#and my nose is like a fucking faucet and it's sore from having to blow my nose every minute and my throat is sore from all the coughing

[feralnumberfive]

Send help

[iwritesickfic]

"i kinda have a crush"

synopsis: Henry has a crush on his roommate's best friend Tom. When he gets sick, he's not sure whether Tom's concern means he feels the same.

Henry doesn't have time for a cold. Especially not now. Finals start next week, and between studying for exams, finishing final projects, and going to class, pretty much all his time is going to be occupied. Today, he woke up with a headache and a sore throat, which he's trying to convince himself is just a product of poor sleep, but deep down he knows is just the beginning of something worse to come.

Now, he's in his room, wrapped in his comforter and highlighting passages in his bio textbook, hearing his roommate Sam and his loud friends watching something equally loud in the living room. It's useless trying to ask them to quiet down - he learned after the sixth or seventh time asking that even though they all seem accommodating, they forget pretty quickly. Normally he'd be able to tune them out, but his steadily worsening headache is making it near impossible.

He gets up and starts pulling on clothes - the walk to the library may be freezing, but at least he'll get some quiet. Leaving his room, he's aware of how pissed off he must look, but he doesn't care enough to feign politeness to Sam and his friends.

He heads to the kitchen and grabs his travel mug - he's going to need coffee if he's going to last at the library. He's just filling it up when he hears a voice behind him.

"Hey! Henry! I didn't know you were home!" It's Tom. He's probably Sam's best friend - at the very least, he's the friend who's over more than anyone else. Henry suppresses a sigh. Tom is the exact kind of guy he doesn't like. Bro-y, athletic, always overly friendly to everyone - it just comes off as phony. It also just so happens that guys like this are always very attractive, and Tom is no exception. He turns around to grab milk from the fridge.

"Hey," he says, trying not to sound as annoyed as he feels.

"If I knew you were here I would've been a little quieter - you have finals coming up too, right?" Tom asks, leaning against the door frame in that way he always does.

"Mmhmm. It's fine. I'm going to the library." Talking to Tom is not helping the throbbing in his head. He starts to add the sugar and milk to his coffee.

"Are you sure? I can ask the guys to quiet down."

"No, it's fine." He snaps the cover onto his coffee and starts toward the door.

"Alright, well have a good day!"

"Thanks, you too." When he closes the front door he sighs, rubbing his eyes. He starts down the stairs. Being around people like that is exhausting on a normal day - Henry's always been quiet. Reserved. With the beginnings of a cold it's almost aggravating.

The frigid air outside makes his throat burn and his eyes water. His nose starts to run too, and he hopes it's just the temperature and not a new symptom. Knowing his luck he's going to be the one annoying person in the library constantly sniffling.

His time at the library is mostly uneventful, apart from going through a pack of travel tissues and getting dirty looks from other students. By the time they're ready to close, he feels significantly worse than he did this morning, but he's finished his biology review and is almost done with a paper for Transformative Design.

The trudge home feels like it takes forever - it's only about a 15 minute walk, but between the cold and feeling like crap it seems neverending. He can hear from the hallway outside the apartment that Sam's friends are still here, which makes him want to tear his hair out.

It's almost midnight when they leave, so it's only about that time he can get to sleep. He has class the next morning at 8, and when he wakes up with his alarm, he knows he's in for a full blown cold. His head still aches, and his sinuses feel sore and swollen. His throat kills too, and he feels shivery, despite the heavy comforter.

He lets himself lie in bed for a while, sniffling and trying to absorb as much warmth as he can from the comforter, before he drags himself up. He immediately pulls on his warmest sweater, even though he's just going to the bathroom. It doesn't help the shivering much, but it's something. He probably looks ridiculous, in just a pair of boxers and his oversized sweater, but he feels so shitty he doesn't really care.

Walking by the couch, he sees Tom asleep, shirtless. His heart flutters - he knew Tom was fit but it was something else to see it. The butterflies are almost annoying. There a million guys on campus, why does he have to get so worked up over this one?

In the shower, he cranks up the heat and lets the steam ease the aching in his sinuses. He's in there for too long, but the thought of having to actually walk to class in the cold makes him reluctant to get out.

He arrives to class a few minutes late - nose still dripping from the cold. Luckily today is just a lecture, but it's a five hour class, and he didn't have time to make any coffee this morning. He brought another little travel pack of tissues, but he's definitely going to have to ration them.

He's still shivering. It's worse after being out in the cold, and even though it should get better over time, nothing changes. He just sits there, achy and shivering and congested and miserable until 10:30, when the professor calls for a 10 minute break. Thank god. He needs coffee. There's a small shop in the building, so he forces himself up and out of his seat - which leads to a few seconds of particularly bad throbbing in his head - and out into the hall.

He almost groans when he sees who's working. Tom. Of course he's been to this little coffee spot a million times and he knows it's where Tom works, but he didn't think he'd have to see him this morning. Part of him is annoyed - he definitely does not have the energy to deal with him at the moment - but another part is a little embarrassed at how awful he must look. Not that he should care what Tom thinks of him, he reminds himself. Regardless, he walks up the counter, half occupied rubbing at his nose with a tissue.

"Hey," he says, and is surprised how congested he sounds. Tom turns, eyes lighting up.

"Hey!" He dims a little when he takes in his full appearance. "You ok?" Henry sniffles.

"Yeah. Fine. Can I get-"

"Large hot coffee, oat milk and sugar, right?" Henry's taken aback.

"Uh, yeah. You know my order?"

"Of course. It's an easy order." He goes about starting to make the drink. "Hope we didn't keep you up last night. I kept telling Sam to shut the fuck up but he doesn't listen to me."

"It's fine. I'm used to it." He sniffles again.

"You sound like you're coming down with something."

"And you sound like my mom." That makes Tom laugh, and again, Henry feels a stirring in his chest. Tom puts the lid on the drink and hands it to him, and Henry tries to hand him the money. Tom shakes his head.

"That's ok - on the house." That draws a little smile out of Henry. Tom smiles back, and for a minute he forgets how shitty he feels. "I hope you feel better."

"Thanks."

He heads back to class and sits down, taking a sip of the coffee. It tastes great, as always when Tom makes it, and the warmth helps to ease the chills at least somewhat. The rest of the lecture is spent half paying attention, and half worrying his sniffling and nose blowing is annoying. When it's finally over, he wants nothing more than to just go home and take a nap, but he has a problem set for calculus due tomorrow that he hasn't even started. So, reluctantly, he makes the trek to the library. He's able to work for most of the day uninterrupted - he's not very hungry, which maybe should be concerning but is convenient nonetheless.

By the time he's done, it's already dark out, and the walk home is brutal. The wind is whipping, and his scarf and hat aren't doing much to keep the cold out. His nose is running like a faucet and the cough he developed over the course of the day drags the cold air even further into his lungs. The coughs hurt, like they come from somewhere deep in his chest, and by the time he gets home his throat is destroyed.

When he gets home, he's glad to see Sam isn't making a racket for once. Still, he knows he's in for a restless night anyway. He puts a can of soup on the stove to heat up while he changes into sweatpants and a hoodie. His reflection in the mirror is definitely a sight - he's flushed from the cold, his hair a mess, and his eyes red rimmed.

He knows he should really fit in some more studying before he calls it a night, but after he picks at his soup and does the dishes, he's ready to fall over, so he just curls up in bed, coughing and shivery, and goes to sleep.

He wakes up a few times in the night coughing, and the soreness in his throat makes his eyes water. He's barely able to drag himself out of bed the next morning. His shivers have become more like shakes, and his cough feels like it never stops. He got a decent amount of sleep, but he still feels totally exhausted - even his muscles are sore.

His classes are a blur - he's too preoccupied with feeling awful to focus, and by the time he's done at 6, all he wants to do is go home and sleep until tomorrow morning. But, he knows he has to get at least one assignment done. After tomorrow, he'll have the whole weekend to relax. Not totally, but still.

Just the assignment tonight, classes tomorrow, then he can finally get some rest. The library probably isn't a good choice - his cough is too distracting, and he knows the walk home later will be torture. So instead, he goes back to the apartment. The cold air always exacerbates the cough, so the whole way home he's hacking, his nose running like a faucet. His ribs have started to hurt from all the coughing.

He almost wants to cry when he gets home and hears the sound of Sam and his friends in the living room. Why tonight of all nights? He trudges into his bedroom and changes - he's started to feel warm, which is a relief after feeling so cold all the time, but now it's becoming a both too warm and too cold feeling, so he tugs on his sweater and a fresh pair of boxers.

He starts to work on the physics problem set - there are only three problems total, but each of them usually take an hour at least, and that's when he's not feeling like death. He works for a while, but it's only when he starts to feel lightheaded he realizes he hasn't eaten yet today.

So, he heads into the kitchen and rummages around for a can of chicken noodle. He finds it, but he's too weak and shaky to work the can open right. He tries for a good three minutes before he feels a lump form in his throat.

"Hey, do you want some help with that?" He turns to see Tom standing in the doorway. Self consciously, he sniffles and clears his throat.

"Uh, y-yeah, that would be great." Tom smiles softly and walks over, making quick work of the can. Henry expects him to just go back into the living room, but he grabs the pot from the cabinet and turns on the stove.

"You've got quite a cough there." Henry feels himself blush. They all must be able to hear him from his room.

“Sorry, I-”

“Hey, no, no don’t be sorry. We make enough noise, you’re allowed to be sick.” He pours the soup into the pot and starts to grab spices from the shelf.

“I’m not sick.” Henry isn’t sure why he’s being so defensive, but Tom doesn’t challenge him, just smirks.

“Well whatever it is, it sounds brutal.” He shakes a few of the spices into the soup, stirring slowly.

“I’m ok. Really.” There’s a bit of an awkward silence before someone calls Tom from the other room. He looks a little dismayed, but puts on a smile.

“Feel better, ok?” He rests his arm on Henry’s upper arm, giving him a soft smile, before heading back into the living room. And there’s that fluttering in his chest again.

On his way back to his room, he catches a bit of a conversation.

“I think we should go out.” That’s Tom’s voice.

“Nah dude, it’s freezing.” That’s Sam.

“C’mon, let’s go. It’ll be fine.”

“Alright, whatever.”

Henry smiles to himself. Maybe it’s reaching to think Tom did that specifically for him, but part of him really hopes he did.

The rest of the night is blissfully quiet, apart from his incessant cough. By the time he’s finished with the last problem, it’s midnight, and the world is swimming. He’s never been happier to lie down. But, it’s short lived. Despite being exhausted, his cough and what he suspects is a fever are making it all but impossible to sleep. He drifts in and out of half-sleep, sometimes too hot, sometimes too cold. Luckily his class isn’t until the afternoon, but he spends the whole morning much like the night before. When he finally gets up, he feels truly ready to fall over. His headache is horrendous, throbbing and pounding at the slightest provocation. His sinuses are still swollen, along with his poor throat that makes him wince with every swallow. The cough is the same if not a little worse, except now it sends cramping pain through his ribs.

On the walk to class, he just keeps repeating the same idea in his head. Just three hours, then you can rest. The class is truly a blur, but the walk home is too unpleasant to tune out. Once again, the freezing temperature isn’t any help, and forcing his aching body to walk through the snow gets harder with every step.

He turns the corner for the front door of his building, and a wave of relief washes over him. But, he’s confused when he sees someone standing near the buzzer. He’s even more confused when he realizes it’s Tom.

“Hey, uh, Sam isn’t here. He’s gone for the weekend.” He says, embarrassed at how thready and weak his voice sounds. Tom turns, looking confused.

“Why are you out here? It’s freezing.” He says, and Henry isn’t sure whether it’s the fever that’s keeping him from putting the dots together or this just doesn’t make sense.

“Sam isn’t upstairs,” he repeats, and Tom sighs gently.

“I’m not here to see Sam.” It still isn’t clicking. “C’mon, let’s go inside.”

“Ok…” He unlocks the door and clumsily shakes the snow off his boots before getting into the elevator. Tom follows, and Henry figures someone else must be in the building that Tom wants to see, but Tom follows him right to the door. Henry sighs and rubs his eyes. “Tom, what do you want?”

For the first time, it looks like Tom might actually be nervous.

“I came to check up on you.” Henry suddenly feels a strange bundle of emotions unfurl in his stomach.

“Oh,” is all he can manage to get out. Tom bites his lip.

“Is that ok?”

“Yeah! Yeah, it’s fine, uh…” He takes a deep breath, but breaks into a fit of coughs before he can speak. He feels a steady hand on his back. After he’s done with the fit the world swims, and there’s a hand on his shoulder.

“Let’s go inside so you can sit down, ok?” Henry just nods, and after a few moments of struggling to fit the key into the lock, Tom does it for him. Immediately, he strips off his scarf and coat and practically collapses onto the couch, pulling off his boots. He leans back into the cushions, closing his eyes.

“Fuck…” he breathes, and he hears Tom laugh quietly. When he opens his eyes, he sees Tom sitting in front of him on the coffee table, still looking nervous. “Why would you wanna check on me?”

“Well you didn’t seem so good last night, and I wanted to make sure you were ok. Even though you hate my guts,” he says with a smile. He starts to rummage through his backpack, and pulls out a bottle of tylenol and a thermometer, as well as a quart container of soup.

“I don’t hate your guts,” Henry says quietly, and Tom gives him another smile.

“Well that’s good to hear.” He leans forward and starts to move his palm toward his forehead, but hesitates. “Is this ok?” Henry nods, and sighs when he feels the cool palm on his overheated skin. He moves his hand to his cheek. “Jesus, you’re really burning up.”

He lets out another volley of coughs, and Tom rubs his back again. It feels nice, but it doesn’t make the confusion go away. For now though, he’s happy to just be looked after.

“Here.” Tom slips the thermometer under his tongue, brushing some of his hair away from his face. When it beeps, he takes it out. “102. Not so bad.” Henry has a feeling he’s saying that more for his benefit than his own. “You want me to grab you some more comfortable clothes?” Henry just nods, and Tom smiles in return. “Alright.”

He gets up and walks into the bedroom, leaving Henry alone on the couch, finally giving him a moment to process all of this. Why on earth would Tom care about him? They’re not really friends, are they? And Tom was straight, wasn’t he? And even if he wasn’t, there’s no way he’d actually like Henry of all people. And did Henry even like him? Sure, he’s sweet and funny and impossibly hot, but he’s friends with Sam. And he’s on the soccer team. And he’s so outgoing and friendly all the time, wouldn’t that get annoying?

He almost doesn’t notice when Tom gets back.

“Here you go. You want me to go in the kitchen while you change?” He hands him the clothes, and Henry bites his lip.

“If you want to.” Is that a weird answer? Tom smirks.

“I’m fine if you’re fine.”

Henry starts to take off his shirt, but he’s so shaky and uncoordinated, Tom has to help him, which probably killed any romance the situation offered, he thinks. The clean fabric feels nice against his feverish skin. The pants go the same way, and he didn’t realize how uncomfortable he was until now.

“Here, lean your head back,” Tom says, and he does. Tom presses a cool, damp cloth to his forehead, and he sighs softly. “That feels good?” He nods. There’s a few moments of silence while he just relaxes into the feeling. Then, he sits up straight.

“Why are you doing all this?” Tom looks nervous again.

“You’re my...friend. And I care about you,” he says, and Henry feels his heart sink a little.

“Oh. Ok.” He must sound disappointed, because Tom smiles.

“Hoping for a different answer?” Henry shrugs, and Tom rubs his jaw.

“I mean, it’s a little embarrassing but I used to...have a crush on you. But I think you made it kind of clear you weren’t interested.” Henry can’t hide his confusion.

“I made it clear?” He’s genuinely not sure what Tom is talking about. Sure, he’s never out right flirted with him, but he always thought he was straight anyway.

“Just...one word answers to everything, always seeming like you had somewhere else to be - it’s fine. I don’t know why I even brought it up. You want some soup?” Henry just nods, and Tom smiles. “Ok, sounds good.”

He heads into the kitchen, and Henry’s mind runs a mile a minute. There’s no way he’s telling the truth right? But why would he lie? He comes back through the doorway and leans against the frame.

“It’s on the stove, just have to wait a few minutes. You feeling ok?”

“Yeah, uh...I wanna tell you something.” Henry doesn’t know how he can make leaning against a doorframe look so good.

“Shoot.”

“I kinda had a crush on you too. Or...have.” He can feel himself blushing. Tom laughs.

“You have a really funny way of showing it.” He’s beaming, and it makes Henry smile too.

“Well it’s not my fault you’re so annoying,” he says, and Tom walks back over to the coffee table and sits down. Tom’s hand rests on his forehead, then makes its way down to his cheek. It feels so steady. Stable.

“I’m not the one that got themself sick with pneumonia because I wouldn’t miss a class, am I?” Without thinking, Henry wraps his arms around him as tight as he can - which isn’t very tight, but still. He buries his face in the crook of his neck and takes a deep breath. Tom rubs his back gently.

“Thank you, for doing all this,” he whispers, and Tom squeezes him a little bit tighter.

“Anytime.”

[foramomentonly]

Stoner Malex Ficlet--12/12

Author’s Note:. Third of a collection of ficlets within the Stoner Malex AU, each one based on a promo photo from Vlambase IG. The title of each ficlet will be the date the picture that inspired it was posted. 

For my sweet anon, who had a bad day.

Inspo photo

Read on AO3

They head straight to Michael’s room at the Evans house after school, a rarity considering Alex normally has a shift at the Emporium or works relief for Arturo at the Crashdown on weekday afternoons. But the museum is closed for fumigation and Rosa is more reliable than ever thanks to rehab and, Alex suspects, the alluring distraction of Isobel Evans. And so, just as Michael is sweet talking his truck’s ancient engine into turning over in the student lot, eager to run out the tedious hours between final bell and Alex’s inevitable appearance at his door, he hears a heavy thunk behind him and a moment later Alex wrenches open the passenger side door and hauls himself inside, grinning casually and setting his heavy boot on the dash like Michael secretly hates, murmuring, “Take me for a ride, sweetheart?”

But why drive out to the desert to shiver in the harsh wind that blows over the wide, open expanse, the cold metal of Michael’s truck bed an unwelcome shock to their bare skin as they fool around, when they have the option of an empty house, a soft bed, and Michael’s stash at their disposal? So “take me for a ride” turns quickly into “take me home,” and they end up sprawled across Michael’s messy bed, Alex propped up against a pillow at the foot, Michael lounging against the headboard, both in sweatshirts to fight off the chill coming from the patio door, wide open to let the smoke and the stench out.

“I’m soooo hungry,” Michael groans into his sleeve, arm thrown across his face, but instead of sympathy he gets Alex’s bare foot creeping up his side, toes wiggling under his sweatshirt to dig playfully into his ribs. Alex had learned Michael is ticklish on this same cramped bed under very different circumstances the week before. Since that discovery, he’s been relentless.

“Stop!” Michael laughs breathlessly, reaching out and capturing Alex’s foot, holding it captive against his stomach. "I'm too high and too hungry for that right now."

“So get up, then,” Alex laughs, crosses his arms behind his head and makes no move to pull his foot back. “And get me some water, I’m thirsty as fuck.”

“But I don’t want to,” Michael whines, and though his eyes are hazy and heavy lidded, they soften when he looks at Alex spread out across his bed, the length of his body pressed against Michael's with a hand wrapped loose around his calf, and adds softly, “It’s so cozy here.”

“Then I guess you aren’t eating,” Alex shrugs, and though his returning smile is something private and warm, he’s clearly unmoved by Michael’s plight.

“You could get it for me,” Michael purrs, rubbing Alex’s in step idly with his thumb and smiling suggestively down his own body. ”I’ll trade you a blow job for a frozen burrito.”

Alex snorts.

“Like I’m not probably getting one today anyway,” he laughs, and Michael grins, digs hard into Alex’s arch with his fingers and bites his lip when Alex groans softly.

“You have a point,” he replies lazily, and begins working Alex’s foot, sore from a day trapped in heavy, constricting boots, with both hands.

“You trying to butter me up, Guerin?” Alex breathes, burrowing into his pillow, eyes slipping closed.

“Yup,” Michael answers with an exaggerated pop of his lips, and suddenly he’s rolling to a stand, turning Alex sideways across the bed by his ankle as he grunts in protest and pulling Alex gently up by his wrists. He leans in close, nose brushing Alex’s, and whispers against his lips, “If I have to go all the way to the kitchen, I’m taking you with me.”

In the bright, open plan kitchen and formal living room space, Michael heads straight for the pantry, cursing the time it would take to heat up anything from the freezer. He dumps the entire contents of the snack shelf on the large, central island and pulls a glass out of the dishwasher below, handing it over to Alex and pointing to the fridge.

“There’s filtered water in there,” he says, and rips open a container of Pringles, shoving a thick stack into his mouth and moaning loud as the salt hits his tongue. He's sorting one-handed through the rest of the haul spilled out artlessly across the counter when he hears Alex wail dramatically behind him.

“Noooooo!” Alex cries as he pulls out the empty Brita pitcher from the fridge, waving it in Michael's direction. “How could you do this to me?!”

“Uh-oh,” Michael says, searching the room with wide, wild eyes for a solution. He looks out the sliding glass doors, so large they take up half the back wall, and he lets out a sudden crow of triumph as he takes in the spacious green of the backyard. He turns and grins slowly over his shoulder at Alex.

 “I got it, baby. Come on.”

Alex follows Michael through the living room and out the sliding doors into the yard, neither bothering with shoes; the grass tickles Alex's toes and he giggles, cheeks warming in embarrassment, but the next moment Michael trips over a twig and makes a show of taking Alex's hand to guide him over the "treacherous pass," and it's becoming clear to them both that underneath the combat boots and the snark, the irreverent beanie and the burnout persona, they are two boys falling in love for the first time. And they're really, really high.

"Do you guys have a cooler out here or something?" Alex asks, looking around the small section of the yard Michael's led him to. It's surprisingly unpolished, mostly out of the living room's line of sight; sparse, boasting only a thin tree and overgrown brush along the property line.

Michael grins and bends over, picking up a thin hose and holding it loosely at his waist, an arc of water spurting from the nozzle after only a moment of Michael seeming to glare at it in concentration. Alex steps back to avoid the spray.

"How'd you do that?" he asks. 

Michael pauses, stares a beat at Alex, then the hose, and back again.

"Timer!" he finally exclaims, and Alex shrugs.

Michael grins again, biting his lip, and gestures with his empty hand to the free-flowing stream.

"Go on," he says excitedly, and Alex would think he's fucking with him if Michael didn't look so proud. Taking in the full image of Michael holding an inescapably suggestive object, shooting a steam stream of liquid no less, at hip level and encouraging his boyfriend to lean in for a taste, Alex's shoulders shake with laughter, even more so when Michael leans into it, jutting his hips out and lowering the hose another half inch. 

"Come on," Michael says, voice uneven as he begins to lose his own composure. "Like you weren't probably gonna be doing this today anyway."

Alex snorts at his own words echoing back at him, but he bends his knees, folding in half and resting his palms atop his thighs for balance. He opens his mouth comically wide, his tongue flat as he extends it towards the stream of water. He's still laughing, nose scrunched and eyebrows high, and Michael mimes anticipation, jaw dropping open and lips pulling into an exaggerated O, tears bright in the corners of his unfocused eyes from laughter.

Alex is about to drink in earnest, his laughter turning into hoarse barks in his dry throat, when they hear a low voice behind them.

“You know water comes out of all the faucets, right?” Isobel says, arms crossed and hip cocked. She’d be the perfect picture of condemnation if she weren’t biting her lip to stop the spread of a broad smile across her face.

Alex and Michael lock eyes, twin looks of disbelief and amusement on their faces, and they collapse onto the rough ground in breathless laughter, Michael snorting into Alex's shoulder as Alex lies flat on his back, fist in his mouth to preserve what dignity he might still have as tears stream down his temples and his entire core shakes.

Isobel rolls her eyes and turns back toward the house.

"I think I liked it better when you two were sneaking around," she mutters under her breath.

Their shrieks and snorts finally dying out, Michael props himself up on an elbow over Alex's chest, a soft, dopey smile on his lips, and Alex lifts his hand to run his fingertips softly across Michael's cheekbone and into his hair, pushing an unruly curl out of his eyes. 

Almost in unison, they breathe, "I didn't."

[sickybubbies]

Bath Bomb Disaster

A/n: I’m back!! and I have come with another super collab with @moonjoonlanding who’s honestly the bestest! Please go show some love to them too!

A while back anon and I had a discussion about pregnant Yoongi and bath bombs, since it was requested for Namgi here it now is! Sorry for the long wait and I hope you enjoy this :)

TW: Emeto, Mpreg

-

Yoongi huffs and rubs his belly, bracing himself against the washing machine. He’s been working on dealing with the pile of laundry that’s been steadily accumulating throughout the week. It’s isn’t particularly hard work, but his back is sore and his feet are achy and his knees protest every time he crouches down to shove another load into the machine.

So it takes a while, but he’s finally finished. The last load has been moved over to the dryer and he even hung up all the sweaters so the zippers won’t get all misshapen even though it would be much easier to just toss them in with everything else.

He groans as he pushes himself upright, waddling down the hall, out into the living room. He stops and stares unblinkingly at the clean clothes strewn over the couch and coffee table, then turns, veering into the bathroom. Namjoon can put it away when he gets home from work, he thinks bitterly. Right now he’s too tired.

The door swings shut behind him and he slumps against it, closing his eyes and reaching up to rub at his temples. When he opens them again, the first thing he sees is the basket of bath products on the counter. He rolls his shoulders and pushes off the door, making his way over to look.

There’s a floral bath bomb on top that he scowls at and sets aside, it’s scent far too reminiscent of their laundry detergent. He sorts through the rest and picks out a grapefruit and vanilla-scented one. The smell makes him feel bright and clear, giving him a tiny burst of motivation. It won’t hurt if he takes a few minutes to relax and recharge before he tackles all the sorting and folding, he decides, marching over to the tub and turning on the faucet.

He strips out of his clothes while he waits for the tub to fill and smooths a hand over the underside of his tummy where he can feel the baby shifting. Namjoon keeps telling him that he’s glowing, but he’s pretty sure it’s just sweat and he’s so ready for this pregnancy to be over.

Yoongi climbs into the tub and slips down into the warm water, letting out a soft sigh of relief. He can already feel the tightness in his back loosening and he looks down to watch the explosion of colours as the bath bomb fizzes softly, spinning and bobbing near the surface.

The bathroom starts to fill with sweet vanilla and citrus-scented steam and he sinks lower into the water. He leans his head back to rest against the rim of the tub and lets his eyes fall shut.

For a while, the experience really is relaxing, but as time passes, he becomes more and more aware of the smell of grapefruit lingering in the air. Something about it is starting to turn his stomach and he grimaces, sitting up a little.

He blows out a breath, rubbing at his bulging sides and is suddenly overwhelmed by a flash of heat. His stomach rolls and he shoots upright, water sloshing around him. He holds himself stiffly, gently patting his chest while he waits for the feeling to pass.

Right when he thinks he’s in the clear another hot flush washes over him. His skin prickles uncomfortably and sweat beads on his forehead. Yoongi gulps and sucks in a breath which turns out to be a mistake.

His tummy flips, churning horribly and he doesn’t get the chance to move before a gush of puke spurts from his lips. It splashes over his chest and stomach and spills over into the bath, mixing with the soft pink water, turning everything it touches murky brown.

He gasps and his stomach clenches painfully, but he manages to swallow down the next mouthful of sick. His stomach continues to turn uneasily, but he takes a couple slow breaths and it settles enough for him to register more than just how awful he suddenly feels.

Yoongi glances down at himself, taking in the mess and his throat tightens. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to push past the tired fog encroaching on his mind and takes another breath.

He grimaces as he reaches down to pull the plug. The tub starts to drain and he carefully drags himself to his feet, stepping out onto the mat. There’s still vomit on his skin and he shuffles over to flick on the fan before stepping into the shower to rinse off.

When he’s finished, he shuts off the water and gets out, turning to reach for a towel that — isn’t there.

”Fuck’s sake,” he huffs, drawing in a sharp breath and letting it out in an incredulous laugh that splinters and dissolves into gasping sobs.

Dripping wet, he maneuvers himself to sit down on the closed lid of the toilet. He rests his head in his hands and gives in to his exhaustion, chest hitching with emotion.

-

Namjoon lets out a bored whistle as he enters his shared apartment with his husband Yoongi, quietly shutting the door behind himself as he struts in, looking for him.

“Babe, I’m home,” he says nonchalantly, putting the polybag (full of Yoongi’s latest cravings so he won’t have to make a mad dash at 4 am) on the counter with his keys chiming beside them.

Turning around with a tired sigh he notices the clothes that are sprawled all over the living room and cocks his head, Yoongi better not have done this on his own; he thinks.

He shakes his head dimly and takes his blazer off, tossing it to someplace else as he begins to tug the dry clothing back into the basket. He props it by his hips and strolls to the bathroom, pushing the door open.

“Woah, baby,” he exclaims when he finally sees the state of his husband, Yoongi is shivering, sleek silver hair dripping down onto their fluffy mat. Namjoon scrunches his nose at how he’s uncomfortably hunched over, looking awful for his liking and decides to approach him carefully with a soft hair stroke,

“Yoonie?”

Yoongi makes a grumpy noise deep in his throat and leans away from the touch. He scrubs at his damp face and sits up, glaring at Namjoon with watery eyes, ”Go away,” he demands, ”I’m not… This isn’t–” he gasps, face scrunching as he chokes on another sob, ”It’s your fault,” he accuses, shoving weakly at Namjoon’s hip.

”I just wanted to take a bath. I can’t even take a bath,” he cries, dropping his head back into his hands and trying to get control of his breathing.

“Oh baby...” Namjoon coos, kneeling in front of the pale man and sneaking in for a hug against his partner’s pregnant belly. He sighs when he feels Yoongi’s chin rest against his shoulder and begins rubbing his back to soothe him. “Just ask me, love, I’ll help you with all the baths you want, just please, don’t work yourself up over it kitten,” he murmurs, scratching at his scalp with soft fingers.

Yoongi lets out a shaky sigh, ”The bath isn’t the problem,” he says, ”It’s, everything hurts, Joon. My back, my stomach, my knees, my chest,” he sniffles miserably, ”My feet are fuckin’ disgusting—they’re so swollen. I just wanted to relax, but then the stupid bath bomb made me throw up.”

Namjoon hums after each complaint, reaching over to tighten the faucet so the remaining droplets of water wouldn’t drip eerily into the tub and disrupt their much needed conversation, he pulls back to kiss his forehead and then hug him again. “How do you feel now? Still nauseous?..” he pauses. “Wait- where’s your towel Yoonie?” He asks sweetly as the latter begins to shiver.

Yoongi shudders, goosebumps raising all down his bare arms and legs, ”I forgot to grab one,” he pouts, leaning into Namjoon and shrugging, ”Not nauseous anymore. Just feel empty. I could probably eat something actually.”

“Okay, let me grab you a towel and then we’ll get something you can hopefully stomach,” Namjoon places a chaste kiss on his cheek before scurrying off to grab a towel and gingerly wrapping it around his husband, ”Come on, easy steps.”

Nodding, Yoongi lets Namjoon help him to his feet, angling so he can rest against Namjoon’s chest, ”The tub probably needs to be cleaned,” he whispers, cheeks heating with embarrassment, ”I wasn’t fast enough to get out.”

“I can scrub that, don’t worry” Namjoon mumbles as his heart clenches for his pregnant husband for having to go through this and he settles him on the bed. Side stepping to the wardrobe and grabbing a warm hoodie that fit nicely over his growing swell and some furry pyjama bottoms.

”Okay,” Yoongi agrees, sinking down against the mattress and chewing on his bottom lip. He watches Namjoon putter around their room, collecting a change of clothes and sighs, ”How was work?” he asks softly.

“The usual” Namjoon shrugs and apologises sheepishly when he helps his husband up, slipping the hoodie onto him, he makes sure to give his bump a tentative rub before changing him into bottoms.

Yoongi hums in acknowledgment, letting Namjoon manhandle him into his clothes. His eyes are still puffy from all the tears and he blinks tiredly, ”C’n we have late supper tonight?” he asks, ”I don’t feel like cooking.”

“I’ll..get take out?” Namjoon trails off with his suggestion, they’ve been so cautious with the pregnancy it wouldn’t be of harm if they slip a little since Yoongi is (pretty) upset.

”Okay,” Yoongi agrees easily, rolling onto his side and reaching for his body pillow. He shifts around a little in an attempt to get comfortable and then stares up at Namjoon expectantly.

Namjoon cocks his head to the side to his husband, he walks over and obliviously scruffs and pats the pillow so he’s more comfortable. “There”

Yoongi huffs and continues to stare, lip jutting out in a pout. Finally he sighs, ”Are you just gonna stand there?” he grumbles when Namjoon doesn’t seem to be catching on.

Namjoon blinks, a bit taken aback. “Was I meant to do something..?” He asks with a hint of uncertainty “is there something you needed? Are you uncomfortable?” He pouts.

Yoongi groans and makes a show of shuffling back to make more room on the bed. He reaches over to pat Namjoon’s spot and looks up at him, ”I’ve been alone all day, Joon-ah. Maternity leave is so boring.”

Namjoon gapes a little before nodding in understanding, looking down with a shy grin as his dimples peer out and he climbs onto the bed. He draws his husband into a hug, arms wrapped firmly around him as he pulls a leg up with one spread down while kissing his forehead.

Instantly, Yoongi feels more at ease. His eyes slip shut and he snuggles in against Namjoon, ”Can order on my phone,” he mumbles, ”I want japchae.”

Namjoon hums and hands him his phone without another question, sneaking a hand under Yoongi’s hoodie and wordlessly rubs around the curve of his bump.

Yoongi yawns and starts tapping away, ”Bulgogi?” he asks, already adding it to the order.

“Anything you and our munchkin want, baby,” Namjoon says shortly, leaning down to pepper a kiss to his stomach that he’s fond of.. a normal amount.

Yoongi’s mouth quirks up into a smile and he flicks Namjoon’s shoulder to get his attention, ”For you,” he corrects, ”Do you want bulgogi?”

“Yeah that’ll do” Namjoon pouts as he rubs his shoulder before huffing and returning to entertaining himself with his baby.

”Kay... It says it should be here in, like, forty minutes,” Yoongi offers, dropping his phone on the bed. He looks down at where Namjoon is affectionately stroking his belly and takes his hand, moving it over slightly to where he can feel the baby kicking.

“I know I know” Namjoon kisses it tenderly and gives it a soft tap. “You got icky and now you’re hungry huh? It’s okay, food is coming” he rambles cutely to the belly.

Yoongi grins and presses his forehead against Namjoon’s chest, ”Keep talking,” he murmurs, ”the baby wants to know if there’s any gossip they need to be caught up on at the office.”

“Someone tripped over and spilled coffee on their work,” Namjoon pauses and tilts his head so he’s pressed his ear to the bump. “I know right? how clumsy” he chuckles awkwardly.

”It was you,” Yoongi says, ”You tripped and spilled coffee on all your shit. Please tell me we don’t have to replace another computer.”

Namjoon clears his throat, his attention driven only to his husband’s bump and not his amused expression. “No of course not, it was paper..” he waits. “Yeah I’ll tell them to be careful next time”

Yoongi sighs and shakes his head, reaching up to run his fingers through his husband's hair, dragging his nails gently over his scalp, ”You’re such a clutz,” he murmurs, ”What about Changkyun and Hyunwoo? Have they finally stopped being awkward and kissed yet?”

“Not even close” Namjoon tuts and shifts down so he rests his head on Yoongi’s bump, making sure to be gentle as he turns to face him and continues to chat about his day till the bell rings. “There’s the food”

”Oh, good,” Yoongi huffs, moving to let Namjoon up, ”I’m starving.”

”Can you bring me a glass of water too, please?” he calls after him as he disappears down the hall. His throat is dry and his mouth still tastes gross after throwing up earlier.

Namjoon reappears into the room, stepping out of his slippers with a plastic bag full of the hot food, he places the glass of water he’d made sure to bring. “There you go”

Opening the bag, he digs into it carefully and hands Yoongi his box after opening it, taking the chopsticks and snapping them open- almost poking his eyes out but that’s okay- for him.

The water is cool and refreshing and Yoongi gulps down nearly half the glass before setting it aside and picking up his dinner. It’s a little more greasy than he tends to like it, but it tastes delicious and he digs in happily, ”Mmm, how’s yours?” he asks, glancing over at Namjoon.

Namjoon nods constantly, submerged in eating as twirls the noodles around and strings them before slurping it into his mouth and letting out noises of excitement.

Yoongi huffs out a fond laugh and settles back against his husband’s side. He gets about halfway through his meal before he starts to slow down, the grease catching up with him.

It has him feeling full well before he normally would, but he knows if he puts his food away now, he’ll just be hungry again in a few minutes. Instead, he takes a few sips of water and continues eating at a much slower pace.

“You alright there babe?” Namjoon asks, watching Yoongi’s movements slag behind him considerably as time ticks by.

Yoongi forces down another mouthful of noodles, pausing to breathe for a moment afterward and take a sip of water before he turns to Namjoon, ”Um,” he glances down at the rest of the japchae. It isn’t very much at this point, but the thought of another bite makes him cringe, ”I think I’m done,” he says, muffling a queasy burp with his fist.

Namjoon nods “I’ll take that and go put it in the fridge for whenever you wanna finish” he takes the container off of him and climbs out of bed, pressing a kiss to his forehead before making his way to the kitchen.

Yoongi hums, starting to regret the decision to keep eating. His stomach burbles softly and he shifts, struggling to find a more comfortable position. He sighs and smooths a hand over the swell of his stomach. At least he can rub it without drawing too much attention.

Namjoon returns a couple minutes later, taking huge steps onto the bed with his long legs and sitting next to his husband again. He grabs his laptop and opens it, looking over and deciding to prop the older’s head on his shoulder before turning back to the screen. “Get some rest babe, you’ve had a long day” he mumbles considerately.

Yoongi nods minutely against Namjoon’s shoulder and does his best to relax. He knows he’ll probably feel better once he’s slept, but nothing he does makes him even remotely comfortable. It’s like he can feel everything squelching around in his stomach, refusing to digest.

Eventually, he stops trying to sleep and settles on watching the laptop screen, following along with what Namjoon is doing.

“Is the baby bothering you? Are they kicking too much again?” Namjoon asks when he feels his husband shift around for the umpteenth time, almost sensing the discomfort and tense aura that was around him. He throws his hand back to give the said tummy a rub.

Yoongi grunts and reaches for Namjoon’s hand, stopping him from rubbing his belly. He shakes his head and sits up, pressing the heel of his palm to his chest, breath coming in distressed little sighs.

“What’s wrong?” Namjoon turns his attention to his husband who seemed to be ailing and having a hard time, upon instinct he brushes his bangs to the side and watches him pale. “Not feeling good?”

Yoongi shakes his head again, ”I think I’m gonna throw up,” he mumbles, shifting closer to the edge of the bed, ”The japchae...” he swallows roughly and gets to his feet, waddling toward the bathroom.

Namjoon frowns and jumps up, hot on Yoongi’s tale as he slinks into the bathroom and steadies him. “Hold on, I got it” he mumbles and lifts the seat up for the toilet and starts patting his back dutifully.

”Fuck, this isn’t supposed to be happening anymore,” Yoongi whines, hovering miserably over the bowl.

“I don’t know babe,” Namjoon sighs, playing with the locks of his hair. “Pregnancy is rather unpredictable” he says, not sure if his intelligence provides comfort but the back rub and kiss to his cheek would suffice.

Yoongi just huffs, gripping tighter to the porcelain to brace himself. The ache in his back that had started to fade when he was laying down is painful again, muscles straining under the weight of his stomach.

“Do you want to sit down? That doesn’t look comfortable” Namjoon pouts and inspects his husband worriedly with a hand kept on his back. “I can always grab you a bucket”

Yoongi groans and shrugs his shoulders, gagging unproductively. His breath comes in heavy puffs and he hangs his head. Coppery saliva drips down into the bowl and he retches, only managing to bring up a small mouthful.

Namjoon sighs, winding his husband into his tall figure and rubbing the side of his bump. “Let it out Yoonie, let it out” he encourages in his solemn voice.

Yoongi heaves, stomach clenching painfully and vomit spills from his lips. It splashes loudly into the toilet water and some of it splatters the seat. He sucks in a quick breath before bringing up another big gush of puke.

“That japchae really wasn’t worth it huh?” Namjoon murmurs under his breath as he leans forward to lift the seat up for more ease, returning to rub Yoongi’s belly and kissing his cheek.

Yoongi shakes his head, heaving again. His belly churns horribly and there’s an acidic feeling lingering in his chest. He feels awful. He would’ve been far better off with something light. At least that way he wouldn’t be trying to choke up noodles that get stuck in his throat.

“You’re doing so good Yoonie” Namjoon praises softly, loosening his hold and shifting back to start rubbing the length of his back again with a few pressured pats too.

The retching goes on for what feels like ages. His stomach doesn’t settle even after he’s emptied himself out. By the time it finally stops, he’s left panting, throat wrecked, eyes watering, ”Joon?” he rasps, reaching for him blindly.

“Mhm” Namjoon answers quickly, grasping his hand and giving it a squeeze. “I’m still here baby,” he mumbles, kissing the top of his head and flushing the mess away. “Any more? Or back to bed?”

”I think I’m done,” Yoongi says tentatively, resting a hand on the curve of his belly and doing his best to suppress a shiver. He grips tightly to Namjoon and looks away when he flushes the toilet, unable to watch without feeling like he might puke once again, ”Gotta brush my teeth,” mumbles, scooting back a little.

“Okay” The younger breathes out a sigh and grabs Yoongi’s toothbrush, squirting the toothpaste on and handing it to him as he leans back into the counter and patiently waits.

Yoongi manages to brush all but his back molars without feeling like he’s going to gag. He rinses his mouth out when he’s finished and follows Namjoon back to their bedroom, climbing under the covers, ”Can you...?” he nods behind him at the pillow that’s supposed to prevent him from rolling onto his back.

“Be the big spoon?” Namjoon teases with a slight smirk, climbing in regardless and scooping the man into a cuddle. His arms wrap around his chest and he kisses the back of his head. “Better?”

”Mm, yeah,” Yoongi says, too tired to think of something smart to say. He settles in against Namjoon’s chest with a content sigh, ”I need to do something, Joon,” he murmurs, ”I can’t just keep hanging out here all day.”

“I could get a couple weeks off, take advantage of that husband’s maternity leave-” Namjoon huffs out a deep sigh and winds his arm around his partner in a snuggle. “-for cuddles and to support you till our munchkin is born”

Yoongi shakes his head, ”Not yet. I’m gonna need you after the baby is born. I just... I need to get out of here,” he insists, ”I feel like I’m going crazy just sitting around all day.”

“How about a walk in the park later?” Namjoon suggests, smoothing his hand on his husband’s bump and yawns slightly. “After a nap of course”

Yoongi hums his approval, eyelids starting to droop. He’s warm all over, but not in an uncomfortable, nauseous way, just in a pleasant, sleepy sort of way and he lets himself sink into it. Lets it envelop him and pull him under.

[unchartedterritoria]

A Scathingly Brilliant Idea, Not So Much (Sam Drake x Reader) -Chapter 2: The Date

There wasn’t supposed to be a part 2 to this, it was supposed to be a little one off piece of fluff. Well now I guess it’s a two chapter piece of fluff.

Part 1

Chapter Summary: The Date and why painkillers have warning labels

This is a horrible idea. This is a horrendous idea. This is an absolutely absurd, preposterous idea! You think to yourself as you pull on the sling that cradled your arm. Your whole arm hurt, a dull throbbing coming from the sight where you were shot by your soon to be date.

It had always been quite a production yourself getting ready for a date in the past, and that was with two functional arms. Allowing yourself a little more time than usual and a generous glass of white wine, you gingerly wiggled yourself into something presentable, a snow leopard print blouse with a pair of dark blue jeans. As you zip up the side of your boots, tying shoelaces impossible at the moment, your cellphone chimes.

Be there in 5.

“Oh boy,” you say aloud to yourself nervously.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, you pull a brush through your hair with your free hand, letting your hair hang down long and natural for the night, going light on the makeup as well. Anything more than that just wasn't in the cards in your current state. You give yourself a once-over in the mirror. You grab your glass of wine and finish it off.

I'm going on a date. With a guy who shot me. Because I was hiding in his bushes. I'm officially a bad Lifetime movie.

The thought makes you chuckle and shake your head, but the slightest movements to your shoulder and arm cause you to wince in pain. Even with being as careful as possible, the wound was fresh. The hustle and bustle of getting ready had caused the pain to go from a dull ache to a loud throbbing roar, despite the wine you used to try and numb your pain as well as your nerves.

Reaching into the medicine cabinet, you grab the small bottle of pills that you picked up from the pharmacy that afternoon; A prescription for painkillers the ER doc had given you the night before with your paperwork. You give the directions a quick look:

'One every 4 fours hours as needed for pain.'

I can do that.

DO NOT DRIVE OR OPERATE HEAVY MACHINERY.'

He's driving, no problem there.

MAY CAUSE DROWSINESS.

Don't see that happening, WAY too nervous.

DO NOT DRINK WHILE TAKING THIS MEDICATION, MAY INTENSIFY THE EFFECTS OF ALCOHOL.

You purse your lips and stare moodily at the empty wine glass on your nightstand.

Well shit.

You shift your shoulder slightly to test it. A bolt of pain shoots down your slinged arm, and you swear you can feel your heartbeat in your wound. It makes you hiss and curse under your breath.

Fuck it, I'll be fine. It's not like I'm a lightweight.

You shake one out of the bottle and pop it in your mouth and choke it down with a gulp of water from your bathroom faucet. You wipe your chin with the back of your good hand as the buzzer to your apartment shrieks.

Oh lord, he's here.

You grab your purse, haphazardly throw the pill bottle in the bottom and head out the door to meet him in the lobby, not wanting him to get a glimpse of your disaster zone of an apartment.

As you come down the last flight of stairs, you see the man you had been ogling from your friend's balcony for the previous few weeks. Sam is studying the assortment of last names on the mailboxes, his hands shoved in his back pockets. He turns towards the staircase as he hears the sound of boots coming down the stairs. The sight of you makes an approving grin form on the corner of his lips.

Making your way towards him, you stop short.

“Hold it,” You tell Sam, his smile turning into a confused frown.

“Did you leave your gun at home?” You ask him.

He lets out a small relieved chuckle.

“No guns, I promise,” Sam assures you as you walk towards him.

“You're sure you're not armed?” You question him again.

Sam holds open his leather jacket, giving you a peek of the hunter green shirt and dark tan pants that he wore underneath.

“You wanna frisk me and check?” He asks, a hint of suggestiveness in his voice.

“I think you would enjoy that too much,” You tell him.

“See? Look at that, you know me so well already,” Sam flirts, the friendly banter draining the nerves from both of you as he escorts you out the door.

The restaurant Sam picked was nice, very nice. Waiting list nice. Sam orders a bottle of white wine and pours you a glass. Taking it in your hand, you pause for a moment, your brain flashing back to the pain pill that you had taken earlier. You didn't know a ton about pain medication. Still, you remembered the small, yellow sticker on the bottle warning you to not mix them with alcohol that you had already ignored once tonight.

“You alright?” Sam asks, seeing your hesitation.

You glance past the glass of crisp, white wine and fix on the eyes across the table from you. Sam's bright, inviting hazel eyes.

Screw it. What's the worst that can happen?

You take a sip and set your glass back down.

“Better now,” You tell him.

“How's the arm?” Sam asks, setting his glass back down on the table.

“A little sore. It's also got a hole it, thanks to you,” You inform him in a sickly sweet, sarcastic voice.

“Hey, you can't say I didn't warn you,” He says, raising his hands in defensive.

“I still can't believe you shot me. With a gun!” You try and keep your voice low. The sling on your arm was already giving you more attention than you were comfortable with. Evidently, broken people didn't go to fancy dinners.

“When I said I was gonna shoot, what did you think I'd use, a blow dart?” Sam quirks an eyebrow at you.

“It'd be original. But not very practical,” You nod in begrudging, logical acceptance.

At that moment, and possibly for the first time in your life, you felt your toes rubbing against the socks in your boots. A comforting sensation that stuck out to you and made you wiggle your toes back and forth against the cozy material.

Hmm, this is new. My feet have never felt so comfy in my socks before.

You take your wine glass in hand again and crinkle your nose. For some reason, it feels awfully light.

I didn't take that big of a sip, did I? You wonder, holding it in front of your face.

Fingers interlaced, Sam rests his chin on his hands while he watches you bounce the glass of wine in your hand.

“Problem?” He asks.

Your eyes snap passed the glass.

“Nope,” You say, setting it down gently next to you, “Nope, all good,” You give him a reassuring smile, despite the fact every muscle in your body had now relaxed to a point it hadn't in ages.

Dear Lord, I think I might be stoned, being your last thought as the waiter approaches the table, setting down a very large dinner plate with a small pink lump in the center, surrounded by multi-colored dots and swirls. You nervously thank the waiter and lean in towards Sam.

"Um, did we order, and I just forgot?" You ask him in a hushed voice.

Sam chuckles a little.

"Nah, this is just one of those places where the chef decides what you want, and they just bring it to you."

“Swanky.”

“My brother told me about it, said it'd be a good place to take a date.”

“You know, I think I had sheets that looked like this when I was a kid,” You tell him, waving your fork over the sauces covering the plate, making him smile.

“I think I did too,” He nods in agreement.

You poke at the pink mound at the center of the plate.

“It's a little pink lump,” You report to Sam.

"I think it's supposed to be crab or lobster," He says, poking at his own. His eyes suddenly go wide. "Oh shit, you're not allergic, are you?" He says as he watches you fork it into your mouth. You stop suddenly and stare at Sam in horror. You couldn't watch Sam squirm for more than a few moments before laughing mischievously.

"Nope, all good," You assure him, a visible wave of relief washing over him as he tilts his head back with a sigh.

“I'm sorry, I just- I had to. You set it right up there,” You tell him, waving your arms in defense, your fork still in your hand,

"But it is a tasty pink lump, so I would definitely eat it." Gesturing at his plate.

Sam ran a hand over his face and through his dark hair.

“Jesus, you had me there for a second,” He breathed, finally taking up his fork. “I would have felt like a real asshole if I put you in the Emergency Room two nights in a row.”

“Yeah, that would suck,” Your voice louder than you think, making Sam grin, not to mention causing eyes from tables close to you to dart your way as you top off your glass and Sams.

"So, what made you move next door to Jenn?" You ask, setting the bottle back down carefully on the tabletop.

"I got tired of doing what I was doing. I wanted something different," He admitted, wiping his mouth, "I figured a fixer-upper house like that would keep me busy for a while."

"That house? Oh yeah. When the old people left, it was like a straight-up ghetto move. Jenn and I looked inside when they were gone, and it looked like something out of an episode of Hoarders."

As you finish your sentence, your waiter appears and removes your plates, replacing them with new ones. The large oval in front of you now contained three small green lumps topped with delicate weeds surrounded by a swath of colored foams.

You scrunched your face as you stared at your plate, absently scratching at your immobilized arm. Sam eyed his own matching plate suspiciously.

"So, what do you think, animal, vegetable, or mineral?" He posed the question to you.

“Be dipped in shit if I know,” You mutter to yourself.

“What?” Sam asked incredulously, not sure if he actually heard you right.

“Hang on, you don't know? Haven't you ever been here before?” You ask, gesturing around the room with a finger.

“No, it was just somewhere Nathan told me about,” Sam put down his fork in resignation. “To be honest with you, this isn't really my kinda thing,” He admitted, leaning in closer to you.

"Oh, thank god! Cause I don't know how much longer I could do this. I'm high as a kite, and that foam looks like someone spit on my plate," The words tumbled out of your mouth quickly and honestly, making Sam laugh comfortably for the first time that night. For him, it felt like the pieces were starting to be put together.

You caught sight of one of the waiter's passing by and called them over to your table.

“Excuse me, can you tell me how many courses there are this evening?”

"This evening, the Chef is featuring a total of 9 courses with three sorbet intermissions for palate cleansing," The suit-clad lad in the apron said confidently and obviously well-rehearsed.

“Ah lovely, now, can you tell me, are any of those courses chicken wings or barbeque ribs?”

The waiter stared at you as if another head had sprouted from your armpit. His mouth gaped open, his brain obviously not ready for such a question. Sam smiled and felt for his wallet in his back pocket.

“Uh no, we don't have those,” He said slowly, each word spoken as if he wasn't sure if it was correct.

“Ah thought so, thank you very much,” You said politely before turning your attention back to your date.

“Can we get out of here?”

“Thought you'd never ask.”

“So tell me again why you shot me instead of Jenn?”

You sat cross-legged on spongy grass of the park near your apartment, the wind full of smells from the line of food trucks along its edge, and the sound of music and conversation from the people that filled the park that warm evening. Sam sat comfortably next to you, his back resting against the large silver maple like you, a charred spare rib clamped between his fingers. A sample of the small feast that sat between the two of you of ribs, wings, cornbread, and Cokes.

“No, seriously! She was the one that was making the noise!” You argue, dredging a saucy chicken wing through a puddle of blue cheese.

"Wouldn't that make her the better target?" The emphasis of the statement making a dollop of blue cheese fall from the wing onto your arm.

“You got stuff on you,” Sam said, his words muffled by the pork in his mouth.

You glanced down at the dressing on your forearm before looking back at Sam. Holding his stare, you bring your arm slowly to your mouth, and, doing what could only be called your best impression of a turtle at dinner time, ate the blue cheese off your arm with deliberate slowness. Your arm made it back down to your side before your face cracked, and you snickered with laughter. Sam's head dropped between his knees, his body hitching with laughter, a hand to his mouth to keep the food in. Finally managing to swallow, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Ok, seriously woman, how many of those pain pills did you take?” Sam asks curiously.

“One! I swear!” You suck the last of the sauce from your fingers and reach blindly into your purse, feeling around until your fingers wrap around the small pill bottle.

“See? Just one!” You shake them in front of Sam.

“And, uh, that little warning tag there that just says don't mix them with booze, that was just there for decoration, yeah?”

You ponder your words for a moment.

“I thought that it was more of a suggestion as opposed to like a guideline or a rule,” You say smoothly, all the while Sam stares you down, unconvinced but amused. You were an adult who was he to tell you what to do?

“Yeah, how about I take these guys off your hands here. Temptation and all that,” Sam says, plucking the now sticky bottle from your fingers and putting them in his coat pocket.

“Um, hey now, what if the gunshot victim needs one?”

"Then the gunshot victim can call me," Sam grumbled in a low voice. His face close enough to yours, you could see the 5 o'clock shadow beginning to emerge on his face and the stray sliver of bbq sauce that splashed the edge of his chin.

All you can do is laugh skeptically.

“What?”

"Sam, you went on a date with a woman who was doing a Peeping Tom in your windows which you then shot. Said woman also made the oh so grown-up decision of mixing booze and painkillers. She proceeded to make an ass out of herself, not just at a fancy restaurant, oh no. Worst of all, I let you watch me eat wings in public, which is never a good idea.

I don't know if you haven't been on a lot of dates recently or what, but I was what you would call a bad date.”

“I once saw you hold up a 10 out of 10 scorecard and high five Jenn when I split my pants outside one day. You think I didn't know what I was getting into?” Sam said, cocking his head to the side.

“Jeez, did you see everything we did up there?” You mutter under your breath.

"How bout this?" Sam proposes as he stands up, brushing off his trousers, "Saturday night, we try this again, something more our speed, how's that sound?" He asks, holding out his hand. You take it as he effortlessly helps you off the ground.

"I like that idea," You say with a smile, face warming, and stomach aflutter.

“C'mon, lemme walk you home,” He says low in your ear, planting a chaste kiss on the apple of your cheek.

You take ahold of Sam's arm as you walk through the streetlight lined park, down the craggy sidewalk.

“You know, I wouldn't have needed those meds if someone hadn't shot me,” You say sardonically, nudging Sam in the ribs with your elbow.

“Jeez, you talk like you've never been shot before. Well, now you have, welcome to the club,” He says mockingly.

“You've been shot?” You ask, gripping his arm tighter, your eyes wide in surprise.

“And that story we'll just save for Saturday.”

[descendantofthesparrow]

Harry Hook x Reader -oneshot - flu

@rikersgirl22 said:

Can I request a Harry fic where he falls ill and the reader takes care of him? If this isn’t something you write I understand.

the first half is very similar to @glitter-lisp s “painkiller, painkiller, sneezing thing, fever thing” which you can read here because it is inspired by it, I couldn't think of a way to start it so I slightly copied it, sorry.

---Harry--

He felt…bad…that was the best way to describe it, and dizzy, and achy…all around he just felt bad. He stumbled down the stairs of Evie's castle, gripping onto the rails as he focused on not cracking his head open on the bottom, Evie wouldn’t like that, and shed so generously opened her house to him when he’d got caught in the rain and her place was the only shelter close enough.

He did his best to keep his eyes open so he didn’t bump into anything while trying to reach Evie's medicine cabinet….medicine real medicine, something that didn’t exist on the isle. Harry caught himself on the counter as he stumbled to the cabinet, it hitched his side, he hissed, that was going to leave a mark.  His feet weren’t really cooperating, they felt far away and loose, he could feel himself shiver and tremble.

He reached the cabinet, he flung open the doors and squinted at the multiple canisters with odd names on them. Huffing he fumbled for the light, winching when the brightness made his headache worse, oh hades please let there be something to help with nausea.

There was, he grasped that, placing it down on the counter, along with a box with a picture of someone blowing their nose. There was also some painkillers, so he grabbed those as well.

His hands were shaking badly as he poured the pills into his hands, several spilling into his palm, he paused, putting all but one back into the bottle, he didn’t want to overdose or something.

Glancing back up he saw a bag with blue raspberry candies, that helped with sore throats and coughing. Those will be needed, especially with the crackly feeling at the back of his throat every time he swallowed. He grabbed a handful, stuffing them in the pockets of the black sweatpants Evie gave him.

Picking a pain killer for cramps (his lower torso area was starting to give him pause) he tossed that and the other pain killer in his mouth, gagging as they caught on his dry tongue, he rushed over to the sink, drool pooling from his mouth as he spit the two pills into his hand before his food from the day regurgitated.

Tears burned at his eyes, throwing up sucked, and the nasty taste of stomach acid made him want to gargle bleach.

What the fuck was up with Auradon medicine, Harry thought as he stuck his head under the faucet, turning it to cold. He groaned as he figured out you were probably supposed to drink water with the pills.

Stumbling back over to the medicine cabinet, picking the pills once more, not wanting to put the ones he half vomited over back in his mouth. his shakiness was not helping him get the pills, the cold tile of the floor was also not helping, he took off his socks before bed, so his feet were getting really cold and achy.

He stuck his head back under the faucet, carefully swallowing the pills so he wouldn’t puke again.

He slumped against the edge of the sink, shivering, hoping for the pills to take effect soon, when they didn’t he groaned lightly, using his palms to push himself back lightly and turn towards the stairs, wait…he glanced back at the pill bottles and huffed, trying his best to clean them up and put them away, but his trembling wasn’t helping, so he left them in a semi neat line on the counter below the cabinet and turned away from them. Sticking his hand in his pocket he fished out a candy, popping one in his mouth, the sweet flavor of blue raspberry soothing his throat.

Now to head back upstair and slee-…upstairs, he glanced at the dark hallway leading to the upper floor, and winced, getting down was hard enough, he might kill himself by trying to head back to his room.

Especially with the way his body was shaking from throwing up a few moments ago, and the cold tile on his feet wasn’t helping, he let out a shaky breath, rubbing his arms to reprive some warmth into them, too bad Evie didn’t give him a thicker top, with longer sleeves.

He glanced around, looking for a place to bunker down, table? Nah, that was right on top of the tile, too cold. Couch? Nonono still too cold.

He started towards Evie's workroom, there HAD to be blankets in there or at least large loose fabrics for him to wrap himself in.

The warmth of the greenhouse hit him, he probably moaned in relief, he wouldn’t know, his ears were too clogged to hear himself.

He stumbled into the table, looking around with squinted eyes for something to cover himself with, there wasn’t a lot it seemed, the fabrics all connected to themselves, and lined against the wall, if he tried to take one out he would defiantly make them all crash tot eh floor, evie would defiantly kill him if he did that, and he'd rather not die so he kept looking around, before seeing a thick thread blanket.

He grabbed that, tossing it around his shoulders before looking for a spot to sleep in the muggy warm greenhouse.

He found a spot between the table and some fabric rolls, he squished himself into the corner, satisfied when he could no longer see the door, I cant see you, you cant see me.

He sucked the candy into his cheek, locking it between his teeth, he didn’t want to choke on it in the middle of the night.

He fell into a deep sleep, snoring lightly from his stuffed nose.

----

“y--I foun---he's in my work ro--yeah ill ask him-----(y/n) I have him---see you”

The bright light of the greenhouse made him wince, pulling the blanket over his eyes.

“Harry?” his mind went overdrive, he kicked out, hitting something hard, the person helped, he heard them hit the floor, he bolted up, his head screaming at him, his stomach cramping as well.

He slammed him back against the wall, still close to the table, he fumbled around, scissors, he grabbed those, holding them like a dagger towards the voice.

“holy shit harry what the fuck!!” he…he knew that voice, blinking away the darkness, he saw evie on the floor frowning up at him, wearily looking at the scissors, thin fear in her eyes.

“evie?” his mouth felt like cotton, his arm like lead, he let his arm drop, tilting his head at the blue-haired girl. She stood from the floor slowly, hold her hands out, as if he was a wild animal.

“are you okay?” he blinked, following her eyes, to the scissors at his side, he sniffed, placing them back on the table.

“I kicked yeh” he grumbled, his throat burned in retaliation, but he ignored it “’m sor’y”

“its okay” she said, but she still eyed him as if he’d dive for the scissors again, and that was such a different way shed had been looking at him, not with the warmth of a motherly sister, but a girl who was afraid he’d jump at her to kill her, made tears burn at his eyes.

Evie jumped slightly, the fear leaving her eyes to be replaced with concern. Which only made a tear streak down his face.

“Hey hey hey~” she shushed, stepping forward slightly “what's wrong?” like a worried mother hen she stepped in front of him, gripping his shoulder lightly.

He sniffed, a pout on his face, probably a really childish one, and let his head drop, away from Evie “I ‘ont feel good”

“I can tell” Evie mumbled, looking at his red face and seeing the sweat covering his body. She tugged harry slightly, away from the corner “come one (y/n) will be here soon to take care of you, let's get you into the living room” Harry nodded, evie said (y/n) would be here soon, that was good (y/n) was good. He let evie pull him away from the corner and letting most of his weight fall onto her, cuz if he tried to walk on his own he would topple over and probably pass out.

“what's wrong with him?” he heard Carlos, muffled from the stuff in his ears, question Evie as she guided him to the couch, she let him plop down, tutting when he started to tilt to the side.

“he's sick, probably from the rain, (y/n)’s on her way to pick him up. poor thing, harry?” he groaned opening his eyes, when did he close them? to look at evie, who leaned over him. “did you take anything last night?” he nodded, pointing over at the kitchen, flinching slightly when he felt dude lick his hand, he looked down at the mutt, dude was pushing his head into his palm, begging for pets, harry obliged.

He heard evie talking, but she was too far away for him to hear, he was also distracted by dude, who had lifted his upper body to meet Harry's hand halfway, letting harry scratch at his back.

“hey baby” harry started, opening his eyes to see (y/n) kneeling in front him, a soft smile on their face, brushing through his hair with their fingers, “evie told me you don’t feel too good”

Harry shook his head slightly, yes he didn’t feel good, now take care of me “na” he rasped, pushing his head into (y/n) hand, “rain go’ meh sick” (y/n) hummed, trailing down their hand from his scalp to his forehead, frowning as they felt his temperature.

“you’re really warm harry” they mumbled, cupping Harry's cheek, he swallowed whining as he felt the thorns at the back of his throat. (y/n) huffed as they heard Harry's reaction to his throat, they stood up, smiling down at him as he grasped their wrist

“don’ leave” he whimpered, curling slightly around dude, when did the mutt get on his chest? (y/n) let out a soft huff through their nose, leaning back down to kiss his forehead

“ill be right back hooky, just going to get something for your throat, and then im going to drive you home kay?” harry nodded, releasing her wrist and curling his arm around dude. The mutt shuffling to curl under his chin.

He scratched dude on the back for a minute, before (y/n) returned with a small cup in her hands, a thick liquid inside it, bright purple.

“harry drink this, and try to make it cover your throat” he took a shaky hand and grasped the cup, feeling satisfied when he didn’t drop it, he sat up slightly, disturbing dude, and tossed it back, the odd taste making him scrunch his face slightly, but swallowing it and letting it coat his throat.

“eug, wha’ was’ tha?” Harry stuck his tongue out a few times, trying to get the taste off.

“grape-flavored medicine, since you have the immune system of a 7-year-old, I thought this would work well enough to help start it.”

Harry nodded, still using his teeth to scrape the nasty taste of it of his tongue.

“come on” (y/n) smiled, taking his hands and tugging him “let's get you to the car, you need to go home and rest kay?”

Harry nodded, dude, hopping off his chest to rush to Carlos’ room, letting (y/n) pull him up and into them, wrapping their arms around his torso, calling for jay to get his other side.

It was a bit of a process but now he was in the backseat of Gils and (y/n)s car. Evie loading his now clean gear into the front seat, handing him his hook.

“get better harry”

He sniffed, letting himself side down slightly to get a better position, evie smiled, tossing the thread blanket over him, worried mother hen she was “here, you can keep this till you get over your illness”

“thanks’” he mumbled shuffling his shoulders to make sure it didn’t drop.

Evie smiled, and closed the door, waving as (y/n) started the car and drove off, harry slipping off to sleep in the back.

----

He woke up in his bed, feeling a rumbling at his neck, it was also fluffy, he shuffled, a midsized black and brown fat cat curled up in the crook of his neck, he swollen, scrunching his face in pain from his throat.

“good evening sleeping beauty~” (y/n) entered the room holding a tray with chicken soup, some sort of tea, and orange juice on it, softly smiling at harry as they set the tray down onto the nightstand next to Harry's bed.

They leaned over him, avoiding pipsqueak, placing their hand on his forehead, Harry moaned lightly, the cooler temperature of their hand feeling amazing.

“yeah you're still really warm” they mumbled, grabbing a thermometer and pressing it to his lips “open your mouth and lift your tongue” harry huffed but obeyed, (y/n) placing the stick in his mouth before leaning back and preparing his food.

They turned and snorted, there was the big bad harry hook, hair messy and his face red, a thermometer sticking out of his mouth and curled up in his blankets, and a fat fluffy cat purring away cuddling him.

“wha’ are yeh’ laughing about?” harry rasped, the pout on his face getting deeper as (y/n) started to snicker

“Nothing, just you look so cute~”

Harry scowled, flipping some of the blankets onto his head, shielding his face from (y/n)

“no am nae, im dangerous!”

That only made (y/n) giggle harder “of course!!! Dangerously cute~!”

“noooo”

---

(y/n) ended up taking a photo of harry asleep, blanket curled around him, mouth slightly open and pipsqueak curled against his chest. With the caption

‘sleepy sick pirate and his kitty’

It earned 50k likes within the hour

---the end---

[biillyhargroves]

sooo a billy request bc you do him so damn well / he’s sick & rlly wants to be taken care of so so all he does is complain ( yk he’s a ‘tough boy’) but then secretly melts at all the attention? ❤️❤️

cough syrup(fic requests open)

Billy Hargrove is good at a lot of things; being sick is not one of them.

Not that anyone is particularly good at being ill. Some people simply handle it better than others, and Billy tends not to handle it at all. Doctors’ recommendations- rest and fluids, medication -tend to fall by the wayside. Instead, he prefers to act as though he is not sick at all. The logic, of course, is that if he pretends he is well, his body will catch up. In seventeen years, he has yet to succeed, but this does not stop him from trying. And so, when he wakes up with sinus pain and a sore throat, he promptly ignores it. 

He downs the half-finished cup of cold coffee his father left abandoned on the kitchen table. He searches for the history book he’s not even sure he brought home. He shouts at Max to, “Hurry your ass up or I’m leaving without you!” He revs the engine like he’s really going to do it, and when Max does get in the car he says, “You’re explaining if we’re late.”

“What the hell’s wrong with your voice?”

Billy clears his throat and says, “Nothing.”

Max doesn’t believe him, but she doesn’t press the matter. She is quiet for the whole drive, but when Billy pulls up outside of Hawkins Middle School, she lingers in the car. Billy can feel her gaze on him, and he raises his eyebrow at her. 

“Get out,” Billy says, words strained as he stifles a cough. Max looks like she’s going to say something, and Billy almost hopes she does- almost wants her to ask if he’s okay, almost wants her to figure out what’s really wrong -almost. But she doesn’t. She throws open the door and drops her skateboard onto the ground. 

The day drags at a glacial pace. The longer it lasts, the worse Billy feels. He tries to brush it off. He keeps up his act as long as he can, stealing away private moments to collect himself when he thinks the mask is about to fall. On one such occasion he stumbles out of a bathroom stall to find Steve there, hands on his hips, waiting.

“The fuck do you want?” Billy grumbles. He doesn’t mean to be harsh and he hopes that Steve knows this. They have an agreement, after all. Their classmates think they hate each other, and that is the safest assumption for anyone to have. Steve opens his arms to reveal the empty room around them. 

“Cut the shit,” he says. “What’s the matter with you?”

“Nothing,” Billy says. He shoves past Steve and turns on a faucet. The cold water sends a shudder down his spine. He grits his teeth, pumps soap into his palm, watches the suds rise up beneath the rush of water.

“Tell your face,” Steve says. Billy takes a brief look in the mirror. There are deep circles under his eyes (he’d been telling people he’d had a shitty night’s sleep, which wasn’t entirely a lie); he even thinks he sees some swelling there, a puffiness that hadn’t been there this morning. Billy grabs a paper towel, dries his hands, almost uses it to blow his nose and then remembers that he’s not supposed to be sick. He tosses the towel in the waste bin. “Oh, come on,” Steve says.

“Shut up,” says Billy.

“It’s just us,” Steve says. “You can say it.”

“Say what?” Billy demands. 

“That you’re sick,” says Steve. 

“I’m not-”

“Don’t,” Steve says. “You promised you wouldn’t lie to me.”

“That was about-”

“Doesn’t matter,” Steve says.

“You’re a fucking dick, Harrington, you know that?”

“And you look like death warmed over,” Steve says. Billy hangs his head. He looks cornered, and Steve sags his shoulders, almost feeling bad. “We still on for tonight?” he asks, and he can see Billy’s relief at the change in subject.

“Yeah,” Billy says. “I just gotta wait for my dad to leave.”

“Okay,” Steve says. He stands there a moment too long, watching Billy carefully. Then he says, “Tonight.” 

Of course, by the time tonight rolls around Billy feels like death warmed over, re-frozen, and thawed out again. He aches all over and his throat is on fire. He does not have his usual quick wit when he picks Max up after school. There is none of their usual bickering, and though Max won’t stop staring at him, the only thing she asks is, “Are you seeing Steve tonight?”

“What’s it matter to you?” Billy grumbles, voice so low Max almost doesn’t hear him.

“It doesn’t,” Max says.

“Then why’d you ask?” He sounds like he’s been gargling with rocks and he surpasses a cough at the end of every sentence he speaks.

“You can drop me off at Mike’s,” she says. “If you want to just go straight to Steve’s. I’ll tell Neil I stayed for AV club.”

“And why would you do that?” Billy asks.

“Because you’re sick and Neil’s not gonna do jack shit about it,” Max says. “But Steve will.”

“I’m not sick,” Billy says.

“Well, you can drop me off at Mike’s anyway,” Max says. She is finding her footing on what she hopes is the path of least resistance and, luckily for her, Billy doesn’t have the energy to argue. He swings a right abruptly, circles back toward the school, makes his way to Wheeler house. When he asks Max when he’s supposed to pick her up, she says, “Just stay at Steve’s. I’ll get a ride with Will.”

“Max, I can-”

“Ask Steve for NyQuil or something. Sleep off whatever you don’t think you have.”

“You’re not my fucking mother,” Billy says.

“We’re family, right? We’re supposed to look out for each other?”

“Save the speech.”

“You’ll stay at Steve’s?”

“If it’ll make you shut up.”

“It will,” Max says, so Billy agrees. When he arrives at Steve’s house, Steve is surprised to see him so early. Billy lets himself in the back door out of habit. Even when there are no parents home, sneaking is second nature. Steve startles when he hears Billy coming in through the kitchen.

“Christ, man,” he breathes. “Make a noise.”

“Sorry,” Billy mumbles. He furrows his brow when he spots an array of pill bottles lined up on the countertop. There are red and white cans of Campbell’s soup, too, and a box of Lipton’s teabags. “The hell’s all this?”

“For you,” Steve shrugs. “Since you’re obviously not taking care of yourself.”

“Steve, I’m-”

“Don’t say fine,” Steve says. “Don’t say not sick. Actually, don’t say anything. Go sit down. I pulled some blankets out for you. They’re on the couch. I was gonna stop by the video store, but you can just pick from what we have. My dad actually has decent taste for such a stuck-up son of a bitch.”

“Why-”

“Because I care about you, dickhead. That’s why.”

Billy won’t pretend this doesn’t touch him, insult and all. He can’t say that this doesn’t like the attention. He also can’t say the idea of melting into the Harringtons’ overstuffed couch doesn’t sound like everything he’s secretly wanted all day. He approaches Steve from behind, arms snaking around Steve’s middle as Steve rifles through the open cabinet in front of him.

“Hey,” Steve says softly, one hand coming down to rest on top of Billy’s. “You gonna tell me what’s wrong?” he asks. Billy rests his head in the curve of Steve’s neck and Steve says, “You feel warm.”

“My head is killing me,” Billy admits. “My throat’s killing me.”

“You wanna take something?” Steve asks, and Billy shrugs. “Go lay down.” 

Steve squeezes Billy’s hand and Billy releases him. Steve fishes a bag of cough drops out of the cabinet and shakes a few into Billy’s palm before Billy retreats into the living room. Steve makes him tea, pours him cough syrup, makes two trips to carry in both water and whatever orange juice they had leftover in the carton in the fridge. By the time he finally settles down beside Billy, Billy is cocooned in the nest of blankets Steve had laid out for him. Steve gets some medicine into him: Robatussin and some Ibuprofen. He sits down beside Billy and, when Billy leans again him, he gently guides Billy to lay down. Billy settles his head in Steve’s lap and allows Steve to brush back his hair. 

“You okay?” Steve asks him, though Billy is twilighting somewhere between awake and asleep and he’s entirely sure if Billy can hear him. 

“Everything hurts,” Billy mumbles.

“Drama queen,” Steve teases, but he slips his hand to Billy’s shoulders and gently massages the coiled muscles there. 

“Shut up,” Billy quips. He sounds sleepy, and Steve softly shushes him. He rubs Billy’s back, and Billy slowly drifts off. As he does, a fleeting thought floats through his mind: maybe, just maybe, this is better than toughing shit out. 

[kensboytoy]

Barbie’s Hair Salon

Title: Barbie’s Hair Salon Fandom: Beetlejuice The Musical Pairings: Beetlejuice/Reader (Gender Neutral) Ratings: General

“And he was like ‘No way you can shove this baby Sandworm up your nose’, so I was like ‘Uh yeah, I totally can!’ And then I-”

“Beetlejuice,” you whined softly as his fingers ran along your scalp to get the hair dye to stick to your roots.

The demon had practically begged you to dye your hair something bold after you had mentioned liking his mood ring colours and how they suited him. While he couldn’t give you the same effect, he was desperate to make you look just as crazy as him. Which wasn’t a big vote of confidence considering how his own colour clung to his dirty, shaggy mound of fluff. It was cute in a trash sort of way but on you? Well, you had some doubts.

“You don’t have to help, you know. I told you I was just gonna go to the salon to get this done-”

He gasped, feigning shock with one hand over where his heart should be.

“A salon? I didn’t know that I was talking to high society!” The demon decided to mock you in that annoying voice he loved to do when belittling your ‘breather’ opinions. “Oh, I’m sorry Your Highness, I didn’t know you wanted to blow three hundred smackaroos when your b-f-f-f could do this for free.”

[Continue Reading or Read on AO3!]

You shrunk in your seat, feeling a little bit guilty. That kind of money to blow on something so frivolous? You felt bad for even suggesting it.

“I just meant that you didn’t have to be the one to do it, y’know. Didn’t wanna bug you with it,” you admitted sheepishly.

“Oh, honey, I used to dye my hair back in the day with fuckin’ Kool-Aid,” he snorted. “Now I just go to Hot Topic and pocket this shit for free. Waaaay better. Doesn’t make me wanna eat my goddamn hair now.”

“Beetlejuice!”

“What?” The man pouted at you, jutting out one hip to give you that level of sass you came to know and love. “Oh, stealing from a big corporation! Such a bad man I am! C’mon, babes, I’m a fucking demon. We’re not exactly kosher with trying to score brownie points, alright?”

You pinched the bridge of your nose in irritation. One day you’d go to that store and ‘accidentally’ leave them a wad of cash in Beetlejuice’s wake so the idiot didn’t get those poor kids fired.

“‘Sides, we’re so close to a whole new you! You’ll get more personality from my craftsmanship than some prissy know-it-all.”

Sighing, you let him continue so he would stop his pouting. You wanted to tease him about just how personal he was taking this but you kind of didn’t want him to fry your hair in revenge for making a stink. He’d do it too, the asshole. You’d be coming out looking like a fried Doc Brown if you weren’t careful. It wasn’t really the look you were going for this season.

Beetlejuice mumbled nonsense to himself as he circled around you while you sat idly. Maybe doing this in a kitchen was a dumb idea but he had insisted on washing your hair out in the sink. But you hadn’t noticed that he had let the dirty dishes stack up, Beej trying to use this as an excuse to get his one chore done while pretending he was being thoughtful. You’d yell at him upon finding out that your bowls were dyed the same colour as your hair.

Whenever you fidgeted, he swatted at you like an irritated mother scolding a kid for getting into the cookie jar. It was your turn to pout up at him but he seemed too preoccupied to care. You huffed and tried not to feel how sore your ass was from sitting in the same spot for what felt like hours now. It had taken ages for that bleach to soak in but at least this was the final step.

You actually didn’t know what colour Beetlejuice had chosen for you - he had insisted it remain a surprise until he blow dried your hair himself.

“No peeeeeking,” he crooned as you tried to sneak a glance in the reflection of your fridge. “It’s almost done, babes! C’mon, you have more patience than me don’tcha?”

“I dunno, Juice. You’re being such a tease about what colour you chose that it almost seems suspicious.”

“Suspicious? Me?” He chuckled and set your hair up under a showercap to allow you to move freely without worrying if dye would get all over the floor. “I told you I’d pick the colour that suits you the most! You don’t have trust in me?”

You rolled your eyes and strolled into the living room. He was right behind you, moving you out of the way so he’d get first dibs on a seat. You didn’t mind because you promptly sat down on your side and stretched out all over him. He gave a groan of protest but soon hooked an arm around you to cuddle as you lazily flipped through the streaming channels you had to watch something.

It didn’t take very long for you to nod off, remote slipping out of your hand and clattering onto the floor. Beetlejuice had watched you, more intrigued by you than whatever trash you had settled to watch. He smiled at how sweet you looked curled up against him. It made him feel so protective of you. You were his little breather.

Once enough time had passed, you were jostled awake by the impatient being.

“Baaaabes. Baaaaaabes! Wake up!”

You jolted upwards, snapping out of it instantly. A groan left your lips as you rubbed the side of your face that had unfortunately been pressed right to his suspenders. The red mark left in its wake made your flesh a funny new pattern that would wear off soon enough. You rubbed at it before blinking wearily up at him.

“C’mon, babes. Enough beauty sleep! We gotta wash that shit out and doll you up nice an’ purdy,” he finished in a southern twang.

You already felt like a doll the moment he picked you up by the shoulders and hauled you back into the kitchen. Trying to rub the sleep from your eyes, you let out a yawn only to be met with the stinging cold of the water shooting out of the faucet attachment. You let out a yelp of protest before Beetlejuice held your head firmly into place.

“Stop squirmin’ or you’re getting waterboarded instead.”

Annoyed, you shut your eyes tight and held your breath in case he wanted to make true on that threat.

His hands massaging your scalp felt like heaven in your dazed state. You leaned into his touch and were quickly rewarded with his nails scratching you gently. Beetlejuice knew what made you tick by now and head scratches were definitely in the cards. A happy sigh as the water grew a bit warmer - lukewarm to make sure the colour wouldn’t wash out so easily the first go around. You were surprised that the demon actually knew how to maintain, well, anything. He didn’t exactly seem the patient type.

The demon watched you curiously as he washed out the dye. He wanted to have a bit of fun to lord over your head. Your hair tangled in his talented digits and he gently tugged the curls. You let out a groan at the feeling, liking all the fussing he was doing. Chuckling, he splashed your face with water before pushing you up so he could drain your hair of extra moisture.

As tenderly as he was able to, he toweled you off. You felt like a cloud was encasing your entire head.

“... did you warm this up?” you asked, a bit surprised at the tender gesture.

“Well, you wanted a salon treatment, babes. Thought I might give you somethin’ you’d miss out on.”

He winked at you and you felt your heart flutter. The bastard knew how to be charming when he wanted to be.

Beetlejuice hauled your chair across the room, ruining the moment by making the most godawful sound as the legs of the chair scraped the floor. You put your hands over your ears before you heard the loud whirring of a blow dryer. Heat graced the back of your neck, sending goosebumps along your arms and a shudder down your spine.

You were lost basking in the warm glow, taking in the breeze as a welcome change from the gross splashes of sink water. Even when he blew it in your eyes to make you flinch, it still felt good enough that you wouldn’t knee him straight in the nards.

Once your hair was properly dried, you felt his fingers running through your hair, coated with some sort of gel. You wanted to oppose the idea of any product before you saw it but your curiosity was definitely piqued. Finally, you were ready. All of it was ready to be unveiled so you sat in your chair, wiggling around like their were ants in your pants - or perhaps a centipede or two that had escaped from Beetlejuice’s pocket.

Pleased with his work, he finally retrieved your hand mirror and showed you the final product.

“Taaaadaaaaa!” he sang out, a third arm slipping from his torso to do jazz hands with the one not holding the mirror.

What you saw left you speechless.

And not in a good way.

“Green?!” you barked, almost falling back in your seat at the sight. “Beetlejuice! That’s your colour! You said you were doing something special for me!”

He looked almost offended and quickly rolled his head around to mimic your whininess.

“I did do somethin’ special! Hey, not everyone can pull off the look.” Beetlejuice smoothed his own hair back and grinned a toothy grin. “And besides, babes, we know that green already looks so good on ya.”

Before you could continue your staunch protest of his choice, he had managed to catch your lips in a surprise kiss. Your complaints were muffled and your cheeks burned a deep red.

“See? The colour brings attention to just how sweet that face of yours gets when you’re all embarrassed.” He laughed loudly and took your face in his hands, planting another kiss right on your lips. “I gotta admit, I thought I was the only one who could pull that look off. But it looks so damn good to see a little bit of me in - uh, on you.”

There was a saucy wink before he moved behind you to cuddle from behind, his stupid face looking at you through the reflection of the mirror. You sighed. There was no way you could stay mad at that face too long. He could get away with murder and you wouldn’t bat an eye. You knew what you were signing up for when you turned him loose.

“Fine,” you replied with a huff. “But I get to style it a different way. I don’t want to do that gross couple thing of matching.”

The demon didn’t refute the request and instead made a row of fine hair care products dance in front of you midair. You chose the right gel and took a pair of scissors, demanding that he hold the goddamn mirror straight for one second - to which he replied: “Babes, me? Straight? I pity the thought! And the fool.”

You shushed him and began your work. He watched on with eager eyes lighting up as he began to get the idea. Without any word, he grabbed the scissors and an electric razor and finished the job for you. When you were done, you admired the well trimmed faux-hawk he left in his wake. You gave a little whistle before he leaned in.

“So, like it now?” he inquired, raising one eyebrow and biting his lower lip like a beaver.

Pulling him down by his tie, you planted a kiss right on his cheek and nuzzled against his scruff. It was his turn to change a different colour, his green tinted more pink now. He let out a girlish giggle and scooped you up into his arms bridal style. As much as he could get on your nerves, you knew you loved the infectious smile and happiness this idiot demon brought along with his wild schemes.

[sorrylatenew]

prompt, autumn morning in the kitchen after the first time they fuck

Lol, so, this isn’t exactly what I thought it’d be when I started this prompt fill weeks ago, but it is technically an autumn morning in the kitchen after the first time they fuck. Takes place after Thursday’s loss on 10/10/19.

***

When Jonny used to let himself consider this, back when all he thought about was hockey, being able to get to sleep that night, and the couple of unacknowledged handjobs in the middle of their second season, he would make himself panic.

He’d lie there like a fucking psychopath and let the idea of Kaner voluntarily—enthusiastically—sprawled out in his bed wash over him until his resting heart rate shot up into the hundreds.

Right here, now, the reality of it: this pressing quiet, Patrick wrapped up in Jonny’s comforter, warm at his side like it’s normal, the replay of last night like a movie, Patrick’s forehead pressed to the small of Jonny’s back, arm working for so fucking long the rhythm of it feels punched into him, stuck as deep as Patrick’s voice slurring, “Tell me when you think you can take me,” into Jonny’s overheated—

The reality of it is somehow worse.

“Gonna make some coffee,” Jonny whispers, even though he’s sure Patrick’s still out, and he rolls away from him, creaks up to his feet and across the floor on sore legs, slips a pair of underwear out of his dresser.

His body’s still half convinced it’s the middle of the afternoon, but it’s dark out in Chicago, no sun at all yet, just soft city glow and the quiet of being up this high.

He watches the traffic lights below pulse red while the coffee brews, STOP, STOP, STOP, STOP, and he draws in a slow breath, takes a mug out of the cabinet and waits there, palms curled around the edge of the countertop.

When he was twenty-two, he probably would’ve left. He’d have left his own apartment, would’ve stayed gone long enough for Patrick to get out, and it feels stupid now, because that might have been the right time for this kind of bullshit. Something they could’ve burned through and exploded out of instead of—this.

He pours his cup, lets it warm his hands and lets the honesty in his thoughts run loose.

He’s not sure the ache used to be this bad.

He’s not sure the want was this deep.

Back then, god, the hockey wouldn’t have mattered like this, they were fucking unstoppable, and now what? In five years—what? He’s not guaranteed Patrick’s proximity. He’s not guaranteed they’ll even—

He startles when Patrick appears in the entryway, disheveled, frowning, drawn into himself in his open dress shirt and boxer briefs.

He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t bother tossing Jonny even the most cursory glance, just crosses to the fridge and takes out some water, drains the whole thing while Jonny looks on with his heart in his throat—his entire stomach, all of his fucking insides crowding up his esophagus.

He watches Patrick walk the water bottle over to the sink, unscrew the lid and and lay it all under the faucet. “Just so you know,” he says, with his face half turned in Jonny’s direction, “I’m not in the mood for whatever the fuck is going on in your head right now.”

Jonny doesn’t know how to respond right away, taken aback, feels an immediate spike of temper. “No one told you to come out here,” is what leaves his mouth, heated. “I’m not in the mood for whatever snotty ass little bitch shit that is.”

Patrick lets out a low laugh, shakes his head and lets his chin dip down against his chest, stays like that for a good long moment.

“We shouldn’t have fucked after losing,” he says, quiet, amused, nonsensical. “I knew we shouldn’t have fucked after losing, but you know what? I wanted to feel good, and I waited all of fucking Europe because we weren’t home, and it would’ve been nice—” he stops, smiles, Jonny can see the edge of it, that dark, sharp curl in his cheek while he lets the cut-off sentence linger there, then, “I don’t know,” he continues, more amused than before. “I just wanted to wake up with you I guess. I don’t know why I’m so fucking mad that you got out of bed.”

Jonny closes his eyes fast, taken aback again, swallows down against the rush of feeling that tries to shove its way up into his mouth. “Why—would it—”

“Tell me you didn’t think about leaving,” Patrick interrupts, accusatory, and Jonny’s eyes fly back open.

“What?”

“Tell me right now that that’s not what you were doing.” He’s still turned towards the sink, and it very suddenly makes Jonny want to march over to him, spin him around to see where any of this is coming from.

“What are you talking about, Patrick?”

“Just answer.”

“Is there—some reason you’re strolling in here so ready to fight?” Jonny says, hand tightening around his mug, involuntary. “Would you have burst into the bathroom if I’d dared to get up and take a shit?”

But Patrick’s locked into it, doesn’t budge. “Tell me it’s not what you were doing.”

Jonny doesn’t feel like budging either, plants his feet as though readying himself for some kind of attack. “Why don’t you tell me why you get to act like you’re the only one who’s been waiting. You been living in some kind of fucking dreamland I wasn’t aware of?”

“Just fucking tell me, Jonny.”

“I wasn’t,” Jonny answers, fierce. “I wasn’t going to leave.” He puts his coffee down, too shaky to hold it, thrown off balance. “I would’ve at one point, back when you would’ve done the same fucking thing, but I didn’t—wouldn’t—not now, even though it’s probably a better idea to now.”

“Why would it be a better idea to now?” Patrick finally turns to face him, crosses his arms, his features carrying sleep in a way that makes Jonny want to smooth him out, pass fingers underneath his eyes even though he’d like to fucking deck him.

He doesn’t want to answer the question with Patrick’s gaze on him, a bubble of nervousness in his blood that saying it aloud will make Patrick realize it’s right, that they had their night and they should shut it down before it grows into something that’ll take chunks of them with it. He opens his mouth, closes it, opens it again. “Our contracts are up in—”

“Jesus fucking christ, Jon.”

“Don’t,” Jonny says, a spike of fury in his chest. “Don’t act like that’s not a factor.”

“Our contracts are four years away.”

“Four years.” Jonny mirrors Patrick and crosses his arms too, wishes he was in more than fucking Calvin Kleins. “Four years is nothing, Patrick. That’s fucking nothing.”

“That’s a fucking eternity in hockey. This is why I knew it shouldn’t have been after a loss. You’re talking about fucking contracts after two games.”

“You know the same shit about this team that I do.”

“Alright, Taze.” Patrick pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs at his temples. “Glad to know two games is what it takes for the captain to give it up.”

It’s a low blow, hurts like one, and Jonny knows he deserves it, but it’s also unfair because,

“It’s a lot easier,” he says, voice thicker than he wants it to be, “to throw everything into this—to just—not even think about it, just work and push and wait to see where shit’s gonna land—if you’re not riding on it for me too.”

Patrick doesn’t answer, drops his arms to his sides.

“If we start something up,” Jonny goes on, shoving past the shame lurking in the back of his head at that admission, “I’m not gonna want to stop, and if we have to stop, if we—”

“How,” Patrick starts, slowly, carefully, “are you so convinced we’d make it more than four years at the same time as thinking two games is enough to say how four years of hockey and contract negotiations are gonna go?”

“I didn’t say I think two games is enough.”

“And yet here I am, freezing my fucking nuts off in the kitchen instead of getting to roll over and lick you awake.”

That sends sharp heat rushing through Jonny’s limbs, up to his face, a shock of it, and fresh anger. “Oh,“ he says, flustered, and even madder because of it. "So you’ve decided it’s just easy now, huh? Since when do you say that kind of shit to me?”

Patrick’s face has definitely gone a little pink too, but he doesn’t look away, leans against the counter. “Like I said, you’re four years down the road here, and I can’t even tell you I want you.”

“God, Patrick—”

“What, Jonny?”

He’s so infuriating, every single part of him, including the part of him that looks cold, and the part of Jonny that wants to bombard him with body heat.

“I didn’t mean it like—” Jonny starts, turning back to coffee that’s lukewarm at best, fingers fidgeting at the handle. “I didn’t mean you can’t tell me you want me.”

Patrick’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly.

“Don’t,” Jonny says again, eyebrows pulled together. “I just mean—by all of this—I’m not saying I don’t want it. I’m just saying it’s—important.”

“I know.”

“It’s really fucking important.”

“Jesus Christ, I know.”

“And I’m not giving up on the fucking team.”

“I know, Jonny.” Patrick rubs at his face, flushes himself up, looks out through the window and then gives Jonny a tired smile. “Don’t make me mad at you and I won’t get mean.”

Jonny rolls his eyes at him, but turns towards him just a little more, and they stand there in the quiet, still and strung tight.

The lights below have switched now, turned onto their regular timer.

“I’m not gonna leave,” Jonny says on a careful breath, once the silence feels laid over them in a thick layer. He knows Patrick, knows him arguing means something about how far he’s waded out. “I don’t want to. That’s—why it feels like this.”

Patrick turns towards him too, the side of his hip tilted into the lower cabinets. “I want to be done letting it feel like this,” he says, tongue pushed into his upper lip, a thinking tic. “I’m ready to start letting it feel good. Right now. If you’ll come get back in bed with me.”

Another shot of heat zips through Jonny’s body, settles low.

They’ve kissed five times ever—distinct ones. Three last night.

He’s not sure which of them moves first, maybe both of them, unrushed, and the sixth happens right there, soft to each other’s mouths, fingertips little points of ice to each other’s bare skin.

It stays slow like that, pliable, enough that it’s a surprise when Jonny finds he’s backed them into the wall.

“At any point in the next week,” Patrick whispers, pressed up close, his stubble a nice hurt against Jonny’s chin, “if you’ve gotta shit before I’m awake, just fucking hold it.”

And Jonny laughs, pained. Tries to steel himself against this good kind of stomach ache, the worse one underneath. Wraps his arms around Patrick’s neck.

[honeybee-babe]

Sharing is Caring (Except When You’re SIck) Chapter 1

Part 1 of my multi-chap collab fic with @hargreevesstyles!! It’s already finished, and we tried to keep all the chapters relatively the same length. We’ll each be posting the parts, probably according to some schedule. You can also read it on @hargreevesstyles‘ account!

~

Luther woke with a start to the familiar feeling of soreness in his throat, only now it was accompanied by a tightness in his chest. His reading glasses had slipped off his face onto the pages of research laid out before him on his desk.

Suppressing a wheezy cough against his wrist, he lifted his other arm up and checked his watch: 10:27 am. Last he remembered, it was 8 pm. He must have fallen asleep at his work. Despite the sheen of sweat forming on his hairline, and the three layers he was wearing, he was shivering. With a groan he crossed over to his bed, picked up one of the many blankets out of the messy pile on his bed, and threw it over his shoulders.

He’d been holed up in his room for two days now, only sneaking downstairs to grab tissues. He’d skipped Allison’s “family dinner” both nights, instead opting for some crackers and water. He was too tired for anything else anyway, and this way he could avoid his family. Even though he was sure it was just a little cold (he hadn’t been sick in so long, this was normal, right?), he didn’t want to take the risk of getting them sick.

There was also the fear of attracting unwanted attention to his body. He’d gotten better at not isolating himself, but in times like this, when he felt even more grotesque than normal, he reverted back to old habits.

He shuffled downstairs, clutching the blanket around his arms. It was too small to cover his gargantuan shoulders, and he had to stop repeatedly to readjust it. When he got into the kitchen, his throat itched in that telltale way, the catalyst for a series of deep, chesty coughs, which he smooshed as much as possible into his elbow. Three layers of fabric were a good enough silencer.

Unfortunately, the violent movement sent the blanket slipping off his shoulders onto the ground. He looked down at it with a small sniffle, dreading the aches and dizziness that would inevitably come if he picked it up. He stood there for a good minute, staring at the blanket and trying to figure out if it was worth it to bend over and pick it up. He didn’t have to think for long though, because a bony hand swiped it up off the ground and threw it over its own shoulder.

“Klaus-I. What the hell? Give it back!” Luther spoke defensively. Part of him just wanted his blanket back but a bigger part of him didn’t want Klaus to be infected by the germs inhabiting said blanket.

Klaus ignored Luther and draped it over his own shoulders. Luther wanted to say something but he didn’t want to admit that he was sick. If he did so, his siblings wouldn’t leave him alone—either by helping him or teasing him. Luther stuck with a small sigh and went to turn around to start making some tea when Klaus tapped him on the shoulder.

He said, “I’m just poking fun at you, big guy. Here you go.” He handed the blanket back to his big—size-wise—brother. Luther didn’t know what to say and Klaus caught onto that quickly. “You alright Number One? You’re looking a bit peaky.”

“I’m fine. What do you want, Klaus?”

“Hey, hey, hey, relax! I’m only trying to help. Do you need anything?” Klaus asked. “I’m so damn bored all of the time now that I don’t have anything fancy running through my system. I came here looking for an adventure and it seems like you’re on a fun one. May I join?”

Luther felt badly. He really wanted to spend more time with his brother. He was trying to push himself out of this character Reginald forced him into. He tried to stop himself from thinking about his siblings as teammates and actually as his brothers and sisters. But right now he was caught between a rock and a hard place.

If he hung around Klaus for even a few minutes longer it was likely that Klaus was going to catch whatever Luther was harboring.

So, Luther shook his head. “Sorry, Klaus. I’ve got to go back upstairs and work on something. A lot of reading. You wouldn’t be interested.” Luther tried his absolute hardest not to sound cold or annoyed with his brother.

Still, Klaus’ reaction was full of nothing but disappointment. He nodded quickly and quietly and skirted out of the room before Luther could say another word.

Now that Klaus was gone, Luther could focus on how he felt. Without Klaus distracting him, the pounding in his head seemed to come back with a vengeance. Luther wasn’t sure if he just had a headache or if it was from the buildup of all of the congestion. Whatever it was, Luther was in pain.

He let out a small cough into his elbow, knowing that anything more would have him dragging on for what could be minutes, and he didn’t have the time nor the energy for that. The tickle in his throat was momentarily alleviated, but not the tightness in his chest that still lingered, begging for a deeper release. But he couldn’t let that out, not right now, with Klaus in clear earshot the next room. He’d have to wait until he was in the privacy of his room.

With his arm still held up to his face, he shuffled over to the sink and poured himself the glass of water he’d come downstairs for in the first place. The first sip unfortunately hit his throat in just the wrong way, and he had to bring his elbow to his mouth again to suppress the coughs that inevitably resulted, this time a bit more chesty than the last. Fortunately, the second sip seemed to soothe rather than aggravate the tickle, and he downed the rest of glass in just two more sips, quickly pouring another glass, which he downed in two huge gulps.

Unfortunately, the rush of cold water made him shiver even more profusely than he already had been, to which he responded by immediately washing the glass in warm water -- he needed to wash it ASAP anyway, if he was serious about not leaving any germs lingering around.

The steam from the sink ended up wafting up to his nose and loosening some of the congestion that had built up there. A good thing for his health, probably, but it meant that the persistent tickle he’d had some momentary relief from was back. Which meant he’d inevitably start sneezing again soon. And, with this cold, there was a very good chance they’d keep coming for few minutes. Klaus definitely wouldn’t leave him alone if he heard that. So Luther turned the faucet off a soon as he felt the steam tugging at his sinuses, and brought a gloved hand up to scrub ferociously at his flaring nostrils. He gave one pointed, congested sniff.

That seemed to do the trick. For now.

Klaus had left the kitchen with his arms crossed over his chest, but once he’d made his way into the living room, he put them down by his side, exposing the tiny mesh tank top he had on as he stood rimrod straight and put on a stern face.

“‘It’s grown-up stuff, Klaus, a lot of reading,” he put on his best Luther voice. He quickly lost the act, however, and flopped down on the couch, staring up at the ceiling and speaking in his normal voice. “Cause God knows I never learned how to read, right?” He rolled his eyes. “How do you know what  I’m interested in? Maybe I secretly want to learn all about moon rocks!”

“Do you?”

Klaus shifted his gaze to see Ben sitting by his feet, grinning at him. He stuck his tongue at his ghost brother.

“That’s not the point, Ben. It’s the principle of it!” he explained, pushing himself up with his elbows into a sitting position. “He just pushed me to the side, like I was in the way. Typical Luther.”

“You’re overreacting,” Ben said, shaking his head.

“I’m just having fun, Benny boy,” he said, reaching over and booping his brother on the nose, though he knew his finger would just phase through him. “I’m not upset, we all know how Luther is.”

“I don’t think that’s what it is,” Ben said. “Did you get a good look at him? I think he might be sick.” Klaus just shrugged.

“He was a little pale. He’s probably fine, he’s always had a good immune system.”

“I don’t know, Klaus.” And with that, Ben poofed away. Klaus groaned and got up from the couch. He had a sense of where Ben might have gone.

Back up in Luther’s room, the largest Hargreeves sibling was blowing his nose into a handkerchief he had found in his dad’s belongings a couple of weeks prior. He still felt a deep connection to his father, feeling like no matter what else he did, he had still done whatever he could to save him while his life was on the line.

“Heh-NGXht! Hahh-nGHXtchiew!” Luther’s body rocked forward as he let out the properly contained explosions. He always tried his hardest to keep them quiet nowadays, for fear that his siblings might find them funny whereas he found them deeply embarrassing and draining.

With this cold, one sneeze was never enough. He was pretty sure he’d sneezed more times in a row that morning than he ever had in his entire life. Miraculously, he’d managed to keep the sound contained until now. But the pressure in his head was building, and he didn’t know how much longer he could keep this up.

He had just started blowing his nose again when a knock at his door had him hastily putting the handkerchief down sniffling back the congestion back instead before speaking.

“Who is it?” he called, getting up from his desk chair and shuffling over to the door.

“Your worst nightmare.” It was Klaus.

“Sounds about right.” Luther rolled his eyes. “What do you want?”

“Open the door,” Klaus whined. “Ben wants to see you.”

Luther bit down on his lip as he considered that. He really didn’t want to infect Klaus, and he wasn’t even sure if he was just fucking with him. But he very well might be telling the truth, and he knew if Ben wanted to see him, it had to be important.

So he opened the door just a crack, catching a glimpse of his dead brother’s concerned face outlined in a blue glow, before his own wildly hitching breath caught him off guard. He eyed the handkerchief on his desk for a moment, before shutting the door quickly, just before he brought his hand up to pinch his nose shut.

“Hih’nXGT! Hihh... heh-GNXT!” Once again, his large torso shook with the force of suppressing the explosions, which were growing more and more difficult to contain, just like the pressure in his head grew more intense with each stifled sneeze.

“You’re gonna blow your brains out!” Ben tsk’ed from the hallway, apparently still manifested. Klaus just giggled.

“Bless you, big brother! What, you got the sniffles?”

Luther groaned, “Go away, Klaus.”

Klaus wouldn’t let up. “Come on, Ben and I both know you’re sick! There’s no point in hiding it from the two of us!”

“You can’t keep lying to us forever!” Ben joined in.

Luther tried his hardest to ignore them. He knew they really did mean well, but Klaus had a weird way of going about it and sometimes Ben would tag along. Luther blew his nose as quietly as he could into the handkerchief. Great. It was soaked. Luther grabbed around for more tissues but he realized that he had forgotten to grab more on his journey downstairs earlier.

He cursed under his breath. With this wretched cold he couldn’t afford to go without tissues.

Luther stood up and walked to the door. As he opened it, Klaus and Ben fell into his room. They had had their ears pressed up against the door.

“What the hell, you guys? Can’t you leave me alone?” Luther yelled. He really wasn’t feeling well.

Klaus’ look softened. He asked, “Do you need anything, buddy? I-I could go fetch you some tea or some tissues or something like that. Come on, we both know you’d like that. If not, I ca-“

“Jesus Christ, Klaus, if I let you get me tissues will you leave me alone?”

Klaus nodded happily. He bounced off, taking Ben with him.

Luther shut his door. He knew Klaus was going to get sick. “Goddamnit,” he muttered. Klaus always picked the worst of times to become interested in his seemingly eldest sibling.

“Knock knock! Your nurse is here!” Klaus’ voice came from the other side of the door. “Ben’s here too I’m just a little winded from those stairs and manifesting Ben isn’t really within my power limits right now. Anywho, I have some tea for you and I also found some nifty cough drops! I grabbed all the boxes of tissues I could find, too. Oh, and, open up!”

“I-wha-“ Before Luther could finish talking, Klaus stuck a thermometer in his mouth. Luther went to scold him but Klaus cut him off again.

“Nuh-uh, big guy! Keep your mouth closed until the thermometer beeps or it won’t get a good enough reading and you’ll have to do it again!” Klaus tutted.

Annoyed, Luther waited. When the thermometer beeped he went to take it out and read it but Klaus’ scrawny little hand grabbed it before Luther could even move his hand.

Klaus frowned. “You’ve got a fever. 101.3 to be exact. Strictly bed rest for you, Number One! I’ll be back in a little to bring you some soup or something!”

Luther couldn’t help but smile as Klaus sauntered out of his room. Sometimes he felt estranged from all of the other siblings, but Klaus had this way of magically making him feel like they were all a real family.

As soon as Klaus stepped out of Luther’s room, he wiped his nose on his sleeve. It was running for some reason.

“You feeling alright?” Ben asked.

Klaus nodded, “Yeah, it’s just from the steam from the tea. You know how sensitive my nose is after all that damn cocaine.”

Ben nodded, but he decided to keep a closer eye on Klaus, as well as Luther. Ben hadn’t been completely blinded as to why Klaus hadn’t manifested him when he was in Luther’s room. He knew that Klaus was feeling tired and he hoped, no prayed, that Klaus wasn’t catching what Luther had. When Klaus had been asleep the night before Ben had been wandering around the house and he heard some noise coming from Luther’s room. He heard him up coughing and sneezing, trying to keep himself quiet so he didn’t disturb his siblings. Ben wished they realized how much Luther cared about them.

He had brought up Luther looking sick to Klaus hoping he would catch on, and he was glad that he finally did. At least Luther was getting some rest now, even though Klaus had to hassle him before he could get some.

Now Ben was worried. He hadn’t realized that while Klaus was the least likely to really make Luther feel badly about his illness, he was also the most likely to catch it. Klaus’ immune system was shot to hell due to the cocktail of drugs he had consumed every day for seventeen years. Yes, Klaus was sober now, but he was a lot more susceptible to illness, and now that he wasn’t high all the time he was present enough to realize how shitty he felt.

“You’ll tell me if you don’t feel well, right?”

Klaus rolled his eyes. “Hop off my dick, Ben! I feel fine. Go haunt Diego or something.”

Ben liked to stay around Klaus to keep an eye on him as much as he could, but as Klaus was now sober he felt less of a need to babysit him. So Ben disappeared.

Klaus wandered into the living room and rubbed his nose. He flopped onto the couch and tried to ignore the bloody bitch to his left. She was wailing at the top of her lungs. Klaus felt bad, he always did, but there was a slight ache in his head that made him a little more aggressive than usual. He was going to yell at the ghost and tell her to can it, but yelling at ghosts usually did more harm than good, so Klaus stayed silent.

Back in Luther’s room, Ben was creeping around. He wished he could will himself to become corporeal to help clean up and tug the blankets up to Luther’s shoulders. He was shuddering in his sleep. Ben frowned and sat down on the edge of Luther’s bed. He started humming one of Luther’s favorite songs from when they were kids. He knew Luther couldn’t hear him, but he could’ve sworn he saw a smile on Luther’s face.

[noisyquokka]

Sniffles Under The Stars

pairing: Chan x reader

genre: fluff, sick au??, humor

length: 2.9k 

warnings: mild language, your heart exploding in your chest because Chan is a cuddly kangaroo!

Gist- In which you're an astronomy geek, and the Geminids Meteor shower is upon us... only one problem! You're in the midst of battling a cold, and whilst Chan's trying to be that good, caring best friend; you're trying to sneak out to watch the show with a thick blanket in place of a parka. One can only imagine Chan's reaction when he spots you out there. He knows he won't win the argument to get you back inside, so he does what any other panicking best friend would do; basically brings your bed to you!

a/n: (Ahem, hi yes! I did, in fact, come up with this story idea whilst spending a night outside watching the Geminids meteor shower. And yes, I was sick! (Well, actually I was almost over it but this isn't the point lol) And me being from New York, Decembers are almost always cold here. So I was out there in a hoodie and light sweatpants like an idiot. And the thought had occurred to me that Chan would probably be flipping at the sight of me. Outside. Watching a bunch of fucking rocks fall from the sky! Whilst combating a cold in a hoodie and light pants! So, here's that thought in a drabble! Enjoy.) Gosh, I’m sorry for my babbling 🤦‍♀️ someone tell me to shut up!

Prompt cred’s go to @bump-of-whump who has some great sick prompts, and got the cogs in my mind turning 😁 

"You should be in bed."

"Need a tissue, Snuffleupagus?"  

Sneezes raked your body for the fifth time in the past thirty minutes.

You'd been having these sneeze attacks all morning and into the afternoon, 3 boxes of tissues sitting on either side table for convenient nose blowing. Honestly, you thought you were getting better... then they started back up.

"Need a tissue, Snuffleupagus?"

You opened your eyes slightly to see Chan in the doorway, sympathetic smile on his face. You could barely smell the soup he just finished making with your congested sinuses. A groan left your sore throat, grimacing as you swallowed.

"You don't have to be here." You reminded him, reaching for the box of tissues. "I'm perfectly capable of treating my own cold!" He sat beside you on your bed, setting the bowl down on your nightstand.

"Y/n, we've talked about this!" He said, and you scoffed. Your parents were out of town on business, so you were home alone. Had it not been for your clumsy fingers tapping the answer button when Chan called, he wouldn't be here right now!

Yes, you appreciated Chan for taking the time to come by and take care of you in your ill state. But at the same time, you knew there were other things he could be doing while on break from promotions. Plus, you would feel like complete shit if he caught your cold.

You could feel another set of sneezes coming on, trying and failing miserably to fend them off. Gosh, why did it have to be sneezing? Chan sighed, handing you the box of tissues off the table.

"And here I thought I could help with your sore throat..." He trailed off, glancing at the bowl of soup before focusing on you again. He brought a hand up to your forehead, shaking his head. "You're still warm, I'm gonna go get the thermometer."

"Chan, I'm fine." You nasally mumbled. This had Chan quirking a brow your way. And really! How were you gonna fool this man into thinking you weren't dying from a typical cold? Why were you treating him as if he was oblivious?

"Yeah, and Changlix is real!" He said, rolling his eyes.

"How dare you... that's not even laugh worthy, you monster!"

He stood up from your bedside, sending you a smile before heading towards your bathroom. All while ignoring your protests that he go back to the dorms and properly enjoy his break. A sigh fell from your lips, the cover of your laptop catching your attention. You snatched it off your duvet, opening the top and typing in your passcode. Hey, if you're stuck in bed might as well spend it surfing the web! A few quick clicks to the news page and you were stopped in your scrolling tracks.

Looking For A Lightshow? The Geminids Peak Tonight!

That's right! The Geminids were tonight. And your fuzzy, cold-ridden mind forgot about it! Winter was the best time to stargaze - when you're healthy of course... and weather permitting. But the Geminids were among your favorite shower to watch. You couldn't possibly let this slip by over a measly cold!

"Alright!" Chan said, scaring the shit out of you in the process. "You definitely need to clean out your medicine cabinet." This was your chance.

"Chaaaannnn!" You smiled sweetly up at him, and he instantly knew your intentions.

"Nope. Whatever it is, it's a big no!" He said, holding the thermometer out to you. You frowned, sliding your laptop towards him.

"I just remembered they peak tonight. They're one of the best showers of the year... I haven't missed them once during clear peak nights, Chan." You told him, looking up at the brunette locks that sat tousled on his forehead. You watched as he read the article, his eyes trailing from the left to the right of the screen. And god, you should have seen yourself! You looked so damn hopeful. As if you'd just told the mall Santa what you wanted for Christmas and wondered if 'Santa' would approve. All hope disintegrated as Chan closed the tab on your web browser.

"You're battling a cold, y/n. I'm not allowing you to potentially make things worse for yourself." He said, handing you the thermometer. You took it from him, pressing the button before placing it under your tongue.

"I'll go make more tea, don't let me catch you out of bed!" He warned, grabbing the mug from the nightstand.

"Whut ipf I hapf tu gur tur teh baffrum?!"

"What??"

You rolled your eyes, taking the thermometer out of your mouth.

"I said, what if I have to go to the bathroom?"

The look of confusion left Chan's features, shrugging his shoulders.

"If you gotta go, you gotta go..." He said, walking out of the room. And you were quick to hop out of bed. Thermometer in hand, you crept to the bedroom window, slowly turning the lock as to not trigger mom!Chan just down the hall. The frosty chill of winter enveloped you as soon as you cracked the window. The sky above was crystal clear, perfect conditions for what was to come tonight. If not for the cool breeze nipping at your arms, you would've been standing there longer than you wanted to. You almost forgot how hot you were before, quickly snatching the cardigan off your desk chair. Your fingers would be cold for the next few minutes, but you didn't care. You were going to see that meteor shower! It was fairly simple. All you had to do was stick the thermometer in the sn-

"You've got to be kidding..."

Chan's voice startled you, your clumsy fingers almost dropping the thermometer out the window. You pulled the window closed before turning to your best friend, head down as he pointed to your bed. A silent command; the worst kind. Slowly you shuffled back to bed, slipping under the sheets with a pout evident on your lips. The cup of tea Chan made was placed on your nightstand, steam dancing above the top of the mug. He jutted a hand out before you.

"Thermometer!"

You handed it over, finally locking eyes with him before he headed for the bathroom. Yep, he was disappointed! You knew not just by the look on his face, but by the tone in his voice. The faint sound of the faucet trickling oddly calmed you, taking a sip from your mug. How were you gonna convince him?

"Now," Chan sighed as he made his way back over to you. "If we can stay in bed and you can properly take your temperature, I'll give you a cookie." You quirked a brow, taking the thermometer from him.

"I'm not a child. You can't bribe me with cookies!"

He took a seat on the edge of your bed, running a hand through his hair. God, you were so damn stubborn! You'd be lying if you said the thought of why Chan stuck by your side didn't cross your mind on a regular basis. Between being friends with you and being the leader of Stray Kids - ultimately a bunch of rowdy kids in men's bodies - to say he had his hands full was an understatement!

"Look, if you weren't in the middle of battling this cold then maybe I'd consider it." He said, resting a hand on your calf. It was your turn to sigh. You knew how much Chan cared for you, really you did. It brought on a warm and fuzzy feeling within your chest, which ultimately led to you feel guilty for the shit you put him through.

"I guess one year missed won't kill me." You admitted, a soft smile gracing your lips. He frowned, straightening up in his spot.

"You sure??"

You nodded, pressing the button on the thermometer once again. When you looked up at him, that warm and fuzzy feeling bubbled up in you again. His smile on full display with dimples to match... the highlight of your evening.

"Think you could reheat that soup? I'm feeling a bit hungry." You told him, pulling the blankets over your legs and placing your laptop on top. You stuck the thermometer under your tongue for the second time that night.

"Of course I can!" He said, taking the bowl from the nightstand. "Finish your tea, it'll help with the congestion and your sore throat." Then he was gone again. So was the thermometer. You placed it on your nightstand and picked up the mug, taking another sip of the now lukewarm drink. Your fingers typed away at the keyboard, going to Youtube to check your new subscriptions for the day.

Come on Y/N, you can do this.

You clicked on a recent upload, fixing your pillows behind you and settling in. Tonight was going to be a night of relaxing. In the warmth of your home. Under the blankets. You kept trying to remind yourself of this, your ring finger tracing the rim of the mug.

It's just a meteor shower! They occur every year!

At this point, you weren't even paying attention to the video on the screen. Who were you kidding?! The longer you sat there, the more you argued with your mind. Your eyes flicked over to the doorway every few seconds, even catching the time in the corner of your computer screen. 11:38 PM.

I can't do this!!!

The mug was back in its spot on your nightstand, tea unfinished. You didn't even pause the video, shutting your laptop and shoving it off your lap. Blankets were thrown to the side, and your bootie slippers were slid onto your feet. Now it was time for ninja mode!

You slipped out of your bedroom, quick but careful steps down the hallway. Yes, you were well aware that Chan could come walking around the corner at any moment. Yes, you were still going to try sneaking out. Chan's singing could be heard from the kitchen, the perfect distraction from the sound of your footsteps. As long as his back was turned...

A quick peek around the corner and you were creating a game-plan in your head. Crawl to the kitchen island, roll to cover behind the couch, there's a curtain right there... that's good camouflage, parkour over the recliner, sneak out the patio door. Ka-ching! We're home free.

Or as soon as you pathetically somersault behind the couch, Chan makes his way back to your room.

Well... that was easy. You snatched the thick fleece blanket from the back of the couch, enveloping yourself with it. Then as simple as letting the dog out, you opened the patio door and stepped outside, quietly latching it behind you. And wow... There it was!

While the earth below was blanketed in white, the sky above sparkled like diamonds. The moon had already risen and set, letting the constellations be the real show-stopper of the night. Orion hung proudly in the east, the distinctive belt guiding you to Gemini. You exhaled deeply, a content smile on your lips as you took it all in. Behold, your happy place! The entirety of space, looking down at you from above whilst you admired it from your tiny spot on Earth. Everything felt right... until the patio door opened.

"You should be in bed." Chan scolded, rushing up behind you. He pulled you into his chest, starting back towards the door only for you to pull back.

"Chan, I really can't stay inside when I know the sky is alive tonight!" You sounded like a poetic idiot! But it was true; the sky was awake! The stars were communicating from light years away and there was no way you could bear taking a raincheck for next year. Chan watched you carefully, all wrapped up in that large fleece, the bed head look you'd been rocking since he showed up early this morning. Your eyes sparkled as the stars above did, a childlike wonder settling over your features. And it hit him.

There was no winning this argument.

No matter what he would come up with tonight, nothing would keep you inside that house. Even handcuffs wouldn't prevent your escape. Chan was at a loss here. What could he possibly do to make this work? ... Idea!

You hadn't even noticed him race back into the house. It was common sense, really! If y/n won't come to bed, bring the bed to y/n! Hammock, blankets, pillows, and Chan. That was all that was needed for you to enjoy a night under the stars. He raced about the house collecting all the essentials. The hammock in the garage, the pillows he'd found in the hall closet, and a slew of blankets to stay warm for however many hours you planned on staying out there. When he finally came back outside, your attention swayed to him.

"What's all this?!" You asked, hint of a knowing smile on your lips. Chan set down the frame of the hammock, sighing in defeat.

"I'm compromising." He said, getting to work on your makeshift bed. Good thing, too! You were starting to feel the chill through the fleece. It didn't take Chan long to set everything up for the two of you though. Before you knew it, you were slipping under the mountain of blankets and cuddling a pillow as the show started above. You felt an arm pulling you closer, to which you pushed away. A quick glance at the brunette next to you and you instantly felt bad.

"I don't want you to catch my cold." You tried telling him. Chan furrowed a brow, pulling you into his side.

"Well, I'm not taking no for an answer." He murmured, intertwining his fingers with yours. You couldn't help the small smile that found its way onto your lips. The both of you laid there in comfortable silence, your head on Chan's chest, the pillow you'd been cuddling moments ago left behind you. Your eyes trailed across the sky watching for any meteors. You were the first to break the silence.

"Thanks..." You trailed off, taking a deep breath. "For all of this. Even though I know you were against it." Chan's gaze fell from the stars to your body against his. He grinned to himself, propping one hand behind his head.

"Hey, you know I can't take saying no to you more than 4 times a day." He joked. You chuckled, leaving a playful smack on his chest.

"You're too good to me. If I wouldn't have answered the phone today, you wouldn't even know I was sick. You wouldn't be here."

Gosh, now you were just being sappy!

"Wait, is that why my call almost went to voicemail!?" He asked, pulling the blankets over your shoulder. You chuckled lightly, shrugging awkwardly.

"I'm sorry! It's just... I didn't want to be bothering you on your break like this. You have so much on your shoulders with promotions, composing songs, being the leader of Stray Kids. And I put you through even more shit than what I'm worth. You deserve a proper break! This is just a burden!" You sighed in mild frustration. At this point, Chan was stargazing more than you were!

"Hey, slow down," He said, sitting up. When you didn't spare him a look, he cupped your chin. "You are not a burden! Alright? I'm here because I want to be. I take care of you, you take care of me, right?"

You bit the inside of your cheek, nodding slowly. Chan was right, but that didn't mean it made you feel better. You were taking him away from what could be a stress-free break, surrounded by his family and friends who he rarely saw anymore. Instead, he sat here with you under the stars because you were too damn stubborn to care more about your health! The guilty look on your face didn't go unnoticed by Chan, who wrapped his arms around you to sit you on his lap. His fingers laced with yours once again, brown eyes staring into your own.

"I know there are other things I could be doing right now. But, I honestly don't think anything could beat this!" You quirked a brow at him.

"What? Watching stars in the freezing cold with your sick best friend?"

"Pfft, no! Just being here with you." He said, pulling you into his chest. "Yes, you put me through a lot of crap! Yes, it can get annoying! Yes, you are one of the most stubborn people in my life! But I'd be stupid to let that all go. You make my life more interesting than I need it to be sometimes, the guys love you, and you have to put up with my stubborn ass, too." You chuckled into the fabric of his hoodie, craning your neck to look up at the one you called your best friend. Seeing how uncomfortable your position was, Chan leaned back with you on his chest, pressing a single kiss to your forehead.

"Thank you, Chan. I really needed to hear that." You murmured, your eyes catching a faint meteor dashing across the canvas of an inky black sky. There and gone in seconds.

Like the days that went by without you seeing Chan.

But the memories both of you cherished, stashed somewhere in the vast expanse of your minds, would never be lost.

Including the ones made tonight.

Gahh!! My first piece of writing on this blog 😓 How exciting and nerve-wracking haha. If you’ve come this far and enjoyed, like/reblog to let me know you want more 😊 

If you’d like to request a skz Valentine’s Day drabble, you can do so with these prompts! Don’t forget to specify which member unless you don’t mind. Thanks y’all!💛

[sugarplum-senpai]

4, 5, and 12 for Ereri :)

Thank you so much for your prompts, dear! 

4: “I can never tell if you’re hitting on me or not.”5: Cleaning12: Panicked/Accidental Confession

After writing 11k words of post-war angst, I thought some light crack would be more than appropriate for this. ;) I hope you like it and have as much fun with reading it as I had with writing!

Word Count: 2,1kRated F for Floof (and CCC for Cute Canonverse Crack)

(Read on AO3.)

Mischief, Mayhem, Soap, and Porridge

Eren despised the summer flu. And he absolutely positively hated this day.

Usually he loved cleaning days. They were fun. Today, however, was awful.

Looking back at it so far, Eren thought he should have gotten right back to sleep before he’d even left the bed. But he had left it and now he had to face the music. 

Which seemed to include having to witness Sasha sneaking up on Jean to carefully slip a wet bar of soap into the collar of his shirt, only to instantly flee into one of the shower cubicles.

“Arg!” Jean exclaimed, his hands shooting up his neck and his whole body jerking, his voice echoing through the bathroom and mingling with Sasha’s mischievous cackle. “What is this shit? Fuck!”

“Cleaning day, Jean!” Sasha jeered.

His face was red, but sadly not as much in agony as Eren would have hoped for. Jean had done his best to avoid cleaning anything all morning long and Eren didn’t have any hope that this would change any time soon.

Diligently scrubbing away at a sink that suffered under a nasty case of scale, he frowned. At least Jean’s back would be greasy and gross with sticky soap all afternoon long.

“You know, Sasha,” Jean teased in-between his ongoing efforts. “I can never tell if you’re hitting on me or not. Feels a bit like it now.”

Yeah, Eren huffed to himself with a scowl. It feels icky. Jean, ugh! The mere thought…

He suppressed a shudder.

“I’m not!” Sasha affirmed, still giggling. “Go to someone else for the flirting, Jean!”

“Don’t,” Mikasa said flatly, face completely blank.

Jean, who—much to Eren’s regret—had already managed to get hold the soap without even letting it slip through his fingers, smirked and now threw the bar at Mikasa. “Are you sure?”

She skilfully caught the bar with the half-filled bucket in her hands and Jean looked more than disappointed. “I’ll take over another room,” she said. “Don’t follow me.”

And gone she was.

“Stop trying so hard, man,” Connie said to Jean.

“Yeah, keep on cleaning the bathroom,” Eren agreed, tending to another spot of scale on the sink.

Sometimes he dreamed that he could pull off a scowl like Levi and make them work with just one single look. But no matter how much Eren tried, apparently he wasn’t intimidating enough. He sighed.

Oh, how he wished Levi was here! It would brighten Eren’s awful day immensely.

But Levi wasn’t here. And Eren gave a small, sympathetic frown at the thought.

Levi was sick. The summer flu, had Hanji announced this morning, and ever since no one had seen him. Eren had snuck up to the door of Levi’s quarters a couple of times and heard the nasty cough, the gut-wrenching sniffles, and had been thinking all day long about what could make it better.

Certainly not a filthy bathroom.

Cleaning HQ had already been on today’s schedule, but solely with the help of the other guys, with no Levi nearby to order them around, Eren wouldn’t come far. On the contrary. He’d have to do their work all over again to make it right. As soon as he was finished with this faucet, of course. At least the bathroom should be shipshape when they were done for the day. And the kitchen too.

Eren stilled at the sudden thought, close to cursing.

Shit, the kitchen! Hadn’t someone burnt the porridge this morning?

Ignoring the ongoing bickering between Sasha and Jean next to him, Eren considered his options: He could either finish the job here—and endure Jean’s presence—or he could scrape off dried crusts of porridge and whatnot that were caked to the cooker.

The cooker won.

“Oi, where do you think you’re going, Eren?” Jean sneered promptly.

“Kitchen,” Eren said.

Connie blushed.

And Jean paled. “Oh, fuck. Yeah! Thanks, man! I wouldn’t go in there today if they’d beat me to it.”

Eren rolled his eyes and went.

A few minutes later he stood in the doorway of the kitchen, staring at a battlefield.

Whoever was responsible for this—probably Connie, Eren mused, only Connie could leave behind such a chaos and he and Sasha had been overly frisky all day—had done a great job of leaving behind as much destruction as humanly possible.

The pot hadn’t been scrubbed, the plates, cups, bowls, and cutlery hadn’t been washed. The counter was crowded with dirty dishes.

And the cooker…well. For the first time ever Eren actually agreed with Jean on something one hundred percent. It was bad. Really, really bad.

For the first time that day, Eren was glad that Levi was safely upstairs in his room, far away from what had occurred in here. Because one thing was certain:

Levi mustn’t see this.

Suddenly heavily motivated Eren stepped into the room, gathered his determination, and went to work. He started with soaking whatever dishes the sink could take, putting it all into the big, porridge-incrusted pot before filling it up with water. Then he took a deep breath and fetched a spatula. 

It soon was clear that burnt lactose and gluten was the most evil combination ever. Cleaning the cooker alone took the good part of the whole afternoon. And as he’d scraped and scraped and scraped at a particularly nasty spot, Eren began to wonder what kind of horrible person had determined that porridge should contain milk and oat.

Eren vividly hated that arsehole!

He scraped again, slipped, and banged his head against the cooker. Fuck.

After that he sat down on the floor, and nastily scowled once more at his surroundings.

He truly missed Levi. 

Without him being ill this situation probably wouldn’t even have escalated like it had and Connie would be sitting here on the floor now, pressing his hand against a bump on his forehead.

At least I heal quickly, Eren grimaced.

Despite his well-trained muscles his whole body was sticky with sweat and aching from the effort. It didn’t particularly help that it was a hot day and that it had rained that morning, leaving the air humid and awfully muggy. 

Eyeing the cooker, Eren thought the worst part lay behind him by now, though. All it would take now was a bit scrubbing and some more rough scraping at that one nasty corner. And the dishes.

If breakfast would have had tasted well at least, this whole thing probably wouldn’t have been all too bad either, Eren mused. But it had tasted downright disgusting, even for his rigorously humble soldier standards, and remembering the burnt taste on his tongue as if he was eating it again, Eren suddenly felt double betrayed. He should give Connie hell for this one day.

But then he thought of Levi again, laying in his bed and coughing, and Eren suddenly realised that Levi must have gotten a portion of this gross stuff as well.

No way that he could easily recover like this.

Scrambling up to his feet again, Eren went to check the pantry. There were still a few eggs, some bread and way, way down in its depths Eren even found a small package of ham. Yes!

Freshly motivated like this he set back to work, starting with the dishes.

At least the porridge came off the bowls and plates and cutlery relatively easily after all this soaking. He scrubbed and scrubbed and couldn’t help a confident smile when he’d stored the little stuff back into their rightful places in the cupboard.

After giving the pot another round of soaking he took the scraper back into his hands, refaced his nemesis of a cooker, and couldn’t help but feel an odd sensation of satisfaction when only half an hour of additional scraping later—seriously, Connie!—and another fifteen minutes of scrubbing Eren was finally, finally done, the cooker close to sparkling again, ready for use. And the kitchen itself as well.

Eren beamed. Time to cook Levi some food.

Lost in dazzling daydreams about earning Levi’s gratefulness and having him fully recover and back among them soon, Eren made some tea, then heated a pan, greased it with first melting the fat of the ham in it, and—bless his mother who had taught him how to fry eggs when he’d been only five years old—cracked in two eggs, that instantly began to sizzle and spread a wonderful, buttery scent. 

Eggs must be healthy, Eren thought, marvelling at the solidifying, clear whites and the sunny-yellow yolks. After a short consideration, he added a third one to the pan. 

“Levi will love me for this,” he mumbled to himself, turning away from the pan to cut the bread into slices so Levi could load it with ham or eggs as he liked. “Well,” he added. “Hopefully.”

“What.”

Eren froze, the knife halfway through the last piece of bread, his neck prickling in alert, every single one of his senses up in arms.

A pitiful sniff came from the doorway.

Eren turned around, and every single thought fell out of his head in blank panic as he recognized the intruder.

Levi stood in the entrance of the kitchen, his skin looking awfully pale and waxen, eyes red-rimmed and his nose bright red as well, probably sore from blowing it excessively, going by the handkerchief in his lifted hand.

I want to hug him! shot through Eren’s head, completely unhelpful.

“What did you say?” Levi rasped. “My ears are plugged.”

His nose sounded ‘plugged’ too.

“Um…I…” Eren blushed. And before he could stop himself, it all spilled out. “I wanted to make you a second breakfast, Sir, or lunch…dinner! I wanted to make you dinner, since the porridge this morning was so terrible, you see? So I thought you might be hungry and decided to cook and maybe make you smile, because I love yo–” he redirected his speech at the last second, “–your smile. 

“Haha!”

Well. He was fucked.

Levi stared at him, his eyes glassy and blinking just a bit too often.

Eren wanted to die.

And just as he thought he couldn’t keep up with this staring contest any longer without scorching to ashes right on this spot, Levi sneezed. And Eren dared to breathe again.

After blowing his nose and giving another heart-rending sniff, Levi stepped over to the hearth. His legs were a bit wobbly, Eren noticed, even though the scowl on Levi’s brow said otherwise.

“Is this for me?” he asked, gesturing at the eggs still sizzling in the pan. They looked done now.

Still utterly flustered, but apparently saved from the immediate danger of imploding any moment now, Eren nodded. “Um…yes. Yeah. The bread and tea too.” He pointed at the counter.

“Who goofed up breakfast? It was an experience.”

“Connie, Sir,” Eren stammered, slowly composing himself again. “I guess.”

“Thought so. Kitchen a mess?”

“Yes.”

“Mm.”

Lifting the pan Levi transferred its contents onto the plate Eren had already prepared, turned around to add the bread to the eggs and take the tea pot as well, but instead of just leaving the kitchen with his dinner, he looked up with his slightly unfocused, swollen eyes, stepped closer into Eren’s private space, and—to Eren’s utter shock and delight—gave him a warm, scratchy peck on his cheek.

“Thank you.”

Completely awestruck and blushing fiercely all the way up to his hair roots in an instant, Eren stood there, rooted to the floor, and could only stare and gape as Levi wobbled-definitely-not-wobbled out of the kitchen, while his hand slowly reached up to press against the spot where, just a moment ago, Levi’s lips had been. 

God, Levi had smelled absolutely breathtaking.

What a beautiful day!

He should give Connie a hug. 

Eren still stood there, elated beyond hope, when Mikasa found him five minutes later.

“What happened to you,” she asked, frowning at his expression. 

“What? Nothing, wha–what happened to you?” he managed, barely noticing through his love-crazed haze that she was soaking wet.

And…actually seething?

“I am going to murder Jean. You in?”

“What?” Eren mumbled. “Oh no, I guess he’s alright. I’ve got to go now.” He snuck past Mikasa. “Mop that floor, yeah? You’re dripping.”

“What.”

Completely immune to her wrath, Eren left her, already wondering about if Levi would kiss him again one day.

The sun set over HQ in stunningly glowing colours that night. And when it rose again on the next morning Eren awoke to a sneeze, alongside a murderous headache between his eyes.

And a besotted grin.

He still grinned when the sniffles set in around breakfast time, and he still grinned when the coughs began to shake him at noon. What was this flu? He was a Titan. She shouldn’t get sick!

Totally worth it, though, he thought.

He still thought so, when a knock came on his door and Levi stood there, looking much too healthy and wonderful again and offering Eren a plate with eggs and ham with a little smirk, that made Eren grin even wider.

Stepping aside he let Levi in. 

Eren really loved the summer flu.

[tovawrites-blog]

Chapter I: Frozen Death

Here it is, folks! Chapter I of The Guardians. Just a warning, there is some adult content in this first chapter, I’ll try to keep it to a minimum as time goes on. I’ll make sure to leave warnings, though. I hope you enjoy, and expect some short drabbles or one-shots between chapters! Feedback is always helpful! THANKS!

Word count: 6,430 most of my chapters are 10,000+ words wtf

"Elizabeth Lynn Parris." The scolding voice of my father sent fear to rack my spine. My limbs froze and became stiff as if I were being cast in a mold that was unbreakable. I felt my face pale from the strident sound, the coolness in the back of my head increasing as the man closed the distance to stand in front of me. "Where the hell have you been?"

I froze, eyes unmoving from his face. The graying hair I hoped I'd never see again was combed down in an ugly combover, while those piercing eyes that saw right into my soul were narrowed and filled with hatred. My breathing became shuddered. My lungs seemed to close right there and I found myself struggling to breathe. The asthma that I've suffered with for sixteen years sent shockwaves of worry and pain in my chest, mixing in with the sheer horror that displayed itself proudly on my face.

It wasn't my fault my father abused me when I was a teenager, whether it was sexual or not. It was his fault for doing those things to me when I was thirteen, and the haunting years of going through that made me swear to never find a boyfriend or even a male friend. The fear that they would do the same to me was too much. "I . . . I . . ." Words were hard to come by with my fingertips touching in front of my chest.

My father's hand slapped me in the cheek. I cried out at the sting of it, and his hands wrapped themselves in my camouflaged jacket, bringing my face close to his. "No more excuses, you little—where were you, and you better tell the fucking truth!" he screeched, his breath reeking of booze. I shuddered and nearly gagged, but I shoved it down for that could bring on a lifetime of abuse.

The disgusting leather couch stopped me from backing up. The peeling wallpaper was littered with cobwebs that blew in the air conditioning when it turned on. The sound was rattling-sound, like a hunk of metal was trapped in the vents. My heart pounded whenever it turned on. It always seemed that Dad was in the worst of his moods whenever the air conditioner turned on. The shattered television screen across from me reflected my father storming closer, and I tried dodging a swing to no avail.

Just then his face contorted to the image that was scorched into my brain forever. His eyes were completely gone, with the thin blood vessels dripping small droplets from the sockets. His beard was gone, as was his entire jaw. All that hung was his top row of teeth with blood staining the yellow bone. His sliced throat spurt blood on my neck and chest, sending a scream to tear free from my otherwise tightening lungs. His fleshy fingers melted away to mere bones, the cartilage and nerves bending as he pushed me away. I fell over the armrest and fell into the couch sideways, and all I could do was stare.

"You did this to me," Dad said in a brittle tone, his eyelids folding down to look at his hands. The bones curled when his hands clenched to fists, and rage took over his face. "You did this to me! I thought you learned your lesson, but what the hell do I care. You know what comes next, sweetheart."

My head shook excessively and whimpers left my parted lips. I crawled backwards on the couch as my dad stormed over to me and grabbed my arm. "No!" I screamed, tears flowing and sobs filling the empty house. "Let me go! Please!" Dad flung me back on the couch effortlessly.

Despite his drunken state, Dad was strong. I remembered hearing that he was a wrestling champion in 1988 when he was in high school, just ten years before I was born. He even went to Purdue University with a full ride thanks to a wrestling scholarship. Today his toned biceps bored their strength on my body despite me being in fights most of my life in school. It was the only place I could take my anger out on my father, and it was my only destination to be free from the abuse.

I didn't know what I did that made him start the "lessons." Perhaps it was after my mother's passing a few years ago from a morphine overdose. She wasn't addicted or suicidal, which is what stumped me the day Mom was found dead in bed. My gut always told me my father killed my mother, but the words that wanted to break free and enter the world would always cower in the back of my mind, worrying that if I said them, I'd be so mentally and physically beaten that those words would never come out.

The lifelong abuse was only starting as my father slammed his sudden skin-bound hand over my lips. His free hand grabbed my wrists and held them to my stomach with unbelievable strength. His fingers squeezed my cheekbones as I sobbed and screamed into his hand, feet kicking his. His barked laughter dismissed the struggles as foolish and useless. All I could do was stare.

"Lessons are to be learned, Elizabeth," he growled and slammed his fist on my temple when he let go of my hands. Lessons. That's what he called the abuse. At first it was just the beatings for no good reason, especially when he was drunk. He'd come home drunker than an alcoholic on New Year's, and I could clearly remember the front door slamming with such force it sent my blood chilling to the bone. "Lessons are taught. You are to be taught."

I felt the skin split where his knuckles connected, those eyeball-less sockets growing a small flame, mocking a hollowed candle. His voice was seemingly disembodied, however my eyes widened when the lower part of his skull began reconstructing itself. The jaw grew back little by little, with the teeth rising from his chin. His tongue flapped up next, and then it was his beard that grew back at lightning speed. "Tonight's gonna be fun, I can guarantee you." His gruff voice was filled greed and horrifying lust.

I managed to slide my upper lip over his hand and sink my teeth into his finger. I bit down until I tasted blood. The act sent a feeling of triumph to run through me as Dad brought his hand to his chest, cradling the bitten part. I smiled and lurched forward to stand, however a scream echoed in the entire house when my father grabbed a beer bottle from the end table and smashed it against my head. My abuser and the living room exploded to darkness.

Coldness was what woke me up first. My chin was hard against my collarbone, and my temple throbbed from the beer bottle. My eyelids pried open on their own accord, and the bathtub I sat in was covered in my blood from previous abuse. The distinct smell of my father in the room made my head perk up over the edge and stare at him, my eyes flicking to the wicked smile on his face as he stood from the stool he sat in. "Hey, sweetheart," he purred and knelt at the bathtub.

I attempted to say a word. Any word, for that matter, that would make him falter and think about what he's doing to his daughter. My lips refused to move, and Dad's thumb caressed the wrinkled piece of duct tape he slapped on my mouth during my brief awakening just minutes before I slipped into unconsciousness again. Tears pricked my eyes, and my body realized the soreness in my biceps and lady parts. I glanced between my legs, and let out a strangled sob at what my mind directly told me.

Handcuffs clanked against the faucet of the bathtub, with rust chipping off when I twisted my wrists. My shoulders ached from being positioned upward for the amount of time I was chained to the bathtub.

"You comfy?" Dad asked, lifting his leg and stepping inside the tub. He had some room to sit down completely. My bare legs—underwear and all—were brought up to my chest, my bra being the only thing that protected my dignity from my father. I mumbled curses and pleas, however all Dad did was smile softly and crawl his way over, his arms bracing on my thighs. His gray eyes flashed with greed, and his hand cradled my jaw as he pressed his lips to the duct tape. His clothes were radiating with sweat.

A hard and pounding knock thundered on their front door.

I let out a croaked scream and tried lifting myself higher than the rim of the tub, but a strong blow to my cheek made a weak groan leave my covered lips. Dad's hand pressed on the tape and a finger lifted to his pursed lips. "You need to be quiet, sweetheart," he whispered. Another knock slammed on the door, and his hands wrapped around my neck. Mangled and muffled croaks left my arid throat. The airflow in my windpipe began fading as my legs tried kicking his to get him off me. My fingers and hands twitched with the effort that fought the blast of coolness in the back of my head. It was the oxygen being cut off to and from my brain. The natural drive to live was completely shut down at that point. The only instinct that was churning away was the will to die.

Dying would get me away from him, right?

I felt my eyelids growing heavy the longer Dad's hands stayed wrung around my neck. My groans of protest grew quieter as the seconds crawled menacingly along; I could swear a clock was ticking in my head. The feeble and useless kicking ceased almost instantly, my toes twitching as I felt the long awaited cloak of darkness draping over me.

A door was slammed open outside the bathroom. I could hear voices, distinct tones shouting orders and voices over walkie-talkies. Dad looked up towards the door and ducked lower into the tub, one of his hands reaching up and holding my nose shut to make me die or pass out faster. My eyelids began fluttering, and I felt my eyes rolling into the back of my head when the bathroom door was kicked off its hinges.

A gunshot rang out in the bathroom. In the small space only big enough to hold a broken window, a single grimy bathtub, a sink and a semi-functional toilet, the gunshot sounded more like a bomb going off. The bathtub vibrated from the aftershock, and I ducked down as far as I could go in case of any more shots, however it was only the single bullet that hit my father. The death grip on my neck was lifted, and my lungs relished in the receival of oxygen. Mangled gasps emitted from my taped lips. A sob burst from my throat and was absorbed by the duct tape, my arms trembling in their achy place behind my head.

"Freeze!" a man shouted from the doorway. I was too busy taking in nose-fulls of air to sit up and see who it was, but my heart was beating fast with both adrenaline and relief that someone was actually saving me from another lesson. My shoulders shook with exhaustion as I sobbed into the duct tape across my mouth, and I stared wide-eyed at the police officer that hurled my father off of me and onto the tile floor.

Handcuffs were taking out of his belt. I screamed at him to stop, but I was pleased to see him cuffing my father and not my ankles. My eyes stared at my savior, who briefly disappeared from my point of view inside the bathtub. I heard the teeth being tightened on Dad's wrists, and a sigh left the officer. He walked back to the tub and knelt down, his fingers softly and slowly prying the tape off my mouth. "Hey, sweetie," he said calmly as he took his own handcuff keys and unlocked my bonds.

The second I was free and able to speak again, I crawled to the other side of the bathtub on my hands and knees. I brought my knees to my chest, and hugged my shins, my skinnier than normal body trying to cover every inch of my otherwise naked counterparts. I rested my chin on my kneecaps, and looked up at the officer. "C-can you help me?" I croaked, my voice croaky from lack of use besides screaming and crying.

The officer's dark eyes softened with sorrow. I noticed the slight change of his behavior from how he stood; cautiously and carefully as if I would spring toward him and slash his throat open or something. His positioning of his legs also told me he was skeptical of me. Who finds a teenage girl chained in a bathtub with nothing on but her bra with duct tape over her mouth, while her father raped her while she was unconscious? I could tell this police officer was off duty by the way his hands were on his hips as if this were nothing but a routine call. Who called him? I wondered, and heard the ceramic tub squeak deeply as the officer stepped inside and sat, positioning his body like mine. He lowered his knees a bit, and simply stared at me.

"I'm Tony Angeli. I'm from the New Hope police station, and I was heading back when I got a call from an anonymous person saying there was a commotion in your house? Is . . . is this going on regularly?"

All I did was stare back at the man. I poked my head up and looked at my handcuffed father, his back facing me. I could tell he was talking to himself by how his head twitched to the left like he were shaking something off, like a comment or something. Suddenly his head craned and those piercing eyes stared at me.

"You're dead. You hear me, Elizabeth? Say one word and I'll shoot you! You hear me? DEAD!" he screeched and began writhing in the handcuffs. His back arched and bent at unnatural angles, which sent a shriek from my throat. I scrambled back towards the furthest end of the tub from the limited amount of space I had, however my hand slipped on a more recent patch of blood that had to be from my leg that Dad had cut a few months ago with his razor blades.

I felt Tony's hands on my forearms. My skin expected the painful slap of his hand or the strong punch to my cheek. Most of my face was already bruised, with one of my eyes beginning to swell from Dad's various punches to my face. I wasn't exactly beautiful, in all fairness. Only a handful of boys from Silver Oak had asked me out during my first year of high school, but now that I was a sophomore, the only thing I cared about was getting scholarship money so I could get away from here. I was already a champion on the dance team, and not to mention one of the greatest forensics speakers Silver Oak has ever had.

Nobody at school knew about the abuse. I'd come to school with a split lip or a swollen eye and say I got in a fight over the weekend. A few teachers had questioned me about my lack of good grades that they knew I was capable of. "I'm just tired of everything," I'd tell them in a monotonous voice. It was a long shot—a shot in the dark, honestly—but it was the only response that didn't need that much explanation. Some teachers asked about my family, and how things were at home. "Things are fine. I'm just not getting enough sleep."

My many weeks of sleepless nights left me turning into an insomniac, where the only thing that occupied my exhausted brain was what my father would do to me next. I had nightmares during the nights where I could actually close my eyes and not worry about a hood flying over my head when I was eleven. The distorted image of my father without his jaw and the whole nine that I had seen before disturbed me the most. I had no idea where the image at come from, and I had suspected I made it up one night during one lesson.

The floor and walls of the bathtub disappeared as Tony lifted me out of it with ease, taking off his thick jacket and wrapping it around me, zipping it up to my collarbone. My feet stayed glued to the cracked tile floor when the officer put me down, my eyes unmoving to my father's slumped figure. I couldn't tell if he was breathing, but the wicked thought that he was dead sent giddiness to overtake me. I didn't need to feel the seemingly reassuring pat on my shoulder from Tony that it was alright to move. I found my body yanking away from the officer's touch, with tears stinging my eyes again.

It was at this point in my miserable life that I expected the scolding that I knew would come from my father. I waited for him to start screaming in that loud voice that emotionally scarred me when I was little. I wanted to scream at him to stop, be quiet and leave me alone. Those words haunted me like the deep scars that crisscrossed my back like trophies. I could still feel the glass slicing into the skin, tearing away the flesh that was covered in bruises and lumps from past abuse.

This single, haunting moment in my life sent me staring at the police officer. Despite my soreness between my legs, I managed to take a step forward. I was raised to be submissive in the eyes of a man from the verbal abuse my father threw at me. Each step I took I found myself slowly spiraling back into that place I created when I wanted to get away from it all. I didn't have a name for it, however I found myself referring it as Nothing. The place was simply filled with nothing, and it was somewhere that I went to when I wanted to feel nothing; no pain, no voices screaming at me to obey and be a good girl.

I went back to Nothing, and found myself standing in an open field somewhere in what I was confident was Wyoming. A plain white dress replaced the jacket, and a light breeze fluttered the skirt behind me. My dark hair flew back behind my shoulders, and it was there that I could smile without pain being behind it. Smiling behind that wall of bruises and bloodshed was what I did when people, strangers, talked to me. Smiling at home was never a good thing. Dad tried his damnedest to diminish every ounce of happiness that I had.

There were times when I thought back on my family before the abuse. The memories were fragments in my mind, but the thoughts of painlessness and hearing the words, "I love you," seemed to be too much for me to handle. Sometimes I'd break through the cobwebs in my mind and actually see how I was treated before I was six years old. My mother, whose name had long disappeared from me, would fret about my safety when I was playing in our backyard of our then house in Bristol.

"Don't have too much fun," my mother would say with a smile. It was one of the things I remembered my mom saying to me. I hardly had a mental picture of what she looked like. All I remembered was what she smelled like. It was a combination of lotus flowers and what reminded me of a fresh spring morning. At times I could remember what Mom felt like, however it fled my mind seconds later.

The thoughts and feelings I had towards my father were flowing through my head like a wildfire. My sore legs finally stopped in front of Tony, where I felt him squatting so he was eye level with me. I stared at him for what felt like the longest time, simply taking him in like an animal watches its prey. He couldn't be more than thirty-five. A shallow patch of dark whiskers covered his entire jaw and part of his upper lip. I looked at him intently, my hands lifting and burrowing themselves inside the pockets. It always felt like I had to do something with me hands. It didn't help that I was supposed to obey a man's orders, not retaliate or rebel like the lessons I was taught.

I wanted to fight back. I wanted to beat the living hell out of my father, but my hands couldn't bring themselves to harm him when he could kill me.

One minute I felt myself giving in to the things I was given, the things that had been done to me for ten years. I allowed my head to hang and rest against my collarbone, and I felt myself falling to my knees with tears streaming down my face.

The next minute I felt arms being wrapped around me. My body stiffened, the tightness being so foreign to me. Never in my life had I been hugged like this, with this much affection and sorrow. The only hugs my mother gave me were quick ones when I was off to work. Dad never hugged me, not in my life. For a sixteen-year-old who has never been hugged for longer than two seconds, the hug Tony gave me almost made me scream and shove him away.

Tony pushed himself away from me and squatted with a faint smile. I still stared at him, but the tightness from the hug still encased me in a shell of wonder. "You . . . you hugged me. Why?" I asked, and the small chuckle that left Tony almost made me take a step back in fear. Men were dominating. That chuckle made me tense even more than the hug. I waited for him to lash out, his hand to strike me down and tell me to do as he says. My foot shifted backwards a bit, and I pressed my hands to my chest.

The small peck of a kiss on the top of my head made me shudder.

"I'm sorry you've been going through this. You remind me of my daughter, Alyssa. She's tough, like you. She's around your age, too. Hold up, how old are you?"

I blinked and felt a tear slip down my cheek. "S-sixteen," I answered.

The officer's amused expression faded. His face softened with sorrow again. There was that emotion: sorrow. I didn't understand what it meant exactly. A sixteen-year-old girl not knowing what it meant to be sorry for someone seemed to shock Tony. His eyebrows rose a bit, causing three small wrinkles to fold on his forehead. "I'm not here to hurt you. You know that, right?" he said, reaching out to take my hand. I pulled it out of his reach. I watched him take his police badge off his uniform and reached out to give it to me. "We don't hurt people. We help them. Have you heard of officers hurting people?"

I shook my head. "No, s-sir," I muttered politely. Wiping a tear that threatened to spill over, I sniffed. "Frankly, every person I've been in contact with has hurt me. I can't trust anybody. You . . . you'll hurt me like everyone else. They always do."

"'They'?" Tony repeated with curiosity in his voice. The tone made me take another step back. If it weren't for my keen sense of hearing, I would've mistaken the curiosity for greed. Men were all the same. They were obsessed people with one thing on their mind: domination. Since the beginning of time, men have been idolized more than women, and the it was the women that were taught into submission in the presence of a man. "Who's they?

I laced my fingers together and covered my chest slightly. I tried to make it was nonchalant as possible, but Tony noticed and took a step back with his hands up, adding an "It's okay," look on his face. I felt connected to this man, my savior. It wasn't one of those connections like being soul-bound like in romance novels. I didn't feel attracted to Tony, I had seen the wedding ring on his ring finger when he picked me up out of the tub. There was an aura about Tony that made trust spark within me. Lies were common with me, and the pain I'd suffered through had made trust completely dissipate between everyone I knew.

I looked up at Tony. "Men. They only want domination. My mother taught me that . . . but he made sure she didn't tell me anything else," I said, and closed my eyes when Dad coughed behind me. I expected his ice-cold hand to wrap around my ankle and drag me down back to hell. I wasn't a religious person; my family was brought up as atheists.

But I truly believed my father was a demon, sent from the Devil himself to torture me for pleasure.

Tony motioned towards the door. He didn't say anything about my comment. I didn't know if it was sexist, but from the paled expression the officer gave me, I immediately felt . . . regretful. This feeling was foreign to me, too. Dad had told me that he regretted nothing as he beat me or forced me to do things no teenage girl should do to a man that old. I shuddered and watched Tony leave the bathroom after saying with a smile, "Let's get you out of here, shall we?"

I sent a glance to my unmoving father. I could see his back rising and falling to my disappointment. I looked at the doorway that once contained my savior. A flutter of my heart made me take a nervous gulp of air. I was free. Truly and utterly free from Dad. A smile couldn't help but crawl to my lips as I walked out of the bathroom. Tony stood where the bloodied, shattered beer bottle lay on the floor. The massive cut on my head throbbed now that I thought about it, and my hand went up and touched it. Flesh and muscle squished beneath my fingers, and the tips dripped with blood when I looked at it.

Tony's eyes scanned my living room. I could tell he couldn't believe what he saw, but I simply shrugged when he inhaled to ask about the broken beer bottles or the coffee table stained with my blood.

A flush of embarrassment made my cheeks warm. I glanced down at my legs, still bare from what my dad did to me. I tapped Tony's hand, which made him stop and look at me. I pointed towards the short hallway that led to my bedroom and then stuck a finger at my legs. Tony nodded and waited as I ran to my room.

It wasn't really haunting to go back into my room. It was the only place that I could go to get away from my father. As I passed the door frame, my eye caught where Dad had broken my door plenty of times when he was . . . needy, let's say. A shudder ran through me as the dresser drawer that held my underwear and pants was chipping when I brushed it off. I rummaged through until I found some athletic boyshorts and sweatpants. I threw them on with soreness still between my legs, but managed to get them on regardless of the throbbing pain. I grabbed my phone, charger and favorite pillows and blanket, and finally ran back out to Tony after grabbing my inhaler.

When he and I walked out of the front door and down the steps, a police car was parked in the gravel driveway. Its sirens were silent, but the lights were sending hues of red, white and blue on my house and the grass that wasn't already dead.

It's been awhile since I'd been outside; at least seventeen hours. It was a Friday afternoon, so I wasn't expected to go to school tomorrow, however I was caught once or twice trying to sneak into the school to some of my teachers' surprise. My grades weren't that great either.

Tony shielded his eyes with his hand. The afternoon sun was setting, to my shock, and I decided to stick close to my savior. One police officer got out of her car and left the radio on with a classic rock song playing softly. She was taller than Tony, which meant she was much taller than her. Her blond hair was streaked with hues of brown cutting in the swept locks that spiraled up in a ponytail, and her piercing green eyes were mesmerizing. I found her quite good-looking despite the seeming twenty year age difference.

"Thanks for coming, Kylie," Tony said and shook his partner's hand, I guessed.

Kylie looked at me with a smile. "Hi," she said. I moved closer to Tony. She reminded me of my mother. I watched Tony's partner squat and take my hand, her thumb running over the calloused skin. "You're safe with us. What's your name, sweetheart?" There was that word: sweetheart. I whimpered a bit and ducked behind Tony like a scared child. I felt ridiculous doing so, but that damned word would haunt me for the rest of my miserable life.

"Her name's Elizabeth," Tony stated, his voice strictly business.

I closed my eyes and let out a low groan. "Eliza," I whispered to myself. When silence ensued amongst the two officers, I raised my voice a bit. "I go by Eliza." When my eyelids opened, I saw an innocent look on Kylie's face.

At first I shook with fear. This look the woman was giving me made my breath shudder and my chest start to close. What if these people are fake? What if they were sent by my father or some of his cruel friends? The only friends he had were in prison. I hadn't heard of the things they did, or if it was targeted on only women or teenage girls such as myself. At this point I'd believe anything about these two police officers, whether they were real officers or not.

Kylie nodded sincerely. She straightened to her full height, stretching her arms well above her head with a sigh. "Let's get you to the station and we can figure out what to do from there, okay? How long has it been since you've eaten?"

I had to think about it. Sometimes my body was too focused on when the next beating would be and ignore my hunger. My water intake was completely fine; it was food that I craved then and there. My hand lifted to my stomach, and I could feel it growl beneath my palm. I let out a shuddered breath and shook my head. "I don't remember," I said with tears pricking my eyes once more. "Probably not for a week. I can't really afford lunch at school."

A soft gasp left Tony's partner. Her hand reached out and took mine, leading me towards the police car. "There's a Dairy Queen on the way back," she commented as she ducked in the driver's seat and shut the door with a slight slam. Tony decided to sit in the back with me, which made me more uncomfortable than ever.

Cold fear racked up and down my spine. I didn't know if I should open the door to my left and run back into my house. Sixteen years of stolen childhood was spent in that house. I was once happy in that damned house despite the abuse. For the first six years of my life I was happy. My father was already an alcoholic, however my mother brought the happiness out of both her husband and child. I set my stuff between me and Tony, and with a shaken sigh, shut the door to the back seats.

As the car backed out of the driveway, I couldn't help but stare at my house as they drove away. I grabbed my pillow and hugged it to my chest. I felt Tony's eyes on me as they drove through endless plains and farmland just waiting to be harvested. I didn't know very many of my neighbors, then again my family wasn't a very social type of people. Even I didn't have that many friends both at home or in school. The only people I got along with were the outcasts.

I couldn't help but shake in my seat. I remembered to put the seatbelt on, and when it clicked, I squeezed my eyes shut when I felt the cold metal of Dad's belt slamming into my back. I thought I heard it snap behind me, but I took a moment to breathe in the coffee that stenched the car. I frantically reached in my pile of things for my inhaler and brought it to my lips when I found it. I pressed on the cylinder and took a deep inhale, sighing with relief as I felt my lungs relaxing.

The radio in the front of the car shrieked and a voice spoke. I couldn't remember what the voice said, but I remembered tuning it out as best I could by humming Halestorm's "American Boys". For some reason that song always calmed me down when I was nervous or scared. An acquaintance made me listen to the band and I couldn't stop after that.

Endless countryside grew boring after thirty minutes. There were a few times in that long car ride to Phoenixville, probably, that I saw horses grazing in their paddocks, and it was during those times where my heart skipped a beat. Horses have always fascinated me at a young age. To me they were powerful creatures bred with the element of beauty crossed in their genes. Since a young age I'd wanted to own one and become a successful breeder, and probably a side job as a journalist.

I rested my head against the window with my knuckles on my cheek. A sigh left my nose and left a cloud on the window. I brushed it with my fingertip and rubbed it around the skin, and soon the small stain on the window faded as the car's engine revved. My eyes scanned the intricate grids of farmland, each row of corn making me hungrier by the minute. I counted the amount of trees that I felt like I passed more than twice, and when that failed, I counted how many horses I saw. It was mid-afternoon, so by at least two-thirty, I had a total of sixty horses. Philadelphia likes horses, I thought with a small chuckle.

The cruiser stopped at the promised restaurant fifteen minutes later. It was a long time since I ate at Dairy Queen, so I was grateful for Kylie to get me some food out of the goodness of her heart. My own heart swelled when I received the chicken basket complete with fries and Texas toast. I had insisted to have soda, but it was in both Kylie and Tony's best opinion that I have milk instead. For all they knew, they said, your father could've starved you.

They got me there.

By the time I got there, I was eating the last bite of my chicken tender. I swallowed it quickly and gathered my things from next to me and nearly toppled out of the car into the parking lot, curses flying from my mouth. Kylie raised an eyebrow at the choice of profanity, and seemed somewhat impressed by my expensive vocabulary. I flashed a smile at the officer.

"Whoa," I muttered when I looked at the police station. It was more of five giant squares than a building, however the lush and pretty landscaping made it stand out somehow. Beige bricks made up most of the building with a much darker tone made up the entrance of the police station. Small shrubs and plants lined beneath the windows settled into the beige brick, and I caught my reflection in a few of the windows. It was there that I got a good look at myself. I hugged Tony's jacket tighter around my chest as if there was someone watching me behind the glass. I let my hand squeak around the bollard light that lined the sidewalk and guarded the station from getaway cars, it seemed like.

After a moment of silence as the three walked, I asked, "Is anybody going to pick up my father?"

A soft sigh left Kylie. "I dispatched an officer over there. I'm the captain of Whiteheart, the name of this station. Tony, here, is the lieutenant."

I nodded and smiled. The doors opened on their own, to my surprise, and a blast of cool air sent the long dark hair flying past my shoulders. I couldn't remember when my last haircut was.

Officers in uniform milled about the foyer of the police station. Elevators dinged nearby, and doors slammed all around me. With each slam a jolt of fear ran up and down my spine as I felt warmth on my back. I knew it was Tony by the soft pat on my shoulder. There was that contact again that I hasn't experienced before. I shuddered at the contact, and felt my bare feet sliding on the shiny floor. I began walking in front of Tony, and found myself shuffling into a room that looked an awfully lot like an interrogation room.

I forgot how I got there, but I settled into the single table and chair in the center of the room. The chair creaked beneath my weight, and I jumped at the slight slam Tony's hand made as he grabbed another chair leaning against the wall and tossed it across from me. He settled down into the chair and smiled meekly at me.

"So," he began with a wider smile than before, "can you tell me when all this happened?”