and observed for a second. Looking down at your flushed face which was burning with fever and the harsh coughs that were wracking your weak form.

Nat watched helplessly for a second unsure of how to deal with a sick intruder.

She hesitated before extending a hand to your forehead and feeling a very high fever. She sucked a breath. Despite being an intruder she had some ideas as to why you may have been here. Your likeness to peter wasn’t hard to spot. Yet. She was unsure.

Peeling of the blankets to get a better look at you, as she did you made a small noise of discontent and curled into a shaking ball still fever addled and half asleep.

Before she could continue the door opened and peter looked in.

“Uhh M-Ms Romanoff…” Peter said looking guilty as he stepped in and closed the door again.

“Peter, do you know who this is?” Natasha asked getting straight to the point. Peter hesitated and rubbed the back of his neck.

“Y-yes.” He said looking at your sick form with a frown.

“Peter.” She said crossing her arms. “Care to share whats going on?” Nat said as she headed for Peter’s bathroom.

“Um… She … she’s,, my sister.” Peter said unsurely. Natasha returned after a second and nodded. Now holding the first aid kit from peters bathroom in her arms.

“Anything else i should know?” She asked walking over to the bed and sitting down to rifle through the first aid kit.

“Petey?” You mumbled hearing his voice.

Peter seemed to break out of his trance and came to your side. “I’m here Y/n.” He said.

“‘S cold.” You mumbled making peter frown.

“Actually, I think she has a fever.” Nat said as she found what she was looking for, pulling out a thermometer from the kit.

Nat gently placed the thermometer under your tongue and turned to look at peter.

“Pete, you’re not in trouble but i need some more information.” Natasha said.

“This is Y/n. She’s, my sister. Her apartment was levelled in the last attack and so she’s been staying here ever since. She’s not a threat I promise.” Peter said almost tripping over his words in order to explain.

Before Nat could respond the thermometer beeped and she removed it to look at the small screen, drawing another round of coughs from you. Natasha rubbed your back with one hand while frowning at the screen.

“Peter… she should be dead. This says 106. There’s more isn’t there.” Nat said with some urgency as she began peeling the rest of the blankets off you in an attempt to cool you down.

“Ahh … yes. She had powers. Like mine. She … she wears the suit sometimes.” Peter said standing nearby and watching with a worried expression.

“Ok. So, she has spider powers? High metabolism, super strength, etc.” Nat said and Peter nodded. “Why hasn’t her healing fixed this?” Nat said feeling your forehead again.

“She doesn’t have it. Her powers differ slightly.” Peter explained as Nat cursed softly in Russian.

“Her fever’s still rising.” Nat said making a decision. “We need to cool her down fast before she gets too hot for her own good. Jarvis?” Natasha said and peter looked panicked for a second worried about more people finding out about you.

“Ms Romanoff-“ he started.

“Pete, we need to cool her down stat. I need some help.” She said and peter nodded still looking nervous. “Jarvis call wanda to Peter’s bedroom.” Nat said and peter relaxed slightly. Wanda was ok. She would be good for the situation.

“What are you going to do?” Peter asked.

“She needs a bath and I doubt you want to do that.” She said with a small smirk and Peter flushed for a second.

“Defiantly not.” He said shaking his head.

“Is there someone we can call? Someone who she’d be ok with dressing her once we cool her down. She may be sick but i don’t want to invade her privacy.” Nat said as she scooped you up from the bed and into her lap while they waited for wanda to arrive. You cough harshly again and wheezed making nat frown and look to peter.

“Asthma.” He said.

“Runs in the family huh?” She joked reaching over for the puffer on the bedside table.

“Uh… about that.” Peter said looking guilty. “Mine was cured by the bite. I need the puffers for her.” He said looking sheepish. Expecting Nat to be mad she grinned.

“You’re a good brother.” She said as she uncapped the device and pressed it to your lips.

“Exhale.” She instructed and by some small miracle you complied. When you went to inhale, she administered the medicine and told you to hold.

Recapping the device, she rubbed a hand up and down your arm. “Good job sweetie.” She said and felt you relax into her arms some more as you let out a breath.

The two sat in silence for another second before the door opened again and wanda slipped inside.

She was freshly showered, her hair damp and she smelt like jasmine and honey. She was dressed in a simple faded black t-shirt and grey track pants.

“Whats-“ she began before pausing, her eyes caught on you laid in Natashas lap half asleep.

“Wanda,” Nat said. “Meet Y/n. Peter’s older sister.” She said.

“Okay…” Wanda said looking lost before her expression morphed to concern as you coughed. “Is she ok?” Wanda asked.

“No. That’s why you’re here. Long story short, peter smuggled her into the tower, and she has spider powers and her fever is really high. We need to cool her down.” Nat said and wanda swallowed and nodded. “Peter?” Nat said turning to the younger parker.

“Yes?” He said looking up from where he had been studying his shoes closely.

“You never answered my question. Is there someone we can call to come and get her dressed after wanda and i bathe her?” Nat asked and peter blushed again and nodded.

“I can call May. It’s her day off.” He said and Nat nodded.

“You do that. Wanda and I will look after Y/n. We promise not to go further than her outer clothes.” She said and scooped you up into her arms. She headed for Peter’s bathroom with wanda trailing behind. You remained limp in her arms snuggled into her chest in an unconscious need for companionship.

Once the two redheads had you in the bathroom wanda looked at nat. “Now what?” She asked and Natasha smirked.

“Now we take her clothes off.” She said and gently she lifted your arms from where you were laid on the floor in her lap and pulled the spider-man t-shirt off over your head. Wanda blushed slightly at the sight of your red sports bra despite having seen Nat and herself train in about the same if not less clothes.

“You wanna help?” Nat asked with a grin that only served to make Wanda’s blush deepen. You squirmed slighting in Nat’s lap but stopped when she gently rubbed your arm after you buried your warm face into her stomach.

Wanda rolled her eyes in an attempt to feign nonchalance despite being way past that point.

She lifted her hands, and the familiar red glow of magic surrounded her hands. Her magic lifted your hips so Nat could slide off your pants. Wanda blushed again at the sight of your Black Widow boxers. Natasha however grinned at them finding it both adorable and very cute.

After a beat Wanda met Nat’s eyes again. “Now what?”

“We get her in the bath. She needs to be cooled down Asap.” Nat said hoisting you into her arms again as you wriggled, turning and grumbling into her chest.

“Not gonna lie she’s pretty cute.” Nat said and Wanda avoided her eyes as she used her magic to fill the bath with tepid water.

Natasha gently lowered you into the tub ignoring your whining protests and running her hands through your hair which seemed to calm you down as you relaxed again.

“So … now we wait?” Wanda guessed and Natasha nodded.

“Yep. Unless you really want to steal May’s job of getting her dressed again.” Nat teased making Wanda splutter slightly. “Im kidding.” Nat said. “I know what hot women do to your brain.” She winked and wanda slouched slightly.

After a second you grumbled and blearily opened your eyes, squinting at the two women.

“Peter is so dead.” You mumbled before letting your eyes drift shut again. There was a pause before wanda and nat both started laughing.

You groaned. “Peter!” You yelled before coughing again making Wanda and Nat frown. But before they could do anything the door opened to show a beat red peter with his hands covering his eyes.

“Yes?” He said in a small voice.

“When I get out of here, you’re dead.” You mumbled with a foggy glare sent in his direction.

“Hey. Peter did the right thing.” Another voice said from behind Peter.

“May?” You called. “Oh, wtf is going on right now.” You mumbled.

“Whats going on kiddo is that, once again, you failed to ask for help which landed you here.” May said entering the bathroom with a change of clothes.

“Nice to see you Ms Parker.” Nat said and wanda echoed.

“Please. Call me May. And thank you for looking after her.” May said and you groaned.

“I hate all of you.” You said hiding your face in your hands.

“Uh huh. Sure, you do.” May teased.

“It was no problem. Ms- May.” Wanda said. “We’ll wait in peters bedroom while you… yeah.” Wanda said before making a hasty retreat. Nat laughed and followed her out.

May gave you a disappointed frown once she had shut the door and turned back to you with a sigh.

“Honey.” She said.

“I know… I know.” You said still feeling like death but slightly less so. “Did the black widow and scarlet witch just really see me in my underpants?” You asked.

“Yes, and I serves you right for hiding illness … again!” She said as she came over, rolling up her sleeves and helping you out, practically holding all your weight for you as your head spun.

May frowned and guided you over to the covered toilet seat to dress you again.

Gently she began to towel you off and change you into fresh clothes.

“I can do it myself.” You whined but May shot you a look and you knew better than to challenge the angry Parker and you and peter had called her as kids when she was upset at you for something.

“Now, once you’re dressed you are going to thank those two for their kindness and your coming home with me.” May said.

“But-“ you began.

“No buts.” She said and helped you up, now fully dressed.

She helped you over to the door opening it despite still holding you up. The two of you shuffled into the room where Peter, Nat and Wanda were sat on Peter’s bed talking in hushed voices.

“Pete. I love you but I can hear everything you’re saying dumbass.” You said rolling your eyes and May lightly hit your arm.

“Right.” He said rubbing his neck. “Super hearing.” He nodded.

“I’ll add it to the list.” Nat grinned and you groaned before May jabbed you in the side and looked at the two girls.

You coughed at her actions making her frown but quickly got it under control for the sake of your already fragile image.

“Thank you, Wanda and Natasha, for helping me.” You said still leaning heavily on May. Now you had been standing for a bit the room began to spin. Your face went a shade paler making Natasha frown and stand. It was a split second before you stumbled, almost bringing May down with you in the process. Luckily strong arms wrapped around you, and you looked up into Nat’s pale green and worried eyes.

“Y/n?” You finally registered she was talking to you. “Y/n?” She asked again a little louder.

You let out a soft groan and she huffed. “Right. Up we go.” She said hoisting you into your arms and making the room spin again as you buried your face in her arm.

You felt her gently set you down on the bed and feel your forehead.

Distantly you heard May saying something along the lines of taking you home and the sound of Natasha arguing they were better equipped to help with your powers and sickness. May relented and you went back to dozing.

“What happened?” Peter asked from where he was stood by the door.

“Probably got too dizzy from standing up. Her body’s already trying to fight off sickness.” Natasha said and Wanda nodded.

“Peter? Don’t you have a super high metabolism?” Wanda asked.

“Yeah?” He said looking lost as May seemed to catch on.

“Y/n when did you last eat?” May asked and you groaned and buried your face in the pillow. “Well, that answers that.” May said rolling her eyes.

“Peter, do you have any of those energy bars that steve uses?” Wanda asked and peter nodded and headed for his bedside drawer.

He fished around and pulled out one of them and passed it to nat. She unwrapped it and shoved it into your hands.

“Eat.” She said and you made a groan of protest. “It’ll help.” She said in a softer tone.

“Fine.” You said sitting up against the headboard and nibbling on it slowly.

“Better.” Nat said and you frowned.

“You know you’re cute when you’re mad.” Wanda said looking surprised by her own words and blushing at Natasha’s knowing gaze.

“Get some rest маленький паук” Nat said once you had finished eating, and she begun to shepherd everyone out of the room.

PART 2

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temeyes · 3 months

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hehe dad!soap likes matching with his kid

978 notes · View notes

distinctlywhumpthing · 1 year

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In League — Delirium

Masterlist

Summary: (A handful of days after being saved but a fortnight before his escape.) The rest of the Boys have mixed feelings about the wrongly-accused spy's extended stay — to say nothing of their leader's preoccupation with him. Unfortunately, before the matter can be resolved, their "guest" succumbs to a fever... Beta read by @alittlewhump!

CW: Late-19th century, explicit language, fever, sickfic, implied past noncon, vague mention of an infected wound, indentured servitude, skewed power dynamics, carewhumper/sympathetic whumper.

He rapped on the door softly with one knuckle. “Wyatt? Doc’s here.” No response. He wasn’t about to go in uninvited, not now.

Three days ago, Theo had come home to a house divided. He’d been downriver only a few nights, making sure the right men would be on duty whenever their shipments passed through the port, but apparently he’d missed quite a drama. The beggar-revealed-enemy spy hunted, captured, and tortured for his crimes, only to be whisked away by Wyatt who believed his claims of innocence. They’d been holed up in his room ever since, leaving the rest of the house to stew in their wake.

Half thought the boy’s association with Keats was reason enough for punishment, even if they had been mistaken about his exact role. The rest cared more about Wyatt’s total absence, questioning if there was more going on than they fully realised. Of course, no one was taking any action aside from apparently whinging on about it from dusk til dawn.

In some ways, it was amusing to Theo.

They may play as a democracy but they’d all had a hand in dealing Wyatt the trump card. Their reasons were their own but universally, they all preferred Wyatt be the one to ultimately set things right. Whether he was the hero or the villain at the end of the day to achieve it, didn’t matter. The point was, he took care of it and none of them had to.

You have to talk to him, they’d said. From the moment Theo had returned, they’d all been at his heels. Make him see reason. As though Wyatt ever listened to anyone. The truth was the reverse: Theo was the one who listened, between the two of them. But from the outside, all the others saw was a closeness that made them think Theo had Wyatt’s ear.

“In time,” Theo had told them all. In Wyatt’s own time, was what it would really be.

And sure enough, on his second night home, he turned over in the wee hours of the morning to find Wyatt haunting his door.

“Ah, come for confession?” Theo teased, pushing himself up.

Wyatt chuckled, ghosting across the dark room to reappear in the moonlight coming through the window. “You should fuckin' hope not.” He flicked open the latch and leaned out, pulling in a deep breath like he hadn’t been getting enough air. “Grab a jacket,” was all he said before swinging a leg over the sill and disappearing into the night.

Theo needed more than a fucking jacket, seeing as he’d just been sleeping, and seeing as it was bloody freezing outside in the middle of the damn night but eventually he heaved himself out onto the roof to join Wyatt. The slate tiles were cold beneath his hands and slick beneath his feet. In the daylight, they’d have spiderwebbing frost crosshatched over their surface, sparkling in the sun.

“Now that you’ve dragged me out of bed to risk falling to my death…”

Wyatt snorted, producing a second cigarette. He lit it by the end of his and passed it to Theo.

He took a drag. And then a second, watching Wyatt’s profile and waiting for him to break the silence. “Well, it better be for something or I’m going back to bed. I slept fuck all at the port.”

“I know how you hate a moving bed.”

“Exactly, so out with it already. What’s gotten into you? This isn’t how you do things.”

“No. It’s not.” He wasn’t smoking anymore, instead staring at the lit cigarette between his fingers, watching the smoke curl away, the shadowy rooftops beyond. He took another deep breath like something was stopping the air from reaching the bottom of his lungs.

“What is it about this one?”

“I don’t know.”

Theo waited.

Nothing but sullen silence.

So, it was going to be like that. He bumped Wyatt’s shoulder with his. “Piss off, yes you do.”

Wyatt sighed, pressing the heels of his hands to his forehead. “It’s—it’s the way he looks at you. Begging you to be different, to—” He cleared his throat and took another pull from his cigarette.

“Begging you to save him?”

“This is different,” Wyatt said, a little too quickly.

“I don’t see how. One way or another you always play the rescuer.”

“Well, then he’s different.”

“All right. Apparently so.” He’d get nowhere with this, not if Wyatt couldn’t see it for himself. Maybe he was wrong anyway. He took a slow drag, waiting for Wyatt to do the same. “What about the rest of the boys? They’re not happy.”

“I’m working on it.”

“Are you? Alfred says they haven’t seen you since they brought the boy here, thinks you’re holding a grudge.”

“Maybe I am,” he grumbled.

“If you are then you’re being a fool. There’s no need to choose him over the rest. Talk to them, they’ll come round.”

Wyatt said nothing. There was a tension in his shoulders mirroring that in his brow. Unrest in the house always weighed heaviest on him.

“They all deserve to be given the chance.”

Wyatt chuckled at having his own convictions parroted back at him. But he knew Theo believed them just as much as he did. They’d found many of them together, the runaways and cast-offs, thieves and beggars. Each had only needed one chance. “After all, isn’t that what this is about? August’s chance?”

But Wyatt never found the opportunity because just a few hours later, before the sun had finished rising and the frost was still thick from the night, he sent Theo for the doctor.

The very same who now cleared his throat as he stood behind Theo in the hallway, waiting. Theo raised his fist to knock again just as Wyatt pulled open the door. Wyatt raked a hand through his flaxen hair, looking more disheveled than he did after most rows. Theo raised his eyebrows.

Wyatt ushered the doctor in wordlessly, taking a moment to meet Theo’s eyes with a grim expression before he followed. It was about as much a request to stay as he knew Wyatt capable of so he did, leaning against the doorframe to keep out of the way. The doctor sat on the desk chair beside the bed, leaving Wyatt to hover, hands stuffed in his pockets, looking anything but at ease.

His unrest was apparently not unfounded as the doctor wasn’t able to rouse August. Theo hadn’t yet met him properly. It was difficult to regard him as a young man, practically their peer from what Wyatt had said. One wouldn’t guess it by looking at him, especially not today. He was prone on the bed, swallowed by the pillows and bedcovers. His only colour came from the smattering of bruises across his face and the blueish-green of his veins crisscrossing the backs of his hands, which Theo could make out even across the room.

“His fever is quite high,” Doc confirmed. “Any injuries?”

Wyatt grunted in confirmation, sitting down on the bed. August whimpered as Wyatt lifted him to sit upright, though his eyes stayed closed.

“I know it hurts,” he murmured, lips at the other boy’s ear.

August was limp as a rag so Wyatt held him against his chest while the doctor inspected the healing lashes on his back. Wyatt’s thumb stroked the nape of his neck under his damp, tangled hair.

“These look relatively superficial. Anywhere else?” Doc was on payroll exactly because he was all business and no stupid questions.

The boy whined again when he was replaced on the pillow, eyelids fluttering as he tossed his head to the side, chasing the hand that had just left him. Wyatt indulged him, smoothing the backs of his fingers across the boy’s cheek and shushing him until his breath calmed.

He led the doctor through a full inspection, unbuttoning, uncovering, unwinding bandages. There were burns dotting his chest and upper arms, the undersides of his knees, the soles of his feet.

If Theo had been present that night, while this was going on, he wouldn’t have stayed. More likely would have appealed to Wyatt himself to put an end to it sooner. It wasn’t fair to submit someone to punishment just for doing their job. And if he was an indenture, it hadn’t even been his choice to begin with, poor soul.

“No,” the doctor was saying. “Nothing I’ve seen is cause for a fever so high.”

The other boys liked to jest—in truth making light of their own uncertainty—that one couldn’t tell by looking if Wyatt was returning from a funeral or from winning at the track. Theo could admit that their leader played his hand close to his chest but he still had his tells, just like any of them.

And Theo was looking right at it.

Wyatt had no qualms spending double the resources just to eliminate the possibility that there might be an easier or more efficient means to their end. It wasn’t optimism or dumb luck but a thoroughness that meant going about things more thoughtfully, patiently. Sometimes there was an upper-level window always left unlocked that could save the spectacle of barging in the front, it just needed to be found first.

So, Theo wasn’t surprised that Wyatt had saved the worst for last – and apparently it was just that. No sooner had he lifted the hem of his nightshirt than August’s eyes flew open and he kicked away.

Wyatt had to lean away to avoid a heel to his face.

The boy’s eyes were unfocused when he righted himself but he glared in Wyatt’s direction as he tried to catch his breath.

Wyatt held up both hands in surrender. “It’s all right, lad. We’re trying to help. You’re unwell. The doctor is here to make you feel better.”

“No, please,” he begged hoarsely. Speaking sent him into a coughing fit. When it finally stopped, he had to lean into the wall, squeezing his eyes shut like he was fighting off unconsciousness. “Please, no more.”

Theo frowned. Wyatt had failed to mention this particular piece of information though now it was clear that it was central to this puzzle.

“Of course not. You’re safe from that here.” Wyatt reached for him but he recoiled. “Please, August, ‘tis only I.”

August blinked at him looking confused and began shaking his head. “It hurts…”

“I know, lamb.” Theo had only heard such a gentle tone from Wyatt on a handful of occasions. He ought to look away but found he couldn’t. “Let me help you, please.” Wyatt kept his hand outstretched, waiting.

The younger boy reached for him, fingers hesitating just shy of touching his hand. “Sir?”

“Yes,” Wyatt said, as though it were distinguishing enough it could only mean him. “Come here, August. It’s all right.”

They all waited, though August seemed unaware the others were even there. His eyes never left Wyatt’s. He finally gave him his hand and let himself be reeled in, collapsing into Wyatt’s arms with a whimper.

Wyatt hushed him, soothing his whines until the boy went limp in his arms. He waited another moment before slowly lifting the too-big nightshirt that hung off his frame, passing it to Doc to hold out of the way while his fingers found the waistband of his—

August cried out, eyes flying open as he twisted in Wyatt’s arms. “Please, please. Master, I beg of you, no more. I can’t—” He tried to lash out, to get away but this time Wyatt held him fast. He yelped, struggles growing more urgent as he found himself trapped.

Wyatt continued to shush him, expression betraying just how much he hated to use such force. He finally organised the boy in his arms at the right angle to pull away the last layer of fabric, revealing a wound the size of Theo’s whole hand. Just under the crest of his hipbone, so large it barely fit on his skinny side, the skin all around it bright and angry. Theo couldn’t look too closely at the rest, his stomach already starting to turn on him.

“How long has it been like that?”

Wyatt didn’t answer. He was too occupied settling the younger boy now that he was covered again. And perhaps trying to recover what graces he had lost. His voice was too low to hear though his tenderness was plain as he brushed August’s hair from his face and cradled him in his arms.

Theo wanted to reassure him that it was unlikely August would remember many details of this anyway, fevered as he was.

“What can you do for him?” Wyatt finally asked once August had returned to some fevered semblance of rest.

“I’ll need to clean away the infection. We can’t do it here, he needs to remain still. Else, I can administer chloroform.”

“I’ve known people to die from that,” Wyatt snapped. Theo wondered if he was aware that he’d pulled August closer to his chest. “It’s not safe in the best cases, let alone when he can’t follow instruction.”

Theo knew not of whom he spoke but from his tone could tell the matter was closed.

“But I measure the—”

“I’ll not risk it.” Wyatt didn’t even spare him a second glance.

“It won’t be pretty,” Doc warned. “We shall need at least two others to hold him down.”

The muscles in Wyatt’s jaw visibly tightened. He looked down at August, whose cheeks were now flushed after struggling. “But he’ll live?”

Theo could hear the guilt laced through his tone, see the weight of responsibility in the downturn of his expression. But he’d seen worse survived by worse off, and from what he could see, August had plenty going in his favour.

To be continued...

@whumpy-writings , @writer-reader-24 , @deluxewhump , @no-whump-on-main , @maracujatangerine , @painsandconfusion , @wolfeyedwitch , @briars7 , @gala1981 , @redwingedwhump , @whumpflash , @peachy-panic , @hold-him-down , @poeticagony , @annablogsposts , @fleur-alise , @melancholy-in-the-morning , @crystalquartzwhump , @magziemakeswhatever , @neverthelass

#whump writing #whumpblr #sickfic #sick fic #fever whump #fever fic #historical whump #implied past noncon tw #indentured servitude #power dynamics #carewhumper #sympathetic whumper #captivity whump #team whump #spy whump #self-indulgent timeline hopping is the name of this game #don't worry #he will have to be held down #carewhump at its finest

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sadisthetic · 4 months

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limewire virus

#chai hi fi rush #hi fi rush chai #hi fi rush #my art #if anyone reads the tags i put under my art. you know this has been a thing ive been thinking for a While #i think if an ai program can take over chais body then a virus ABSOLUTELY can #love thinking about fantasy symptoms because i think the computer virus symptoms can produce effects that are equivalent to irl viruses #i think it would be funny if he got cryptojacked and his core's processing power gets used for nefarious purposes (lol) and that #raises his temps in other words fever #headaches likely... definitely fatigue #this bitch aint gonna be able to FOCUS #if i wanted to write a fic id probs flesh the symptoms out more

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watermelonlovershigh · 2 months

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"Y/n, I really want a baby!" /blurb/

AN: i started writing this the same day Gemma announced she had a baby but you know me, i'm a slow writer and proofreader. so sorry it took me a few days to have it finished and posted. hope you enjoy and make sure to leave your feedback. xoxo

This story contains: talks of wanting a baby, heavy persuasion, small smut scene, breeding kink maybe?

{ husbandrry - soft!harry - uncle!harry - current harry era }

word count- 1,484

After the pregnancy announcement of Harry's older sister Gemma, Harry has become sick with the case of baby fever and tries to convince you over and over to start having children now rather then later.

Ever since Harry has become an uncle to his sister Gemma's new little baby girl, he's had massive baby fever. And it's not like you're opposed to having a baby with Harry. Of course you want a baby with your husband of a year, boyfriend of nearly eight years. But your original plan was to wait for another year or two and that's what you were hoping to stick to. But Harry is mighty convincing.

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Gemma had invited you and Harry over to her little house back in Holmes Chapel that she shares with her long time boyfriend, Michal. Harry's been finished touring for about a month now so you had a bunch of free time to make the drive up there. When you arrived, you got the sense something was up. There was this sneakiness in the air that you couldn't ignore.

But that all ended after your dinner, as you sat on Gemma's nice plush couch, when she looks to you and then to Harry before blurting out, "We're having a baby."

Harry's eyes nearly bug out his head and he shouts, "What! Oh My God!!" He stood up from his spot on the couch as Gemma shook her head yes and walked over towards her, giving his big sister a big, warm hug. You allowed the brother - sister duo to have a moment before also standing up.

Once Gemma parted from the hug she had with her baby brother, because Harry never breaks hugs first, she reaches out to embrace you in a hug. "Oh My God, congratulations. To you both. I'm so excited for you guys."

Gemma whispers a, "Thank you." in your left ear before stepping back again.

After giving Michal a quick hug as well, Harry questions, "Wait, does Mum know?" His face is still in complete shock.

Gemma nods and responds, "Yeah, she was the second person I told. First being Michal of course. "

You each sit down again and continue the conversation, "I bet Anne sobbed when you told her."

Giggling, Gemma replies, "Oh yes. She first shouted in surprise, quite like Harry did, then cried. It was adorable and sweet."

----

Later that night on your drive back home to London, you look over to the driver's seat and notice Harry has tears in his eyes. You can only see that in the dark because the street lights are reflecting off his shiny eyes. Quietly, you coo, "Harry, what's wrong? Why are your eyes all watery?"

He turns his head to look at you quickly before watching the road again, then answering, "S'just, m'so happy for Gemma. M'gonna be an uncle. But then it got me thinkin', one day m'gonna be a dad and m'gonna get to hold our small baby and care for it and love on it. They get to call me dad. Y/n, I really want a baby." After saying that last sentence, Harry lets a full blown sob come out. One that you debate whether or not to have him pull over because you don't want him to crash the car.

"Oh baby," you say in a gentle tone, reaching over the center console to run your hand soothingly up and down his arm, "it's okay. You're gonna be the best uncle to your niece or nephew and the best dad to our kids one day."

"But what if I don't want to wait for one day? What if I want kids now? Y/n, can we start tryin' for a baby?"

You giggle at his eagerness and respond, "We said another year or two, remember. But I'll consider bringing the wait time lower. Just let me have time to think on it.

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A couple weeks have gone by since Harry found out he was gonna be an uncle and his baby fever has yet to go away. You haven't gave him an answer on whether or not you want to start trying right now and Harry hasn't brought it back up either. He didn't want to bother or pressure you with answering such a big question. But, he has been bringing more persuasive hints your way.

For instance, the other day you were walking in the park and Harry spotted a little girl running up into her daddy's arms. Harry gets your attention at the sight and whispers, "Can you imagine, our little girl or boy runnin' into my arms? Where they know they'll be safe and loved. Of course your arms too but them feelin' love from their daddy is somethin' extra special."

And the imagine of that does get your ovaries tingling, you can't lie. Just picturing your child running into Harry's arms after a day at school, or after getting a little scrape on the knee, or when someone was being rude to them on the playground. Knowing their daddy will love and keep them safe. Ugh, maybe you do want a baby now.

Another time Harry has shown his baby fever recently is in bed. Right now you're on birth control so you still get to have raw sex and Harry takes advantage of that. Whispering in your ear while making love, "Gonna put a baby inside of you. Fill you up with my cum and give you all the babies in the world."

You breathed out while holding his body closer to yours, "You know I'm..... I'm on birth control, right?"

"Don't remind me. Let me just pretend, alright." Harry mutters while thrusting in to you with love and care. Obviously he knows you're on birth control and he'd never interfere with your medication knowing it's something you requested to be on for the time being. But that doesn't mean he can't pretend he's knocking you up.

And it's something Harry does, not just that time but several times following. Really every time you have sex after Gemma's pregnancy announcement where he got baby fever.

------------------------

What the final straw was to make you want kids now rather than wait until later was when Harry's niece was born and you saw Harry interact with her for the first time. A day after Gemma had given birth, she allowed you and Harry to come visit. Anne had visited first, obviously since she's the mum and grandma, but next it was you two.

When you walked into the hospital room filled with pink balloons and flowers, you saw Gemma propped up in bed with her baby cuddled to her chest. Michal sitting next to the bed in a chair. Gemma waves you both over and asks Michal to grab the baby from her arms and hand her to one of you. (you and harry washed your hands before entering the hospital room) He offers the baby to you first but you shake your head no and say, "Let Harry hold her first."

Michal hands over his baby girl to Harry and it's like some kind of instinct comes forth with how natural he makes it look holding a day old baby. Looking down at the small baby in his arms, Harry coos shakily, clear emotions in his voice, "Oh My God, Gemma, she's beautiful. So small and delicate."

The view in front of you was the best sight you think you've ever seen. Your husband holding his baby niece for the first time. And now all you can picture is you in that hospital bed, looking over at Harry but instead of his niece, he's holding your baby. The one you created together with the love you made. Maybe even doing some skin to skin contact.

----

On your drive back home from the hospital, you blurt out, "Harry, I want a baby. Like right now." Harry nearly crashes the vehical. He has to actually pull over so he can make sure he heard you correctly.

"Y/n, what'd you say?"

"You heard me correctly, H. I want a baby right now. Not in a year or two. Seeing you with your niece today did something to me. Made my ovaries flutter and this big desire to see you holding our baby. A baby we made together." you explain softly.

Not thinking twice, Harry surges forward and crashes his lips to your. One hand cradles your face while the other settles on your thigh over the center console. Then breaking away to catch his breath, Harry smiles wide and speaks, "Yeah, you wanna make a baby together? When we get home m'gonna stuff you full of m'cum and get you so fuckin' pregnant."

His words turn you on beyond belief. And though you took your birth control this morning, you know tomorrow you're flushing the rest down the toilet. Harry knows the likelihood of getting you pregnant tonight is unlikely because you took your birth control today, but that isn't going to stop him from fucking you until his seed eventually sticks. Whether that takes days, months, or years.

(PLEASE REBLOG BECAUSE WRITING IS NOT EASY AND IT'S FREE SO JUST DO IT)

(no more tags are allowed because i've hit my number limit. sorry : ( )

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