#i wish you a lifetime of happiness..love..and good health | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

levmada · 2 months

Note

Hey how are you feeling?

Im glad your requests are still open. Loved the answer to my last request so I hope you don’t mind me sending in another one?

Some cute hurt/comfort with taller gn reader and postwar Levi. After the ackermanbond is gone I imagine Levi getting really sick for the very first time. Fever and everything also adding the flashbacks to when his mom got sick. And reader ofc nursing him back to health and also comforting him 🧡

im so so so so so so SO sorry😭i took literal months with this sari... i wish i had a good excuse, but i hope you like this :(

i took a lot of inspo from this eruri fic from ao3. stress cannn cause flu-like symptoms, and i wanted this to be the outcome of all those years of suffering for levi finally catching up to him.

probably not medically accurate: it's not very clear what the nature of levi's knee injury. it's seen partially crushed, but it's not clear what medical technology marley has (especially w/ the last volume cover in mind). i'm functioning on my idea that levi can't get around without a wheelchair, but he does have range of motion, partly based on the health of the cartilage/joints/bone, but mostly based how painful it is. it's more complicated than that, but i wanted to add a disclaimer anyway.

(tldr this is the levi torture hour)

➥ pairing: postwar!Levi x taller!gn!reader

➥ about: Not even Levi is invulnerable, both after the war and back then, so it's stupid to be scared when he gets sick.

Until it isn't.

➥ c/w: sick fic, post-war Levi, delirium/nightmares, reverse hurt comfort, implied past csa, happy ending (promise), medical inaccuracies, nightmares, established relationship (married)

➥ wc: 5.3k

In the comfortable, quiet rays of mid-morning, you hum to yourself, and sip your mug of tea. You watch a white cardinal with red tips toddle on the windowsill on the other side of the glass. That’s rare.

It takes off.

You trace the rim of your mug, sighing slowly but heavily through your nose. It’s getting harder not to think about it.

You want to think that—now that you and Levi are retired (what an odd word…)—it’s reached that natural time to start sleeping better. Sleeping in, not out of an absurdly rare indulgence, but to relax.

It’s been nine months, not counting the few Levi was cooped-up in the hospital.

Even for him, relaxation shouldn’t be impossible after some point. In fact, he hasn’t shot awake just before dawn for a while, anticipating a reveille that won’t ring out.

But you fought beside him; your bad habits and your happiness wrestle over the reality of your new life too.

But…

You reach across the small wood table and hover your hand over the cup of tea you poured for him; decent, but not piping hot and steaming like earlier.

This will be a once in a lifetime opportunity: you get to coax Levi out of bed late in the morning.

You stand, bringing your arms behind your head to stretch just a little as you walk to the hall, down to the bedroom. The door is cracked like you left it.

Like a tired waterfall, the vast majority of the thick covers lay spilled haphazardly to the floor, so you’re surprised even before you take a look at Levi, who’s still curled up asleep, facing your way. That leaves his back to the light glowing through the curtains.

He kicked them off?

Like the sheets, his sweater is white; his trousers are dark, loose and cut (with his knee brace on underneath). With his arms tightly crossed like that, and the harsh crease sitting on his brow, he almost looks awake and stressed out.

“G’morning, ‘Vi…”

Importantly, his pallor, normally as pale as snow, glows pink. A few strands of black cling to his forehead.

You stride over with a bit of a frown that wasn’t as deep when you were feeling just plain impatient, and take a sit on the edge of the bed.

“Are you feeling sick, baby…?”

That crease deepens. He twitches awake. "M-Mm?"

Now that you’re close, you notice his breathing is a little labored. You touch your knuckles to his temple. Eyes barely crack open.

"Sweetheart, ‘Vi… You definitely have a fever..."

You comb his bangs off his damp forehead, and they close.

The heat radiating off his skin—you grimace a little.

Actually... have you ever seen Levi so much as under the weather? You can’t even remember.

He shifts slightly, as your strokes rouse him.

"Do you feel sick?" you ask for the second time.

"Huh? I'm fine..."

His eyes finally blink open, fluttering once or twice. But then, a shadow passes over his face that seems to disprove that assertion of his.

He shoves his elbow underneath himself and starts to lift himself up. "Stop—fretting. 'm fine."

He gets most of the way; he’s resting heavily on one arm when he grunts, then leans.

"Stop, sweetheart," you huff, and take him by the shoulder. "What hurts? Your head?"

Looking dazed, like he’s not all there, he lifts his bad hand to his temple and, with his ring and little finger, feels his temple.

“Don’t know…”

"Lay back down, you clearly need some rest—even if this is rare for you, okay?"

“What?” He looks perturbed with you. “Don’t be stupid. There’s too much t’do. N’ I’m fine,” he grumbles, blatantly lying.

"Levi..." you warn.

"I'm just... tired," he mumbles. He rubs his eye with his thumb. "Fuck. Fucking tired."

His strength starts to evaporate as his eyes slip closed.

In an instant—before he collapses—you thrust your arms around him, and lay him back down on his side slowly.

It doesn’t quite hit you until you maneuver his arm out from under him, and listen to his even but labored breathing for a bit of time.

You stare down, eyes wide. Are you scared?—Or anxious?

Well either way—it’s not until you stopped being at risk for a violent death day-in and day-out for years that you even realized you were constantly anxious.

It’s not a nice feeling.

It’s okay. Though. You rationalize. Not even Levi is impervious to everything, and certainly not now. It’s stupid to be surprised.

You feel his forehead with the back of your hand one more time, and kiss your teeth. Definitely a fever, but an exact number wouldn’t hurt.

The thermometer and other simple medicines are shoved in one of the high kitchen cabinets, a second thought when you both moved into this quaint little cabin in the woods (aside from his prescriptions). You didn’t even say it out loud, even.

Now pinched between your fingers, you stand back and stutter on your feet, unsure of what else you need. You want to need something more helpful, but the need to go and check back on him is most powerful.

A short ways down the hall, you pick up on the unbelievable yet unmistakable sound of… crying. Unrestrained, and yet, the kind of crying that steals breath.

You expect to wake up as soon as you reach the bedroom—some disturbing but absurd dream.

But you don’t. He’s curled up where you left him, eyes closed but now gasping sharply through his teeth with tears glistening on his cheeks. One drips off his trembling chin.

You drop onto the edge of the bed immediately, and try to speak, but find yourself helplessly stuck at a complete loss as to where to even start.

“Why…” You card your fingers through his hair, to no reaction. He must be asleep, right?—But how, why?

“Hey, hey, c’mere,” you coo gently, sitting so as to swaddle his back and caress his head.

You make it all not sound like a question. “Everything’s okay. It’s okay, sweetheart… Wake up.”

His eyes tightly shut, and tears squeeze through. He croaks. “Can wake up.”

It takes a moment for you to register that he really meant to pronounce it as “can’t”.

“…You sound sorta freaked out, and you want to talk to Falco?—Is Levi alright??”

You silently curse Gabi for being so observant.

“Which place? I have the books, um, right here…!”

“No…” You swallow a little, and coil the bright red cord to the phone around and around your finger. You wish it was as simple as some tinnitus, or nerve pain.

“No?” Gabi asks on a high lilt; a question within a question.

“I know. He never gets sick, which is why I want to talk to Falco. I appreciate you trying to help, but please hurry?”

“Oh yeah, okay!”

You peer over your shoulder from your place stood in the hall and rock on your heels nervously. The only space of time you could find where you could bear to leave him was when he was quiet.

Falco has matured so much, even over the past year, and you trust him with this. He’s training to be a doctor; being a soldier never suited him much anyway. Levi was the first to say so, as usual the perfect judge of character.

You speak slowly and calmly to him, encouraged by his own composure.

“It sounds like a flu, just with that added symptom,” he’s thinking out loud. Thin pages turn. “Severe stress can cause flu-like symptoms sometimes… Especially when it’s prolonged. Does that sound like anything?”

“No. No way.” You shake your head, your brow pinched tightly. In fact you laugh. “Haven’t fought any Titans lately, at least.”

His voice lowers, thinking as he talks. “True, yeah. Especially for you guys, nothing could ever really compare, right?”

“You have no idea. Not with Levi.”

“We can talk about it another time, maybe,” you amend quickly. You know almost for certain that’s not going to happen.

Falco hums. “Anyway, if that’s the case, that would explain why it’s been so severe, with the sudden onset. But think of it like a fever he needs to sweat out,” he explains.

“Y-Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You hear the light smile in his voice. “Don’t be too far away, though. It’s easy to tell, you know.”

You smile to yourself.

Even if the Rumbling somehow started back up above your head, you’d rather die.

You write on a little notepad—some scrawl verbatim—Falco’s directions and words of advice, the phone trapped between your ear and shoulder. Most of it is generic, for influenza of course, but you write.

A blunt but dense thump sounds not so far away. You even flinch, but just as quickly let Falco know you’ll be right back.

In the bedroom, the pale blue duvet and sheets spilled onto the floor looks like a stiff waterfall being wrenched this way and that by Levi’s attempts to sit back up, like a puppet trying to pull its own strings. He grunts in what sounds like frustration, but you can’t know for sure as his bangs obscure his eyes. His hair all over is a downright wreck.

Gaping, you fall down beside him and hurry working off all the offending fabrics he’s twisted in.

“Lee—…”

Your help lets his shaky hand hover over his knee, like he can’t be sure if it’s his. He’s breathing hard; it’s ten times shakier than his hand.

“Come here.”

He doesn’t so much as twitch, but he doesn’t resist either. Then, when something in him registers that you’re there, he leans into you like you’ve just brought the weight of the world off his shoulders.

You tug the soft pantleg up, and sigh at what you see. The scarring, like a row of pink and purple mountains stabbed into his flesh, is more inflamed than usual, leg minutely trembling when you raise it.

He must’ve tried to stand up.

“Does it hurt very bad?”

Not even such an obvious question gets you a retort of any kind. He whines softly when you have to brace that area to lift him back up, but no more.

From the dull darkened blue cotton in the shape of a V in the center of his chest, and coming down from his underarms, he’s burning up; you need to get started just as soon as you’re finished with Falco. For now, you wipe his clammy temples and brush his bangs back. He’s looking at you, but he doesn’t seem to see.

“Levi…” You press on his round cheeks under your palms, grimacing at the heat pelting off his skin.

He moans softly, some relief softening his features. “Huh. Take m’jack-et. Yer cold.”

You shake your head even though he can’t see, as, sharply and without warning, tears appear and stab at your eyes. He’s not even wearing a jacket.

“Be right back,” you manage. “Okay?”

You don’t really expect a response, and you don’t get one.

First thing’s first, he needs water. You feel stupid not thinking of that first. That was at the top of Falco’s directions.

You catch Levi in a moment of relative quiet—not peace, but quiet—and cradle the back of his neck, unhinging his jaw with your other. Easy enough. You tip the glass and feed him water with the utmost care and precision. This is some act terribly intimate, a type of intimacy removed from hand-holding or sex entirely while managing to rank above them both. Over all these years, his life has been in your hands a few times, but feeding him pills—something for the fever and something for the pain—and working his shirt off for something fresh and loose-fitting feels more reverent even still. You put him in shorts and practically fortify his knee with a brace and pillows wrapped up with the belt of a housecoat so even if he rolls over, he won’t.

He chokes on a sob while you’re tucking a cold press behind his neck, forcing you to stop. His eyes squeeze shut.

“Levi?” you ask softly.

Either he’s having a nightmare, or he’s in pain, or, both. He tightens his crossed arms. His first movement in hours.

“What hurts? Falco said it might be your head.”

Another sob bursts from him. “S’head’s all over the wall, looked, it… sorry….”

He continues mumbling, but none of it sounds like words.

"Levi, it's okay, it's okay. Okay, baby? S'okay," you murmur; on and on. The washcloth has gotten smushed between his shoulder and the pillow—you set that somewhere aside. Then you lean over, rubbing with your thumbs the tears off his glistening cheeks, and messy black strands off his forehead.

Sometimes you will catch a word, sometimes you won’t. You will almost wish you didn’t the times you do. Yet you feel sworn to make sense of every mumble, a pervasive, unbreakable, urge. You’re sworn to it.

That’s how the rest of the day goes. He’s never lucid enough to eat; only enough to mumble when he’s freezing, or when he’s burning.

After dusk has bled into the sunset, and night has set in, you sit and watch over Levi religiously. To be fair, you don’t have anything “better to do”, but you hardly ate. If he knew, he’d be in your ear grumbling or otherwise dragging you by it to the kitchen, but does it matter, when he can’t know?

No, you decided, with some fucked-up determination. You want him to bitch at you when he wakes up. Not shivering trapped in an uneasy sleep.

When it gets late, you, arduously but carefully, do what you can for his knee.. He moves too much.

You wipe his face and neck of sweat, and lay a fresh, ice-cold and wet folded washcloth on his forehead. The fever is slowly getting worse.

You dote on him, carding back his bangs, and murmuring and repeating all manners of comfort you can think of. It’s becoming obvious when he’s having a nightmare.

…Finally, as Falco suggested, you’ve kept him hydrated; fever reducers every few hours.

All that's left to do then, is sleep. This realization makes you nauseous with worry.

Nonetheless, you squirm under the covers on your side, close beside him with your face tucked in his shoulder. You take a slow, deep breath.

It’s so discomforting; Levi can’t fall asleep flat on his back, ever, and yet…

Your head shoots off his chest before you’ve registered you even woke up—gasping, and a guttural cry from below. It’s pitch black, too dark to see.

That explodes him into motion. He repels you backwards as you grapple for his shoulders, and like fists closed around your throat, as he resists your every attempt to stop him hurting himself, as he whimpers tiredly, as his bawling stabs the most tender place inside you—you feel sick.

“Levi—! Stop. Levi listen to me!”

You’re louder than him, but nothing—his eyes won't open—and your stomach swoops just then as he almost succeeds in jabbing his knee in your stomach, an extra hard punch combined with the brace. That cry is a sob of nothing but pain.

Enough. Finally you bite the bullet, you drop your full weight down on top of him, if it means he’ll finally stop.

At first, you’re as steady as a boat on rough waters. A huff of relief slips out when his writhing grows sluggish, quickly.

He squirms mildly under you, breathing still stubbornly labored. “Get… off me.”

He tries to raise his arms from his sides, but can’t.

“I’ll, fuckin’ kill you.”

You viciously shake your head. “It’s just a dream.”

Are you telling only him that?

“S’ get off, you can’t, s’nough hurts ‘er.”

“L-Lee…”

You strain to make him out, as he sobs weakly. “Leave me alone already...”

His name escapes you over again like a prayer in the heat of a battle. Your determination crumbles right into dust; you fall beside him and sit up, unsure of what to do besides take his hand. You can’t bring yourself to switch on the lamp.

“It’s going to be okay.” You squeeze.

He whimpers. “…Please.”

You can’t open your foolish mouth and tell him or yourself that it’s just a dream anymore.

Falco was more correct than you gave him credit for.

Falco also warned you that it would get worse before it got better.

With the hours that keep passing—which have stretched out into two days so far—he more and more mutters in his sleep, other times under his breath, but most times he’s incoherent.

But, it’s all come to fall under one topic.

And just like that first night, it doesn’t quite make sense, but it doesn’t have to.

You don’t want to think about it; you just want to take care of him. Your anxiety is constant, and sharp. If only he’d wake up; you talk to him as if he’s awake—but to no response whatsoever, like you don’t even exist.

Moments you’re forced to leave him are the worst—for you and for him. Most times when you come back, the washcloth meant to rest on his forehead has drooped and sagged beside his temple.

At any rate, the difference between fever and tears has gotten hard to tell.

You just can’t stop from shaking, and your throat is tight, but Falco remains adamant that the flu is what he said it is.

A lamp is still glowing on your side in the late night. The air is cool, and it’s quiet, but a rare moment of “peace” makes the sounds of your shared breaths obnoxious.

Your heavy eyes sting; despite that, when they creep closed you feel yourself fading in seconds, with Levi’s head tucked under your chin, upon your chest. Seemingly, any covers are too stifling for him at the moment; pressed against your collarbones, you feel his forehead is hot again.

You cradle gently the nape of his neck, idly rubbing the knot of bone at the base of his jaw. As if you’re doing anything to protect him from anything…

He mumbles, slurring, “Y’have t’come back…”

You’re not dizzy with the shock or the horror, but it’s worse almost, to be confronted with the full magnitude of a rueless, unceasing pain that is just as lonely in its magnitude as it is devastating.

You rub his back as he buries his face in your neck, sobbing like it takes all his energy to do so. “I’ll be faster.”

“I don’ know where t’go, what do I do now?” he babbles over your soft hushes. “Wait, next time I’ll get it right...”

“It’s okay, love, it’s okay.”

“I don’ know why I even…”

Trailing off, he starts to whimper, and can’t go on.

He doesn’t stop, it doesn’t, not for a second while—all you can do—is hold and console him even though he may not know it.

Until he exhausts himself. Drifts. into a light sleep.

For it to happen all over again. Seeping into his sleep like crude oil, the next stress-induced terror to force his breathing shaky, labored.

"...Need," he whimpers, the first word you’ve made out in a while.

Your stomach swoops, the thought that you can do anything to help directly. "What do you need, sweetheart?"

"Don't sell it. Don't sell it, I need it."

You deflate, jaw wobbling. "Sh, sh, it's okay,” you soothe. You reach for the tray on the bedside behind you, and, using the cold cloth, you dab the sweat from his blushing temple and neck.

"S'gonna take away from m...me." He starts to pant, continuing to mumble, crying, a complete melting away. Lamenting, abject.

"Shh... Shh..."

His arm loosely draped around your waist—which you’d put there—tightens its hold, but in drifting bursts, like he keeps slipping.

“Please.”

You inhale sharply. "Please?"

"Don'. Leave me."

"I won't leave," you swiftly promise. "I won't leave, I won’t.”

He cries in his sleep for so many names that aren’t alive anymore.

Don’t go. Don’t go.

Wake up, Momma.

Wait... Just wait.

That wasn’t the worst point. Not even hunched, taken-over by so much stress and pain until he gagged was the worst point. None of what he had already said combined could amount to the last night.

You snap awake on your stomach at some blurry unknown instance, acutely aware you’ve slept like shit.

Did you even, only blink?—No. The most faintest shade of grey weakly gives your bedroom the suggestion of texture and shadow, but—your arms are empty. You reach over blindly, but the side where Levi should lay is empty and cold.

A pit bursts open in your stomach, filled with bright panic.

You lurch up and shove off the covers, breathing hard.

Where could he be??

If he was feeling better, then you would've woken up a while ago, because he would've told you. Not just...

He can’t be far.

You shiver.

On your feet, you cross the room in a few strides, and frown as you pull open the bedroom door. It's never left closed at night this time of year; it gets about ten degrees colder without the insulation. (But the chill pressing to the bottoms of your feet, you barely even noticed.)

"Levi!?"

The switch on the wall is right within reach, which lights up the hall. You look right and almost jump back; you might’ve tripped over him if you hadn’t looked first.

He sits hugging his legs—tightly folded against his chest, Levi, why?—there right outside the white doorframe. Shivering, glossy face red with fever, and most certainly in agony by now with all the abuse done to his knee, you’re not sure if he even notices you. Not from this angle.

You fall down on your knees. “Levi? Look, I’m here. Talk to me, please, okay?”

His bloodshot eyes are cracked open, staring ahead, but seemingly seeing nothing. Between the tears, you can’t tell if this is good or bad.

"Levi..." You take his shoulder in an attempt to nudge his attention towards you. “Look at me. Please.”

He was already tense. His head turns, mostly looking at you sideways—emphasis on his pale eye—but looking at you nonetheless. Good.

"What's wrong?"

His brow knits together.

“C’mere.” You lean forward and card his damp bangs back to feel his forehead. The whole time, he just looks at you passively.

“Better... But this cold won’t help in the end. Medicine is in the bedroom, so...”

You huff very softly to yourself. “…You need more bedrest. I don’t know why you even came out here. Why didn’t you wake me up?”

He blinks.

“Let’s go back to bed,” you insist then, under your breath.

Some clarity crosses his dark eyes, his voice then a cracked brittle rasp. “…Not the bed.”

His gaze sort of drifts away from you.

You thought he was through with that habit. Confused, you ask, “Why not?”

“It’s ruined. It was always disgusting, but… this is worse.”

“I’ll change the sheets then. I know, it’s not—”

“You can’t do anything,” he says, tucking his chin to his chest, intent eyes focused somewhere down. “Corpse smell doesn’t come outta anything, it just smells worse the longer you leave it. It gets colder n’ heavier, then the smell, it attracts bugs. There’s a fluid,” he says quietly. Casually. “And then it shrinks. Getting eaten’s all the same. But I think that way’s worse.”

What can you even say to that?

“I won’t do th-at to you…” His brow furrows sharply, gripping his sleeves—you see now—with bright white knuckles. Even sitting up, he’s almost curled up into a ball.

You talk quickly, before the full gravity of all this can reach you.

“You won’t do anything,” you insist. “How about the sofa? Would the sofa be okay?”

“I can’ go to sleep,” he hisses. “I won’t wake up.”

“That’s not true. Why do you even say that??"

"I'm sick."

"Yeah, but it’s not bad-sick!”

You regret the moment you raise your voice. That almost innocent passivity he exuded is crushed by complete and utter detachment.

“…Denial doesn't help. Don’t be stupid. Don't even—shouldn’ touch me. It’ll end worse fer you.”

You tremble minutely, stewing in silence while in panicked, rapid-fire fashion, you rifle through explanations. He sounds so serious. And he's nothing but.

You know that Levi’s mother died from sickness. He’s called out for her, a lot.

In nightmares… A nightmare?

You guess that’s where it all started for him, as he always slips into a warm voice and delicate eyes those rare moments he does tell you about her. Being sick then, being sick with you here… It all clicks into place.

Okay. Fuck…

The real monster of it all is the fever—making him unglued like this.

You rub the bridge of your nose, swallowing thickly. Okay.

A firm calm settles over you; for once, Levi is scared. That means you won’t be.

“Levi…” you console.

You reach out to his shoulder, only to flinch when he flinches before a push knocks into your chest. It sends you falling into your backside with an injured grunt.

Instantly, intrinsically, you know it’s going to bruise; all his strength, one hand.

Your eyes pop open to his own—uncannily—wide with his lips twisting into a grimace.

Putting his eyes ahead again, he sucks in a choked breath and slumps. “Sorry, I thought you were… Sorry.” He gasps. “I’m sorry.”

You get back up on your knees, slowly, and settle down beside him without hesitation. You’re more frantic than ever to close this icy chasm-like space.

“It’s okay.”

He shakes his head as sharp and as fast as his rattling breaths. “I thought you were him. I don’t get it… it just kept hap-happening… Fucking…”

You see him still searching for the words to explain.

“It’s okay. It’s all okay.”

The warmth in your voice is genuine. When it shakes, you just hate that he’s suffering with nothing you can do to lift it all away, like blood by steam.

He grips his hair, having made himself as small as possible again. “I’m—s-sorry.”

“Shh…”

Slowly until now, you’ve been leaning in, and now you firmly rest your hand on his back, rubbing in long, consoling motions. This seems to help.

You stay like this while his breathing shudders through tears. It’ll only hurt you both to bring force into it again; either way, any way, it’s not his fault. You don’t know what he meant… but why would it be the man who came and chose to look after him?

“Sorry…”

Everything you see if one ruddy cheek and his temple glistens with either tears or sweat, and his eyes look painful.

“Look at me. Baby.”

An order seems familiar. He does.

“You trust me, don’t you?”

He understands slowly, but you know the answer. After a time, he blinks, and nods.

“Stay still, please.” You kiss his temple.

“…Sure.”

One arm around his back, the other scooped under his knees, you lift him up into your arms with not too much difficulty. He goes tense, but leans into your chest nonetheless.

“It’s going to be okay,” you murmur as you walk. You want desperately to ask about his leg, but this feels too fragile, like if you bring up physical pain then the whims of the fever will take him back over.

He’s trembling all over, it seems, before you lay him back down in bed, and once you do he clutches a bit of your blouse at the collar with a grip that confirms for you that he’s not letting go. You sit beside him with his waist pushed against the side of your thigh.

“I’m sorry, it’s all my fault,” he croaks out softly, staring at your sleeve which he now grips. “I wasn’t fast ‘nuff. I hesitated n’ it got ‘em killed for nothing after made the same mistake… Sorry i-was my damn pride…”

You let him talk, rather mumble. When there’s a lull, you rest your palms on his hot cheeks. Better than the last time you felt them. His eyes instantly flutter in relief.

It’s surprisingly easy to give him water, then the fever reducer. Meanwhile, he’s clearly fighting the weight of exhaustion pressing down on his eyelids.

“Don’t make me sleep…”

“I’m not. I’ll just stay by your side. Then”—you cup his cheek—“I’ll do it again.”

He hardly grunts, eyes closing.

You won’t sleep, and you can’t sleep (if there’s even a difference). In fact, you’ll bring in one of the kitchen chairs and sit by him with a novel; you’ll read by candlelight, with a handkerchief hanging like a tarp from the lampshade so maybe he can rest easy.

Being that the flu is a release of stress… He’s getting better. He’s getting better.

Hour-by-hour, more or less (but mostly less), you snap awake at the tiniest stirring from your husband beside you. Maybe mumbling a ghostly snatch of a word; mostly sniffling. It takes you half an hour to drift off again.

This unforgiving cycle obnoxiously persists until morning sunlight poking your sleeping mind wakes you. Suddenly, again. You see him.

It’s a mystery, how long, but Levi is gazing at you softly with bloodshot, but, maybe aware eye. You feel better when he glances away, like every time—if, not when—you catch him staring. Your legs are tangled slightly, his slow breaths brush your cheek.

"Baby," you murmur. "You’re awake?”

He looks annoyed. “No, I’m sleeping with my eyes open.”

“How do you feel? Be honest," you quickly add. You drape your arm around his waist.

He frowns at your tone. "...Like my head got hit with a sledgehammer.”

You say nothing.

His voice gets softer and gentler. “I don’t remember… And you look like shit. What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“…So I’m going to be wrong,” he surmises, looking away. “I slept in too late.”

He goes to rub his eye, and sniffs. The distress marring his expression grows.

“It’s been a couple days, but it’s alright,” you say. You’re quick to explain as the realization seems to come over Levi that he hasn’t had a proper bath in that length of time.

Though, it’s hard to explain. It’s even harder to wrap your mind around the fact that he doesn’t remember how he’d cried, and—insinuated, what he did. What horrors he spoke of.

You finish. Behind a thinly-veiled straight face, he stares into your eyes with the quiet accusation that you haven’t told the whole story.

“It… was… bad,” you bear to admit. “That’s why I look like shit.”

The self-loathing that falls over his expression like a deathly shroud is instant. He looks away, glaring at nothing, but before he can think anything, you squirm much closer, tighten your hold, and kiss his chin.

“It’s not your fault. And if I had to, I’d do it all over again. So don’t start.”

He watches you for a beat, as if searching for some exaggeration, but soon looks resigned to the truth in your vow. At this long-awaited point in your lives, with some legwork to say the least, you’re relieved to know you’ve finally got it beaten into his head that you love him, whether he agrees or not.

You watch him swallow, and many emotions cross his eyes as he mulls your words over.��

“I don’t like that it’s just a flash for me,” he resolves.

“I know. But we can… talk about it?”

Honestly you’re shocked the words left your mouth. Levi also stares at you like you just spoke a foreign language. It’s pathetic, as he would say, sure, but—people like you and him don’t just talk about things like that which fueled those nightmares of his.

He looks away, considering. Finally, he brings hand up to yours, nestled deep under the covers. Your fingers clasp gently, foreheads brushing. His silvery blue eyes calmly watch yours. That’s his answer.

It’s so different, and not so comfortable right now, but you believe, now, that’s okay.

Levi masterlist | main masterlist

#levi x reader #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman fluff #levi ackerman x you #levi x you #levi x y/n #levi ackerman x y/n #levi ackerman oneshot #levi ackerman angst #aot oneshots #aot fanfiction #captain levi x reader #captain levi x you #captain levi fanfiction

161 notes · View notes

froggyfics · 7 months

Text

The Deadliest Poisons Are The Sweetest - 5

Your wedding day arrives.

Note: (09/15/23) PLEASE READ THE PREVIOUS CHAPTER. If you have read this series before this date, please note that I have combined chapters 1 and 2 together. This may seem confusing, but I have decided that as a creative approach, I would like the chapters to be longer. Therefore, the original chapter 4 is now chapter 3. Chapter 4 is new. This chapter and beyond are up to date.

Btw y'all it's gonna get saucy in the next chapter lmao

Feedback is always appreciated. Feel free to message me privately or comment below to let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome!

Word Count: 4,844

This is the closest you’ve been with him in weeks. The intimacy of the moment is warped however, with underlying feelings of inadequacy.

This is your wedding day. Yet, you feel as though you are imposter. You can feel the red-hot glares of the jealous maidens in the crowd. After all, you are marrying the most eligible bachelor in the entire realm. If only they knew that you felt sick to your stomach, and you wished that they were in your place.

You don’t even look him in the eyes. You stare at his mouth, as if you needed to do so in order to understand the vows.

“I promise to be true to you in good times and in bad, in sickness and in health. I will love you and honor you all the days of my life.”

No, you won’t, you say to yourself. You led me to believe that we could be more, but you tricked me!

He places a ring on your finger. Your hand suddenly feels like it’s weighed down by a ton of bricks. You nearly choke on your vows as they stumble out of you. When you arrived in Gotham a month ago, you were admittedly excited for this day. However, Damian’s icy demeanor as of late has left you bitter. How could it be possible to be so close with someone one day, and then completely cold the next. It befuddled you. Damianbefuddled you.

Your vows were sealed with a chaste kiss. Cheers and whoops erupted from the crowd. Through the noise, you could distinctly hear your father’s booming claps and mother’s animated laughs. Of course they were happy! Their daughter was married off – to a prince no less. Your marriage ensured a lifetime of stability and wealth for them. Not bad for a baron and baroness.

You wobble to the great hall for the wedding banquet with Damian’s hand clasped in your own. It wasn’t your choice to make physical contact – he was the one that initiated.

“Weddings are the end of their lives as they know it. The beginning of a prison sentence. The end of youth.”

This is an act. You must admit, if acting was a respectable career choice, Damian would be a top-notch performer. The vows meant nothing. The kiss was expected. The hand holding was necessary for the performance.

You sat right next to your husband. Aristocrats, both strangers and now familiar faces, approach to wish glad tidings upon you and Damian. You accept their kind words as politely as you can. All the while, you twist your ring, round and round, underneath the table.

You light up when Rachel approaches the table. A genuine smile finally crosses your face.

“Lady Rachel!” you call out excitedly.

You jump when you feel Damian’s presence near your ear.

“How do you know of Lady Rachel?” he asks.

You gape at him while Rachel curtsies shyly. His question is not shocking – you chalk it up to mere curiosity. It’s the fact that he’s talking…to you! Willingly. And the conversation does not revolve around simple greetings or pleasantries.

You can’t even answer him. Anger bubbles inside of you. He almost completely ignores you for four weeks and now suddenly acts like you should be receptive to his conversation. You have half a mind to ignore him in favor of speaking to Rachel. However, the ring sits heavy on your finger, and you suddenly remember your place.

He is now your husband. He is the heir to the throne. If there is anyone you should hold your tongue towards, it’s him.

“We met one week ago,” you reply. Rachel beams at you while you recount how you met her.

“We’ve only become closer and closer, day by day.” You hold your hand towards her, and she takes it affectionately.

“The princess is right,” Rachel adds. “It is almost like we have known each other our entire lives.”

Damian speaks only after he gulps his entire drink quickly. “Well, wife,” he emphasizes when he grabs your hand, “I am glad you have made a friend in Gotham.”

He smiles menacingly. You can tell by the way his lips unnaturally stretch over his teeth and the reddening of his face.

Rachel glances at your conjoined hands and clears her throat. “Well, I just wanted to say that I wish for the two of you to be happy.” She raises her cup and you raise yours with your other hand in support.

“To the happy couple,” she concludes. The edge of the cup reaches her lips, but she does not drink. She instead curtsies once more and disappears among the crowd of people.

As soon as she leaves, Damian releases your hand, wiping his palm on his pants as if you were a leper. You clench your teeth so hard that they squeak in retaliation. You manage to take deep breaths to calm yourself – in and out, in and out, in and out. It’s truly an act for him.

Everyone looks to be so happy. Not for you, of course not. They are happy for their own selfish reasons. Guests are fed the most delicious food and drink that the realm has to offer. Your parents rub elbows with highly ranked aristocrats. Your siblings dance merrily along the aisles. King R’as laughs heartedly a few seats away from Damian while speaking to his friends. Even Talia seems to be in a cheerful mood, scarfing down her food.

Perhaps you can attempt to be happy, too. It is your wedding day after all. You inhale deeply to gather confidence.

“Husband.”

Damian doesn’t acknowledge you.

You clear your throat and repeat yourself once more.

He doesn’t even look up from his plate.

“Damain!” you half-shout.

His head shoots up immediately. “Yes, wife?”

You want to punch him in the throat. His polite tone seems genuine, but it sounds fake to your ears.

“Are you…” You scan the great hall. “Are you enjoying the festivities?”

He nods his head slowly like he has trouble understanding your question. “Quite.” He returns to his plate.

You growl, but say no more. After all, there is no point making a concerted effort at conversation now when you apparently have the rest of your life to do so. You might as well take what little enjoyment you have now and ignore the glaring loneliness that dwells within you.

The wedding took place at noon, but the reception continues well past sunset. You did not even know that there existed so much food in the entire city. Drinks flowed like a river all night long. Some people fell asleep in their seats, despite the rambunctious behaviors of others. Some people danced and danced until you thought their feet would fall off.

You remain glued to your seat nearly the entire reception. There were a few moments where you stretched your feet, such as when the guests stacked cakes on top one another, so that you and Damian could kiss over them. You managed to peck each other’s lips without the cakes collapsing to the ground, which made the audience break out into cheers. After all, if the cakes fell, it symbolized bad luck for your marriage.

As if you needed any more of that already.

The reception seemed like it would never end. Your posture slowly deteriorated over the hours, until you were slumped in your chair. Muscle aches began to surface for sitting for so long. You wanted the night to be over.

“Damian!” R’as called.

Damian pushes the table to make room to get up. He travels just a few feet farther to his grandfather who whispers something in his ear. Whatever was said made Damian stiffen and glance at you.

You suddenly develop that prickly feeling when you feel like someone is talking about you. Damian’s glance made you certain that you were the subject of their conversation. The realization made you shift in your seat. You decide to study the wooden table to distract yourself from your insecurity.

A tap on your shoulder breaks your concentration. You find Damian looking down at you with a stoic expression. As usual, you can never determine what he’s thinking.

“Follow me,” he bluntly says.

He doesn’t move an inch and you don’t realize until a few moments later that he expects you to get up first. You push yourself from the table and slowly stand up. You’ve been sitting for so long that your knees crack upon straightening.

Damian maneuvers you so that you remain in front of him. He’s mere inches behind you and his hands fix themselves to your waist. He pushes you forward, directing you towards the door.

The once lively room suddenly quiets down, until cheers are erupted once more.

You peer behind you to see that nearly everyone is looking directly at you. Men are jeering, throwing their hands in the air. Your father kisses your mother’s forehead while she blows a kiss towards you. Women are clapping obnoxiously. You face forward once again in mortification when you realize that they are cheering for your consummation. Everyone knows that you are walking out the hall a virgin – only to become a true wife by tomorrow.

You look back again, scanning the crowd for Rachel. She has been one of the few sources of support you’ve had as of late. You just want to look at her, to search for comfort in her eyes. You find her violet eyes eventually, only for your humiliation to turn into sadness. Her eyes do not necessarily brim with tears, but they are certainly glossy.

You give her a comforting smile as the door to the hall opens.

Don’t be sad for me, you want to say to her, but the door of the hall closes before your message can be relayed through your eyes.

Damian continues pushing you from behind through the castle. You are eventually brought to an all-too familiar, yet unfamiliar room.

It certainly has changed since you were in here last, all those years ago. Damian’s room still exudes extravagance, worthy of an heir. However, small details have changed.

There are several arms-related items laying around. A full armor suit sits at the corner of the room. Several weapons – swords, axes, morning stars – are hung on the walls. Papers are strewn across the room. They’re on his desk and dresser and end tables. Most importantly, the room feels larger than it did when you were a child. Well, that was probably due to the fact that you felt smaller now than you did then.

The door behind you slams shut. You jump in surprise at the loud noise and see Damian leaning on the door.

You hate it. You hate that you feel so nervous. It’s all too much. This room brings back happy memories that you cannot – should not – dredge up in fear of living in the past. You stand in a room, alone, for the first with someone known as your husband. Someone who is actually a stranger to you still. You can’t help but look down. It may be due to submission or shyness; you’re not entirely sure. All you know is that your girlhood has officially ended, and adulthood is crashing upon you.

You see his shoes from your peripheral. He stands toe-to-toe with you. You can’t bear to look him in the face. No good could come from falling for those green eyes.

He cautiously raises his hands to your waist. You grow numb as he removes your belt. Your dress puffs out into a shapeless blob.

He grabs your shoulder and turns you around, your back facing him. You can feel your dress loosening as he undoes your corset, one string at a time. Your breathing quickens at the intimacy of the act. You’ve had maybe two decent conversations with this man, and now, he has full access to your body. The discomfort makes you twitch.

“Raise your arms,” he commands. And you listen. He reaches down to hem of your dress, and pulls upward. You become blind momentarily until your dress is fully removed, and all that remains is your paltry smock. You feel overexposed. Your shoulders, arms, and legs are bare. Bare! You instinctively cover yourself the best you can with your arms, but Damian, while still behind you, firmly grabs your forearms to place them at your side. You gasp when he places a quick kiss on the back of your head.

You remain stuck in place despite hearing the crumpling of clothes behind you and await for Damian to direct you. There’s a creak, and several more creaks, and the crinkling of sheets.

“Come.”

You turn around and are met with a shirtless Damian, already beneath the sheets. He pats the unoccupied space next to him, and you follow his orders. You slink underneath the sheets and lay flat on your back, burning holes into the ceiling. The only sounds that could be heard is your breathing and the crackle of the fireplace.

You await for his orders once more. And wait. And wait. And wait some more, even as he slips completely underneath the sheets completely. From your peripheral vision, you can see that he turns his back towards you. You bite your lips nervously and you dare lift your arm up in an attempt to touch him.

“Good night.”

His words make your arm drop back down onto the mattress. The finality of his words make you close your eyes. There is nothing to do, nothing to expect. He is an actor, and you are at the whim of his play.

The extinguished fire from the fireplace doesn’t wake you. Neither does the blearing sun peeking from behind the curtains. What does wake you are the stomps of your ladies-in-waiting.

Your eyelids instantly open, the crust that developed during the night making it difficult at first.

“Princess, it is time to wake,” Matilda says in a voice that it all too loud this early in the morning. She wretches the curtains open and sunlight streams in. You hiss at the light, still walking the line between unconsciousness and alertness.

Joan grabs your shoulders and heaves you into a sitting position. In a militaristic approach, Joan, Matilda, and Honora perform your morning routine. You’ve had a month to adjust to their “help”, but it has only become slightly easier to tolerate their grubby hands and rude shoves. You can only say – Ouch! – so many times until you realize they do not care if they cause you pain. You are a job for them. They may be your household staff, but they are certainly still Talia’s minions.

The hubbub of the morning almost makes you forget where you are and what had happened the night before. You glance at the spot Damian was sleeping just a few hours prior. In his place is the outline of his body on the mattress.

“Where has my husband gone?” You wince when Joan tugs your hair particularly hard while brushing it.

“You have been summoned by Lady Talia.”

It hangs in the air, but you don’t expect them to answer your original question. It’s the nature of your relationship with them. It only reminds you to formally add Rachel to your household staff. Perhaps an ally in the mornings would improve your days.

You’re prodded and shoved and squeezed until you are dressed. A green and black gown once again. An emblem of the house that you married into. You are no longer a daughter of a baron – you are now a princess of the House Al Ghul.

You’re led to Talia’s room within the castle. A guard stands upright outside her door, and opens it for you and your brood. Within, you find your now mother-in-law with a table full of assorted small plates. Fruits, cheeses, bread. Your stomach grumbles in hunger, but you doubt you’ll be able to enjoy your meal. Not with Talia.

“Lady Talia,” you politely greet.

She waves you over without looking up. As you approach her, she finally glances at you, but now before grunting in disapproval.

She is now your mother-in-law. You must remain polite. You repeat the mantra to yourself several times as you become situated in the seat across from her. Your ladies-in-waiting stand off the side, along with Talia’s servants.

A moment passes. Then two. Then several. Talia says nothing and continues to eat. You recognize that she will not speak to you first, and that you must initiate the conversation. You desperately want to your roll your eyes, but you remember your mantra.

“Ahem, Lady Talia,” you start. “I have heard that you summoned me. Might I ask why?”

She sharply glares at you. “Do I need a reason to call upon you? After all, you are now my daughter.”

“Of course not.” You smile as sweetly as you can while simultaneously wanting to burst. You stomach rumbles again to remind you that it is empty, so you swiftly gather some items to make your plate full.

“Will Damian be joining us for this –”

“No,” Talia interjects.

“Oh.” Silence befalls the room except for the occasional chewing of food. “Is it possible for my mother to come join us? She will be leaving –”

“No. Is my presence not satisfactory to you?”

“Of course it is, Lady Talia,” you grit. She feigns a smile at you, and her eyes sparkle.

She knows that she’s irking you. She loves it.

“Are you close with Lady Rachel of House Azarath?” you inquire. The best use of your time here with Talia is to at least introduce the idea of Rachel as an additional lady-in-waiting.

Talia sips her tea generously before answering. “Yes, she used to be quite close to my son.”

“Well, her and I have only recently met, but we have become incredibly close. She honestly feels like a sister to me –”

“You’re talking about Lady Rachel?”

You gulp and shakingly nod your head. “Yes, I am. Erm – like I was saying, she has become a true friend. Since my family will return to my birthplace soon, and I have left behind my childhood friends, I was thinking about having Lady Rachel join my household staff. As a lady-in-waiting.”

Talia stares blankly at you, her green eyes burrowing into your soul. Her façade soon begins to break as her lips twitch and her eyes crinkles. Soon, she releases out a howling cackle. She laughs and laughs, holding her stomach to support herself.

Joan, Matilda, Honora, and the remaining servants in the room look to one another curiously before they begin to laugh as well. Their laughs start as awkward chuckles until they are bellowing to match their master.

You sit in utter disbelief at the situation unfurling in front of you. There’s a joke hidden in Talia’s laugh, but you remain oblivious to it.

“Oh, oh, my.” Talia wipes a tear from the corner of her eye. “Why, yes, of course! Lady Rachel is free to join your household staff.”

Your face is red with embarrassment as the laughs finally die down. You’re not sure what the joke was, and you so desperately want to know.

The food no longer looks appetizing to you. The measly few bites you had appease your stomach for the time being. Desperate for the attention to be off of you, the course of the conversation is redirected.

“Erm – thank you, Lady Talia. Say, how did you enjoy the festivities yesterday?”

“Ahem, yes, it was fine.” Her joyful tone suddenly reverts to its malicious nature. “I presume you enjoyed your wedding night, especially. How very lucky you are to bed a prince when you are…” She points in your general direction. “Well, when you are…you.”

A forced chuckle exits your mouth. Never have you ever met someone as blatantly, yet simultaneously subtly, rude. It dawns on you that her status allows her to speak however she wants, and that social graces are only for those inferior to her.

“I am eternally grateful that Prince Damian chose me to be his wife.”

She waves your pleasantry off. “Yes, yes. After all, he chose you out of…every maiden. I am certain you will do your duties as a wife to ensure his happiness. As long as you bear him heirs, I suppose that is all I can ask for.”

The conversation feels unpleasant to you. After all, shouldn’t your marital relations with Damian be kept between you and him? Admittedly, you’re not sure whether you should alert Talia to the fact that you did notbed Damian last night. Sure, you slept in the same bed, but you are certain that is not what she cares about.

The question that she was dancing around finally is brought to the forefront. “Last night was…successful, correct?”

Your hunger has not yet returned, but you abruptly feel the urge to stuff food into your mouth to avoid answering her.

“Mmhm.”

She leans in dangerously close. She remains across the table, but it seems like she will pounce on you if you dare utter one wrong word.

“Did you bed Damian?”

You breathe in deeply, having had enough of the intrusion. “Lady Talia, I feel as though my relations with your son –”

“This is a yes or no question, dear,” she seethes. “Did you or did not do your duty as the wife of Prince Damian?” She slowly stands as she asks you her question, her anger palpable.

“Does it matter?” you counter. “Why is that any of your business?”

“So, you did not bed him.”

You eye twitches in annoyance. “Lady Talia, I did not say that.”

“You don’t have to.” She slams her hands on the table, shaking it. You jump in surprise and grab hold onto the arms of the seat. The other women in the room hold their breath in frightened anticipation.

“What was the point then? What was it?” She places her hands on her waist and circles you. “There were so many others – richer, prettier, friendlier. Some of them he grew up with. Why you if he doesn’t even want to bed you?”

You remain glued to your seat. Talia looks down at you with rage in her eyes, while you look back with confusion. You don’t know how to answer her question, because ultimately, you’re unsure of the answers yourself. If she had asked you a month prior when you first arrived in Gotham, you probably could have answered that you and Damian shared a sweet encounter from many years past, and that encounter led to your marriage. However, with Damian’s aloofness, you also are uncertain as to why you were chosen to be his bride.

Talia groans in frustration at your muteness. She stomps towards the door, but not before a servant rushes over to open it for her. You watch as she disappears into the hallway, presumably to confront Damian.

You let out a shaky breath that you didn’t know you were holding.

“Take me back to my quarters,” you order your ladies-in-waiting. “And send for Lady Rachel.”

You pace back and forth in your room, practically burning a hole into the floor. A loud knock disrupts your fervent strides, and in comes your rescuer, Rachel.

“Rachel,” you whimper as your nearly run into her open arms.

Her arms wrap around you tightly, like how a snake suffocates its victims, except her hug was full of love instead.

You’re shaken up by your encounter with Talia, but the culmination of the previous 24 hours bears down upon you. You sink to the floor, Rachel helplessly attempting to lift you back to your feet, but the energy is no longer within you.

“Everything is wrong.”

“What is?” Rachel finally sinks to the floor next to you, holding your head to her bosom, holding you like a mother would do to console her child.

“Everything. This cursed family has brought me nothing but misery. I will be miserable until the end of my days, I fear.”

Rachel gently quiets you and strokes your hair. “No, that will not happen. I will not allow that to happen.”

“It will!” you exclaim. “Damian hates me!”

“He does not hate you.”

“Yes, he does!” Embarrassment sinks into your bones when Rachel asks you to explain.

“Last night was a disaster,” you murmur into her chest.

Rachel stops stroking your head momentarily. “Hmm? How so?” She starts once more playing with your hair.

“I am…still a virgin.”

She pulls your head backwards so that her eyes meet yours. “Do you mean…he has not bedded you yet?”

You cringe in embarrassment. Her shock has only solidified your insecurity – something must be wrong with you. That’s the only explanation!

“No, no, darling,” Rachel clucks. “Do not hide your face from me. It is not your fault – hey – look at me. It. Is. Not. Your. Fault.”

“Then, what is wrong?” You swiftly get to your feet and resume your pacing. “If not me, then what? It’s silly to think that there is another issue at play here.”

Rachel grabs hold of your shoulders and firmly shakes you. “Listen to yourself! You sound mad.” She looks around the room as if it isn’t empty and leans in close to whisper. “Understand that there may be other factors at play. The emotions of man can certainly affect his…libido. Take it from me, I should know.”

She releases her grip, but remains planted in front of your face. “I have had…prior relations.”

You nod at her wide-eyed. This is the first you’ve heard of Rachel speaking about her romantic life.

“Certain emotions can make it hard for a man to perform his husbandly duties. I do not think it wise to push the issue, as to not cause any embarrassment for him.”

You nod your head emphatically, whole-heartedly internalizing her speech. “But – what if he doesn’t bed me tonight either? Lady Talia is already speaking about heirs.”

“Again, do not push the issue. You would rather not face Damian’s wrath.”

A singular, harsh knock interrupts your discussion. In stomps in the subject of the conversation, the man of the hour, your lifeline and your ruin – Damian.

Rachel immediately curtsies out of respect and lowers her head. He opens his mouth to speak, but is seemingly stunned by the presence of another human in your room. He looks back and forth between you and Rachel.

“Husband,” you greet.

The sound of your voice brings Damian back from his trance. He nods his head towards the door and several servants, including your ladies-in-waiting, pile into the room.

“Wife,” he starts. He strides over to you and plants a kiss on your forehead. His lips leave a burning sensation on you, as his sudden display of affection jars you. “Pack your essentials. We leave soon for my father’s.”

“Damian,” you whisper. His face reveals his agitation: his lips are stretched into a scowl and his forehead wrinkles deeply. “Is everything alright?”

His palm reaches to your face, his thumb stroking your cheek. You want to believe he does it lovingly, but your heart can’t take that risk.

“You should have called upon me,” he murmurs. “As soon as my mother disrespected you, you should have come to me.”

You look down in shame. So, he’s heard of your interaction with Talia earlier that day. “I did not think that was an option. I did not even know where you were.”

He lifts your head up with his index finger on your chin. He bends as best as he could to meet you at eye-level. “Of course, that is an option. You are my wife.”

You swallow hard. The way he’s looking at you, and comforting you – it’s too much. It’s too sudden. You shimmy your way out of his grasp and look to Rachel for support, only to find her back facing towards you and Damian.

“Lady Rachel has been consoling me.”

Damian stiffens and his jaw tightens. “Thank you, Lady Rachel,” he starts. He looks over his shoulder her, and she does so too ever so slightly. Neither face each other completely, however. “You may now take your leave.”

Rachel nods her head and without turning to say goodbye to you, she starts heading towards the door.

“Wait, no!” you call out. You circle around Damian to reach Rachel’s arm. “Lady Rachel is to be my lady-in-waiting. She must remain by my side.”

Damian’s eyes bulge out of his head. “Your lady-in-waiting?” he repeats brashly.

You huff in irritation. You’re not sure why everyone seems to be so astonished that you want Rachel to be a part of your household staff. “Yes,” you reply.

Damian clicks his tongue in disapproval. The amorous façade he performed just moments prior is now gone. It’s been replaced with the real Damian – the stoic one.

“Fine.” He pushes back you to reach the exit before stopping by the door. He doesn’t even turn around. “Remember, just the essentials.

#dc comics #damian wayne x you #damian wayne x reader #damian wayne x fem!reader #damian wayne x y/n #league of assassins #loa!damian wayne #damian wayne

161 notes · View notes

shark-myths · 24 days

Note

🦴🪐💌!

🦴 - is there a piece of media that inspires your writing?

The obvious answer feels like a cop out and you deserve better. I am extremely inspired by reading! In general, I try to use Neil Gailan and early Holly Black as a style test of my writing; they both inspire me and remind me how much lifting a few well-chosen words can do. (I actively try NOT to write like Robin McKinley, which is my natural state, and much less effective than my cleaner prose.) I am so porous and influenced by what I read that I have to take breaks from writing if I’m reading something very British or very old-fashioned because it contaminates my writing style! I see my writing in other places, too; for example, readers of Girl Out Boy might particularly enjoy the Scapegracer series by HA Clarke because I’ve read those recently and think there is a tone in common.

Recently, I just finished Jawbone by Monica Ojeda, and it is perhaps the most brilliant fucking thing I can IMAGINE and making me feel SO inspired to write grisly and shocking things about girls. Read that book if you wish to recognize yourself as the familiar in horror!!! I have a long and gushing review on goodreads if anyone’s into that.

And obviously, music music music. I get the most ideas when I am driving a car and listening to music and letting my mind slip around and play. My road trip to Columbus last week gave me ideas for so many things, including a project I started in 20-fucking-17 and abandoned a long time ago.

🪐 - name three good things going on in your life right now

1. cat on my lap as we speak! I have three extremely perfect tabby cats

2. I have the most amazing friends. none of them live where I do but I get so much love and support and happiness from them every day! I am so lucky! even though I constantly reschedule my movie nights with @leyley09 and will always vote in support of bailing on d&d with @shoeboxofphotographs12

3. last summer I did physical therapy for my busted shoulder and having an upper body that worked felt so good that I’ve been lifting weights like crazy since then, and I am getting fucking STRONG and it feels really cool. I love having something I can make progress on and see changes with that is about my health and making my body BULKIER and bigger, it feels so fucking healing after a lifetime of taking in poison about what women’s bodies are supposed to be and do. I’m so strong guys. let’s go the gym and listen to fall out boy and make the teenage boy gangs feel like THEY have to stay away from the cable machine for once

💌 - how many unread emails do you have right now?

Five, and they’re unread either because I’m saving them (an especially lovely fic comment, two Butt News substacks from Lindy West) or because I need to take action on the follow-up and I haven’t yet (balance transfer offer, work training). I knew this without checking. They live in my brain. They leech my strength. I prefer to keep my inbox empty of both unread AND read emails because I am a Virgo sun and general freak.

#thank you darling!!!#I love these #asks #fic asks

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littlecinnamonroll · 2 years

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Sweet Like Cinnamon

hi lovelies! still currently on my giyuu and rengoku brainrot and I have a lot of drafts I finally touched up that I’m excited to post again!! but for now, here’s a little drabble that I’ve been working on!

Ft. Giyuu Tomioka, fem!reader

She smells like cinnamon, he thought, eyes following your figure as you walked past in deep conversation with the Fire Pillar, the Love Pillar only several paces behind. The pink-haired woman had been waiting on her serpent counterpart, waving Obanai and his snake down from a ways away. Though he’d positioned himself to where he’d be less than noticeable, a small part of him hoped you’d see him as you turned around to beckon Obanai.

You usually smelled sweet to Giyuu Tomioka, his eyes softening slightly when you’d lean in to listen to him. His words were frugal and less than lively, but there was just something about you that kept words spilling off his tongue. Maybe it was that spicy scent that lingered whenever you were near, the hints of sugary vanilla that intoxicated his brain, the same one that made his heart pound.

“Tomioka!” You called with a smile, “I have a question!” His eyes widened as you barreled towards him, skidding to a halt just before hitting the man. “If you had five more minutes to live, what would you do?”

To say he was taken aback was an understatement. Not only were you living proof that he was not, in fact, hated by everyone, but you were actually quite nice to be around. Still, he couldn’t tell where your mind was. Were you planning to do something within the next five minutes that could compromise his life? He didn’t want to believe that was true, you were sunshine wrapped in a pretty package, but as a Hashira, he could never be too cautious. With every cinnamon-sugar thought that crossed his mind, he could only seem to focus on your alluring smell. “But I don’t have five more minutes. I’m in good health.”

“It is a hypothetical scenario, Giyuu! I have noticed how you are bad at answering these kinds of things!” Rengoku called from a ways away, perennial smile plastered to his face.

Shinobu was sure to tease him about that later, especially if both you and Mitsuri were giggling at the Fire Pillar’s comment. He wanted nothing more than to pull back into his comfortable shell, dreaming to be civil - perhaps even friends - with the rest of the Hashira. As you tried laughing off the intensity of his gaze, noting how electrifying his eyes truly were, he furrowed his brows.

“Only five minutes?”

“Only five.”

With utter nonchalance, he glanced off into the distance. “I would probably sit with you.”

You blinked several times; Giyuu presumed you’d been expecting a different answer. And though your smell of cinnamon lulled, your aura brightened. It was always lavender, he thought, now it’s gold.

“Tomioka…” For a moment, as your eyes softened, he longed for your touch, wishing to get just close enough to where you’d squish his cheeks and laugh at his surprise. “We do that already!” You finally retorted, scrunching up your nose with a smile.

“I know. It’s calming,” he admitted. “What would you do?”

Without hesitance, you grinned. “Pray that in our next life, we’re born into a peaceful world where no one has to suffer. I want everyone to be happy.” You were so genuine, so gentle. He felt wickedly selfish that a thought so selfless didn’t cross his mind. How ruined had he become? How bitterly distant and cold? What would his mother and father say; what about Sabito and his sister? “And,” your voice snapped him out of his self-depreciation, “I’d pray that I get to be with you in every lifetime.”

His eyes dilated. Young and naive, hopelessly in love with a cinnamon-scented sunshine girl — that’s all Giyuu Tomioka was. “I admire your wishes…” Averting his crystalline gaze from your own, a pit formed in his stomach. You pitied him. You must’ve. This must have been a sick joke, just a ploy to make everyone else laugh. You couldn’t seriously mean what you were saying. Right?

“If we weren’t demon slayers, I’d marry you in an instant!” Your voice splintered through his brain, bulldozing every wall, ripping down every layer, leaving only the barren bones of his love. Fully consumed and captivated by all of you, the moment you took his hands in your own, he could have sworn he saw flashes of a distant future.

Giyuu breathlessly squeezed his eyes shut in embarrassment. You were so…direct! How could someone so modest and sweet be so open with their feelings? “The feeling’s mutual,” he whispered.

You cocked your head and blinked up at him. “I’m sorry, Tomi’! I didn’t quite hear you!”

Obanai and Mitsuri were in love, Sanemi swore to find Kanae in another life, Tengen had four wives; Giyuu was behind yet again. Sabito would have confessed to you by now, he would’ve known that he loved you instantly. Who wouldn’t love you? You pranced around the Ubuyashiki Estate after Hashira meetings with your heart on your sleeve and smile on your face; you were warm rain on a cool summer night, a sky full of stars for Tomioka’s lonesome eyes to gaze upon. He huffed - he won’t be late for the love of his life, not this time.

“He is so quiet! I always have to ask him to speak up too, do not fret my dear—!” Rengoku shouted again, Mitsuri quickly covering his mouth with her hands as she observed the two of you.

A smile painted his face a pretty shade of blue, the same blue of his eyes, the eyes you fell so ardently in love with. “I promise to come home from every mission for you.” Though he wasn’t as straightforward as you, you knew that was his special way of saying that he felt the same. And as he brought your hands to his heart, he took a shaky breath in. “And I know it might not be unscathed, I can’t promise that,” he began, “but I—”

Your body pressed flush against him in a hug, his words falling flat. “I’ll marry you one day, Tomioka. I mean it. Even if it has to be in our last five minutes.”

His heart was wholly yours, a pang in his chest overwhelming his senses as you pulled away. “Wait, don’t leave. Did you plan on courting me just to leave? Or…I’m very...confused. Are we courted now? I should be the one to court you— Do you want me to court you?”

He spoke so cluelessly that you couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, Tomioka!” Pinching his cheek affectionately, you continued, “Come eat dinner with us, Kyojurou made your favorite.”

You were gorgeous and a fighter, you were joyful - even if Giyuu knew the stronger the smell of cinnamon was, the more exhausted you’d become, you were you. And Giyuu loved you! In his pouty and gloomy, yet tender, quiet-loving kind of way, he vowed to always choose you. Letting his hand fall into yours, he gave a curt nod and followed behind you anxiously.

Mitsuri squealed as he placed his hand in yours, jumping ecstatically as the two of you made your way over together. “Oh yes! Yes, she did it! I knew you could do it! I knew she could do it!”

“I’ll kill you if you hurt her,” Obanai hissed curtly, despite the flushed pink spreading across his cheeks. Giyuu’s brows quirked at the confliction of his actions and words; was Iguro being nice? The Water Pillar knew the dislike the Serpent Pillar held for him, but he always was well aware the fondness the latter held for you.

“Iguro,” you chastised, hand resting on your hip, “don’t be like that.”

“I think it is actually very spectacular that Giyuu and you have decided to pair! Hopefully she will help you speak louder, Tomioka!” Rengoku boomed, laughing as he clapped the both of your shoulders. “Let us eat now, I am absolutely starved!”

The strong, spicy scent of cinnamon suddenly hit Tomioka once more as your head rested affectionately on his arm. He froze up as you did so, the content smile on your face making his heat up. The laugh that trickled from your lips seemed to make his chest swell with an admiration, one that was gentle, one that was shy and lovely. “So, we’ll eat first,” he mumbled, “and get married later.”

He nodded in agreement with his words, the corner of his lips quirking upwards. You bit your laughter back as you watched Giyuu talk to himself, squeezing his hand lovingly as you pulled away, rushing ahead of him to practically tackle Rengoku to the ground.

And even with the storm in the back of your throat and gleeful laughter that escaped your lips, Giyuu Tomioka was glad he had this lifetime with you.

thank you so much for reading loves! i really hope you enjoyed my little Giyuu ramble that totally was not self-indulgent

#giyuu my love #tomioka giyuu #giyuu x y/n #kny giyuu #kny x reader #kny imagines #anime #drabbles #demon slayer #kny #kimetsu no yaiba #demon slayer fanart #hashira #giyuu imagines #giyuu fluff #mitsuri kanjori #rengoku kyojuro #obanai iguro #kny ubuyashiki

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trektraveler · 2 years

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Breathe Free Part Two

Summary: You were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, thank you very much! Dean knew that, he also knew better. He'd seen you sick plenty of times in the past five years, but this was different. This was much more than a cold, but you were so stubborn about doctors! Dean Winchester isn't about to let you slip away, even if it means going against your wishes. He only hopes he's not too late!

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, Dean x Reader, Dean x You

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Sick!Reader, Hospitals, Kissing, fluff

Word Count: 5873

One Shot - Two Parts

Author’s Notes: I have been sick with Covid for a month. Well... down sick for 2 1/2 weeks and recovering my stamina for 2 more. Its been a real bitch. Plus my disabled mother has it now. This is following a nervous breakdown I had in June. Writing has been my passion and my mental health balm, but I've not been able to produce anything in months. So this... this is a fucking triumph!! I'm still working on all my other WIP, so please stick around. I'll get there... eventually :) I'm hoping to finish part two shortly and post in a week... ish.

Thank you all for the continued support! Additional Notes: Still hanging in there, long covid is a bitch, but it does improve. More or less. I am SO happy with myself that I've finished a story! Even a little self-indulgent two parter. As always, thank you all! Your kind words and encouragement have really helped me. Love you guys :)

Masterlist (Part One)

Hospitals were noisy places. Filled with squeaking wheels, scuffling shoes, and code calls. The ICU was worse with its beeping monitors and hissing ventilators. The constant stream of nurses and doctors talking in hushed concern about things like hypoxia and bradypnea and other terrifying medical babble.

This wasn’t the first time Dean sat beside someone he cared about while they lingered between life and death. He was a hunter; it came with the gig. Broken bones and bullet holes. The waiting and the worrying were pure hell, and he would know. It was the reason he was so quick to put himself in the line of fire. Not just to save a life, but to spare himself the agony of the wait. Minutes that ticked by endlessly, ratcheting up the uncertainty. Underscoring just how powerless he was.

Never did it cross his mind that illness would snatch you away from him. That you would simply get sick, like a normal person. Pneumonia could be dangerous for anyone, but for someone with asthma, it could be deadly.

You were sedated for three days while the ventilator breathed for you and gave your body a chance to rest and heal. The doctors assured him that it was standard procedure, but damn was it intense. Dean had never seen you look so fragile. So pale. You looked as if you could slip away at any moment, the only thing keeping you tethered to the Earthly realm were the wires and tubes attached to your body.

Dean took your hand. He wondered about your soul. Were you here with him? Watching from somewhere nearby? Or were you negotiating with a reaper? Would you bargain for more time, or would you choose heaven? A soul like yours was guaranteed a ticket to the penthouse.

It was in times like this that he cursed his profession. What good was a lifetime’s worth of supernatural knowledge if he couldn’t use it to save you? God knows he tried. He tried every trick in the book, in the end it was Sam who talked sense into him.

“She doesn’t need you to sell your soul Dean! She just needs you. Be there, hold her hand, tell her it’s going to be okay. Let her know she isn’t alone.”

Sammy was right, as he usually was. The nurses said you’d shown enough improvement that they were taking you off the ventilator today. As much as Dean wanted to believe it, he was cautious in his optimism.

He was so wrapped up in his own worry that he didn’t notice your fingers shifting against his palm. Your eyelids fluttered, then went still. It was so slight, that Dean thought he’d imagined it.

He desperately searched your face and held his breath. God please…

“Y/N?”

A few seconds later you did it again, this time you gave his hand a proper squeeze and Dean felt like his heart was going to burst.

He squeezed back, his other hand coming up to brush your cheek, “Y/N… baby, can you hear me?”

After several tries, you finally managed to open your eyes fully. Exhausted, you looked around the room. When your gaze landed on Dean, he smiled. You tried to say his name and when you couldn’t, you panicked! Choking on the tube shoved down your throat, your eyes went wide.

“Hey! It’s okay! You’re in the hospital, Sweetheart. Just stay calm. We’ll get that tube out, let me go get the nurse.”

He stood and your grip became desperate. And strong. Incredibly strong. Tears trickled from the corners of your eyes as you tried to convey your thoughts. You were wide awake, and you needed him. Relief washed over him; no reapers would come knocking today.

“Okay, okay. Shh…” he sat beside you and pressed a kiss to your forehead while his free hand hit the call button. “I’ve got you; I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

Sam was walking down the corridor towards the ICU rooms with two large coffees balanced in one hand. You were only allowed one visitor at a time, so he and Dean took turns. Although, Dean always came back early. And he begged the nurses to let him stay past visiting hours. Sam got the impression they felt sorry for him, but knowing Dean, he would have found a way around the rules one way or another.

When Sam saw his brother in the hallway, he quickened his pace. He was leaning against the wall, bent at the waist with his hands braced on his knees.

“Dean? What happened? What’s going on?”

Dean raised his head, sniffling back emotion, “She’s awake. They’re... ah… they’re taking out that tube.”

Sam caught the glossy sheen in Dean’s eyes. He clapped a hand on his shoulder, “That’s fantastic. Dean, that’s great.”

Dean nodded and pulled Sam into a brief, tight hug then released him and took a coffee.

“Good thing you talked me out of selling my soul, huh?’

You weren’t really sleeping when Sam and Dean walked into your new room in the regular section of the hospital. But every muscle in your body was so taxed that even keeping your eyes open was an effort. There was an oxygen mask covering your nose and mouth, but it was far more comfortable than that damn ventilator tube. You were cold too, but that was part of being in a hospital. It was all so familiar and disheartening.

The squeak of the door prompted you to open your heavy eyes and you smiled. The Winchesters were there, a welcome contrast of denim and flannel against the sterile hospital décor. They had arms filled with gifts; balloons, books, a bag of watermelon Jolly Ranchers, and the biggest arrangement of flowers you’d ever seen. Dozens of roses, hydrangeas, and snapdragons.

“Flowers.”

Your voice was a raspy whisper behind the mask, but it still made Dean beam brightly.

“Hell yeah, Sammy and I bought out every white flower they had.” He set the massive vase down on the table. “They’re your favorite, right?”

You nodded, tracing a finger over the edge of one perfect bloom. You had a late-night debate with him eons ago about how white couldn’t be your favorite color because it wasn’t really a color. It’s a shade. Technically, it was a sum of all possible colors. Hence, the debate.

Sam pulled out a stuffed a huge, stuffed moose from behind his back. It was impossibly soft with floppy antlers and was wearing one of his flannel shirts tied in place with a white velvet bow.

You laughed, “Aww! A… Win..chester of… my own.”

Sam’s throat got tight as the halting cadence of your words. Even with the oxygen, you were out of breath. He leaned down and hugged you. Normally, he would squeeze you tight and lift you off your feet just to make you giggle like a kid sister. Today, he was careful. Mindful of the electrodes and wires and of how fragile you felt in his arms.

“You’ve already got two Winchesters,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “Add him to your collection.”

Your eyes were drooping, even after just a few minutes your energy was completely depleted. You let your head fall back against the pillow with a tired smile, “Thank you… Sammy.”

“We should get out of here, let you sleep,” he replied, catching his brother’s attention.

“Yeah,” Dean gave a reluctant nod. “If you’re lucky, we’ll smuggle in one of those triple thick strawberry-kiwi shakes you like.”

You grabbed hold of his hand again and tugged. It was so much effort to talk, you hope he got the message.

A wordless look passed between the brothers and Sam took his cue, leaving the two of you alone. You tried to focus on your breathing and on the warmth of Dean’s hand holding yours. It took every bit of strength you had to stay awake, but it was so important. You couldn’t let him leave, not yet.

Dean wiped away the single tear that slid down your cheek. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong, Sweetheart?”

“I… I’m… s… sorry.”

He soothed back your hair, “Sorry for what?”

“Should have… gone… to… th… the doctor.”

“No, hey, don’t worry about any of that.”

“Scared… you.”

Dean cupped your face with his large palm, “Listen to me. I don’t want you to think about any of that stuff, okay? It doesn't matter. The only thing that matters is you getting better. That’s all I care about.”

You nodded; your eyes shuttered to half-mast. “Tired.”

He let out a chuckle and ran a hand over his five o’clock shadow, “I’ll bet you are.”

You shook your head and pointed at him. When he tilted his head in confusion, you patted the mattress beside you.

He was exhausted. It was etched in every line on his beautiful face. His green eyes, the ones you had loved since you first looked into them were bloodshot. His strong shoulders slumped under the strain of recent events. Dean had been by your side for days, even after taking care of you back at the bunker. It was a testament to his impressive stamina and force of will that he was still standing.

Without a word, he turned down the lights, kicked off his boots and climbed into the narrow bed. It should have been uncomfortable, given his size, but he gently arranged it so that you were partly settled on his chest. Your weary body melted into the warmth he provided as his arms wrapped around you. You were both slipped into a dreamless sleep without any effort at all.

Three Weeks Later: You were in the hospital eight days in total, three of them in the ICU. When they finally released you, it was with a whole list of stipulations and guidelines. Breathing exercises. An oxygen tank for times when your levels dipped below a certain level. Antibiotics the size of horse tranquilizers and updated rescue inhalers. It was intense, but still preferable to staying one more night in the hospital.

It was Sam alone who picked you up on your release date. You were disappointed, but not surprised. Dean was gone when you woke the morning after the two of you shared your hospital bed. He texted you every day but only came back to visit you once when he and Sam dropped off some of your clothes.

It was okay, it really was.

You understood. You’d scared him big time. Frankly, you were still so sick that all you did was sleep anyway. But when you were home and days passed with still no contact, you worried. God bless Sam, he was right there every step of the way. He drove you to therapy and helped you come up with a strength building regiment. He kept you company and offered insight to his missing brother.

“Give him some time, Y/N. He’ll come around. You know how he gets.”

And so, you did. Sam’s words offered solace, but they didn’t make up for the fact that you missed that salty, pain in the ass. Somehow, the fact that Dean was just down the hall made you all the more lonely for him. But you were determined to respect his need for privacy. After everything that happened, you owed him that at the very least.

When you were in the kitchen a few days later making one of Sam’s health smoothies, the last thing you expected was to hear Dean’s voice.

“Tell me you’re not gonna drink that.”

You smiled but didn’t turn. “Of course not. I haven’t added the spirulina or wheat germ yet.”

You heard him mutter something about pond scum under his breath while he rummaged through the fridge.

“I’ve got enough for two,” you teased. “Should I get you a glass?”

“Too bad your stay in the VIP suite didn’t improve your sense of humor, smartass.”

You turned around and grinned at him. God, he looked incredible! Maybe it was not seeing him for a month, but he was a sight! Dark jeans on bowed legs. That red and black flannel shirt that somehow made him seem even broader. Especially when he crossed his arms across his chest. Like he was doing right now. And glowering at you! Ridiculous man! You’d been busy recuperating from serious illness, and he looked like he wanted to reprimand you for leaving wet towels on the floor. It might have pissed you off, if you weren’t so pleased to see him.

So, you laughed.

His expression went from sexy and grumpy to utterly baffled. “Why are you laughing?”

You shook your head with a goofy grin and answered honestly, “I’m just happy to see you.”

He cautiously smiled back, “Yeah?’

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Well in that case, you wanna get out of here? I was thinking of going for a drive.”

Your heart felt light, “I’ll get my coat.”

Dean wasn’t sure how he was going to do it, but he knew he had to. Even if it killed him, and it just might. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d made the hard choice. Break a heart, save a life. He may as well get it tattooed on his ass. At this point it was more of a life motto than saving people, hunting things. He glanced over at you gazing happily out the window and he tried to burn the image into his memory. Beautiful. Hands down the most beautiful girl he’d ever met. Even after he’d ignored you for weeks and pushed you off on his baby brother, you laughed and forgave him.

You looked just like you always had, maybe a bit thinner from your time in the hospital. But Sammy had been adamant about those smoothies of his. Nutrient dense. They tasted like absolute ass, but they certainly seemed to help you get your color back. Your hair was shiny and bouncy, he loved it when it was bouncy like that. Cascading over your shoulders and framing your face. It looked so soft and smelled like peaches when you tossed it back. Your eyes were bright and glowed with good health. Looking at you now, it was hard to believe you’d been on a ventilator only a few weeks ago.

“Hey, you wanna get out and walk for a bit?” You asked, pointing out one of your favorite state parks ahead.

“Sure. You bring your scarf?”

“Obviously,” you replied, pulling out the length of soft, white fabric from your bag.

It was still a bit chilly out, but all the snow had been cleared from the paths and only an inch or so remained around the trees. Dean kept shooting glances your way, checking for signs of distress as the two of you walked along.

“I’m not going to keel over, you know.”

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jacket. “You need to be careful in the cold air, it’s no good for you.”

“True, but walking is very good for me. It helps build stamina.”

He didn’t reply to that and the two of you walked along in silence until you really couldn’t take it anymore.

“It’s ridiculous, you know? Me, having to rebuild stamina. I was in the best shape of my life; I could run up ten flights of stairs and still chop the head off a vamp no problem. Now I have to stop halfway through a beginner’s yoga class.”

“Almost dying does that.”

There was venom in his voice, but the fear was too. Evidently, he hadn’t worked through it as much as you’d hoped.

“Is that why you’re kicking me out? Because I almost died?”

Dean stopped and turned to you, but he kept his eyes downcast. “Y/N…”

“Its really not fair. You’ve almost died several times and I still keep you around.” You tried to keep your tone light, but it was difficult with the tears threatening.

“It’s not funny,” his eyes were getting red as he recalled the terrifying night he carried you into the E.R. “You stopped breathing. Your fucking heart stopped!”

You knew this part. After Dean closed himself off from you, you asked Sam to give you all the details. Full cardiac arrest from a severe asthma attack, brought on by complications from pneumonia. It had taken the doctors a while to stabilize you, but when they did you were so weak, they weren’t sure you were going to pull through. Sam had a hard time talking about, even though you were sitting there alive and well in front of him. That night shook them both to the core.

You brought your hand up to cup Dean’s cheek, “I’m so sorry.”

He closed his eyes briefly, letting the warmth of your touch comfort him. “Why didn’t you tell me? All this time… a fucking two year long pandemic… Covid is a respiratory virus! What if…”

You hurt him. Far more than you’d realized. And you hated yourself for it. This was going to take much more than a simple reassurance to work through.

“Can we sit?”

He led you to a park bench, “We should head back to the car, it’s too cold for you.”

“I’m okay, Dean,” you grabbed his hands, “I really, really am. And I’m sorry. I didn’t deliberately keep it from you, I just didn’t think about it. I know it’s hard to fathom, but I’ve lived with it my whole life. The things I do to minimize my risk are second nature to me now. And I haven’t had an attack in years.”

“This wasn’t my first trip to the ICU; I spent my childhood in and out of hospitals. Mom was very protective. The doctors had her so scared that she didn’t let me do much. No sports, no sleepovers, no camping trips. She even moved us to Glenwood Springs because of it.”

“Like Doc Holliday.”

You rolled your eyes out of habit. Every time you mentioned your home, Dean spewed every bit of old west trivia he knew. Which, you had to admit, was extensive. Last time you were there he insisted on visiting the Doc Holliday museum, he even had you take his picture with gambler’s gun.

Then: “Nice place,” Dean said, scanning the neatly maintained garden beds and brick walkways.

“Yeah, it is. Remember, this is just a quick stop so I can pick up some stuff. Don’t do what you normally do.”

“What are you talking about?”

You ran a nervous hand through your hair and straightened your denim jacket, “That charming rogue routine you do whenever there’s a woman in front of you.”

His grin turned cocky, “Sweetheart, that’s just me. Can’t help it if the ladies love it.”

You brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder with an impatient huff, “Rein it in, cowboy.”

Before you could ring the bell, the front door swung open and revealed a woman who would have passed for your twin in her youth. Tanned, with a bright white smile and silver bangles stacked on both arms.

“Baby girl!”

“Hi Momma,” you managed to say while she squeezed you tight.

Your mother drew back and quickly scrutinized your appearance, “You taking care of yourself? Regular appointments? Feeling good?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

That radiant smile was back, “Good girl! And this tall drink of water must be that friend you told me about.”

“Yes, this is Dean Winchester. Dean, this is my mom, Beverly.”

True to form, he turned up the charm to eleven. “No way I’m gonna believe you are Y/N’s mother, you must be her sister.”

“And you are the smoothest liar I’ve had on my doorstep,” Bev said, slipped her arm through Dean’s with a wink, “But please, don’t stop. Why don’t we go out back and have coffee? Y/N, I made that peach pie you’re so fond of!”

“I love pie!” Dean gave you an infuriating grin over your mother’s head as the two of them sailed into the house together.

Three hours later, you had endured the torture of baby pictures and embarrassing stories from your adolescence. While Dean supplied plenty of his own anecdotes of you getting lost in the grocery store and getting locked out of the motel room in only your underwear. Luckily, the pie helped keep your mood from going sour.

“Okay, I’m going to head up and grab those boxes.”

“Lift with your legs, Baby girl.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” you replied, disappearing through the sliding glass door.

Bev’s jovial mood turned serious as soon as her daughter was out of earshot. “Okay, Winchester, shoot me straight. How is my daughter?”

Dean blinked in surprise, “I’m sorry?”

“I may not be hip to everything going on, but I can feel the pair of you dancing around something big. I’m not going stick my nose in, Y/N isn’t talking about it, and I respect that. But I’m a mom and that girl is my whole life, so tell me… is she okay? Do I need to worry about her? About you?”

Dean weighed his words carefully, “Y/N is… amazing. She’s smart and strong. She has the biggest vocabulary of anyone I’ve ever known, and she loves to show it off. Even when she shouldn’t. But she knows how to handle herself. She kicks ass.”

The corner of Bev’s mouth quirked, “It runs in the family.”

“I can see that.”

She leaned back in her chair and studied him, “You seem like a decent man, the sort who keeps his word. That being the case, I have a favor to ask. Keep an eye on my girl for me.”

“Already done,” was his quick reply.

Bev shook her head, “It’s not the dangers of the world I’m talking about. I’m talking about looking after her when she’s not looking after herself. Y/N… has a lot of life to live and when she gets busy… she just doesn’t see how far gone she is until she falls flat on her face.”

Dean leaned forward, elbows on knees, “You’ve got my word, Bev. I’ll never let her fall.”

Now: “I like your mom,” Dean looked down at his boots. “She made me promise to look after you.”

“You never told me that.”

“I got the impression she didn’t want me to. Thought maybe she had a mother’s intuition about you getting into the hunting business. Guess she was talking about something else.”

You let your gaze drift over to the lake in the distance, half thawed already. It would be an early spring this year. A sign of hope for the future.

“We got in this huge fight when I was nineteen. I wanted to move out, go to college, see the world. I missed out on so much as a sick kid, but I survived it. I worked hard to strengthen my lungs and build up stamina. I followed every doctor’s order to the letter so that I could actually live my life like a normal person… and it worked, but when the time came, I still didn’t have her support. I was so pissed! I packed a bag and left in the middle of the night.”

“How’d that go over?”

“I hadn’t yet mastered the art of covering my tracks. Plus, she was dating the sheriff. I was back home twenty-four hours later.”

Dean snorted, “Amateur.”

“Mom and I came to an agreement after that. I stay local, stay in communication, and keep doing everything my doctors ask and in return, she would stop focusing on my condition like it was a death sentence.” You shrugged, “Things were better after that.”

“Your mom is awesome, I’m glad she supports you…. You’re lucky, Y/N.”

Dean took your hand, surprising you. His fingers linked with yours, rubbing his thumb over yours. Then he frowned, his brows drew down over his eyes in worry. Like a black cloud had settled over his heart.

“Y/N…”

You knew what he wanted to say, you could feel it. You could see it in his eyes whenever he dared to look at you. The sorrow. All you wanted to do was save him from it. From himself.

“It’s amazing how much we still don’t know about how the human body works,” you blurted out, making him blink in confusion.

“What?”

“Being sedated, for example. Medical experts still aren’t sure why some people retain a certain level of consciousness and others remember nothing. When I was seven, I was in the hospital for a month, my mother read The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe to me even though I wasn’t awake. When I came out of it, I remembered the whole thing.”

You could see the realization slowly register in his beautiful eyes. If you heard your mother, you must have heard him.

Then: It was cold in your room. You hated being cold, it was one of your main complaints about the bunker. You cranked the thermostat, took boiling hot showers, and frequently stole clothes from both Winchesters. Although, you seemed to favor Dean’s over his brother’s. A fact he griped about, but secretly liked. He liked knowing that you felt at home enough to make yourself comfortable. If you were comfortable, maybe you would stay.

Dean brought your favorite blanket and tucked it around you, careful of the machines and wires. “There you go, Sweetheart. Just like home.”

He sat in the stiff chair beside your bed and studied your peaceful face. He tried to think of you as an enchanted princess. Sleeping Beauty, just waiting for the right prince to swing by and break the curse. Unlikely in his world. Still… it was easier than the truth.

He might have been able to fool himself for a while if it weren’t for that breathing tube.

“Actually, that’s a lie... this place is nothing like home. Home has all the amenities, right? I’ll bet this state-of-the-art medical facility doesn’t even have a firing range. Or a dungeon!”

“Course, it wasn’t always so awesome. A lot of spiders when we first moved in. Plus, Sammy and I added our personal touches to make it more comfortable. That mini fridge in the library, totally my idea. It really pulled the room together, you know?”

He chuckled a little at his Big Lebowski reference, disheartened when the only response was the hiss of the ventilator.

He reached over and gently combed his fingers through your hair. Your skin was cool to the touch since your fever broke in the night. That had to be a good sign, right?

“I’ve got a confession, but you gotta promise not to tell Sam, okay? I never really wanted to live in the bunker full time. Not at first. Don’t get me wrong, I liked it! It was our personal Batcave! But Batman… he doesn’t live in the Batcave. The Batcave is for work only. And that was my plan. Work in the bunker as a base of operations but live like we always did. On the road.”

Dean’s hand moved to yours, toying with your fingers. You had such elegant hands. You never wore jewelry, just like you never wore make-up. You didn’t have a closet full of clothes. You wore things of nice quality, but you didn’t have lots of them. Only what you needed. Same with everything else, you didn’t do fussy or extravagant. But it wasn’t because you liked to keep things simple, it was because you were focused on living your life, not adorning it.

He liked that about you. You were straightforward and up for anything. You never hesitated to jump right in. You were quick on your feet and quick with your wit. You came up with better cover stories than he or Sam ever did. Your contributions to the team were welcome and seamless, almost from the start.

With anyone else, your eagerness might have come across as a need to prove yourself. But you didn’t seem to be afflicted in that way. You knew your worth. You were confident. And that rubbed off on everyone you came in contact with. Cops, sheriffs, coroners, witnesses, victims. All of them responded to you in ways that were remarkable. Your presence calmed them. Dean too.

“The longer we stayed in the bunker, the more obvious it became that life on the road was never gonna be like it was before. Sammy loved it, and I never could deny that kid anything. But for me…. I dunno. It took a while. I even slept in Baby those first few nights. Eventually, I picked out a room, got a bed that remembers me, and it was better.”

“You were our first guest; did you know that? Well Cas was, but he doesn’t sleep so that doesn’t really count. You were the first non-Winchester to sleep in the Batcave. On that old army cot, remember? Tried to get you to take my bed… stubborn. You were so stiff the next day you could barely walk, but you stuck it out. You should have taken me up on it, I was on the couch most nights anyway. Nightmares.”

“I’ll never forget the morning I woke up and found you there with me. All warm and cuddled up against me. I moved and you shushed me in your sleep, mumbled that everything was okay. God, I don’t think I’d ever slept that good. We went to that diner in town for breakfast and I asked you to move in. Sammy nearly choked on his egg whites,” Dean laughed softly at the memory. “The bunker was a home then.”

“If you were awake, you’d probably laugh and tell me what I sap I am. And you’d be right, but I can’t help it. It’s you, Y/N. You have this magic… I don’t know what else to call it. You don’t even have to say anything, and my heart starts to race. I think about you, more than I should. In ways that I shouldn’t, and I can’t stop. I don’t want to stop.”

“I love you, Y/N. In case you don’t know; in case you can hear me in your dreams right now… I love you. I’ve always loved you and if you stay, if you come back to me… I’m going to show you every day just how much.”

Now: He tried to speak, but you moved your fingers to his lips to stop him. Tears shimmered in your eyes, but you managed a wavering smile.

“I love you too.”

You watched the conflicting emotions flicker across his handsome face. Joy and torment. Ecstasy and pain. He traced the underside of your jaw with his fingers, making your shiver inside and your eyes closed on a sigh. When his lips connected with yours, it was electric! The world shifted. Colors, tastes, sensations, all redefined from that moment. Soft and warm and connected on a level that could only come from love.

It was everything you’d ever dreamt his kiss could be, and it ended far too quickly.

He rested his forehead against yours, puffs of white, heated breath mingling between you. After a few minutes, he brushed the tears from your cheeks with his thumb, “Don’t cry, Sweetheart. It breaks my heart when you cry.”

“Don’t send me away. Please don’t send me away.”

“Baby, that bunker is no place for you. There are no windows, the ventilation is crap, there’s a mildew problem. I talked to those doctors about the type of environment an asthmatic should live in… Bomb shelter from the fifties didn’t make the cut.”

“I’ve been living there for five years without an issue,” you pointed out.

“Yeah, with a humidifier and inhalers. But it’s different now, that round of pneumonia damaged your lungs. You need to be someplace where its easier to breathe, not harder.”

“You’re right. Which is why Sam and I have been designing a new HVAC system.”

That stopped him, “Really? Why didn’t you guys tell me?”

“Because you went all emo and hid in your room for a month.”

“I’m not emo! What kind of HVAC system?”

“A kick ass one,” you grinned so that your tongue peeked out between your teeth. “Any other concerns?”

“What about hunting?” he challenged.

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly and there was a pang of longing that went with it. “I have no idea if I’ll ever get back to the physical condition I was before all of this. No matter how hard I work for it or wish for it and the truth is… going into the field with that kind of a handicap is not in the cards.”

Dean nodded grimly and dropped his gaze to his lap. Admitting the possibility of an early retirement was killing you, and he knew it. You loved hunting, it was as much a part of you as it was for him. The uncertainty of not knowing if you could do it again, must be terrifying for you.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” His head shot up and you shrugged, “Most hunters don’t get sidelined, they get killed. My life might not look they way I thought it was going to, but I’m still here. Living it. I’m going to take that win and run with it.”

“You’re amazing, you know that? You’re so damn strong… your life got turned upside down and you just roll with it.” Those impossibly green eyes looked at you with such awe, like he couldn’t quiet believe that you actually existed.

“You deserve the best, and that’s not me.”

“That’s not for you to say.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s my choice.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” you lifted your chin in proud defiance, “Team Freewill, right? I will always have a choice, no matter what hand you try to deal me. I love you, Dean Winchester! And I am never going to stop. And I am never going to disappear from your life. Even if you tell me to hit the bricks, I’ll still call and text and email and whatever just to make sure you’re still alive and well. Even if this ends, I will still love you! You ridiculous man!”

There was a change in his gaze, subtle but there all the same. He shook his head with a chuckle. He knew when he was beat, and he was grateful for it.

“Your cheeks turn the prettiest shade of pink when you get all worked up, you know that?”

“My cheeks are pink because it’s freezing out here!”

Dean ripped his coat off and wrapped it over yours, “Damn it, Y/N! I knew you were cold!”

“Well, if you were any kind of a boyfriend, you’d take my back to the car and warm me up properly!”

He was pulling the hood up over your head when he paused, “Boyfriend, huh?”

“Yeah, the kind that warms his girl up in the backseat,” you grinned and playfully rubbed your nose against his.

He growled in your ear and stood, sweeping you up in his arms and making you yelp in delight.

“Dean! I can still walk, you know!”

“Save your energy, Sweetheart, you’re gonna need it. Tonight, we’re gonna fog up all the windows!”

TAGLIST @deans-baby-momma @muchamusedaboutnothing @peterpangirl21 @ficbreaks @teresa-67 @sacriceria @verytoadpapersoul @heartbreak-of-a-marauder @savspersonalproperty @deanwanddamons @jenwinchester40 @perpetualabsurdity @starryeyeseunbyul @sexyvixen7 @katsbratsupernaturalwhore @agirlwithdemonblood @jerkbitchidjitassbutt @imthedoctorlove @roonyxx @smellingofpoetry @deanwinchesterswitch @thinkinghardhardlythinking @pink-sparkly-witch @barewithme02 @deadlynightshadeindustries @jc-winchester @mrswhozeewhatsis @kinderousmaster @lyarr24 @aphorism-001 @onlinecemetery @allonsy-yesiwill @myeagletoadmaker @chucksfavouriteprophet

#dean winchester fanfiction #spn fic #jensen ackles fanfiction #supernatural #dean x reader #dean x you #jensen x reader #jensen ackles x y/n #jensen x you #breathe free #dean x sick!reader #sickfic

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boysbeloving · 10 months

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for @domsaysstuff

Happy Birthday, Dom! <3333

#happy birthday wifey #i wish you a lifetime of happiness love good health and amazing writing prompts <33 #i hope tosia and tobi are doing well!#kinnporsche #kinnporsche cast #mile phakphum #mile phakphum romsaithong #apo nattawin #apo nattawin wattanagitiphat

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thelibrarylesstrektraveled · 1 year

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Breathe Free (Part Two)

Summary: You were perfectly capable of taking care of yourself, thank you very much! Dean knew that, he also knew better. He’d seen you sick plenty of times in the past five years, but this was different. This was much more than a cold, but you were so stubborn about doctors! Dean Winchester isn’t about to let you slip away, even if it means going against your wishes. He only hopes he’s not too late!

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader, Dean x Reader, Dean x You

Characters: Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester, Reader

Warnings: Hurt/Comfort, Sickfic, Sick!Reader, Hospitals, Kissing, fluff

Word Count: 5873

One Shot - Two Parts

Author’s Notes: I have been sick with Covid for a month. Well… down sick for 2 ½ weeks and recovering my stamina for 2 more. Its been a real bitch. Plus my disabled mother has it now. This is following a nervous breakdown I had in June. Writing has been my passion and my mental health balm, but I’ve not been able to produce anything in months. So this… this is a fucking triumph!! I’m still working on all my other WIP, so please stick around. I’ll get there… eventually :) I’m hoping to finish part two shortly and post in a week… ish.

Thank you all for the continued support! Additional Notes: Still hanging in there, long covid is a bitch, but it does improve. More or less. I am SO happy with myself that I’ve finished a story! Even a little self-indulgent two parter. As always, thank you all! Your kind words and encouragement have really helped me. Love you guys :) Masterlist Breathe Free (Part One)

“She doesn’t need you to sell your soul Dean! She just needs you. Be there, hold her hand, tell her it’s going to be okay. Let her know she isn’t alone.”

He was so wrapped up in his own worry that he didn’t notice your fingers shifting against his palm. Your eyelids fluttered, then went still. It was so slight, that Dean thought he’d imagined it.

He desperately searched your face and held his breath. God please…

“Y/N?”

A few seconds later you did it again, this time you gave his hand a proper squeeze and Dean felt like his heart was going to burst.

He squeezed back, his other hand coming up to brush your cheek, “Y/N… baby, can you hear me?”

“Hey! It’s okay! You’re in the hospital, Sweetheart. Just stay calm. We’ll get that tube out, let me go get the nurse.”

“Okay, okay. Shh…” he sat beside you and pressed a kiss to your forehead while his free hand hit the call button. “I’ve got you; I’ve got you. I’m not going anywhere.”

When Sam saw his brother in the hallway, he quickened his pace. He was leaning against the wall, bent at the waist with his hands braced on his knees.

“Dean? What happened? What’s going on?”

Dean raised his head, sniffling back emotion, “She’s awake. They’re… ah… they’re taking out that tube.”

Sam caught the glossy sheen in Dean’s eyes. He clapped a hand on his shoulder, “That’s fantastic. Dean, that’s great.”

Dean nodded and pulled Sam into a brief, tight hug then released him and took a coffee.

“Good thing you talked me out of selling my soul, huh?’

“Flowers.”

Your voice was a raspy whisper behind the mask, but it still made Dean beam brightly.

“Hell yeah, Sammy and I bought out every white flower they had.” He set the massive vase down on the table. “They’re your favorite, right?”

Sam pulled out a stuffed a huge, stuffed moose from behind his back. It was impossibly soft with floppy antlers and was wearing one of his flannel shirts tied in place with a white velvet bow.

You laughed, “Aww! A… Win..chester of… my own.”

“You’ve already got two Winchesters,” he said, kissing the top of your head. “Add him to your collection.”

Your eyes were drooping, even after just a few minutes your energy was completely depleted. You let your head fall back against the pillow with a tired smile, “Thank you… Sammy.”

“We should get out of here, let you sleep,” he replied, catching his brother’s attention.

“Yeah,” Dean gave a reluctant nod. “If you’re lucky, we’ll smuggle in one of those triple thick strawberry-kiwi shakes you like.”

You grabbed hold of his hand again and tugged. It was so much effort to talk, you hope he got the message.

Dean wiped away the single tear that slid down your cheek. “Hey, hey. What’s wrong, Sweetheart?”

“I… I’m… s… sorry.”

He soothed back your hair, “Sorry for what?”

“Should have… gone… to… th… the doctor.”

“No, hey, don’t worry about any of that.”

“Scared… you.”

Dean cupped your face with his large palm, “Listen to me. I don’t want you to think about any of that stuff, okay? It doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is you getting better. That’s all I care about.”

You nodded; your eyes shuttered to half-mast. “Tired.”

He let out a chuckle and ran a hand over his five o’clock shadow, “I’ll bet you are.”

You shook your head and pointed at him. When he tilted his head in confusion, you patted the mattress beside you.

It was okay, it really was.

“Give him some time, Y/N. He’ll come around. You know how he gets.”

When you were in the kitchen a few days later making one of Sam’s health smoothies, the last thing you expected was to hear Dean’s voice.

“Tell me you’re not gonna drink that.”

You smiled but didn’t turn. “Of course not. I haven’t added the spirulina or wheat germ yet.”

You heard him mutter something about pond scum under his breath while he rummaged through the fridge.

“I’ve got enough for two,” you teased. “Should I get you a glass?”

“Too bad your stay in the VIP suite didn’t improve your sense of humor, smartass.”

So, you laughed.

His expression went from sexy and grumpy to utterly baffled. “Why are you laughing?”

You shook your head with a goofy grin and answered honestly, “I’m just happy to see you.”

He cautiously smiled back, “Yeah?’

“Yeah.”

“Huh. Well in that case, you wanna get out of here? I was thinking of going for a drive.”

Your heart felt light, “I’ll get my coat.”

“Hey, you wanna get out and walk for a bit?” You asked, pointing out one of your favorite state parks ahead.

“Sure. You bring your scarf?”

“Obviously,” you replied, pulling out the length of soft, white fabric from your bag.

“I’m not going to keel over, you know.”

Dean shoved his hands into the pockets of his black jacket. “You need to be careful in the cold air, it’s no good for you.”

“True, but walking is very good for me. It helps build stamina.”

He didn’t reply to that and the two of you walked along in silence until you really couldn’t take it anymore.

“Almost dying does that.”

There was venom in his voice, but the fear was too. Evidently, he hadn’t worked through it as much as you’d hoped.

“Is that why you’re kicking me out? Because I almost died?”

Dean stopped and turned to you, but he kept his eyes downcast. “Y/N…”

“Its really not fair. You’ve almost died several times and I still keep you around.” You tried to keep your tone light, but it was difficult with the tears threatening.

“It’s not funny,” his eyes were getting red as he recalled the terrifying night he carried you into the E.R. “You stopped breathing. Your fucking heart stopped!”

You brought your hand up to cup Dean’s cheek, “I’m so sorry.”

He closed his eyes briefly, letting the warmth of your touch comfort him. “Why didn’t you tell me? All this time… a fucking two year long pandemic… Covid is a respiratory virus! What if…”

You hurt him. Far more than you’d realized. And you hated yourself for it. This was going to take much more than a simple reassurance to work through.

“Can we sit?”

He led you to a park bench, “We should head back to the car, it’s too cold for you.”

“Like Doc Holliday.”

Then: “Nice place,” Dean said, scanning the neatly maintained garden beds and brick walkways.

“Yeah, it is. Remember, this is just a quick stop so I can pick up some stuff. Don’t do what you normally do.”

“What are you talking about?”

You ran a nervous hand through your hair and straightened your denim jacket, “That charming rogue routine you do whenever there’s a woman in front of you.”

His grin turned cocky, “Sweetheart, that’s just me. Can’t help it if the ladies love it.”

You brushed a piece of lint off his shoulder with an impatient huff, “Rein it in, cowboy.”

“Baby girl!”

“Hi Momma,” you managed to say while she squeezed you tight.

Your mother drew back and quickly scrutinized your appearance, “You taking care of yourself? Regular appointments? Feeling good?”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

That radiant smile was back, “Good girl! And this tall drink of water must be that friend you told me about.”

“Yes, this is Dean Winchester. Dean, this is my mom, Beverly.”

True to form, he turned up the charm to eleven. “No way I’m gonna believe you are Y/N’s mother, you must be her sister.”

“I love pie!” Dean gave you an infuriating grin over your mother’s head as the two of them sailed into the house together.

“Okay, I’m going to head up and grab those boxes.”

“Lift with your legs, Baby girl.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” you replied, disappearing through the sliding glass door.

Bev’s jovial mood turned serious as soon as her daughter was out of earshot. “Okay, Winchester, shoot me straight. How is my daughter?”

Dean blinked in surprise, “I’m sorry?”

The corner of Bev’s mouth quirked, “It runs in the family.”

“I can see that.”

She leaned back in her chair and studied him, “You seem like a decent man, the sort who keeps his word. That being the case, I have a favor to ask. Keep an eye on my girl for me.”

“Already done,” was his quick reply.

Dean leaned forward, elbows on knees, “You’ve got my word, Bev. I’ll never let her fall.”

Now: “I like your mom,” Dean looked down at his boots. “She made me promise to look after you.”

“You never told me that.”

“I got the impression she didn’t want me to. Thought maybe she had a mother’s intuition about you getting into the hunting business. Guess she was talking about something else.”

You let your gaze drift over to the lake in the distance, half thawed already. It would be an early spring this year. A sign of hope for the future.

“How’d that go over?”

“I hadn’t yet mastered the art of covering my tracks. Plus, she was dating the sheriff. I was back home twenty-four hours later.”

Dean snorted, “Amateur.”

“Your mom is awesome, I’m glad she supports you…. You’re lucky, Y/N.”

“Y/N…”

You knew what he wanted to say, you could feel it. You could see it in his eyes whenever he dared to look at you. The sorrow. All you wanted to do was save him from it. From himself.

“It’s amazing how much we still don’t know about how the human body works,” you blurted out, making him blink in confusion.

“What?”

You could see the realization slowly register in his beautiful eyes. If you heard your mother, you must have heard him.

Dean brought your favorite blanket and tucked it around you, careful of the machines and wires. “There you go, Sweetheart. Just like home.”

He might have been able to fool himself for a while if it weren’t for that breathing tube.

“Actually, that’s a lie… this place is nothing like home. Home has all the amenities, right? I’ll bet this state-of-the-art medical facility doesn’t even have a firing range. Or a dungeon!”

He chuckled a little at his Big Lebowski reference, disheartened when the only response was the hiss of the ventilator.

He reached over and gently combed his fingers through your hair. Your skin was cool to the touch since your fever broke in the night. That had to be a good sign, right?

Now: He tried to speak, but you moved your fingers to his lips to stop him. Tears shimmered in your eyes, but you managed a wavering smile.

“I love you too.”

It was everything you’d ever dreamt his kiss could be, and it ended far too quickly.

“Don’t send me away. Please don’t send me away.”

“I’ve been living there for five years without an issue,” you pointed out.

“Yeah, with a humidifier and inhalers. But it’s different now, that round of pneumonia damaged your lungs. You need to be someplace where its easier to breathe, not harder.”

“You’re right. Which is why Sam and I have been designing a new HVAC system.”

That stopped him, “Really? Why didn’t you guys tell me?”

“Because you went all emo and hid in your room for a month.”

“I’m not emo! What kind of HVAC system?”

“A kick ass one,” you grinned so that your tongue peeked out between your teeth. “Any other concerns?”

“What about hunting?” he challenged.

“I’m sorry.”

“You deserve the best, and that’s not me.”

“That’s not for you to say.”

“Doesn’t matter, it’s my choice.”

There was a change in his gaze, subtle but there all the same. He shook his head with a chuckle. He knew when he was beat, and he was grateful for it.

“Your cheeks turn the prettiest shade of pink when you get all worked up, you know that?”

“My cheeks are pink because it’s freezing out here!”

Dean ripped his coat off and wrapped it over yours, “Damn it, Y/N! I knew you were cold!”

“Well, if you were any kind of a boyfriend, you’d take my back to the car and warm me up properly!”

He was pulling the hood up over your head when he paused, “Boyfriend, huh?”

“Yeah, the kind that warms his girl up in the backseat,” you grinned and playfully rubbed your nose against his.

He growled in your ear and stood, sweeping you up in his arms and making you yelp in delight.

“Dean! I can still walk, you know!”

“Save your energy, Sweetheart, you’re gonna need it. Tonight, we’re gonna fog up all the windows!”

#dean x reader #dean winchester fanfiction #dean x y/n #dean x you #dean winchester #jensen x reader #jensen x y/n #jensen ackles #supernatural #spn fic #Breathe Free

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unmondefou · 10 months

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Valery, @heartofmuse

The sun that never sets and if it wills and sets, her warmth lingers on, for she is there in every detail.

Like the missing piece to solve the puzzle of your life's difficulties, like that deep well to hold your secrets, like the rain that hides your weakness when you cry, or like that sound recorder, where you will be heard without worrying about the remaining space because it simply has an infinite space.

And if I sit for a lifetime describing her, the sea will not suffice me, even if it is ink, for she is everything that can be imagined.

Valery...honey,

This is how I'm used to call you with every good morning 😊. Happy birthday🎂🎉, I wish you good luck and success, lasting happiness and health, and all your dreams come true.

Love you eternally ❤

--- h.harouche

#heartofmuse #spilled ink #spilled words #writerscreed #writers on tumblr #writerblrcafe

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inamoment · 8 months

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Some senior wrote this and it’s perfect for we “old” folks.

It seems just yesterday that I was young, just married and embarking on my new life with my mate. Yet in a way, it seems like eons ago, and I wonder where all the years went. I know that I lived them all. I have glimpses of how it was back then and of all my hopes and dreams. But, here it is... the winter of my life and it catches me by surprise...How did I get here so fast? Where did the years go and where did my youth go?

I remember well seeing older people through the years and thinking that those older people were years away from me and that winter was so far off that I could not fathom it or imagine fully what it would be like. But, here it is...my friends are retired and getting grey...they move slower and I see an older person now. Some are in better and some worse shape than me...but, I see the great change....Not like the ones that I remember who were young and vibrant...but, like me, their age is beginning to show and we are now those older folks that we used to see and never thought we'd be.

Each day now, I find that just getting a shower is a real target for the day! And taking a nap is not a treat anymore... it's mandatory! Cause if I don't on my own free will... I just fall asleep where I sit!

And so...now I enter into this new season of my life unprepared for all the aches and pains and the loss of strength and ability to go and do things that I wish I had done but never did!

But, at least I know, that though the winter has come, and I'm not sure how long it will last...this I know, that when it's over on this earth...it's NOT over. A new adventure will begin!

Yes, I have regrets. There are things I wish I hadn't done...things I should have done, but indeed, there are many things I'm happy to have done. It's all in a lifetime.

Life goes by quickly. So, do what you can today, as you can never be sure whether this is your winter or not! You have no promise that you will see all the seasons of your life...so, live for today and say all the things that you want your loved ones to remember...and hope that they appreciate and love you for all the things that you have done for them in all the years past!

"Life" is a gift to you. The way you live your life is your gift to those who come after. Remember, It is health that is real wealth and not pieces of gold and silver.

Consider;

Old is good in some things: Old Songs, Old movies, Old memories, and best of all, OLD FRIENDS!!

Credit: life's simple truth on Facebook

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pumpkzsafeplace · 8 months

Text

i remember - (mental health poem written by tee).

BIG TRIGGER WARNING! this dicusses serious topics that has happened to me & what i've gone through, if you don't want to read that's perfectly okay, look after yourself first <3.

also this is the first time i'm sharing my writing in eight years, so i'm sorry if its not the best. i often say to people who are struggling to let out your feelings, so that's what i did tonight. i hope you like it.

─•~❉᯽❉~•─

i remember the day i was diagnosed with depression.

i remember the baggy clothes, the sweaty palms and the cramped waiting room.

i remember the smell of the cheap filled concealer i had painted over my body like a plaster cleaning up yesterday’s mess.

i remember the squeaky chairs and the sterilised room.

i remember sitting down on the patients chair,

and i remember how quickly the room transformed.

instead of the office, i was in a court room.

the doctor glaring at me hard from the judge’s stand.

as we sat and listened as my distant family came up to the witness stand,

describing how much I had changed- how I wasn’t the same little girl they knew and loved.

i remember being so confused- so guilt ridden for traumatising the people around me so much.

i remember how my parents looked on the prosecution stand,

i remember how they spoke about me- how i was nothing but a monster haunting the skin of the little girl they had hoped for.

i remember the judge calling for silence as he made his decision,

i remember how he looked at my family like they were the victim,

like they were the ones suffering.

and then the words filled the room as clear as day,

guilty for the crime of clinical depression.

and the sentence? a lifetime of loneliness, confined in the casing of my small purple box room.

i still remember that room, even now at the age of twenty-four.

i remember how it felt to sit there, and watch as time carried on around you.

how it felt to feel imprisoned, not only in your mind, but in reality, too.

i remember not really having a lot of friends,

i remember having to make them up in stories stored in the files of my computer.

i remember the storylines like they’re tattooed on my scarred skin,

the story of just wanting to be loved, wanting to be liked.

wanting to be normal.

i remember how much worse it got the older i got.

i remember how far i felt from the family dinner table as list continued,

like a cruel wish list from the world.

first depression, then anxiety, then borderline personality disorder and then finally autism.

like a cherry ontop of the crumpling cake of self confidence.

i remember how my family dismissed my feelings,

dismissing the facts put right in front of their faces,

claiming i was 'cured' years ago by the universe in the form of three terribly structured therapy sessions,

but boy where they wrong.

the monster was there.

and it was hungry.

it wanted the grief, the sadness, the loneliness.

it wanted the suffering to never end.

it wanted to live forever.

and it was slowly achieving it.

it got that good at masking, that people began to prefer it over me.

i remember feeling like a puppet with the monster holding the strings,

as it paraded over my life like it was it’s own,

killing anything hopeful in its path.

university was the boss battle.

the final show down between good and evil.

i remember how hopeful i was at the fresh start,

i remember how happy i was to be out of the purple room jail cell.

i was free! i was normal again!

but the monster was always there, lurking.

waiting for the right moment to strike.

and it really pulled out all it had for the last show off.

the first strike was getting petty arguments stirred up,

housemates fighting and arguing over small things, like kitchen roll placement.

but i was stronger than i was before, i could take it.

the second strike was getting roofied for the first time,

the vulnerability of not remembering anything but the regretful taste of alcohol on your tongue.

it was harsh and a cruel card to play,

but i was supported- i had friends now and i was looked after and cared for properly.

the third hit hard.

it hit harder than anything I’ve ever felt before.

for the monster to win, it had to play dirty,

it had to play on my fears.

pin me against the one thing i will always be petrified off, no matter how hard I hide it.

men.

i remember his hands.

i remember the numbness.

i remember the begging

i remember the violence.

i remember the dirt of it all.

it had won,

the monster had tipped the table.

i was done.

i didn’t want to fight in this useless battle anymore.

the tears,

the scars,

the trauma

what was it all for?

was it a cruel joke?

did i do something wrong?

why me?

i remember planning out my final days.

i remember the date on the calendar.

i remember the written letters, even now they still haunt my laptop.

like the taunt of words of never being brave enough to pick up that final blade.

to finally let the monster, have what it wants.

it won, i didn’t want to carry on anymore.

but just as the creature took it’s mighty laugh,

a light appeared from the corner.

it was a small light, and incredibly dull.

but it took both of surprise.

what the hell is it?

i don’t know.

as the light began to fade, it seemed like the universe had a final card to play in the battle.

one they had been saving just in case the monster got this strong,

it’s final battle cry in attempt to save this innocent soul.

and it was in the shape of a man.

no older than twenty, similar age at the time.

his brown hair was shaggy and a little overgrown,

as his blue eyes looked at me.

actually, looked at me.

he wasn’t seeing a monster.

he wasn’t seeing a broken daughter.

a mistake of broken genes.

he was seeing a woman that need help,

a women with rosy cheeks and the cutest blue eyes he had ever seen.

and so, he walked into the battlefield.

with a determined expression on his face as he picked up the blade.

and in a protective stance held it up to the monster,

preparing to battle for a strangers life.

someone he barely knew- but knew deep down she was important.

and he struck.

he struck deep and hard.

with the determination to rid the being once for all.

as light beamed over the pair,

and the clouds began to clear,

he held an awkward hand out in introduction.

“i’m ----”

“i’m tee.”

i still remember those dark times from time to time.

the haunt of loneliness torments my skin like an itch you just can’t scratch.

but on days like that, i look for the light.

it can be small and incredibly dull,

but even the hardest boss fights have a cheat code to win.

you just have to look hard enough.

and if you ever find yourself missing your army,

look around.

we may be small, but we’re strong when we’re together.

keep going, i believe in you.

it will get better,

i promise <3.

i'm here to make sure no one goes through what i did alone ever again <3.

gif isn't mine

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