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drabbles-mc · 1 year

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I Said I'm Fine

JJ Maybank x F!Reader

For Day 14 of @whumpril's 2023 Challenge: false smile / holding back tears / "I said I'm fine"

Warnings: 18+, language, angst

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: I've been wanting to write for JJ again for a while now and these prompts just seemed to good to pass up for him. Hope you enjoy!

OBX Taglist: @garbinge @passionatewrites (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

The pogues all getting back to the Outer Banks was the biggest news on the island since they’d all gone missing. It was funny to you how much people had switched up about them once they were missing. People that you knew for a fact had never said a kind word to any of them were suddenly saying how worried they were, how they hoped that they were all okay wherever they were. It was all bullshit, and you knew it, but it wasn’t worth fighting with them over.

You almost wished that any of it had been sincere, because at least then it wouldn’t have felt like you were suffering alone. But, as it stood, you had no one. The more time that went by, the less people even pretended to care, and the more alone you felt.

But then they all came home.

There was nothing else in your life that could’ve compared to the feeling of relief that came when you found out that it was true, that they really were all back on the island. All of those weeks with absolutely no news, and now you were going to be able to see them all again. It felt like your heart was going to leap clean out of your chest.

You didn’t really know what you expected, but when you stopped by the chateau to see everyone, the only person that you saw there was John B. It made sense that everyone would’ve gone off in their different directions, but part of you was hoping that you would be able to see them all together before they split off.

It didn’t stop you from hugging John B tight enough to you to risk cracking his ribs. “I’m so glad you guys are okay,” you said, tears welling up in your eyes.

He laughed but you could hear the heaviness in it as he said, “Yea, me too.”

Pulling back, you quickly wiped the tears from your face. “Where…where is everyone?”

He shook his head, looking as bewildered as you felt. He didn’t know what else to do besides shrug. “Not sure. I think that everyone went…went home. Sarah went to get some stuff from Tannyhill but then she’ll be back here.”

“What about JJ?”

John B shrugged again. “He didn’t say where he was going exactly. Just figured he was going back to his house.”

Your heart sank at that. His house. His house that you knew for a fact was now taped off and slated to be seized by the bank. His house that he had been dying to get out of for years before all of this, and now it was only going to be worse.

Trying to get your feelings under control, you nodded. “Right. I’m, um, I’m gonna go see if I can catch up with him. I’ll try to track down Pope and Kie tomorrow.”

John B nodded. “Sure thing.”

Pulling him into another hug, you told him, “I’m so fucking glad you guys are home.”

He eased into the hug, squeezing you back for a moment. “Thank you.”

Without wasting another minute, you took off from the chateau back to your car and started towards JJ’s. You’d been stopping there on your rounds while everyone had been gone. You’d been stopping by the chateau too, on the off chance that they all appeared again and were just trying to lay low like the last time they dropped off the radar.

Practically jumping out of your car, you started making your way towards the front door. You saw the tape across it, but you also saw the way that the front door had been opened anyway. A heaviness settled in your chest as you realized that JJ had to come home after so many weeks away, to this. You’d been spending all of those weeks alone, but JJ had to come back to loneliness. That was an entirely different kind of pain.

Letting yourself in the house, you called out for him. “JJ?”

There was the sound of something clattering to the ground followed by the heavy footsteps that let you know that while a lot of things might have changed, JJ still hadn’t lost his boots. Any of the comfort that you found in that realization, however, was lost when JJ emerged from where his bedroom used to be. The lost look on his face broke your heart, but what made it worse was the fact that he tried to paint a smile on over it as he said your name.

“What’re you doing here?”

You wanted to step in closer to him, but it felt like your feet were glued to the floor. “I just, um, I wanted to come and see you.”

He held his arms out, the fake smile growing sadder by the second. “Here I am.”

Something about the sadness in his face got your feet to finally cooperate with the rest of you. Crossing the room in what felt like two long strides, you landed yourself right in front of him. “I missed you.”

“I—” his sentence was cut short for a moment as you wrapped him up in a hug. He settled into it, but you could feel the way that he was beginning to shake as he said, “I missed you too.”

The two of you stood like that for a long time, wrapped up in the middle of the dirty living room of Luke’s abandoned house. You were making up for lost time, all the days and nights that you’d spent worrying about him, about all of them. Every day that went by it felt less and less likely that you’d ever get the chance to hug JJ like this again. But he was here now, and you didn’t want to let him go.

JJ, on the other hand, was holding you tight in the hopes that if he held you tight enough, held you long enough, that the world around him would somehow change. As long as your arms were squeezing around his middle, and his eyes were shut tight as he buried his face into your shoulder, the sad reality of all that he had to come back to on the island wasn’t something that he had to deal with.

You could feel it as he started to shake more, could feel how he was trying desperately to hold back his tears. Running your hand up and down his back, you said, “You can talk to me, you know.”

That snapped him out of the sad but wishful state that he’d been in. Pulling away from you, he sniffled and shook his head, trying to blink his tears back into submission. “Talk? What’s,” he forced a laugh, “what’s there to talk about?”

“JJ—”

“No, no,” he waved you off, taking a step back, “I’m fine. Really. Why,” he let out a sad laugh as he held his arms out, gesturing to the room around you, “why wouldn’t I be good? I’m home! All those weeks away and I’m finally fucking home!”

You felt your bottom lip starting to quiver. “I’m sorry.”

Heat crept up the back of his neck—he could feel the anger threatening to roll over him. It wasn’t about you. None of this was your fault. But the longer he stood there, looking at you and the sad, sympathetic look in your eyes, the more he felt like he was going to take it out on you anyway. It wasn’t fair. But nothing about any of this really was.

“What do you have to be sorry for? I said I’m fine. I’m back,” he kicked an empty beer can to the side, “back in paradise.”

You knew that there was nothing to say that was going to soothe the pain he was feeling. Everyone else was coming home to things that were theirs, coming home to families of some kind. But not him. He had an empty, foreclosed house and that was it. John B had the chateau, Sarah had John B, Kiara had her parents, and Pope had his. Everyone had someone to lean on, something that was waiting to welcome them home. JJ had you, but it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t what he was looking for.

“You don’t gotta stay,” he said after a long stretch of silence. “I’m all good here, if you couldn’t tell.”

“I want to stay,” you told him, hoping to make him realize that he wasn’t as alone as he felt.

He scoffed. “No one wants to stay here. I don’t want to stay here, that’s for damn sure. Luke didn’t wanna stay here either! Hell, I didn’t even want to come back at all!”

The tears that were lingering at the edges of your eyes finally started to spill over. “JJ…”

“No, no,” he waved you off, “don’t do that. Don’t look at me like that, say my name like that.”

“I’m not—”

“What are you even doing here, anyway?”

Wiping at the tears on your face, you asked, “Is it not obvious?” You could tell by the look on his face when he opened his mouth that he was going to have another sarcastic comment for you, so you cut him off before he could start. “I’ve been worried sick about you for well over a month, JJ. You were missing. I, I was worried that you were dead.”

“Well,” he threw his hands up, “I’m not. I’m good. So you can—”

“You’re not good, JJ! Stop saying that!” You took a step towards him, erasing the distance that he’d tried to put there. “You’re not good. Nothing…nothing about this situation is good. I, I get that.”

You didn’t get it fully. But you were at least in a place where you could see it more than anyone else had been capable of. That’s why you were standing there with him while everyone else was gone. You were expecting JJ to throw it back in your face, though, the way that you couldn’t possibly understand it all. You braced yourself for a tirade, but it never came. The anger that was beginning to flood his eyes slowly started to drain, the sadness and loss creeping back in its stead. You saw the way he tried to keep his tears at bay as he shook his head at you, trying to figure out what to say next.

All you wanted to do was pull him out of that god forsaken house and never let him go back. Your mind was already racing, trying to come up with a plan for it all. But you also knew that the best plan in the world wasn’t going to matter if JJ didn’t agree to it. It all hinged on him being willing to let his guard down, let someone help.

“Please come stay with me,” you finally said.

He froze, clearly not expecting that to be the next thing you said. “What?”

“Come stay with me. At least for a little while, until we figure out what to do next.”

He shook his head. “No, no I can’t…you’re just…no. I can’t do that.”

“Why not?”

He stepped back and started to pace. “Just because you feel bad, doesn’t mean—”

“This is just as much for me as it is for you,” you said, cutting him off.

It wasn’t a lie, either. You didn’t want JJ to be squatting in Luke’s house for a multitude of reasons. You knew that nothing good was going to come of that. However, you would’ve been lying if you tried to say that convincing him to stay with you and your family didn’t have some selfish ulterior motives to it. All those weeks of not knowing where he was, it would be nice to know that he was just down the hall.

He could see the sincerity in your eyes. Part of him knew that he wasn’t going to end up winning this argument, but another part of him wasn’t going to let him give in without a fight.

“What about your parents?”

You laughed and shook your head, wiping at the tears on your face. “I’ve been telling you for years, JJ, my parents actually like you.”

He never believed it when you said it. You didn’t exactly blame him—most people on the island didn’t like JJ simply because they knew his last name. That, and he had a hard time not feeding into the animosity of it all once he found out that people didn’t particularly trust him. But your parents hadn’t ever treated him poorly, hadn’t ever made him feel less-than. You knew that some of it came from pity, but it was better than them treating him poorly.

It'd been a long enough stretch of silence to allow him to think when you finally spoke up again. “Please?”

He hesitated for another moment longer, but then gave in with a nod. “Okay.” He wiped at the tears on his face. “Just, just until I figure out something else.”

Relief flooded through you as you nodded. “Of course.”

Stepping in, JJ wrapped his arms around you in a tight hug, finally allowing himself to fall apart for a moment. “Thank you.”

You held him tight. “Of course.” Hooking your chin over his shoulder, you let your hand trail up and down his back. “I love you, you know.”

You felt the way he nodded as he kept you clung close to him. “I know.” He let out a sigh of relief. “I love you too.”

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday14 #false smile #holding back tears #i said i'm fine #obx #outer banks #outer banks netflix #obx netflix #jj maybank x reader #jj maybank x you #jj maybank #outer banks fanfiction #obx fanfiction #my writing #fanfiction #drabblesmc

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narcolini · 1 year

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biting truth

frank castle x gn!reader, angst/whump, 2693 words

warnings for mentions of violence & injury, canon typical events

for day 9 of whumpril: pinned down | bruises | “who did this to you?”

a/n: just an fyi the fic contains some roughhousing that i would nevverrrrrr tolerate or think was suitable in an irl relationship but... its fiction and hes frank so . we ride

tagging: @hausofmamadas @cositapreciosa @drabbles-mc

He’s moved it, he must have done. Probably thinks he’s protecting you, too, thinks that you wouldn’t even miss it. Like this is any safer, rooting around blindly for the touch of metal. He’s forgetting, obviously, that being with him is as much of a fucking threat as being him. That the target on his head reflects right back onto yours, red dot between your brows. All he’s done is strip away the one certainty you had. It’s okay, you thought, if someone comes, because it’s right there in the drawer.

‘Frank,’ you shout, pawing through the clutter in your bedside, ‘I swear to God, if you’ve touched my shit again.’

If shouldn’t even be in that sentence, because he has. He definitely has.

You abandon the pens and wires in the drawer, and reach for the laundry hamper, upturning a weeks worth of dirty clothes onto the floor. Nothing heavy falls out, so you don’t bother rifling through it afterwards. He’s not dumb enough to stash it in there, anyway, desperate as you are.

The bed is your next target; you grunt, lifting the mattress from the frame and shoving it diagonally. Opening up any hiding places that might lie beneath, but there’s no luck there, either. Just slats of wood and old shoe boxes. Fuck.

Before you can put it back and begin fixing the mess you’ve made, the war zone in your own bedroom, there’s a cough at the door—a forced one. Frank clearing his throat to get your attention. When you look up, he’s standing slanted against the doorframe, watching you scramble, arms crossed and waiting.

You can’t help but glare in return. ‘Where is it, Frank?’

He exhales, head tilting, like his day’s been any harder than yours has. ‘Where’s what?’

‘My fucking gun,’ you snap, because surely he knows, regardless of his ignorance to the rest of it—what happened, what you endured—that, he knows.

But he says nothing. He just continues to look at you, arms crossed, gaze steady. Forced patience like every father has. So, you carry on searching, moving around the wonky mattress to root through his bedside instead, which is despairingly empty. Un-lived in. He’s still not been in one place long enough to gather clutter like you have.

‘Now’s not the time to be precious,’ you snark, slamming the drawer shut again. ‘I want it back.’

You get a sigh instead of an answer. ‘You gonna tell me what happened?’ he asks. ‘To your face?’

It was only a matter of time before he noticed that. Probably clocked it as soon as you got home, really, despite the efforts you made to hide it. You’d hurried into the bedroom before he had time to ask, head down, face to the floor, but that was a doomed tactic to start with. Too unlike you to go unchallenged by him.

Now that he’s standing there, parallel, you can hardly hide the bruises on your neck, the dried blood under your nose. Can hardly convince him that it’s anything other than what it is—because he knows, he knows what a fight looks like—but you can play his game in return. You’re just as good at biting your tongue as he is.

‘No,’ you tell him, definite.

He nods, standing out of his lean. ‘Alright,’ he says, as if that’s the end of it.

But it isn’t, because you’re still at a disadvantage. You put your hand out, palm up, and step forward until you’re directly in front of him. Fingertips to his chest. The hall light sits behind the crown of his head, shining onto your face, highlighting the bruises. The blood. It doesn’t matter. ‘Give me the gun,’ you demand.

‘No.’

‘Frank.’

He shrugs, inviting the stand-off to settle. Head hard and jaw set. He could do this all day.

‘Fine.’ You’ll strip the apartment bare until you find it. He can even watch, if he likes.

When you try to move around him, he blocks you, his arm going up to grip a palm to the doorframe. You push against it, but he tenses. Pause to look at him, brow raised, and he just looks back at you, stubborn.

Really? That’s what he’s fighting you on, after everything, your right to own firearms? If it wasn’t so maddeningly annoying, you’d laugh. If you weren’t still running on adrenaline, and pain, and deep, untouched fear, you’d tell him so. You’d make him see how absurd he’s being, given the weapon that he is himself.

Instead, you duck under his barrier before he can stop you, and ignore the way he calls your name afterwards—like a curse—to hot-foot into the living room. It has to be in here somewhere. Even he wouldn’t dispose of it entirely.

‘Will you just talk to me?’ he complains, boots heavy on the floorboards. He’s hounding after you, of course, through the short hallway, between the couches, into the kitchenette.

Where is it? Where would he put it?

You open the cabinet under the sink, then slam it shut again.

‘You come home,’ he says, hovering behind, ‘with that shit all over your face, and you expect me to just ignore it?’

‘I expect you to trust me,’ you quip back. ‘The only person you ever trust is…’

You spin, piece slotting into the puzzle at last. It’s on him still. He hasn’t hidden it at all, because he’s the only one he trusts to use it.

‘Give it to me.’

He sniffs, stalling, then nods a fraction, hands propped on his waist. ‘When you tell me what you need it for.’

You dive at him, too sick of bickering to bother with anything other than action now, reaching for the back of his jeans. When your arms aren’t quite long enough to get there, you hook his belt loops instead, twisting him toward you. And that’s as far as you get, because, well, it’s Frank. You can never out-step him.

He grabs your biceps before you can try to reach it a second time, which—God—which triggers something you didn’t expect, a reaction like you’re there again, like you’re in between buildings downtown, struggling to get free, and you slap him. Not hard, but palms flat and directionless. Panic swatting to get away from him, his chest, his arms, anything besides working toward the gun; for a moment, you’ve forgotten about the gun.

You catch his face once before he makes any firm efforts to stop you, his head turning from the impact.

Then you’re against the wall behind, not roughly, but in a controlled way. Walked back and put there, with his grip on your arms light enough to leave wiggle room still.

‘Get off me,’ you bark, shaping guilt into anger. Too high to come back down yet, to realise it’s Frank, your frank, that you’re fighting against.

‘Not until you—hey. Hey!’ He drops his hold to your wrists, pinning them to the wall by your sides. Arms forced straight and motionless at last. ‘Stop,’ he instructs, voice taut in his effort not to shout, ‘stop it. Tell me what’s going on.’

You try him again, curving under his hold. Hips to his, spine arching, fists bumping the drywall. He doesn’t budge. He doesn’t even look mad.

‘Get off me, Frank.’

‘Who did this to you?’ he asks, looking more concerned than annoyed, despite the situation. His heavy brows sink together, his eyes scan your face like you’re something to be ret-conned. Worry printed behind the dark of them. ‘Tell me.’

‘I won’t.’

He hasn’t even seen the worst of the bruising, doesn’t really know what you’re protecting him from yet. You aren’t doing it to be stubborn, or mysterious, or to give yourself power over something he can’t reach. You won’t tell him because it’ll make things worse, because it’ll possess him beyond rationality and then you’ll have nothing left, just aches and an empty apartment.

‘Please just leave it,’ you try, attempting to soften him. ‘It’s dealt with.’

Again, he doesn’t budge. He adjusts his hold, bringing your hands up, elbows bent. ‘We can stay like this as long as you want.’

Your nostrils flare, and you know you’re looking at him with venom, because the plea didn’t work, and he’s a mule that won’t budge, and it doesn’t matter, right now, that you love him still, under it all, because he’s winning. He’s winning. You don’t have the same unwavering patience that he does—when it comes to you. His lungs are scooping in breaths, as riled up as you are, but his hands are firm, his grip steady. His jaw flexes as he waits you out. And he wins.

‘Fine,’ you concede, ‘alright. Just—get off me. I’ll tell you.’

He considers it for a moment before deciding you aren’t lying, then breaks free. Palms open, boots back. You rub your wrists, though they aren’t hurting, and flick him a sour look.

‘Well?’ he prompts.

‘Jesus, okay.’ It’s concern, you know, that’s drawn the urgency out of him. It’s the bruise under your eye, and the blood on your nose, staring back at him, but, God, if it doesn’t feel like a punishment. Like you’ve done wrong yourself, instead of being the victim in the first place. ‘It was Billy,’ you admit, and your voice pinches at the end like it might break. If you could give him a different name, any other name, you would do it happily. Easily. Saying Billy’s is like tugging the pin from a grenade and holding onto it afterwards. Waiting.

He frowns, speaking carefully around the word, ‘Billy?’

‘Yes, Billy.’

‘What happened?’

‘Well, Frank, he tried to snatch me to use as bait.’ You walk past him, aimless, and pause again once you’re by the kitchen island. ‘But he forgot to account for the fact I’m not easily fucking abducted.’

All that special, super secret, military service, and he didn’t even bother to look into your own history. Your training. You aren’t military standard, but you know how to fight well enough to have caught him off-guard. Which was all you needed, apparently.

‘He hurt you,’ Frank says. A statement, not a question, said to help him process it. You watch him chew it over in his head, and you know where it takes him. You had tried to avoid it.

‘No more than I hurt him,’ you reply, attempting to sound reassuring. ‘Was like fighting a fucking clone of myself.’

It’s not entirely true, because he had the up on you in terms of height, weight, intent—he wanted you to go with him, for the sake of his cause. For the sake of Frank. You just wanted to make enough of a scene that he couldn’t succeed. But it isn’t entirely false, either. You had got a swipe of nails cross his cheek, a knee to the soft of his groin. It was like cats, by the end, slapping paws at each other, biting ears. No rules and no tact, either. He couldn’t do anything once you’d found a crowd to push into, wouldn’t do something insane enough to get the advantage again, so you went.

‘I got into the Subway before he could stop me,’ you add.

You’d watched him from the safety of the carriage, doors shut firmly between the two of you, feeling victorious. Now, looking at Frank, it’s obvious your win was just a pause in the fight, a moment to catch your breath.

He’s flexing his hands, curling them in and out of fists. You watch him lick his lip, nodding, watch his expression change like he’s talking to himself. Working it all out behind his skull and you’re not invited.

‘You can relax, Frank. You’ve officially go the upper hand.’ Billy’s plan to get at him, to draw him out of the cracks, has failed. He can’t try it again now that it’s laid bare, spelled out for Frank to work around.

‘He tried to—’

‘But he didn’t, did he?’ You flap your arms, gesturing to yourself. ‘I’m fine. Crisis averted.’

The look he gives you in return makes you falter. Tugs your heart from under all the stress, the print of adrenaline, and reminds it of itself. What it beats for. He looks seconds away from darting out of here, like the moment of misjudgement before a deer leaps across the highway. Your gun is in his waistband already. His boots are on. It’d take him less than a minute to ruin everything, to be gone before you could stop him.

When you speak again, it’s with half the bite and conviction of before. More of a bargain, a plea, than anything else. ‘Don’t make all of this for nothing by walking into his trap anyway.’

It’s not your life you were fighting for, it was his. If Billy got you to where he wanted, you know how it would’ve gone down. A life for a life. Frank would’ve agreed to it without a thought, in a heartbeat, would have sacrificed himself before Billy even got a knife to your throat. Before a threat was even laid.

He’s thinking about it still. Wants to end this now, instead of waiting for the next play.

‘So what was your plan?’ he asks suddenly, half-scoffing. He can barely look at you as he says it. ‘You were gonna go out there, and kill him yourself?’

You don’t know what stings more, the doubt in his voice that you could, or the idea that you’d be dumb enough to try, knowing what he’d do in return if it all went wrong.

‘All I’m ever doing, Frank, is trying to protect you from yourself.’ You’re hissing the words out at him, forcing them through your teeth. ‘Forgive me, if I want to protect my own life every once in a while.’

You don’t want to kill Billy, you don’t even have the mental space to imagine it. You just want a weapon that would stop him the next time he tries, if he tries. You won’t be lucky a second time around. Billy wouldn’t make the mistake of underestimating you twice, especially now that you’ve left your mark on him.

Frank is breathing heavy enough for you to hear it, his chest up and down under the black of his shirt. It’s not frustration anymore, but fear. Control slipping out from beneath him. He can’t expect you to hide, or live in the shadows like he does. He knows not to ask it of you.

‘You shouldn’t have to do that,’ he says.

You sigh. You don’t need to answer him, don’t need to remind him that, well, yes. You do have to do it. And you’re far too deep into the mess of it all to step out of range now.

‘Billy won’t,’ he starts, though you both know he’ll be lying by the end of it. ‘He won’t come near you again. Alright? You don’t need to…’

You put your hand out again. Your voice is soft now. ‘It’ll make me feel better,’ you say, ‘please.’

He pauses, for a drawn out moment, with his gaze somewhere on the ground in front of him. Then he reaches behind, to pull the gun from his jeans, and passes it to you.

Billy won’t, he said, he shouldn’t. But he might, and that’s a truth that neither of you can try to hide from each other. A reality that sits in the room already.

‘Thank-you,’ you breathe, relieved now that it’s in your hand, and soon it’ll be back by the bed where it belongs. A safety net you hope you’ll never bounce in.

Frank nods, running his tongue over his gums. When he finally connects again, his eyes on yours, expression tired more than anything else, you smile. Or try to. He doesn’t match the gesture, turning to leave instead.

‘I’ll run a bath,’ he says, ‘get you cleaned up.’

‘Alright.’

You know how it goes. Clean, soothed, and back to argue about it all over again.

#frank castle x reader #frank castle fanfiction #frank castle x you #whumpril2023 #whumpril #im getting brave now adding frankie to my blorbo writing wheel #this reader character is such a firecracker i almost feel bad for frank LMAO #he doesnt need the stress

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uuuhshiny · 1 year

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Joaquin Phoenix and Russell Crowe in Gladiator

“Smile for me now, brother”

#by uuuhshiny #Russell Crowe #Joaquin Phoenix #Gladiator #whumpril2023 #Whumprilday23 #Bloodstains #uuuhshiny's gifs #whumpedit #RC gifs

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losthavenmine · 1 year

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Whumpril 2023 Day 30: Holding Hands

L.A. Confidential (1997)

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whump-about-it · 1 year

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Sponge bath/ Infection/ “Lets get you cleaned up”

@whumpril day 22

CW: infections, passing out, mild hallucinations, fever.

The room seemed to be wavering around Whumpee. The floor kept shifting and tilting at odd angles, and the walls didn’t appear to be shifting with it. Instead they kept elongating and shrinking at random intervals. Whumpee couldn’t look at anything straight on or else the constant movement of the room was going to make them nauseous. When they tried to take a step they stumbled on the moving floor and had to grab onto the chair next to them to keep their knees from buckling.

Their mouth was dry, and their ears were beginning to ring. Whumpee tried to grip the chair harder to ground themselves. Get a control on their body and the shaking room. They knew they should know what was going on, but their brain was moving so sluggishly they couldn’t think of what had happened.

“Whumpee?” A voice broke through the ringing in Whumpee’s ears, and they could feel someone putting a hand on their shoulder. Whumpee turned towards the voice, and the hand, and managed to focus on Caretaker’s concerned face for a split second before it began to twist and contort like they were a painting someone was smudging over.

It was all to much for Whumpee’s brain, and their world quickly faded to grey, and then to black.

“Catch me” they slurred as their body went boneless. The last thing they remembered before they totally blacked out was Caretaker swearing as they tried to pull Whumpee into their arms before they hit the floor.

The next thing Whumpee remembered, they were coming to propped up in someone’s bed. Their head was screaming, and their skin itched and ached. They felt like a clay pot cracking and preparing to fall apart in desert heat. Even so, Whumpee could feel something wet and freezing being pressed to their neck, just below their ear. The feeling disappeared but quickly came back an inch or so away. The sudden cold on their hot and aching skin made Whumpee wince even as their brain told them to stay still.

“It’s just me” Caretaker murmured from somewhere very close to Whumpee. They continued to dab Whumpee’s neck with what they could now distinguish as a sponge for a minute until Whumpee managed enough control over themselves to crack their eyes open.

They were in Caretaker’s room. The lights were out and the curtains were drawn only allowing dim sunlight to filter through. The room was spinning, but it at least was staying proportional now. And Caretaker’s face, mere inches from their own, was only contorting in the usual ways.

Caretaker leaned away when they saw Whumpee’s eyes open and dipped the sponge in a bowl of water sitting on the bedside table. They rang it out and began to dab at the other side of Whumpee’s neck making them wince again. Caretaker’s face was a mixture of concern and displeasure and Whumpee tried not to stare at them and they continued to wipe the sweat off of their face and neck.

“Is this your shirt?” They asked in a raspy voice after a moment. They had just noticed they weren’t in the same clothing they had been in when they passed out.

“You sweat through your own” Caretaker told Whumpee in way of a response. “The cut on your arm has a nasty infection.”

Whumpee glanced guiltily down at their left forearm. It was splayed out next to them on a seperate pillow. Caretaker had removed the bandage, but there was a warm compress over the deep cut Whumpee had been trying to hide.

Right. That’s what had happened. They hadn’t told Caretaker about the injury. They didn’t want them to worry. The infection hadn’t been that bad the last time they had changed the bandage. They had cleaned out the puss and made sure to dry the wound before putting on a new bandage. Had they applied the antiseptic? They couldn’t remember.

“Are you going to give me a lecture?” They rasped, glancing back at Caretaker, who surprisingly gave them a half smile.

“Eventually” They said fondly “When your fever breaks. I want to make sure you remember it.”

Whumpee nodded and instantly regret the movement. They squeezed their eyes shut against the room that was beginning to spin again. Caretaker continued to brush the sponge down Whumpee’s arm while they stroked Whumpee’s sweaty head with their other hand, gently encouraging them to take deep breathes until Whumpee didn’t think they were going to pass out again.

“I’m sorry” Whumpee rasped when they opened their eyes again “I should have told you about the cut.”

“I told you, I’m saving the lecture for later.” Caretaker said. “For now lets get you cleaned up, and then I’m tracking down some antibiotics.”

“Okay” Whumpee mumbled. They shut their eyes again and held as still as they could as Caretaker finished wiping them down with cool water and began to dress their wound, properly this time.

#whump #whumblr #whumpril2023 #whumprilday22 #sponge bath #infection #lets get you cleaned up #fever #passing out #hallucinations #hiding injuries #whumpee x caretaker #caretaker

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cricket-reader · 1 year

Text

Agony

Masterlist | A03 | Wattpad | Recommendations | Inbox

Summary: Bucky’s girlfriend is sick and in a lot of pain. He just wants to make her feel better.

Warnings: pet names, COVID, sickfic, fluff

Word Count: 655

Prompt: Ache, Massage Waiting Room, Needle

A/N: day 4 of Whumpril by @whumpril

Every breath gave way to a horrible pain in her upper body. It felt like someone was consistently stabbing her with a knife. Her ribs felt like someone had mistaken them for a punching bag. Every breath was agony.

Her chest was full of phlegm and coughing did nothing to help. Every cough, every breath, every laugh sent her head throbbing. She couldn’t get up without feeling like someone was inside her brain, smashing it with a hammer.

She was shivering underneath her blanket despite how warm her body was. She couldn’t fall asleep and she never felt hungry. She knew, realistically, she’d have to eat something, but she just didn’t feel like it. She had never felt so terrible in her life.

She couldn’t even gather the strength to greet her boyfriend when he arrived. She hoped he wouldn’t mind.

“Dollface?” Bucky questioned, concerned about the lack of his girlfriend coming to pummel him with kisses or at least shouting a greeting his way.

He heard a weak groan come from their room and he instantly dashed to her side. He was a bit relieved when he didn’t see any blood. He could see, however, that she was very pale.

“What’s wrong?”

She sniffed. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

He frowned and placed his right hand over her forehead. She was burning up. Turning away, she coughed a few times. He could hear how congested she was.

“It hurts, Buck. Really bad,” she groaned, tears pooling in her eyes. She felt so weak. Who was she to complain about pain when her boyfriend had literally been tortured halfway to death?

“Let’s get you to a clinic, yeah?” He mumbled, grabbing some comfy clothes she could easily change into.

They soon were in the waiting room. Her head was resting against his chest as her eyes drifted open and closed. They heard her name being called and went in.

After some questions, tests, and waiting, the doctor diagnosed her with COVID. It didn’t really come as a surprise to her. She was disappointed, nonetheless.

The doctor prescribed some medicines to help her with a quick recovery. As a hater of needles, she was upset upon learning that she’d have to get an injection. It wasn’t ideal, but as long as she could hold Bucky’s hand she’d be fine.

Her skin was prepped and she held her breath with anticipation. Thankfully Bucky was there, reminding her to breathe through it. He didn’t want her to pass out from an injection again.

Luckily, she didn’t end up passing out. Though, she was exhausted. They quickly got her medicine and went back home. Bucky wasn’t very happy when he learned that she had eaten nothing that day. He could have came home and taken care of her!

So, he let her go to the bedroom while he made her favourite soup. She was halfway asleep when he came in with a steaming bowl and a glass of water. He gave her the medicine that the doctor told her to take at night and told her that she could almost go to bed.

“Shouldn’t I be wearing a mask or something? I don’t want to get you sick. Maybe you should stay at the compound instead,” she worried, suddenly realising that he could easily catch it from her.

“Don’t worry about that, doll.” He smiled. Even sick and she was still putting him first. What did he do to deserve such a wonderful girlfriend? “Super soldier. Can’t get sick.”

She huffed and rolled her eyes, “Of course you can’t.”

He just grinned and joined her in bed. They put on a show to watch as she eats, leaning against Bucky. When she finished the soup, Bucky took the bowl to put it in the sink and got her some more water.

“Cuddle time?” She questions from her spot on the bed when Bucky returns.

“Of course, babydoll.”

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whumpbump · 1 year

Text

Whumpril day 17

Cw: self-treatment, panic, cursing, resetting a dislocated joint

Caretaker’s cellphone rang, Whumpee’s name flashing on the screen. Unsuspecting of what was about to occur, they picked up and cheerily answered.

“Caretaker?” Whumpee asked in a small and breathless voice immediately cluing Caretaker in to what the call was about.

“Yyyyeessss?” Caretaker responded slowly.

“I uh, I fucked up. I fucked up bad.” They wavered.

Caretaker’s heart rate picked up.

“How bad?”

“Um…”

“Tell me. Please. In detail.”

“I dislocated my knee and I’ve spent the past 30 minutes trying to reset it and I can’t,” Whumpee’s voice broke, “it hurts.” They were crying now.

“Ok, ok, it’s going to be ok-“

“How do you know thaaaat?!”

“Because we’re going to go to the hospital and make it ok. I’m going to pick you up, where are you?”

“My house, bottom of the steps. The door is unlocked,” sniffled Whumpee.

#whumpee #whumpblr #whump blog #whump ideas #whump #caretaker x whumpee #caretaker #whump community #caretaking #injured whumpee #protective caretaker #whumpril #whumpril 2023 #whumpril2023 #I reset my own wrist when I dislocated it and it was Not Fun

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em-writes-stuff · 1 year

Text

bruises + “who did this to you?”

@whumpril day 9

warnings: implied past abuse, young whumpee, improper medical care

596 words

hero, villain, sidekick

part two here | part three here

---

Hero grimaces and peels back the bandage, she exhales sharply through her teeth and rips the rest of the bandage off. She leans back against the bathroom sink and takes a deep breath. “Ok,” she says, “It could be worse.”

She lifts her leg up into the sink and runs warm water over the gash, letting the water wash away any debris still in it. While the water runs, Hero presses gently on the bruises along her leg and torso.

She turns the water off and dabs the cut dry with a towel before pressing gauze into it and wrapping it with tape.

“Hey Hero!” Sidekick yells from the other room, “You should see this!”

Hero rolls her pant leg down over the tape and pulls her boots on, “Coming!” She bundles everything together in the now blood-stained towel and shoves it under the sink before unlocking the door and limping into the living room. “What’s going on?”

He points to the screen and sighs, “Looks like Villain isn’t going to wait any longer.”

“Damnit,” Hero runs a hand over her face and stares at Sidekick, “Well, you can’t do anything with your leg, so I’ll have to go in alone.”

“Be careful, please,” he says, eyes boring into hers. “I’ll do your homework if you come back in one piece.”

She smiles, “Deal.”

Villain stops in his tracks, eyes following Hero’s brightly colored outfit. He rolls his eyes and leans against a building, letting the heat from the concrete seep into his shoulder and relieve some of the aching.

He closes his eyes until he hears her voice, “What are you doing?”

He smiles and pushes off of the wall, “I’m just going for a walk.” he says, feigning innocence, “What’s so wrong with that?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I wouldn’t either.”

She takes a step forward, face pinching together in pain and falls forward. Villain catches her and guides her to the ground, “What? Not even going to let me get a hit in before you tap out?”

She crawls away from him, swatting his hand off of her shoulder, “In your dreams.”

Hero rights herself, leaning heavily on the wall. Villain holds his hands out in front of himself and takes a step back from Hero, looking her over.

She blows a puff of air out and shoves off from the wall, forcing her leg to hold her weight. “I can still beat you.”

He nods and purses his lips, “I’m sure you could. So let’s not fight, yeah? I can take you to the hospital? Or even just drop you off somewhere.”

“No!” Hero blurts. “I don’t need your help.”

She falls again, and this time Villain doesn’t let her go, “Too bad. I know the best doctor in the city, I can get you in to see her right now.” He wraps her arm around his shoulders and holds her up from her waist, “No arguing.”

Hero grumbles and fights against him, but with every second she gets weaker. Her head lolls onto his shoulder and her eyelids droop, “I swear to God, if I wake up anywhere other than the hospital, I’ll kill you.”

“Deal.”

Villain loads her into his truck and starts the engine, looking in the mirror every few seconds to make sure Hero was still breathing.

He speeds over a bump in the road and Hero groans, her hand wrapping around her ribs. Her shirt lifts up with the movement and Villain’s heart stopped at the bruises on her stomach. “Jesus, kid, who did this to you?”

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday9 #bruises #who did this to you #hero whumpee #hero whump #villain caretaker #whump #whump fic #whump writing #my writing #em writes #em writes stuff

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acasualcrossfade · 1 year

Text

Whumpril Day 1: Panic Attack

Unraveled

White Collar: Peter Burke and Neal Caffrey

For Day 1 of @whumpril

TW: panic attacks

1.5k, includes spoilers for Season 1

“Nice work, Diana. Couldn’t have done it without you,” Peter said, shaking Diana’s hand.

Diana smiled back easily. “Always a pleasure, boss.” She nodded towards Neal’s departing form. “Looks like he’s got somewhere to be.”

Peter chuckled. “Looks like it.” He pointed towards the back of the building. “We parked out back so I’ll see you back at the office.”

Diana nodded a farewell in return and Peter jogged a few steps to catch up to his CI. Neal seemed to be walking fast; maybe Diana was right and he had somewhere to be?

“Forget something?” Peter called when he was in earshot of Neal, holding up his anklet. Neal had a knack for remembering birthdays and anniversaries, but he always seemed to conveniently forget about his anklet after solving a case.

As Peter neared the car, he immediately knew something was wrong. Neal was pacing back and forth, and running his hand through his hair. Peter checked the time; was he late for something?

Peter had barely gotten a few steps closer when Neal began shrugging out of his suit jacket, allowing it to fall to the ground in a heap. Neal huffed a breath before leaning heavily on the car, almost like he was going to be sick.

“Neal? Neal?” Peter’s voice had gotten lower and more serious; he’d never seen Neal like this. In the years Peter chased Neal and caught him, twice, he’d never seen Neal look this…unraveled.

Peter knew it’d been hard for Neal after Kate and the plane, so it was to his utter surprise that Neal had come in after one day off, ready to take on a new case. It seemed like working cases like usual helped, and after Mozzie assured Peter he’d be doing the same to keep Neal on track…it seemed that Neal was functioning.

But more than once, Peter caught Neal staring off into space and when Neal would turn back, his eyes would look shinier than usual.

Work kept his CI busy enough, but even with a full schedule and a pile of cases, it was clear that keeping busy could only do so much.

“Neal?” His voice came out softer. He glanced at his outstretched hand, caught between wanting to offer comfort and unsure if it’d be welcomed.

Up close, Neal looked sick; his face had paled to a significant white. One hand white-knuckled the metal of the car as he panted out short, shallow breaths. Neal’s eyes were a terrified blue as his other hand clawed at his collar. His fingers struggled at his neck, trying and failing to get a grip on his tie to loosen it.

The tie slid slack and Neal moved on his collar. His hands shook as he grasped uselessly against the small buttons as he tried and failed to undo the buttons at his collar. He moved to his shirt next, and he yanked it from where he’d carefully tucked it in that morning.

Neal whimpered between uneven pants, his breaths a syncopated staccato.

“Neal?” Peter knew what his training had taught him, but he pushed it aside, trying to focus. This wasn’t some criminal; this was Neal.

Neal finally managed to undo the buttons, gasping in breaths as he pulled his shirt loose and away from his neck. His grip on the car seemed to be the only thing keeping him upright.

Neal snapped back to the nightmarish memory of the explosion; the air stung his nostrils and the heat made it hard to breathe.

Neal could feel the scorching heat against his back, the stinging impact of his palms against the concrete from being pushed over, and worst of all, the sick realization seeping through him that Kate, his Kate, had been on that plane…

The very plane he was about to board…

He tightened his grip on the car. “I-I’m alright, just-just need…” Neal breathlessly explained. Words tangled and caught in his throat as his vision dotted.

“Whoa, whoa,” Peter started, catching Neal just as the man’s legs buckled. In his arms, Neal shook terribly and his wild blue eyes were wide and unfocused as he gripped Peter’s forearm. “Head between your knees, head between your knees,” Peter coached, helping Neal lower down and sit on the ground of the parking lot.

Neal obeyed with no fight or crude argument, and its absence made Peter’s heart tighten with worry. Peter placed a hand on Neal’s back. “Now deep breaths,” Peter went on. “Like this.”

Peter took a slow, exaggerated breath and let it slowly, loud enough for Neal to hear.

Neal trembled and his breath stuttered out of him, but Peter could hear Neal’s wheezy breaths as tried to imitate Peter’s.

Peter continued and slowly, slowly, Neal’s breathing evened and with his hand still against Neal’s back, Peter could tell that his shakes had weakened to shivers. His shirt was damp with sweat.

The knot of worry that had taken up residence in his chest loosened as Neal’s breathing slowed. Peter let his hand move to Neal’s shoulder. He expected the man to pull back, but to his surprise, Neal leaned into it slightly.

Slowly, Neal lifted his head. Peter could see the pronounced dark circles around Neal’s eyes, and the way his cheekbones seemed to be sharper. His eyes were an electric blue and they darted around with uncertainty.

“S-sorry,” Neal apologized. “I-I didn’t mean…they start…I don’t…”

Peter had never heard Neal stutter, let alone trip over his words, but he gave Neal’s shoulder a comforting squeeze. “It’s okay,” Peter assured. “You’re okay.”

Neal’s body shivered and he wiped the back of his hand against his eyes quickly.

Peter was quiet for a moment, giving Neal the time to process and breathe. “You wanna talk about it?”

Neal silently shook his head. “N-not now,” he managed. His voice came out in a broken choke.

Peter rubbed Neal’s shoulder. He kept his voice quiet and even. “How about we head back to my place, then? Elizabeth would love the excuse to make some tea.”

It took a long moment, but Neal nodded slowly.

“You think you can stand?”

Again, a slow nod.

Peter knelt, guiding Neal’s arm around his shoulder. “You good? Here, up on three,” Peter explained, and when Neal’s grip tightened on him, Peter paused to give Neal a minute.

“S-sorry,” Neal breathed. “J-just need a minute.” He took another breath and adjusted his grip on Peter. His eyes refused to meet Peter’s.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Peter nearly whispered. There was something about seeing Neal like this that made him want to treat him ever so gently. Slowly, Peter carefully sat on the ground, letting Neal lean against him. “We’re in no rush.”

Neal seemed to relax minutely at that and took another breath before nodding.

A pang of guilt washed over Peter; he shouldn’t have pushed Neal. He knew Neal well enough to know that even as the best con could only hide so much. This was the proof.

By the time Peter got Neal in the car, the man was quiet and looked more worn than ever, as if dealing with any emotion had sapped him of any of his remaining energy. Neal pinched the bridge of his nose, using his thumb and forefinger to rub at his eyes.

Peter sat in the driver’s seat and nodded towards the glove compartment. “There’s some water in there. And a few granola bars, if you need.”

Neal raised his eyebrows at the sight, and leaned over to reach into the glove compartment. His eyes glinted in surprise as he pulled out a granola bar, giving Peter a peek at Neal’s usual self.

“There’s never snacks,” he piqued. He stifled a stubborn yawn against his sleeve.

Peter shrugged and chose to ignore the way Neal’s ears turned red. “They help on busy cases,” he said casually. “And it’s handy for stakeouts if Elizabeth doesn’t have time to make deviled ham.”

He looked over to see Neal unscrewing the cap on the water bottle before taking a small sip. And then, another. To his relief, Neal seemed to have stopped shaking.

The New York City traffic looked dense. Cars moved slowly, and it took Peter three tries to pull into traffic. He kept his head on a swivel, trying to find room to merge.

And by the time Peter wanted to ask Neal about the whole ordeal, he found Neal leaned against the window, his eyes closed. The sight made Peter’s heart squeeze; he also felt a shiver of worry. Peter had seen the man grumpy and hangry, but never asleep, let alone asleep in his car.

Neal had at least eaten some of the granola bar and drank some of the water. The remnants of both sat in the cup holder between them.

Peter considered that a win and made a mental note to set up another meeting with Mozzie.

Still, he was glad the man was in one piece. Neal slept on, and Peter was still at a loss of what to do, if letting him sleep would be best, or waking him when they arrived? But, behind his worry was a strong sense of gratefulness and luck.

It could have easily been Neal on that plane, too.

And although Neal wouldn’t or couldn’t talk about it with him now, Peter knew that like everything else, they’d get through it together.

And for now, that was enough for Detective Peter Burke.

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #ive got a few started for this challenge #so im excitedly hopeful #even tho im already behind on posting lol #white collar fic #white collar #peter burke #neal caffrey #acasualcrossfade writes #thunderously halo writes #thunderously halo

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whumpril · 1 year

Text

Whumpril 2023 starts tomorrow! Who's hyped?!

#whumpril2023 #whump #whump event

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reid-whump · 1 year

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How To Punish Two Whumpees:

(Send asks for more prompts)

Chain the weakest/youngest one to a place just out of the stronger/oldest one’s reach and force them to watch as their partner slowly fades away, only to be revived at the last minute. Imagine them going through all stages of grief in five minutes because of how frail the other whumpee is.

Put them in seperate rooms where they can’t see each other at all, and force them to choose every week who gets which necessities (food, warmth, comfort etc). Bring them back together at the end of the month and see who is worse off.

If you can tell one of them is more protective of the other, punish them by carving the other whumpee’s initials into their skin, in a place where you know the other whumpee will notice it. Watch how they react to seeing their partner/friend’s sadness and knowing they caused it.

Force them to watch the whumpee who did nothing wrong get beaten until on the brink of death, and wait for them to finally offer themselves up because they can’t take it anymore. (Oldie but a goodie)

Give one an ice cold bath, and give one a boiling bath. Experiment by tasing then both and seeing how their reactions differ.

#whump prompts #captive whump #caretaker x whumpee #creepy whumper #whump prompt #defiant whumpee #whump fic #whump trope #whumpril2023 #team whump #conditioned whumpee #multiple whumpees #drugged whumpee #whump scenario #whump #two whumpees

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drabbles-mc · 1 year

Text

Collateral Damage

Angel Reyes x GN!Reader

For Day 16 of @whumpril's 2023 Challenge: guilt / shock / "I'm so sorry"

Warnings: 18+, angst, language, blood/injury, hospitals

Word Count: 4.8k

A/N: Angel was overdue for a good whumping. Love this for him. 😌

Angel Reyes Taglist: @buckybarneshairpullingkink @lilacyennefer @justreblogginfics @rosieposie0624 @queenbeered @littlekittymeow @thesandbeneathmytoes @garbinge @kelpies-shed @beardburnsupersoldiers @louisianalady @gemini0410 @frattsparty @yourwonkywriter @amorestevens @withmyteeth @winchestershiresauce @nessamc @narcolini @mijagif @choochoo284 @fanfic-n-tabulous @passionatewrites @artemiseamoon @justazzi @camelia35 (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

Moving into the new house with Angel was supposed to be something reminiscent of a fresh start. It was still Santo Padre, still the border, but it was a place that was going to be something that was just for the two of you. You were thrilled to leave your tiny apartment behind, and Angel didn’t seem too upset about ditching the glorified bachelor pad that he’d been living in for the last few years. It was supposed to be something new, something good.

The two of you hadn’t even gotten all of the boxes unpacked yet before someone came after Angel, but ended up giving you the scare of your life instead.

In the back of your mind, you knew that that was part of the risk. Being with him was always going to have lingering dangers. That was the price of him being an outlaw. Intellectually, you knew that. When the threat wasn’t right in front of you with a gun pointed at your chest, it was easy to say that you were willing to accept that type of responsibility, that you were cut out for being part of the life that he’d chosen. But when he’d gotten home a few hours later to find you curled up on the floor behind the couch, still crying, still shaking, it became apparent to both of you that maybe you should stop and take a beat to reconsider it all.

You weren’t quite sure if you were refusing to leave because you couldn’t handle that kind of change after what had happened to you, or if you were really trying to rally and prove to yourself, prove to Angel, that you weren’t going to quit on what the two of you had. Your reasons for staying changed depending on the day, and how hard it was to get yourself out of bed in the morning.

The two weeks following the incident, you saw Angel more than you had in months. It was admirable, the way that he was pulling out all the stops. He was home as much as he could be, and when he couldn’t be he always made sure to check in on you, calling and texting almost as much as he had when the two of you first started seeing each other. All it took was a break-in and someone threatening to kill you.

Days came and went without incident. There hadn’t been so much as a sketchy vehicle even driving by the house, let alone someone stopping and bursting into it like they had before. If you hadn’t already known better, you almost would’ve thought that what had happened was an isolated incident. But you’d seen the kutte on the man’s shoulders. You knew that whatever it was, wasn’t over.

You were still working through your first cup of coffee, cross-legged on your bed with your computer in your lap, when you saw Angel materialize in the doorway. You’d been observant before, but now that you found yourself on-edge most of the time, hardly anything got past you. You didn’t take your eyes off the screen in front of you, not wanting to look over and see the same look of pity in Angel’s eyes that had been there for weeks. He never seemed to be able to shake it, and considering the state that you were in, that you were still electing to work from inside the four walls of your bedroom instead of actually going to work, you supposed that you couldn’t blame him. It didn’t mean that you wanted to be faced with it all the time, though.

“Hey,” he spoke up, hoping it would make you face him.

Something about his tone made your stomach knot. Still, you looked over at him. “Yea?”

“Got a sec?”

You saw the way that he shifted uneasily on the balls of his feet, trying to decide if he was going to lean against the doorframe or not. It made you shift nervously as well. Setting your laptop to the side, you nodded. “What’s up?”

Stepping through the doorway, he walked over and sat down on the edge of the bed. He sat close enough to you so that he could reach out and toy with the loose strings of the comforter right next to your legs. He kept his eyes trained on the stitching as he tried to pull together what it was that he wanted to say.

“It’s about the club.”

A knot immediately formed in the back of your throat. No matter how hard you tried to keep a neutral expression, you knew that you weren’t going to succeed. You gave one slow nod. “Okay. What’s…what’s going on?”

Angel let out a small sigh, head tilting back as he looked up at the ceiling for a moment before looking back at you again. “Got a run coming up. Bish said that he needs me on this one.”

You knew that it was only a matter of time before he would have to actually leave to do things with the club again. Running with the MC wasn’t exactly the kind of job that he could do from home, no matter how badly you wanted him to stay with you as much as possible. Still, the thought of him being gone for a few nights made your hands start to shake.

“How long?” you asked, hating how weak your voice sounded.

It hurt him to look at you, how scared you were when he hadn’t even left yet. “Couple days. Not…not long.”

You nodded. There was no point in starting an argument about it—it wasn’t going to change anything. Realistically you knew that you were going to have to get used to being alone again. Angel was your partner, not your babysitter. The nervous heat creeping up your neck was telling you that you weren’t ready yet, but you knew that if you told Angel that all it would do was make him feel guilty. It wouldn’t make circumstances anything other than what they were.

“Okay,” you said, your voice just above a whisper.

His lips curled down into a frown. He knew that it wasn’t okay—that was half the reason that he didn’t want to tell you about it. But he also knew that trying to hide it from you was only going to put off the inevitable for a few days. There was no getting away from it.

“I’ll make sure EZ stops by.”

It was an attempt to reassure you, one that you appreciated. And for as much as you loved EZ, you and Angel both knew that it wasn’t going to be the same. Even if EZ camped out on your couch for the entire time Angel was gone, it wasn’t really going to make you feel any more at ease.

“You don’t have to do that.”

He shrugged, trying to smile and lighten the mood. “He’s a prospect—gotta keep him busy with something when we leave his ass behind.”

It got a tiny chuckle out of you. “Right.”

The silence that followed brought the heavy feeling back over the two of you full-force. Angel shook his head, more at himself than you. “I’m sorry.”

You sniffled, trying to pull yourself together in hopes of alleviating some of the guilt. “I’ll…I’ll be fine, Angel. Really.”

He knew you were lying, to him and to yourself. Reaching out, he rested his hand over yours, interlocking your fingers together. “It’s been quiet since all that shit went down, right?” He paused, and when you nodded silently in agreement he continued, “And I’m only gonna be a couple days. Trust me, I don’t wanna spend any more fuckin’ time in Yuma than I have to. I’ll get these motherfuckers back on the road to SanPa ASAP.” He offered a weak smile.

You tried to mirror the expression, knowing that you were coming up short on it by the look in his eyes. “You better.”

He could feel the tremor in your hand still, despite the reassurance he was desperately trying to give you. “It’s gonna be alright. Those guys…they’re not gonna come back. They’re not gonna try and hurt you again.”

That was the most that he’d spoken directly about the break-in in a long time. The two of you talked around it, alluded to it. He was never good at talking about those sorts of things head-on, not when he didn’t have a solid solution to the problem.

“Promise?” It was an unfair ask, but the word came out before you could stop it.

Angel had always been an expert at guaranteeing more than he could hope to deliver. He gave your hand a light squeeze. “I promise.”

The day that Angel left for the run came sooner than you wanted it to. If it had been a few weeks before, you would’ve gone to the clubhouse with him to see him off, to tell the rest of the guys to be safe and to take care of themselves. You would’ve been joking with them about not having enough bail money to get all of them out of fail so they needed to be careful. This time, though, you simply stood on your front step as Angel shouldered his duffle bag. Neither of you looked like you wanted to go through with what was about to happen.

“EZ’ll be by in a bit, alright?”

You nodded. “Okay.”

“You can make him stay if you want. He’s got nothin’ better to do. Promise,” he tried to joke.

You managed a smile that was a little more convincing than usual. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Cupping the side of your face, he pulled you in for a kiss. “I love you.”

You wished that you could stay right there in that moment forever. It’d make life so much simpler if you could. “I love you too.”

Usually Angel would pepper you with a million promises to call and text that he undoubtedly would never keep. He would tell you that he’d be back before you even started to miss him, which was never true. But there was none of that this time. The weight that was slung across both your shoulders, something that the two of you were each forced to carry against your will, snuffed out all of the banter-filled rituals of saying goodbye. You wished that it didn’t.

“I’ll let you know when we get there,” he said, and for once you almost believed him.

“Be safe,” you said with a small nod.

He kissed you again. “We’ll be good.” One more kiss. “Both of us.”

You could’ve dragged out saying goodbye on that front step for hours, could’ve made him miss the window to leave with the rest of the club. Hell, part of you wanted to do just that. You couldn’t quite force it, though. Much sooner than you wanted, he was heading off towards his bike, one long stride after another taking him farther and farther away from you.

True to Angel’s word, EZ showed up hardly an hour after Angel had left. You hadn’t seen EZ since he’d come over to help clean up some of the mess left behind by the break-in. You had no clue what Angel had said to him about any of it, what he’d said to any of the men in the club about any of it. Truthfully, you weren’t sure if you wanted to know.

Out of the two Reyes Brothers, EZ was the one who had been gifted with a convincing poker face. You had no idea what he was really thinking or feeling about you, about the entire situation. He kept it light, pleasant. He hung around long enough to eat, long enough to give a mild sense of security and that he had fulfilled his duty for the evening.

“Want me to stay?” he asked as he sat at your dining room table. “I brought my stuff.”

It was tempting. You really did want him to stay. You didn’t want to admit that, though. If you set the precedent now that you were always going to need someone to stay with you, when was it ever going to stop?

You studied his face for a moment. You wondered if you would get a different answer to your questions from EZ than you did from Angel. EZ wouldn’t feel as obligated to placate you, to protect you from the monsters under the bed and outside the windows. If you asked him for his honest opinion, you wondered if he would actually give it.

“You think you need to stay?” you asked tentatively.

He didn’t miss a beat. “If you want me to, I will.”

You shook your head. “No, I mean,” you huffed, staring down at the floor for a moment, “do you think that something is gonna happen if you don’t?”

“Those guys want Angel, the club. Not you.” He watched the shift in your expression for a moment before saying, “I’ll stay if—”

“No,” you cut him off, your voice still uncertain in the gesture. “I’ll be fine. I’ll…I’ll call you if I need anything.”

He gave you a nod, his movements easy. He had such an air of certainty around him that neither you or Angel had had in weeks. There was something reassuring about it, even if he was only able to be so confident because he hadn’t been living in the mess the same way that you had. He could handle it all in small doses just fine and not crack, while Angel had to be steeped in it with no break.

Standing up, he started to walk towards the door, grabbing his bag along the way. You followed him, intent on saying goodbye but more importantly doing the locks behind him once he left. He pulled you into a hug when he reached the door, promising you that his phone would be on and close by if you needed anything from him, if you changed your mind. You believed him. You believed most things that he said in a way you didn’t with most of the other men from the club.

You watched from the window until his bike was well down the street. Pulling the curtains closed, you started to set about cleaning up. There wasn’t much to do, but any little task to help keep you busy until you were tired enough to at least attempt to get some sleep was better than nothing.

The sound of screeching tires had barely hit your ears when bullets started flying through the windows and from wall of your house. You screamed, instantly dropping to the floor. Trying your best to stay as low as possible, you made your way back towards the very same couch you’d hid behind before. It wasn’t the best buffer, but it was the only one that was close to you at the moment.

Your hands were clamped down over your ears, knees pulled to your chest and eyes shut tight. The gunfire was fast, incessant. You had no idea how long it had really been going on for, but it felt like an eternity. The guns were going to have to run out of ammo eventually, right?

Then they finally did. The silence felt manufactured, like someone had made a call on a set and they were about to yell action to kick it all off again. You didn’t know if you should get up and try to go out the back of the house, or if you should stay put in case they all opened fire again. The right choice didn’t matter much since you didn’t think that you were going to be able to get your legs to move.

You eventually managed to pry your eyes open. You still felt like you couldn’t quite pull in a proper breath, but at least you could see now. Although, the mess you were surrounded by wasn’t a particularly comforting sight to open your eyes to. You took a quick scan, moreso just to make sure that people hadn’t also entered the house along with the bullets. It all happened over the span of just a few seconds but it felt like so much longer.

It'd been quiet for just long enough to make you think that someone was either about to barge into the house, or they were going to drive off. You were about to try and force your legs to hoist you up when you heard more gunfire. It was different than what you’d heard before. Singular shots, longer breaks between. But it went from just a few to the sounds of an actual exchange and you felt yourself freeze up again.

There was the sound of a few loud thuds against your front door and you couldn’t stop the whimper that slipped out of you. You clamped your hand over your own mouth, trying to stifle the sounds, not that it would do you much good. A few more thuds and suddenly you heard the cracking of the door frame breaking, followed by heavy footsteps.

You were crying now, not even attempting to quiet the sound. Your body was shaking more than you thought it was capable of, heart pounding so hard in your chest you thought for sure it was going to crack one of your ribs. The footsteps kept getting closer and you wished that you had it in you to get up and run, but you couldn’t. The floor may as well have been pulling you down.

Then you heard it, the sound of your name. It was quiet, but intense. It took a few seconds for you to realize that it was EZ who was saying it. He must not have gotten so far away that he didn’t hear the gunfire.

Suddenly he was crouching down in front of you, blood splattered across his clothes. “Let’s get you out of here.” You watched him as he looked you over, his expression steady as ever. “Can you walk?”

“When the panic subsides enough to let me stand,” you thought. You couldn’t get the words out, though, so instead you just nodded. Reaching for EZ, you grabbed onto his shoulder in an attempt to use him as a means to push you up onto your feet. Your fingers dug into the leather of his kutte, arm and shoulder tensing in preparation for the lift, but then you didn’t move. Nothing happened.

Instead of looking at yourself, you looked at EZ. He always had answers. When you took in the look on his face, your heart started to speed up all over again. The frown he had on hadn’t been there earlier. Whatever the situation was now, it must’ve been worse.

He could see that you were about to look at the state of yourself and he spoke up, distracting you as he slid his arm around you to help you to your feet. “You’re good,” he said, a convincing lie. “You’re good. C’mon.”

He got his feet underneath himself enough to help you to your feet. Once you were upright, you were so distracted by the disheveled state of your house that you hardly noticed the way that he was practically dragging you towards the front door. He was shouldering more of your weight than you were, but you couldn’t even feel it happening.

Despite all of the chaos and destruction and mess, your car keys were still somehow resting on the table just inside the front door. EZ swiped them on the way out, knowing that there was no chance in hell that you would be able to get on the bike.

As he maneuvered you down the front steps and towards the car, that was when you saw the destruction that was outside, too. You felt your stomach tighten, feeling dizzy at the sight of the blood and the shot-out car windows. EZ was talking to you, attempting to distract you from the carnage that he’d created in the process of getting to you, but it was too late.

“EZ,” you didn’t even recognize your own voice as you repeated his name over and over, unable to get any other words out, “EZ. E…EZ.” Despite his best efforts you almost sank to the ground anyway. “Oh my god.”

“Look at me,” he kept his voice level, calm. He pulled the passenger door of the car open, sliding the seat back with no grace at all before going to help get you into the seat. “Just look at me.”

You tried. You tried to focus on him, on the way he needed you to move so that you could get into the seat of the car so that he could get the two of you out. But your eyes kept straying back to the mess.

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, EZ was in the driver’s seat, slamming the keys into the ignition of the car. You were finally able to watch what he was doing. “Where,” you swallowed hard, “where are we going?”

You assumed he was going to take you to the clubhouse, maybe to Felipe’s—somewhere that you’d be safe while he cleaned up the mess. He didn’t say anything at first, one hand reaching and gripping onto the headrest of your seat as he looked over his shoulder to reverse out of your driveway.

The longer he went without answering your question, the harder you stared at him. A million scathing comments and a thousand other questions were racing through your head as you stared at him, but for some reason you couldn’t seem to force any of them out. You were trying to get yourself to take a couple deep breaths, thinking that if you got your breathing under control, the words would come.

Leaning back in the seat, you rested your hands in your lap as you started to shut your eyes. It was only a couple seconds after you closed them when you heard EZ saying your name again, this time with a little more of an edge to his voice.

Prying your eyes open, you looked over at him. Picking your hand up off your lap, you went to rub the side of your face when you saw that your skin was covered in red. Confusion washed over you for a moment as you stared at your hand, like your brain was willfully not connecting the dots. You could see EZ in your peripheral, looking back and forth between you and the road as he waited for the fallout.

“Where are we going?” you repeated your question from earlier.

He knew that there was no more avoiding it, no more letting you have your denial. “Hospital.”

You felt your brain trying to rouse you into a panic, but you just couldn’t seem to do it. Your heart sped up but you couldn’t make yourself move any quicker. Even if you could, there wasn’t really anywhere that you could go.

“You’re okay,” he said, trying to reassure you despite the evidence stacking up proving just the opposite.

Your eyes widened. “Angel.”

“He’s already on his way back.” He looked at you for a moment, and when he saw the look on your face he elaborated just enough. “Called him when I heard the shots.”

You forced yourself to look out the windshield, your brain caught between thinking about everything that had happened, and trying to distract yourself by thinking about literally anything else. Luckily, it wasn’t much longer until the two of you reached the hospital. EZ managed to help you get to the door, where you were met by a team of doctors and nurses who seemed more ready than you could ever hope to be. You remembered them taking you off in the wheelchair, and telling them that they couldn’t send EZ away because you needed him, but after that everything got fuzzy, and then everything went dark.

All you could see was blinding light when you came to, and for a moment, you thought that maybe you’d actually died. Heaven was a lot harder on your eyes than you thought it would be.

But then you heard the sound of a chair scraping across tile. After a couple long, hard blinks things slowly started to come back into focus. You felt someone’s hand wrap around yours, the familiar coolness of metal rings letting you know that it was Angel. Within seconds you felt his forehead pressed against yours, the feeling of his breath on your skin as he let out a sigh of relief. He squeezed your hand, the compromise for not being able to hold you.

“You’re awake,” he said it like he was reassuring himself that it was true.

You gave a small nod, your voice still not sounding like your own as you said, “You’re here.”

“EZ called—I turned right around. I’m,” he sucked in a short breath to keep himself together, “I’m so sorry.”

The apology made tears spring into your eyes. Hardly awake for a minute and all of the emotions that you’d been drowning in for weeks came flooding right back to you. Your hand trembled in his. “You said I’d be okay.”

He flinched at the statement even though you were speaking softly. He didn’t pull away, his head still resting against yours as he nodded slightly. “I know.”

“You and EZ. You both,” your voice was slowly starting to come back with each word, “you said that I would be okay. That there was nothing to worry about.”

“I didn’t think—”

“You left me,” the words came out strained, fighting with the sob that was trying to dislodge itself from your throat.

Pulling back so that he could look you in the eyes, Angel could see how tired, how broken you were. You could see the tears in his eyes as he looked at you, neither of you still the same people you were when you met those few years ago. Everything was different now. Worse, in some ways.

“I know,” he conceded with a nod. “I know I did.”

Your bottom lip was trembling as you watched him run his thumb over your knuckles. “I don’t think I can do this, Angel.”

He froze. “What?”

You shook your head. “I don’t think I can do this. I…I can’t go through this again.”

“We’re gonna handle—”

“And then what?” you cut him off, talking despite the pain that was starting to radiate throughout your body now that you were fully awake. “We wait until the next guy who has a problem with you comes and shoots our house up again?” You shook your head. “No. I, I can’t. I thought I could, but,” you shifted slightly on the bed and felt the pull of multiple bandages beneath your hospital gown, “I can’t. I’m, I’m sorry.”

He shook his head, clasping your hand tighter in his as he plead, “I’m not gonna let anything happen to you again. I won’t. I promise.”

The tiniest, saddest smile curled your lips. Angel Reyes, always so full of promises. “I know you think you mean that, but…” you trailed off.

“I do mean it,” his words sounded so earnest.

Despite everything that had happened, all that you’d gone through the last few weeks and the fear that had settled so deep into your bones, it was the most sure of yourself that you’d felt in a long time. It didn’t feel good, but underneath it all you knew that it felt right.

“Angel…”

He shook his head. “No, no. Don’t say it like that.”

Tears trickled out onto your cheeks. “I don’t know how else to say it.”

The sadness on his face broke your heart. You knew that on the tip of his tongue were a thousand things he wanted to say to try and make you change your mind. But you could see it in his eyes that he knew that it wasn’t going to happen. He knew that this was too much, that things had gone too far. He knew that this was it.

“I love you,” he said, lips twitching as he tried not to let his own tears escape.

You managed a soft smile. “I love you too.” That hadn’t changed.

Dragging his hand down over his mouth and his chin, he got himself together enough to ask, “Can I still stay here? With you?”

You nodded. “That’d be good.”

He nodded in return, going back to the chair that he’d been in while he was waiting for you to wake up. There was more to say, more questions to ask, but all of that could wait now. You laid in the hospital bed, staring over at Angel while he sat in a chair that looked too small for all of his height, staring right back at you.

#whumpril #whumpril2023 #whumprilday16 #guilt #shock #i'm so sorry #mayans mc #mayansmc #mayans fx #angel reyes #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes x you #mayans mc fanfic #fanfiction #my writing #drabblesmc

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narcolini · 1 year

Text

ending the night

angel reyes x gn!reader, comfort/fluff, 1982 words

warnings for descriptions of vomiting

for day 12 of whumpril, using the alternate prompt: foodpoisoning

a/n: honestly, this is whump in the same way dessert pizza is pizza... sweet but not really deserving of the name LMAO anyway. when in doubt write angel having a hard time, am i right ?

tagging: @cositapreciosa @drabbles-mc @hausofmamadas

You’re sitting on the edge of Angel’s tub, finishing up a final text to his brother, from his phone, not yours, while Angel empties his stomach into the toilet again. You’ve lost track of how many times he’s puked now, but it’s enough times to know that your evening is well and truly over. He had barely made it from the taxi to the house when you got here, and has said almost nothing since you’d found him in the bathroom, knees to the linoleum.

Not that you mind. Not that you expect anything from him at all, in this state. If anything, you feel bad for being so helpless. And for not being sick yourself, weirdly, but that’s just how the straws were pulled. Beyond the water you’ve left for him on the counter, and the company, there’s nothing else you can do. You’ve already opened the window behind, invited cool air to draw in and, more importantly, the sharp smell of vomit to draw out. Texting EZ as if you were him, had been your most recent idea; a last ditch attempt to be productive and to improve the already dire circumstances.

‘Well,’ you announce, clicking Angel’s phone shut, ‘EZ says he can swing by the restaurant and get your bike.’ You watch him nod, head bouncing between in the hole of the toilet seat. ‘And I told him it was me that got sick, so he can’t clown you about it later.’

He laughs, all breath, and it echoes around the porcelain. ‘Thanks.’

You smile. He can’t say that you don’t look out for him, even this early into things. Five, six, dates down—formal ones, anyway—and you’ve skipped right to the in sickness part. Which you’re doing pretty well at, all things considered.

‘I can,’ he starts, pausing to swallow in-between, ‘pay you back. For the Uber.’

You shake your head. ‘Forget it. You got the bill.’ And he’s paying twice for that too, with money and stomach lining. ‘You think it was the chicken?’

He sighs, daring to look back at you briefly, forearms on the seat. ‘No idea. Shit tastes like battery acid now.’

You wince. ‘I wish I could make it stop for you.’ You wish you could go back in time and make him choose the beef dish that you had, avoid all of this mess, and finish the drinks you’d had to abandon at the bar. ‘You want me to pass you the water?’

He shakes his head before spitting into the bowl, clearing his mouth of the last bout of sickness. You’re both waiting, really, to see if it will come again. Angel breathing slowly, audibly, catching his breath over the edge of the seat. You, staring at his shoulders like they might give you any warning of it.

The time between is getting longer, you think. A sign that the worst is done with. If he can make it twenty minutes, fifteen even, and keep down the water he drinks, then you can both relax.

‘Fuck,’ he pants, wiping his nose and mouth with the back of his hand. He slumps away from the toilet, to sit on the floor instead with his back to the tub. Arm side by side with your shin. ‘I never looked this good, right?’

‘Oh, yeah,’ you nod, ‘big time. I’m practically tearing my clothes off right now.’

He groans, dropping his head to put it against your knee. ‘Can’t believe you stuck around to watch me hurl, dulce.’

‘I stuck around,’ you emphasise, ‘to help.’ You smile, glad he can’t see from where he is, because he’s too vulnerable right now, and he might think that you’re laughing at him. ‘I’m actively trying not to watch.’

He exhales, pushing it through his lips. ‘Shit, I’m sorry. Was supposed to a good fucking night, y’know, fancy restaurant and shit, drinks.’

‘It’s not your fault.’ You pat his head, smoothing your thumb over the shell of his ear. ‘We should probably tell the restaurant, though, because it’s definitely their fault.’

And we deserve a refund, you think, but you don’t say it, because he’ll take that to mean that you didn’t enjoy yourself at all. Right now, he would probably take you standing up to stretch as a cue that you’re gonna leave, sick of him already.

‘You think you’re done?’ you ask, bending over your lap to find his gaze.

He sits upright to help you, then nods, and his eyes flick to your lips momentarily. It’s rare that you’d be so close to one another, and able to resist a kiss, but right now’s an exception. You smile, knowing that he’s thinking it too, seeing the yeah, I get it, in his returning look.

‘Give me a minute,’ he says. ‘Gotta, y’know, make myself smell less like puke.’

‘Course.’ You opt for a kiss to his damp forehead before standing, as close to his mouth as you’ll chance for now.

You decide to wait for him in his room, legs hanging over the end of his bed as the shower cranks to life. It’s the first time you’ve been in here, which isn’t the introduction you had expected, a temporary waiting room while he washed the sick from his beard, but it’s a welcome expansion to your understanding of his home. You’ve been to his place before, but never made it past the couch. He has a preference for it, you think, at least in his own place. He’s had the pleasure of becoming well acquainted with your bedroom, ending the night there the last few times that you’ve met up.

It’s not awkward, being in here, but it is new. Foreign like a hotel room. Granted, a hotel room that someone’s already living in, from the full laundry basket, the used glasses on the side table. The unmade bed you’re perched on.

It doesn’t seem like he was expecting you to be in here today, either. You should ask him about that. Is your place nicer, or is he just too lazy to clean, and simultaneously too proud to let you see his room as it is? You don’t think you’d mind either answer. It’s nice, really. Clean enough, and comfortable in a way that stops you from feeling shy. If you weren’t waiting for the tell-tale signs of more illness, you’d probably lie back, uninvited, and crawl under the covers like it was your bed already.

After a few minutes, the bathroom door cracks open, steam pouring out of it. He must’ve had the quickest shower he could manage, only long enough to douse the sweat and stench off him, and then out again, dressed in just the jeans from before.

He looks exhausted, so tired and disposed of energy, that you can’t even enjoy the sight of him. His bare chest, the tattoos striking across it. You just about fight the urge to throw your arms out and beckon him forward with grabbing, baby hands, because, oh, he looks so helpless, it hurts.

‘Don’t think I got any shit left in me to throw up,’ he grumbles, dragging himself forward.

‘That’s good.’ You throw him a sympathetic smile. ‘Means you’re over the worst of it.’

He makes a sour face, hand lifting to rub over his stomach. ‘Doesn’t feel like it.’

‘You should probably rest then.’

You didn’t think he could look any more sorry for himself, but that does it, that tugs it out of him. His brows sink even further as he nods, unable to argue that he doesn’t need it, but unable to seem keen on it either.

‘Sorry,’ he says, for the tenth time, ‘I ruined our night.’

You roll your eyes quickly. ‘Who says it’s ruined? We’ve got…’ You find the alarm clock, red numbers glowing in the dim room. ‘At least, what, twelve hours before I gotta leave for work?’

And that’s what the extra sulking was for; he really thought you were gonna dip and leave him here to recover alone. He doesn’t realise that if he wasn’t worth looking after, you would’ve left him at the bar, blowing chunks in the stall.

‘You’re staying?’ he asks

‘You’re sick as a dog, Angel. It’d be actual, like, neglect if I left you right now.’

He sighs, finally letting himself collapse on the bed behind you. When you turn, he’s got his eyes squeezed shut, suffering from the bouncing mattress beneath—a misjudgement on his part. ‘If I wasn’t dying right now,’ he says, ‘I’d kiss you so damn hard.’

You laugh, crawling up the length to be beside him and slouch against the headboard. ‘And give me whatever you have? No thanks.’ You pull the cover free from under you, holding it open as you invite him in. ‘Come on,’ you say, ‘get comfy, chulo.’

He steals a look, opening just one of his eyes to see what you’re offering, before rolling into you, his head on your stomach, his arm threading beneath you and the mattress. You set the quilt down again, pulling it up until it’s covering your legs and his shoulders. Then your hand goes to his hair, natural like you do it nightly, rubbing circles around the crown of his head.

‘Hopefully that’s the last of it,’ you tell him.

He hums, speaking into the cotton of your shirt. ‘If I puke on you right now, I’ll kill myself.’

You laugh, bouncing his head with the force and surprise of it.

‘I’m dead serious, dulce, there’s no coming back from that shit. You’ll dump me before I’m even your boyfriend.’

You scoff, grinning still. ‘Not true,’ you argue. ‘But I would use it against you for the rest of time. Hey Angel,’ you tease, ‘remember when you spewed chicken teriyaki all over me?’

He laughs, but it weans off into a groan, his fingers tightening over your hip. ‘Stop talking,’ he pleads, ‘I can still taste that shit.’

And as funny as it is, you really don’t want to smell, or see, or feel, any more fucking vomit, so you oblige. It falls silent and you let it, fingers twirling in his hair still, disrupting the hold of his gel. He breaths evenly over your stomach, pooling warmth on the parts of your skin that the shirt fails to cover.

After a moment, you remember what he’d said afterwards, about breaking it off with him before you’ve officially gotten together. You smile into the question before you’ve even asked, ‘Do you want to be my boyfriend, Angel?’

He takes a moment to answer, and when he does, he’s mumbling it, talking around the ends of a yawn. 'We really gonna do this now?’

‘Yeah, sorry. Bad timing.’ But you’re smiling still, smirking even. Confident of the answer despite his protest. ‘I wouldn’t mind it, though. Just while we’re on the topic.’

The reply you expect doesn’t come, he doesn’t say anything at all. You try to look at him, but can’t bend far enough, not with his head resting as it is. You can just about see the thick black of his lashes, flicking out from closed eyes.

‘Angel?’

He groans, readjusting until he’s lay on your chest, with his arms wrapped tight around your middle. ‘Your boyfriend is very sleepy,’ he says, waking up just long enough to engage and send your heart-rate soaring. ‘Keep doing that shit with my hair,’ he mutters, adding a, ‘please,’ after a moments reflection.

You laugh, light and soft over the top of his head. ‘Yes, boss.’ You thread your fingers in again, as he asked you to, and trail them across his scalp. ‘I think I like you when you’re sick,’ you muse, basically whispering it now. ‘You’re way cuter.’

‘Mhmm,’ he hums, and that’s the last you get from him. He’s asleep before he can deny it.

#angel reyes #angel reyes x reader #angel reyes fanfic #mayans mc fanfic #whumpril2023 #i keep feeling bad that i want to just write angel in various situations but like..#oh well lol #he is possessing my spirit and thats ok

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