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russos-ventitre · 7 months

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alessia russo x reader | sick day 🧸

✘ summary: alessia finds out she's come down with a fever but refuses to take a sick day

✘ warnings/tags: fever, headache, grumpy!less, cuddles

✘ words: 1845

a/n: requested by anon

"Baby?" You brushed loose hairs out of the blonde's face, her head resting on your lap.

"Hmm?" She replied, not making any effort to lift her head.

"You alright, Less? You're burning up." You placed a hand on her forehead, feeling her temperature.

The blonde buried her head in her hands, nuzzling her face further into your lower stomach. "I'm freezing." She mumbled, her entire body now curled up in a ball on the sofa.

"Less.. I think you're sick."

Alessia shook her head, refusing to believe you, her face still hidden. You decided to carefully lift her off your lap and place her head down on top of a pillow, pulling a blanket over her body.

"I'll just be a minute, love." You pressed a gentle kiss to her temple, feeling your lips get burned from her scalding skin.

You walked into the kitchen, searching the cupboards for a thermometer and some ibuprofen. You also decided to turn the kettle on to make her some tea whilst you took her temperature.

"Hey.. Less.." You whispered, softly rubbing your hand down her back to gain her attention, watching as she slowly rolled over to face you.

"..just take this for a minute, love." You carefully placed the thermometer into her mouth, holding it for her as it appeared the blonde barely had any strength left in her, barely being able to hold her head up.

"That's it, Less." You cooed, your other hand coming to caress her face, feeling her head go limp from your touch.

When the thermometer beeped you removed it from her mouth reading her temperature. 38.1°C. You looked back over at her, seeing how she seemed miserable.

"Lay back down, Less. I'll get you some tea to warm you up." You pressed a soft kiss to her cheek before returning to the kitchen. By the time you returned her tea was ready, you poured it into one of her favourite mugs and brought it to her alongside some medicine.

You returned to a sad-looking blonde who appeared to be melting into the sofa, not by choice, a smile slowly appearing on her face as she noticed her favourite mug in your hands.

"Thanks, baby." She muttered, happily taking the mug in her hands and attempting to soak up its warmth. You handed her two pills, watching as she swallowed them alongside her tea.

You resumed your position on the sofa, sitting next to your lover as she nuzzled into your side, seeking out your warmth. Your arm came around her shoulders, pulling her closer, pressing another delicate kiss, this time to her head.

A few days later...

Getting any form of sleep was difficult for Alessia, constantly tossing and turning in the middle of the night, hot flashes and cold flashes. You tried your best to keep her comfortable but the poor blonde was only able to get two hours of uninterrupted sleep at a time.

"Less.." You gently shook her awake, watching her stir in her sleep.

"..baby it's 7:47, I'm gonna call Sarina and tell her you're sick, yeah?"

Alessia immediately shot up from bed, wiping the sleep out of her eyes and making a beeline for the bathroom. "Less! What are you doing?"

"I'm getting ready! Training is in less than half an hour!" She shouted from the bathroom, hurriedly completing her morning routine in twice the amount of time she usually does.

You let out a groan, flopping your back against your bed. You knew there was absolutely nothing that would stop that woman from going to training, so you decided not to fight with her over it. Unlocking your phone, you opened your text thread with Ella.

[y/n] [07:50]: hey toones

[y/n] [07:50]: lessi is gonna be late today

[y/n] [07:50]: she had a bit of a lie in bc she has a fever and she refuses to miss training

[y/n] [07:50]: can you watch after her and make sure she doesnt over work herself x

tooney 💅🏻 [07:51]: hey [y/n]

tooney 💅🏻 [07:51]: yea ill make sure lessi is alright x

tooney 💅🏻 [07:51]: and ill let the gaffer know x

[y/n] [07:51]: cheers el xx

You closed your phone and got yourself ready as well. "Less! I'm gonna have everything ready by 8:00! I've already let Tooney know so don't rush!"

"Thanks, babe!" She croaked, sounding a lot worse than she did the night prior.

To no one's surprise, you managed to get ready before her, granted she is sick, managing to make her a cup of tea and getting her kitbag ready right before you exit your flat. Just like you expected, she wasn't ready by 8:00, it was in fact, 8:05 when you managed to leave your flat, you offering to drive her training. She sat herself in the passenger seat, playing music from her phone to get her in the mood for football, humming along as she drank her tea.

"You're looking brighter this morning." You commented, catching a glimpse of the blonde looking very awake despite the restless night.

"I'm always happy when I get to go to training." She hummed in reply.

"Speaking off.. you better take it easy out there today, you still have a fever-"

"I'll be fine! I've powered through worse!" She cut you off, hoping that you wouldn't change your mind right now and drive the two of you back home.

"I'll be okay.." She reassured again, her hand trailing up the back of your neck to give you a soft scratch. "..promise."

You pulled up to England camp, dropping your girlfriend off. The striker placing a kiss on your lips before exiting the car.

"Call me if you need anything, I'll be in the area." You managed to get out before she closed the door. "I'll take you home the second you feel fatigued. Oh! And drink loads of water, today!"

"I will, babe! See you later." You drove off when you noticed she had caught up with the rest of the girls.

"Hey Lessi, how are you feeling?" Ella greeted with with a concerned look.

"Good, yeah. Honestly, it's not even that bad, I dunno why [y/n] was getting all concerned for." Alessia tried waving her off, pretending like she was fine.

"Probably because you have a fever.." Ella sighed, her hands on her hips not believing a single word coming out of her mouth.

If anyone knew Alessia, it was Ella. They grew up together and she knew the girl would refuse to take a sick day, even if it looked or sounded like she was dying. The girl was a workaholic, married to the game, so to speak, and removing her from it would take away her happiness.

"..listen the second I notice something wrong with you, I'm calling [y/n]." The brunette huffed, watching as Alessia frowned.

Training among the team started off on the pitch, the girls running drills that Sarina had instructed them and eventually moving on to goal scoring and partner exercises. The coach noticed some girls succeeding and one in particular, that wasn’t. She decided to pull Alessia over to the side. "Alessia, I need you to go take a break inside for me. You're too fatigued." She told her calmly.

Alessia shook her head. "I'm fine." She huffed, clearly out of breath as she was bent over with her hands on her knees.

The older woman could see it by her mannerisms that the striker was on her last bits of adrenaline before total collapse, watching as she wiped the sweat from her forehead and continued to struggle to maintain a normal breathing pattern. Her hand came to rest on the younger girl's back. "Please, you need to cool off Alessia. You shouldn't even be here in the first place, you're not well, Ella told me."

The younger woman let out a frustrated groan, knowing that she wasn't going to have her way now that she knew Sarina knew she was sick. She begrudgingly stood up and made her way inside the building, walking to where the medics were located as she was guided by Sarina the entire time. She had her temperature taken again, this time 40.5°C. It didn’t help that she was under the blaring sun all morning but the medics still had to take precautions, telling Sarina that she needed to be sent home to rest.

Alessia slid her body off the examination table, slowly making her way through the building to recover her things, annoyed that she only lasted two hours. Ella and the other girls were beginning to file into the building by now, taking a half-hour break to cool off before going back out on the pitch.

“Less! You alright? I saw Sarina call you over and-”

“I’m going home..” She mumbled in defeat.

“I’ll call [y/n].” Ella ran to fetch her phone, ringing you to come pick Alessia up.

The blonde gathered her things, stuffed them in her kit bag, and slumped her body down on a nearby bench as she waited for your arrival. She had her head in her hands, a headache that had been teasing her all day finally beginning to form. Ella returned to Alessia, wrapping an arm around her as they sat together. “She’ll be here in a bit.” She whispered.

You arrived shortly after Ella’s call, walking into the building to escort Alessia home. You made sure she was comfortable in the passenger seat, adjusting the temperature inside the car and giving her some more meds to combat her headache. She was curled up in her seat, her eyes closed as she tried to sleep or at least hide from the light from the sun.

“Nearly home, Less..” You cooed, a hand coming to stroke one of her knees.

She grumbled in reply, tucking her face away in her seat.

You helped the blonde get settled at home, waiting for her to shower as you prepped her a small meal along with more tea. The two of you snuggled on the sofa together, the striker becoming very clingy despite being very grumpy that she had to go home.

“How are you feeling, baby?” You asked, playing with her wet hair.

“Fine.” She grumbled, pulling you closer and resting her head on your shoulder.

“How’s your head?”

“Sore.”

“Do you need more med-”

“No! I’m fine.” She replied firmly, her face pouting.

You tapped your hand on your lap. “Here, lay down.”

You gently guided her downward, pulling a blanket over her body to keep her warm as she made herself comfortable in your lap again.

“Get some rest, Less. I’ll be here when you wake up, love.” You pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, wrapping it around her body afterward.

The blonde eventually fell asleep after a long 24 hours, your hands delicately tracing down her form as she held on to your knees in her sleep.

#engwnt x reader #england women #woso imagines #woso fanfics #alessia russo #alessia russo x reader #woso #woso imagine #woso community #woso x reader

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ghouljams · 4 months

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Build Me a Castle of Memories Rating: M Word Count: 6.8k Tags: hurt/comfort, christmas fic, Ghostxf!oc/f!reader, background Pricexf!oc, dissociation, anxiety, grief, 09 Ghost's backstory, Ghost reconciling with his past, dad!Ghost, baby oc Summary: Ghost has never had what you would call a happy Christmas, but you have and that chafes more than he wants it to. He wishes it didn't, but he doesn't know how to stop it. Maybe he was doomed from the start.

“Simon, wake the fuck up, we got chores.”

Ghost folds his pillow over his ears and rolls over, away from the pounding of your fist against the door. There’s nowhere to escape the noise in the little one room house, but damn if he can’t try. He presses the pillow more tightly against his ears, squeezes his eyes shut. He feels like a kid again, your insistent knocking filling in holes in his memory he’d rather forget.

His father banging on the door, screaming as he tries to shield Tommy. His mother’s voice attempting to pacify him. The crack of skin against skin, the soft shocked noise that comes from being struck. A sharp yelp, a plea, but the banging on the door doesn’t stop.

Ghost jerks awake again. His mind struggling to disconnect from the past and focus on the present. How long have you been trying to wake him? He tosses the quilt off and grabs his mask. He needs to get away from this memory, and you’re just in time to help. The mask is pulled on as he goes to yank the door open.

You stare up at him, unapologetic for the early hour. Actually you look a little annoyed it took him so long to get up. Your eyes drop down, and Ghost leans against the door frame to let you look. One nice thing about Texas he supposes, it’s still warm in the winter. Warm enough he doesn’t need more than a pair of shorts to sleep in.

Your eyes pull back up to meet his and he cocks a brow.

You’re cute in an oversized jumper and shorts. He wonders if you’ve started chores, must have since your boots already have mud on them. “Is it a Ghost day today?” You ask, referring to his mask. He hums.

“What do you need, Princess?” He’s already tired of the direction this conversation is taking. Better to keep you both on track and avoid unnecessary topics. December is starting to chafe despite the climate. The feed store had giant candy canes out front the last time he passed it, and a tree lot has already been erected by the church. Must be a merry time of year, not that Ghost’s ever enjoyed it.

“Momma wants the Christmas tubs, and I need another set of hands with the trailer.” You explain, dangling the keys from your fingers. Ghost hums again, you shouldn’t have trouble with a few boxes of decorations, not enough to need his help at least. It’s a good excuse to grab some time alone with you though, one he’s happy to take.

You’re always a welcome distraction from the tightness in his chest.

“Lemme get my boots,” He grumbles, turning back into the house. He leaves the door open for you, knows you’ll follow him in and make yourself at home. It’s charming, you’re charming, if a little annoying.

Sure enough the door clicks shut behind him, and he hears you fussing in the kitchen with the kettle. Ghost is tightening his belt when you offer him a to-go mug of tea. It always tastes better when you make it, the thermos is warmer, the bitterness a little softer, the sugar a little sweeter.

He burns his tongue on the scalding liquid as you pluck his hat from the coat rack by the door and settle it on your head. You toss a smile over your shoulder at him, and it’s like a sunrise over the hills.

The darkness of memory scurries back where he can lock it. The house feels gentler somehow, he feels gentler. Softer around the edges when he rubs his thumb against your cheek.

“Come on ya big softy,” You laugh, patting his chest, “The quicker we get started the quicker we get done.”

Ghost huffs, “They’re Christmas decorations, how long could they take?”

Ten tubs in Ghost decides your mother is insane.

The shed that they’re all in seems dedicated solely to Christmas decor. There are light up reindeer and inflatables, boxes overflowing with lights, and tubs. Tubs upon tubs of heavy ass decor. You hand him another box to find space for on the trailer and Ghost is forced to reconcile with the fact you’re hardly breaking a sweat. You give a soft noise of effort when you lift a tub from the floor or pull one off a tower, but otherwise… Ghost spends a fair amount of time on the walk between the shed and trailer thinking about it.

Maybe they’re not that heavy.

He comes back to the shed to see you stripping your jumper off, the dark tank top underneath hits him like a train. You fold your jumper neatly and place it on top of the tub you lift off the ground with a huff. You blink at him when you turn to take it to the trailer, and a smile creeps over your face.

“Pick your jaw up baby, you’ve seen worse than this,” You tease, shouldering past him just to bump his arm with yours. Baby. You could call him anything you wanted and he’d have to stop himself from following after you. How can one little word make his chest swell and tighten?

How could he ever want to raise a hand to someone that made him feel like this?

Fifteen tubs, nine light up reindeer, and more lights than Ghost has ever seen. He boxes you in as you’re locking up, leaning heavily against his arm on the shed door. You turn to lean against the rough wood as you tuck the key back into your pocket. He holds your chin with his fingers, thumb rubbing against your skin as he takes you in. You give him a confused sort of smile and settle your pretty hands on his chest.

“You ok, big guy?” You ask, your voice light to disguise your concern. Ghost tips his head, quiet. It’s the season, he wants to say. It’s bitterness and resentment that creeps in every year at this time. It’s the smiles of kids swinging their parent’s hands and chattering about santa. It’s the sun shining and the wind blowing without a chill, like it would hate to ruin a perfect December with snow.

“Fine,” Ghost tells you. Your brows twitch down like you don’t believe him. He kisses you quick before you can ask again.

“Swear you got more of this stuff every year,” Price gripes back at the house, his smile telling Ghost he truly doesn’t mind. Your mother eagerly pops the lids off each tub to inspect the contents before telling Price where to take it. It’s a slow process, slower than the initial loading, but easy enough. Ghost takes a huge tub from you, this one clearly labeled “garlands.” It’s unwieldy, but not too heavy. He shifts it up over his shoulder to get it up the steps to the farm house’s front door.

“Thank you for helping Simon,” You mom smiles at him, her hand light on his arm. Something about her touch sears against his skin, her smile chokes him, he’s glad for his mask as he holds her gaze. He nods and continues into the house.

Outside he can hear your mom arguing with you about something. A well meaning sort of tone that carries through the air without yelling, never yelling. Your huffing and whining hardly seem to break the atmosphere. No harsh words, no physical altercation, no familiar ending.

Price passes Ghost on his way out and pauses. His eyes dart to him as he brushes past before he’s out the door again. Ghost sets the tub in the living room with the others. He pats the top, stares at the red lid, pats it again. His stomach twists. He pats it again.

Why can’t he move away?

He pats it. Job done. So why is he still standing there?

He pops the lid off the tub and stares at the pine green garlands, nestled in with fake snow and little red baubles. Christmas-y. His fingers skim the fake needles. Plastic, of course, crushed and bent in places from years of wear. Where do these go? Ghost glances around the room, it feels smaller with all the tubs. The first garland has been lifted from its place by the time you wander by with your own tub, and your jumper on.

“Better leave it, Momma’s particular about her decoratin’,” You tell him, setting your box on the dining table. Despite your warning you tug your tub open and pull tablecloths and centerpieces free. Apparently you’re allowed to help past moving boxes.

Ghost drops the garland back into its tub and presses the lid shut. He goes to grab another box.

For how many tubs there were, the actual decorating goes fast. “Plenty of hands,” You mum, Duck, she told him to call her Duck, tells him with a smile.

There’s a heavy weight on Ghost’s chest, something too large to wrap his arms around. He doesn’t say much as he helps get reindeer plugged in, and fluffy cotton snow tucked around ceramic houses. He finds himself outside with a cigarette between his fingers more often than he’d care to admit. The choke of smoke in his lungs is more familiar an ache than the other one. Nameless, because to name it would mean acknowledging it.

Ghost watches the wind rustle through the dry grass, his eyes trained on the wide horizon. He wishes he could change the shape of his shadow, knock off the parts that dig into his skin. He’s tired. Maybe he should find somewhere to go for the next few weeks, get away from the festivities. Just for a while. Just until it stops hurting. The screen door knocks against the frame behind him.

“You’re quiet,” You lean against the porch railing, eyeing him. You’re so damn observant it kills him. Ghost snubs his cigarette on the ashtray next to him and lets the last of the smoke leave his lungs.

“So I’ve heard.” He tells you, turning to push past you and back into the house. If he stays around you too long he might say something he can’t take back. It’s better like this.

Price is busy enough with the upstairs decorations that Ghost doesn’t feel bad making a beeline for the living room. Red and green cover the place. The mantle over the fireplace hosts a christmas village, the couch boasts flannel throws and christmas pillows, miniature christmas trees in various styles are set on every horizontal surface. Somehow the room feels warmer, the twinkle of fairy lights giving everything a soft glow.

How could he have anything to say around this? All this- Fucking hell why do you have to be one of these families? A happy family. You don’t even have a proper tree yet but there are already presents set in the corner Price partitioned off as the “tree spot.”

Ghost rubs his thumb against one of the garlands hung up around the entryway. So this is where they went. Your- Duck waves him over when he makes eye contact, offers him a baby of a hammer and a few tiny nails.

“Make yourself useful and tack up the cotton,” she smiles at him. He gives a short nod and follows the line of her fingers to the line of cotton circling the room, nestled neatly over a thick garland. Duck surrenders the step ladder to him and Ghost is quick to take over. He tucks the cotton into place and pushes the little nail into it, taps it with the head of the little hammer.

“We have to re-plaster every other year or so,” Duck says behind him, filling the silence with her voice.

“I can tell,” Ghost grumbles, eyeing the little holes that dot the wall. He tacks another length of cotton snow to the wall, squishes it up against the ceiling and drives the nail in. He looks back down at Duck and holds his hand out for more cotton. She’s already holding the next batch of it, apparently well versed in this whole decorating business.

“You should’ve seen the wall before we started fixing it,” She hums, “years and years of holes.” Ghost says nothing. These holes are nothing. Years and years of holes knocked into walls, covered by picture frames and curtains. “Most of these decorations have been in the family for years,” She tells him, background noise to the drone of his thoughts, “We still use my mom’s plates for Christmas dinner.”

“You ever broken one?” He asks, feeling his throat tighten as soon as the words are out. He squeezes his fist, the points of the nails digging into the meat of his palm.

“Of course,” Duck’s tone is alien to him, it’s all alien to him, “that’s what happens with old things, but I don’t need the plates to remember her.”

Ghost stares at the wall, the plastic needles of the garland, the red bows and white cotton. He bounces the weight of the hammer against his fingers, unseeing. There’s something at the edges of the statement that feels targeted, that speaks to an understanding he wishes she didn’t have. You don’t know me, it says, but I know you. Something wet tickles his fingers, he can feel the warmth of it dripping from his grip.

Remember when you had things you could carry with you? He asks himself. Pictures, smiles, something more than a memory? When’s the last time he visited their graves? Are they clean? Has anyone brought them flowers?

“They’re just things Simon,” his memory whispers, voice watery, like it doesn’t want him to see it cry.

Someone touches his arm, and asks, “Simon?” in a voice so close to his mother’s that he jumps, and nearly topples off the step ladder. A pair of hands press to his back to keep him steady.

“I’ll be alright,” his memory finishes, like a hand stroking his hair. He feels small. It hurts.

He drops the nails from his hand, lets the hammer fall free as he grips his wrist with a shuddering breath. Shit. Small puncture wounds dot his palm, nails still clinging to the meaty base of his thumb. He focuses on his breathing, pushing the pain down into its tightly lidded container as he steps down off the ladder.

Duck grabs his hand before he can shoulder past her towards the bathroom, inspecting the damage. Damn doctor. She clicks her tongue, the same way you do when you’re upset. She spreads his fingers out, opens his hand as she prods around the blood.

“Doesn’t look like any permanent damage done,” She smiles up at him, a mother’s smile where he’d hoped to see a doctor’s, “Just needs cleaned up.” Simon swallows.

“Let’s get it over with.” He responds, the same way he always does to medical.

Ghost studies his bandaged hand in the quiet of his bathroom, water patters against the tile of his shower in the silence. Plain gauze and bandaging, the same as it always is. No stitches needed. No permanent damage. Just plain gauze. And bandaging.

He rubs his thumb against the rough bandage, feeling its familiarity.

He sighs and leans back against the sink, presses his hand over his eyes to block the buzz of the overhead light. How much longer does he have to wait before it all stops hurting?

Things quiet down after the house is decorated. The holiday lulls into something almost palatable. You’re over less. In the week following Ghost finds himself sleeping alone three days in a row, finds himself unable to sleep when he does have you in bed with him. You hug close against his chest, your legs tangled with his and your breaths soft and even. He can’t lose the time he has with you to sleep, his lips press against your forehead as he feels like an outsider in his own skin.

“You should come stay in the main house,” You offer over your coffee, “until the holiday is over.” Ghost hums.

“Wouldn’t want to disturb the Christmas cheer,” He sips his tea, scrolling through the news on his phone. Never anything good, never anything that makes him happy he left the service.

“I want you there,” You press, “we want you there.” You always do that, make it sound like you aren’t enough to convince him, like he needs more than you to ask for something before he grants it.

“I like my space,” He looks up from his phone, and his heart twists at the sadness in your eyes, he fixes his eyes back on his phone, “I’ll think about it.”

“Maybe closer to Christmas? I know it’s not-” You hesitate, he hates hearing you hesitate, it doesn’t sound right to his ear when your confidence wavers, “With my parents around, I know it’s not ideal, or romantic, but-”

“I don’t like sleeping alone either,” Ghost finishes for you, swallowing his own feelings down, “I’ll think about it princess, promise.”

“Ok,” You smile, and kick your feet up into his lap under the table.

He spends the whole day thinking about it. Spends the day thinking about sleeping in a guest room, about seeing Price in the morning outside the bathroom, about family meals, about waking up surrounded by cheer when he feels anything but cheerful. He walks into the kitchen to grab lunch and finds the counters covered in unfrosted Christmas cookies, sprinkles and colorful icing laid out with joyful care. It makes his chest tighten uncomfortably, his memory working overtime to remind him of the clatter of baking sheets and the shouting that comes after the smell of burning flesh.

He skips lunch.

There’s something broken in him, Ghost knows that better than anyone, but he can’t stop the sharp edges of it from cutting. There’s something angry clawing at his ribs, licking his scars until they itch, choking his throat with dirt and earth. He snaps at Price while the cattle files past, and wishes his captain wasn’t so damn sturdy. “I know son,” Price tells him easily. It hurts more than it has any right to. All of it hurts more than he knows it should.

He holds you in bed at night and stares at the wall, tracing the path of the moon by the light it casts through the windows. He just needs to make it through the holiday.

Easier said than done.

Christmas seems to take over the ranch the closer the holiday gets. Presents appear piled under the tree, cookies tower on plates just out of reach of the dog, carols seem to always be playing, and the television happily hums with every holiday movie he could think of. You catch him under a mistletoe and Ghost feels like he’s quickly reaching a boiling point. Your joy, usually so infectious, now seems tailor made to destroy him.

He’s not mad at you, he knows he isn’t, knows exactly what this feeling is. It’s the same feeling he had in primary school watching other kids excitedly chatter about Christmas plans. Jealousy. Why did the universe see fit to give everyone else a happy family but him? He was just a kid. Kids don’t deserve that. Why did he have to go home to hell when you came home to Christmas carols and twinkling lights?

He tried so hard to be good,

And it never mattered.

Still, he doesn’t want to ruin the holiday for you. He follows you around town while you Christmas shop, smiles when you smile, offers you new jokes to hear you laugh, stops to look at the little display in the antique store window. Somehow it cheers him up, buying you a gift. It feels small, but genuine. He tucks the little felt lined box into his pocket and rubs his thumb against it when his thoughts start to drift away from you.

You squeeze his hand, your fingers intertwined as you walk. It feels reassuring for the first time in days.

With your gift in the back of his mind Ghost finally feels like he’s getting a handle on the whole Christmas situation. He can do this for you, he can give you a good holiday. You deserve a good holiday, even if he feels like a recruit getting pushed into action without so much as a vest. It still chafes at him, but Ghost has gotten good at ignoring uncomfortable feelings over the years. He shoves down the green eyed monster, and tries to throw a tarp over the old wounds that threaten to reopen.

He ignores the twitch of your mother’s brows, the clench of Price’s jaw, your hopeful smile. It’s strange how… easy it is to join the holiday, like you’d been waiting for him, holding a place for him to slot into. The warmth of it sinks into him, wraps around him gently where he’d thought it would try to pierce him.

He still hasn’t worked up the courage to take you up on your offer. He can’t look at you when he leaves, can’t see that tinge of disappointment in your eyes. It feels colder when he goes back to his little house. You’re so busy with your family, and he’s been holding himself back from you. He’s never been a coward before, but it’s better than the alternative. Better than letting you know how hurt he is, how broken he is to be jealous of your happiness.

Ghost tugs the towel off his mirror and stares down his reflection. His fingers squeeze the edge of the sink, knuckles white as he leans against the porcelain. It’s the season, he tells himself for the hundredth time, but it isn’t, is it? There’s a piece of his father lodged in his soul, dark and cloying, desperate to get out of the cage Simon shoved it in. The little voice in his head that asks why anyone else should have something nice if he didn’t get to.

He grips the sink tighter, keeps his eyes focused on their reflection.

The world is unfair and cruel. That’s why he joined the military, to even the scales. It’s his mum’s fault really. He swallows the lump in his throat. God she would have loved this, loved all this Christmas bullshit, pushed him to enjoy it, pushed him to stop holding you at arms length. She would have loved you, and you would’ve gotten on with Tommy like a house on fire.

The sink cracks under his hand.

It’s shallow, but he hears the break like a bell. It pulls his attention from the mirror as he rips his hand away and inspect the damage. He shoves down the guilt that tries to bubble to the surface. This is exactly why he’s keeping his distance. He wouldn’t be able to survive hurting you, can’t stomach the thought. He’s not his father, he can give you a good Christmas. He’s going to give you a good Christmas.

He’ll kill himself before he puts you through the sort of holidays he had.

Christmas eve creeps up without Ghost realizing, and all of a sudden he can't escape the warmth of the main house. There are no chores for him to do, you and Price having gotten up early to finish them. There's no help he can offer, Duck shoos him out of the kitchen. Every time he attempts to leave you drag him back to the couch. It's suffocating. Price follows him out to the porch to smoke, and he realizes he hasn't had a moment to himself in hours. Ghost can't turn a corner without bumping into someone. You're all just… hovering.

And yet no one has said anything. That almost makes it worse. The atmosphere inside the house is warm and festive, but Ghost can't help being reminded of a funeral. It's the sort of long dirge that seems to have no end in sight covered in a Christmas carol. There's plenty Ghost can ignore, but this is pushing it. He's both scrutinized and ignored.

You laugh and make jokes, Price snags cookies off the plate, Duck asks about santa. The dog is handed a bone and jumps around excitedly. The lights twinkle and carols ring through the house. Ghost doesn't think he's said a word in an hour, there's no point. “Big family syndrome” Soap had said once, “makes ya louder even when there's just the two of ya.”

It's too loud. It's too normal. It's too happy when he feels like he's going to break. All of the anger and hurt in his chest that wants so desperately to explode only makes it that much worse. He can't do this.

Ghost pushes back from the table when you settle your hand on his knee. He balls up his napkin and tosses it onto the table, turning to leave as your chair scrapes against the floor. He hardly hears when you call after him.

He just needs a minute of silence, a moment for his grief. He just needs two Goddamn seconds where he doesn't have to pretend he didn't lose everything. Where he can hate Christmas in peace.

Ghost presses his hands against his eyes, he can’t stem the stream of anger and hurt that pounds at his ribs. Why? Why can’t he push this down like he always has? Why does it feel so much bigger, so much meaner? It's never been this bad before, he's never had grief boil like this.

He doesn’t raise his head to the crunch of hay underfoot. You’re coming to try and comfort him, he supposes. He doesn’t want you to see him like this.

“Go away princess,” He grits, as you take a seat next to him.

“Oh that’s cute,” You mother hums, “she is like a princess isn’t she.”

Ghost looks up from his hands, glares at Duck to try and dissuade this line of conversation. Somehow this feels worse than if you or Price had come after him. He doesn’t know your mother well enough to anticipate her script. Open water without a life vest.

“I like to come out here when I’m upset too,” Duck smiles, looking out the open barn doors. The texas sky is darkening, the first pinpricks of starlight starting to make their appearance. Somehow it feels like Christmas, even without the cold.

“I’m fine,” Ghost looks towards the doors too, clasps his hands together where he leans over his knees. Duck hums again, quiet and patient. So assured that Ghost would spill his heart to her that he almost wants to. When he glances at her again she isn’t looking at him, her eyes watching one of the barn cats sleep with a soft smile.

“You know the first christmas I had with John was two years after Goose was born,” She tells him, “he was still in his fatigues, fresh from the airport, and I was so mad at him-” She laughs, “-because he didn’t want to hold her for a picture.” Something in her smile strikes Ghost as sad, he can’t take his eyes off of her. “He said he didn't want to get blood on her, and I-” a shaky breath “-I don’t know. Eight months in combat and he couldn’t touch his daughter, I just wanted to make him forget about it.”

“That’s your sob story?” Ghost raises a brow.

“That’s why our Christmases look like this,” Duck turns to him, “I’m sure your mother had the same thought.”

“You don’t know my mother,” Ghost grits, squeezing his hands tighter, “There wasn’t any- We never had a happy Christmas, the old man wouldn’t have allowed that.”

His father always felt so big. Always stood so tall and hit so hard. He was impossible to go against, impossible to ignore, the threat of him always hanging over Simon’s head. Christmas especially he seemed to haunt, a monster around the corner ready to pounce. He delighted in others' misery, it was no wonder he seemed to take such joy in destroying the holiday.

There was no father Christmas, no meal good enough, no decoration that didn’t end up destroyed. Good china smashed and ornaments shattered. Just things, his mum would say wiping snot from his nose, not worth the tears.

“It couldn’t have all been bad,” Duck tells him quietly, “your mum wouldn’t let it all be bad,” her grip on his hand tightens, “I wouldn’t.”

“It was all shite,” Ghost assures her with a harsh chuckle. “Just about the only Christmas that went well was-” Ghost stops, frowns as he stares out of the barn. Duck is quiet next to him, letting him sink into the memory. The first Christmas after he kicked his dad out. The first Christmas after Tommy had Joseph, his pudgy little fingers reaching for the shiny ornaments on the little tree they had. His mum had baked cookies. It was the first time she’d actually managed to get them all iced without anyone storming in to scream at her, or throw the tray on the floor. They’d sat on the floor playing Father Christmas, passing out presents with smiles. It was warm, and quiet. Just how he’d always wanted it to be.

Duck’s hand cups his face, her thumb brushing against his cheek with a startling gentleness. Simon looks at her and she smiles at him, something warm and watery in her eyes. He feels the tightness in his throat reflected back to him, feels the wetness tracing lines over his cheeks brushed away with care.

“You two would’ve gotten on like-” He shakes his head, looks away from the ache in his chest, “Doesn’t matter now.”

“She would’ve been proud of you,” Duck says, and it hits him like a bullet through the heart, “I am. We all are.”

And he realizes where you get it from, realizes why you change your ‘I’s to ‘we’s. It’s not a worry that you won’t be enough, it’s an assurance that he has more than just you.

Simon looks at his hands, unclasps them to rub his thumb against the pinprick scabs that dot his palm. It hurts, the ball of grief in his chest bounces around hitting nerves and making everything feel bigger and scarier than it is. It eclipses everything, impossible to ignore. Duck settles a hand on his shoulder and grief presses too hard against his throat. His vision swims, and a tear falls into his hand. Duck squeezes his shoulder, an ever present warmth at his side as Simon tries to stem the flow.

“It gets easier,” Duck's voice is soft, sympathetic, “but the good times always hurt worse than the bad ones.” Simon shakes his head, and looks at her over his shoulder, she swallows down the sadness in her smile. “I'm sorry baby,” she tells him, her sincerity hitting him the same as Price's, “I'm so sorry.”

Simon nods, he feels small and far away. He's too big to want to be held like a child, too old, yet Duck pulls him into her arms and he can't do anything but curl into her grip. His hands grip her jumper tight, keeping her held in place as he takes the offered comfort like a starving child takes grapes from the pale man’s table. There’s no judgement as tears stain her sweater, no harsh words or calls for him to “be a man”, only the quiet of the barn as Simon lets himself feel the grief he’d been avoiding all month. For years really. Ever since he found his family dead, felt the cold grasp of understanding wrap around him that he’d never have the sort of Christmas normal people have.

Not when his gifts were soaked in blood, not when he burned the last good things in his life.

“Why don’t you stay with Goosey tonight?” Duck offers, cutting through the tears, “The guest room is a mess, and I know she won’t mind.”

Of course you won’t, you’ve been trying to hold onto him all month. Trying to pull him out of the past as desperately as he was trying to avoid it. The first good thing in this chapter of his life. He should’ve been holding onto you, not pushing you away.

“You’re a good man Simon,” Duck mumbles, her voice quiet enough that he almost doesn’t catch the end of her sentence, “they wouldn’t blame you.”

He says nothing, just curls a little closer, and imagines it’s his mother saying those words.

The house is quiet when he and Duck walk back inside. Price sits on the couch reading, and opens his arms for his wife when she wanders over to him. His captain pulls her onto his lap and brushes her hair off her forehead, a quiet moment of affection in front of the fire that speaks to years of familiarity. He can only hope to have that with you someday, but first maybe an apology is in order. Simon bypasses the happy couple to go upstairs, following the lights to your room.

He pushes the door open as quietly as he can, watches you look up from where you're sitting on the edge of your bed. Your eyes water, but you smile for him. Simon steps inside, and closes the door behind him with a soft click.

“Momma finally convince you to stay here tonight?” You ask. Simon hums, and holds his arms out for you. It's entirely too endearing how quickly you rush into his hold. You press your head against his shoulder and Simon does the same, burying his nose against your neck to breathe in your familiar scent. Somehow it settles in his bones like coming home. God, he missed you. Missed the way you feel in his arms, the way you melt against him with a sigh like he’s all you’d ever need to be happy.

“You were waitin’ on me,” Simon says looking at the still made bed. The room is bathed in the soft glow of Christmas lights, and you stare up at him with a funny sort of smile, the kind that makes him think he’s said something colossally stupid.

“I’m always gonna wait on you,” You tell him, like it doesn’t mean the world to him. Always, you tell him, and Simon wonders again how one little word from you can make his heart feel like it will burst. You reach to cup his face, stroking your thumb over his stubble with a fondness he’s never seen before. It makes him want to tell you he loves you.

“I have something for you,” You say before he can spill his heart. You lean out of his arms to swipe a present off of the dresser next to you. You hold out a flat parcel, wrapped in brown paper with a neat red bow. It’s simple, but the way his name is written carefully on it, far flung from your usual chicken scratch, speaks to the care put into it. He lets you go to take it gingerly, turning it over in his hands to check the seams.

“We’re more of a presents on Christmas family, but I thought you might like this early.” You explain as Simon carefully slides his finger under the tape holding the paper together, gentle not to rip it as you watch him. He turns the picture frame over in his hand and freezes.

Grainy and just barely colored is a photo of Tommy’s wedding. The happy couple smiles up at him, with Simon and his mother standing at his brother’s side, while their new in-laws stand with Beth. His fingers trace the smile on his face, the way his mum holds onto his arm, happier than he'd ever seen her. He looks up to meet your eye, your unsure smile.

“Where did you get this?” Simon asks, looking back at a life he'd buried years ago. You step closer, settle a hand on his.

“I called a couple genealogy places in Manchester,” you explain, “figured your mom might've put an announcement in one of the local papers. They faxed a couple photos over.” You pause, unsure as Simon looks at the photograph. He looks back at you when you've been quiet a moment too long. “I have one of Joseph under the tree, I can go get it.” Your nerves bleed into your voice, your tone softer than Simon's ever heard it.

“I gotta have something to open tomorrow,” He tells you, wrapping his arm around you, pulling you close to his side and kissing your forehead. “Thank you.” Simon feels quieter, you wrap your arms around his waist and squeeze.

“I know it's not much,” you murmur, and Simon cuts you off.

“It's perfect.”

Somehow looking at the photo makes his heart feel lighter. It’s tangible, physical proof of the life he lived, and of the people he lived it with. He wonders if it was really so easy to find, you must have gone through a lot of effort to find this picture. The kind of effort you only put in for someone you love.

“Got something for you too,” He sniffs, settling the picture back where it had been.

“You do?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Simon flicks your forehead, and you swat at his hand. He grabs the little hinged box from his coat pocket and tosses it to you. You barely fumble it, popping the lid open with a smile. He almost worries you hate it the way your face screws up, your lips pouting and your nose wrinkling.

“I love it,” You tell him with a wavering voice, pulling the necklace free of its velvet prison. The little porcelain charm hangs gently from the silver chain, a tiny white goose with an orange beak and a blue scarf painted on it. You hold the charm in the palm of your hand, studying it. “Can’t believe you got me jewelry,” You joke, trying to cover the water brimming at your lashes, something Simon is happy to brush away with his fingers.

“Thought it was cute,” He supplies, you nod.

“It’s perfect,” You unclasp the clip on the chain, and hold it out to him, turning so Simon can pull the two ends around the back of your neck.

“I ever tell you that the bartender no-showed the reception?” Simon asks, helping you clasp the necklace. You laugh, trying to keep your voice down.

“No time like the present,” You smile over your shoulder at him, the sun peaking over the mountains just for him.

Simon holds his daughter up in front of the family Christmas tree, her little pudgy fingers reaching for the shiny ornaments as her eyes reflect the lights. She kicks her feet excitedly, cooing at the display and letting out eager huffs as she attempts to escape her father’s arms. He’s never seen anyone so excited about a few decorations, but the glee that radiates off of the baby is enough to lighten anyone’s mood.

“Don’t let her grab anything,” You call from the couch. Simon pulls Mary back into his arms and steps closer to pull a little fuzzy teddy bear ornament off a branch. He jingles it in front of her grubby little fingers with a smile.

“This one’s yours,” He tells her quietly, “don’t tell your mum.” Tiny fingers wrap around the soft toy, and pull it close. It’s amazing how different the holidays feel with a baby, it’s like experiencing everything for the first time all over again.

Mary holds onto the little bear and Simon holds onto the ornament hook, keeping it out of her mouth as she gums at the ornament’s ears. He’s almost tempted to let her keep it, except that the baby has more presents under the tree than any of them. The perks of being less than a year, he supposes. Having doting grandparents helps too.

Not that Simon can blame them. Mary smiles at him around the bear’s arm and his heart melts a little. Christ, how did he ever make something this perfect? “How many of these did you say you wanted?” He asks over his shoulder.

“As many as you can carry.” You hum. Simon bounces Mary in his arms, and pulls the ornament from her grasp when she switches her focus to him. Tiny fingers reach for his face, soft baby skin feeling over his stubble and giggling. He catches her hand and presses it to his lips, feeling the way Mary squirms in his arms, her chubby legs kicking excitedly.

“They’re all going to be good,” He promises her, “every Christmas-” he kisses her hand again, “-and every birthday-” another kiss, “-and everything in between. For the both of us.”

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russellsppttemplates · 4 months

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could i request the scenario where pregnant reader gets injured quite badly and one of the drivers is really worried and protective over her! like she badly burns herself at a christmas party trying to help one of another drivers kids or she trips over really badly? just some hurt/comfort !! 🪼☀️

Note: since I've already done the one where she trips, I went with the other one! Also, I'm not sure how it works in other countries, but when my mum had something similar happen to her, the lady at the pharmacy was enough to take care of it!

Cw: reader accidentally burns herself, pharmacy visit, medications

The McLaren Christmas party was in full swing as you felt someone tug on your dress, looking down to see who you could only pinpoint to Oscar Piastri's carbon copy, "hey Lucas! You look very handsome today!", you complimented the little boy, seeing him immediately blush. Like his father, little Lucas Piastri was also a shy boy, but in the buzz of the whole team, he managed to befriend you when he went up to see the races when his parents weren't around, "I want to bring some tea for mummy. She's at the table with my little brother and daddy is talking to a man who won't stop talking", he snickered, directing his eyes. Truthful to his word, Lily was holding her youngest son on her arms while Oscar spoke to one of the sponsorship representatives, so the conversation naturally grew long.

"Of course, darling. I'll carry the pot for you, it's very hot and you might burn yourself", you said, praising his request for help as you grabbed the pot with boiling water from the table. Because not everyone likes the hot drink, the catering team opted to have people get the teapots themselves if they wanted the drink.

You weren't sure how it happened as you had been steadily walking to the table while keeping and eye on Lucas, maybe a little tap from someone and your newly found need to adapt your center of gravity almost daily made you trip slightly, the pot losing its lid and leaving the scalding hot liquid to fall on your arm. While you were able to protect Lucas from being affected, your arm and wrist stung as two older men came to your help, "here, here!", one of them pulled the tray away from your hand as the other checked your arm, pulling you to sit on his chair.

"What happened?", you heard your husband's voice, worry etched in his voice as he looked at the reddening skin in your arm, "tea, she was carrying it for me", Lucas pouted, sitting next to you, "I'm sorry, auntie Y/N, I didn't mean for that to happen", he apoligised.

"It's not your fault buddy" you sighed, squinting as someone held bottle of cool water on either side of your arm, "but I think i need to get this checked out, make sure the skin isn't too burnt and needs something else", you looked at Lando, sending him a quiet signal to get Lucas to his parents and take you somewhere.

Leaving the dinner abruptly, you kept touching your skin, hissing when you hit a particularly hurt spot, "baby, don't do that, you might hurt yourself more", Lando said as he drove to the nearest open pharmacy.

When you got there, your husband was a mother hen, asking the lady who was taking care of your skin, applying a cooling cream and then doing a loose bandage, "until you get home, keep it bandaged up so it feels secure, but then you should air it out so it heals properly. It's not a deep burn, but you were wise to come and get it treated", she tranquilized, "there's no need to worry about mummy or baby, you'll be just fine", she stated, taking off her gloves and taking care of the creams and medications you needed to take home.

When you arrived home, Lando helped you take off your dress, careful with the tender skin as he placed kisses everywhere he could, "Oscar just texted me a drawing from Lucas wishing me a speedy recovery, look! It's a Formula One car by the word speedy, at least I think it is", you said, noticing a frown on your husband's face, "I'm sorry this happened", you attempted, hoping it would cease the crease on his forehead.

"It's nor your fault, and it's not Lucas' either", he explained, "I don't like seeing you hurt. You were being brave for him, but I saw the tears when the lady put the cold water bottles, and how you hiss everytime you move your arm. I don't like seeing you hurt, and little one doesn't either, she's been kicking non stop", Lando pouted, caressing your bump as he helped you put on your pyjamas pants, "if it's any consolation, I'm going to need you to be glued to me so I can do some daily things", you teased as if he hadn't been glued to your side since he heard the baby's heartbeat for the first time.

"How bad does it feel?", he asked, looking for your honesty, "it's okay. The local anesthetic cream is helping, but I could do with some cuddles", you said, allowing yourself to be sorry about the situation for a little bit, "cuddles it is, then".

(Thank you for you submission ✨️)

#lando norris blurb #inês writes blurbs #f1 blurb #f1 x reader

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stobinesque · 11 months

Text

@steddie-week day 2: fluff | 1.8k words | teen and up

The door to the apartment slammed shut, followed by the jingle-clang of keys landing in the ceramic bowl Robin had made for Steve two years ago.

"Babe?" Steve looked up from the magazine he'd been flipping through and frowned at the stormy expression on Eddie's face.

Eddie barely acknowledged him, just swept past with stomping feet, dropping an absentminded kiss to the top of Steve's head as he made his way into the bedroom. A few moments later Steve heard the telltale thunk and flop of Eddie's bag hitting the ground and the man himself hitting their bed.

Ah, so one of those days.

Steve set down his magazine, folded his reading glasses neatly atop it, and pushed himself up from the couch to make for the bathroom.

~*~*~*~

Eddie wanted to die. Nope, no, he wanted to commit a homicide.

Actually, scratch that, being wanted for murder sucked.

What he wanted was for the world not to be full of a bunch of entitled little shitsacks who had never been taught how to talk to another human being who didn't have a white collar around their neck.

At least his bed was there to support him. The mattress was a little lumpy, sure, but nothing could outmatch the satisfaction of dramatically flinging oneself onto a flat surface after a shity day at work.

The sound of running bath water filtered into Eddie's awareness.

Okay, maybe one thing.

Steve usually allowed him a few minutes to sulk and brood when he got home feeling like shit. Sometimes interacting with any human (even someone he would literally—and nearly did—die for) was just too much.

"Eds?"

"Mmph." Eddie spit some of the hair that had landed in his mouth out, but didn't bother to raise his head more than half an inch off the bed to do so.

Steve chuckled. "Okay, five more minutes—otherwise the water will get too cold. I'm gonna go make us some tea."

Eddie raised an arm and waved vaguely in the direction of Steve's voice in acknowledgement.

He let himself drift for his five minutes to the sound of Steve puttering around the kitchen—grabbing mugs, teabags, the sugar jar—before peeling himself up off the bed when the shrill whistle of the kettle pierced through the relative silence of the apartment. If he wasn't in the bath by the time Steve made it there he'd be in trouble. Which could be fun, but it wasn't what he was in the mood for today.

Eddie stripped off his—itchy, sweaty, suffocating—uniform as he padded over to the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes behind him as he went.

~*~*~*~

Steve waltzed back into the bathroom with two steaming mugs in his hand to find Eddie already situated in the tub, knees pulled up under his chin, hair piled up in a messy bun, and one hand dragging lazily across the surface of the water.

Steve set both mugs down on the ground next to the bath. "Hey, baby," he murmured, pressing a kiss to his boyfriend’s temple.

"Hi." Eddie's voice was low and subdued.

“Bad day?” Steve asked as he pulled his shirt up and over his head.

Eddie shrugged. “You could say that.”

“Wanna talk about it?” Steve shucked off his jeans.

Eddie shook his head. “Not much to talk about.”

“Okay.” Steve folded his clothes, set them in a neat stack atop the closed toilet lid, and carefully lowered himself into the bath behind Eddie.

The water was just a touch too hot for his own comfort, but Eddie ran cold and preferred his baths on the scalding warmer side. (Shared showers were a trial. Eddie insisted that Steve was trying to murder him with frostbite. Steve maintained that Eddie was trying to boil the both of them alive.)

Some of the tension had already bled out just from being in the bath. Eddie’s shoulders were no longer curled up around his ears—instead, he was slouched forward into the water.

Steve wrapped his arms around Eddie’s waist and pressed a kiss to the patchy birthmark high up on his back, smiling when Eddie responded with a humming little sigh. “Wash my hair?” he asked.

“Sure thing, Eds.”

Steve reached over to grab the shampoo and tiny bucket they left in the shower just for this. “Wanna drink some of your tea before I douse you?”

Eddie didn’t say anything, but reached out blindly to grab one of the steaming mugs next to the tub. Steve didn’t bother holding back a snort that he’d managed to grab the “Don’t Bother Me, I’m Crabby” mug they’d nicked from Wayne.

Eddie took a slow sip of the tea, and the second he’d set it back down and straightened back up, Steve dumped a bucket of warm water over his head.

Eddie spluttered. “Babe, what the fuck!”

Steve snickered from behind him. “Just wanted to make sure you were here on earth with me, bedhead.”

Eddie shook his head like a rain-soaked dog. “You could have at least taken out the ponytail first!”

“I suppose I could have,” Steve said, lips twitching up into a smile as he reached up to start pulling Eddie’s dark curls from where they’d gotten tangled in the hair tie. “I got you talking again in something other than a monotone, though.”

“Maybe I was enjoying playing the dark, broody hero.”

Steve pinched Eddie’s side, which resulted in a high-pitched squeak, and a wild flail that had water splashing up around them. "Behave," Steve chastised—though the warning was undercut by the laugh of unconcealed delight he barked out as Eddie’s arms swung around him.

"You're the one assaulting me in my time of suffering!"

"Suck it up, buttercup,” Steve shot back, combing his fingers through wet curls and gently detangling each and every knot he ran into. He couldn't help but rub the silky-soft strands between his fingers as he went. Steve's own day had been slow and uneventful, but a quiet sort of unease had been hovering at the edges for hours. Drawing Eddie a bath and settling in behind him to wash his hair helped settle Steve back into his body just as much as it did for Eddie.

Steve began working shampoo into Eddie's roots, massaging his fingers into his scalp, and Eddie's head tipped back as he let out a pleased hum that sounded almost like a purr. "Love your fingers in my hair, Stevie," he mumbled, sounding a bit hazy.

"Yeah? Is that the only place you like my fingers?" Steve asked, right into Eddie's ear.

Eddie scrambled back upright and turned to face Steve with an alarmed expression on his face. "No! Why would you think that? Did I say something to make you think that? Please, I’m so sorry, baby. Please know that I love your fingers anywhere on me. Or in me. What if they went somewhere else right now?"

Steve laughed, grabbing Eddie's shoulder to turn him back around with one hand, and dipping the bucket back into the water to rinse the suds out of Eddie's hair with the other. When Steve was sure he'd thoroughly rinsed Eddie's hair he leaned past him to grab the conditioner and whisper in his ear, "You can get them somewhere else a little later if you're good for me, baby," before leaning back and clicking the bottle open.

"I'll be so good for you, Stevie. Just tell me what I gotta do."

"Keep still and don't sass me for the next five minutes."

Eddie's mouth opened and then immediately snapped back shut as he clearly decided that whatever his response to that was gonna be probably qualified as "sass."

"Good boy," Steve said simply, dropping another kiss to Eddie's back.

"I can be good when I wanna be," Eddie grumbled.

"Careful," Steve shot back, gently chiding. He methodically worked the conditioner through Eddie's hair in sections, tugging gently as he did, just for the soft satisfaction that ran through him every time Eddie let out a soft gasp in response to it.

"Always careful, Stevie," Eddie mumbled back, eyes fluttering shut.

Steve reached down to brush one hand over the scars running down Eddie's side. "Not always," he whispered, just a little sadly, as he pressed a firm kiss to the mostly-faded ring of scars at his throat.

"Mm, don't be sad, baby."

"Not sad. Just glad you're alive."

Eddie was quiet for a stretch, and Steve chuckled.

"What? What were you gonna say, asshole?"

"I don't know what you're talking about, love," Eddie replied, all faux innocence.

"You were gonna say something sassy just then, that's why you went all quiet. So, out with it, come on. How were you gonna sass me in response to me saying I'm glad you're alive?"

"Promise you won't hold it against me?"

"Yeah, baby." Steve leaned over to press a kiss to Eddie’s nose. "This one's a freebie."

Eddie looked over his shoulder with a wide grin, and a twinkle in his eye. "I was gonna call you a sap."

Steve rolled his eyes. "Oh, well, fuck me for being happy my boyfriend's alive I guess."

"I was actually hoping that you would fuck me," Eddie replied.

"You're pushing your luck, Eds," Steve warned, yanking lightly at his hair.

"Sorry, baby."

Steve ran his hands up and down the sides of Eddie's arms. "All forgiven, Eds."

Steve let his hands drift as he waited for the conditioner to rest—digging his fingers into the dense coils of muscle in Eddie's neck, smoothing his palms down the ridges of Eddie's spine, ghosting his hands up Eddie's sides. When time was up, he grabbed the bucket, turned on the tap to fill it with clean, warm water, and spilled it over Eddie’s head. Steve combed his fingers through the chestnut locks again, making sure he’d thoroughly rinsed them once more. The two of them fell still and silent, like two little stones in the river bed.

Steve loved this. The quiet trance they fell into, as Eddie relaxed into the water, and Steve pressed kisses into his lover’s skin, and they both forgot the mugs of tea that Steve made.

Steve separated Eddie’s hair into even sections, savoring the feeling of freshly cleaned locks passing through his fingers as he wove the strands together—over-under, over-under, over-under—and plaited Eddie’s hair down the length of his back. When he was done, he flipped the end of the braid back over Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie leaned further into him, pressing the length of his back against Steve’s chest.

Steve let his hands start wandering, and Eddie let out a soft gasp of surprise when the pads of Steve's thumbs brushed over both nipples. "Steve."

"Shh, I got you baby," Steve murmured, and let one hand drop down to where Eddie was stiffening up beneath the water.

"I know you do, Stevie," Eddie whispered back on a sigh and a gasp. "I know you do."

#stranger things #stranger things fanfiction #steddie #steddie week #steddieweek2023 #steddie fluff #steve harrington #eddie munson #steddie fic #was hoping to get this up just before day 2 ended in my timezone but instead we're just past #i just threw this together today because the image of steve braiding eddie's hair popped into my head #may or may not throw this up on ao3 later #idk if i will do anything for the other days #(I did start something for day one which I may post late or separately at some point)#also it must be noted that the ceramic bowl is a mangled attempt at mimicking one of the scoops ahoy hats #and abandoning mugs of tea is something lifted from my own real life and partner lol #read writes

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1d1195 · 6 months

Text

Traditional Extra IV

Read Traditional here

A little on the shorter side.

I love to make Harry whiny.

Warnings: angst, fluff, nothing particularly special about this one.

~2k words

"Baby, come on. You’re scaring me,” she said gently. He wanted to throw something. Everything was making him mad; he felt the ache all the way to his bones.

“Y’can’t fix this,” he muttered bitterly.

It was quarter past one. Which meant that she was set to walk into Harry’s office with his cup of tea in her hand. Even though it had been more than a year since her hot beverage accident, she was extremely mindful of turning corners with something that could scald her in her hands. The idea that Harry might fire someone because she was accidentally injured was too much for her to bear. She had her phone pressed between her shoulder and ear. Her cold coffee was in the crook of her arm as she reached for his door.

But instead, all sound stopped at the noise behind it. People paused in their path to the breakroom, the conference room, or back to their offices. The sound of Harry screaming nearly echoed as she looked at the wooden door separating her and her very obvious, very angry boyfriend.

“God bless her,” someone murmured.

“Don’t think I could do it. No matter how cute he is,” she heard another voice whisper. She wondered if she knew they were loud enough for her to hear. Or maybe with the phone pressed to her ear, they didn’t think she was paying attention.

“I’m sorry, I will call you back in half an hour,” she said softly to the phone. There was a response, but she didn’t hear it as she hung up. Niall was back in their office. Probably already looking to solve whatever issue had Harry breaking the sound barrier. Or maybe he was lucky and in another meeting. Maybe this wouldn’t be his problem. But it was definitely going to be part of her problem.

Harry didn’t scare her for the sake of her well-being. She never worried about her safety or whether Harry would harm her in a fit of whatever was causing him distress. The only alarm Harry caused her was the worry that he was going to have an untimely heart attack at such a young age due to his distress. More so, she worried one of these days she wouldn’t be able to fix his problems.

Or that he wouldn’t want her to. One day Harry was going to yell at her. Not purposefully. Not because he was mad at her. But he was going to take his frustration out on her. It was a matter of when not if. Maybe today would be the day.

Turning the knob, she heard everyone behind her collectively hold their breath. They knew she would fix it... probably. She entered slowly, like it was a lion’s den, and she didn’t want to be seen just yet. She closed the door quietly, with a soft click.

Harry was leaning over his empty desk. His computer, his phone, the picture frame with a picture of them from her graduation, all of it was laying shattered and broken to pieces on the floor across the room. His breath was practically panting. She watched him for a few moments: his shoulders rising and falling quickly and dramatically.

Whatever happened obviously made him mad. When Harry was mad, she felt the creeping sense of worry that he would work himself up to a point he couldn’t come back down from and again, worried about his health.

“Harry, baby?” She asked softly after a moment.

“Get. Out.” He seethed. She felt like a knife had been twisted into her heart and she felt like she would cry. Harry never told her to leave or accidentally yelled at her without a pet name attached to it.

He was definitely going to ruin their day. He was going to take out his frustration on her. Today was sure to be the day. She stood silently by the door. Afraid to take another step or make another noise. He still hadn’t turned around. She could see he was still shaking from across the room. Her heart felt so heavy for his worry and discomfort of whatever was hurting him.

In an instant, his cell phone was pressed to his ear. “What?” He snapped. Harry listened for all of twenty seconds before his phone was added to the pile of debris. He took three strides behind his desk and threw his chair toward the rest of his office supplies as well. A hole appeared in the drywall.

That was too much for her. She had to intervene. She was worried he was going to hurt himself at any moment. Swiftly and silently, she made her way to the couch, setting the drinks on the side table before she hurried to Harry’s side before he tried to tip his desk over or something. “Harry,” she whispered softly. He flinched at her touch, yanking from her so violently it almost looked like he smacked her hands away. She blinked in surprise and tried again anyway. “Baby,” her voice was firmer. She pressed her hands on his forearms. He looked at her, still seething with rage. She could see sweat forming at his hairline. Darkening his chocolate curls. His face was flushed red, his arms were clammy to the touch even through his shirt.

“I told you t’get out,” he snapped at her; it was like he wasn’t seeing that it was her.

She nodded understandingly. “I know,” she whispered in agreement. “I know,” she tugged him toward the couch. Despite how angry he was, he let her lead him. Harry stood in front of the sofa still shaking and she paid no mind to it. She pressed him back, so his legs touched the furniture and he had no choice but to sit. She crouched in front of him.

He was intimidating. Even to her, she couldn’t help but feel the adrenaline running through her blood, her heart fluttering nervously that she was going to make matters worse and just upset him more.

But his typically gentle, green eyes turned nearly black—his pupils dilating to fit nearly the entirety of his irises with how angry he felt. His breath was a bit raspy. His muscles were practically rippling as his hands and arms shook. Even just sitting there.

“Baby, come on. You’re scaring me,” she said gently. He wanted to throw something. Everything was making him mad; he felt the ache all the way to his bones. “Put your head between your knees please.”

“Y’can’t fix this,” he muttered bitterly.

“Harry, please just let me try,” she whispered softly. “Just five minutes and then I’ll leave, and you can set the office on fire,” she promised. Harry grunted in response, and she guided his hands behind his head, his elbows rested on his thighs. She rubbed his back soothingly. “Deep breath,” she whispered. He placated her and took a deep breath, but it sounded shallow. “What happened?” She asked softly.

He shook his head. He could feel tears pricking his eyes.

“Harry, baby,” she murmured. “Talk to me, please. Should I get Niall?”

He took another breath. “I lost a client. A huge one. S’going to...” his breath was shaky as he exhaled. “Kitten, s’bad,” he mumbled.

She frowned. “Oh, love,” she whispered. “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

He picked his head up and looked at her. “M’sorry I yelled at you,” he muttered. “I’m...”

She shook her head. “It’s okay, I know it’s not about me.”

“I shouldn’t yell at you. Ever. You only try t’help. Always,” he looked so dejected. “I...I have t’find a new client or I’ll have t’make cuts next quarter.”

“Okay, so we’ll find one,” she whispered.

He wanted to snap but it was his angel touching him so gently. Trying to comfort him as best she could. He couldn’t hear it. He shook his head. “S’not that simple, kitten,” her positivity was admirable, but he was so mad, so sad. This was a huge deal. A huge letdown.

She sat beside him and grabbed his hand. She twined their fingers together and she looked over at the pile he made of all his electronics and the chair. With a squeeze of his hand, she rested her head on his arm. “Whatever it is Harry, I’ll be right beside you,” she promised.

He turned toward her. “Kitten, I might...have t’fire you.”

She felt her heart flutter, but she nodded looking at their hands. “It’s just a job,” she whispered.

“Love...”

“Harry, I have you. A job... at your company.” she shrugged. “It’s just a bonus.”

“I might lose a lot of money.”

“I’m not with you for money,” she promised with a smirk.

He looked at her, his eyes were red around the corners. His face was withdrawn. He was handsome as ever; even as broken as he felt. “You would love me...if I was broke?”

“I would love you even if you didn’t have a porch swing.”

He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “M’so in love with you. So...” he shook his head. “Hopeless for you,” he murmured. “Don’t deserve you,” he mumbled. “You’re too good,” he nosed at her temple. “I’m sorry, kitten.”

She shook her head. “You don’t need to apologize to me.” He looked at her. So sad. Poor thing. Her heart ached to make it better. The first thing she was going to do when she got back to her office was tell Niall as much as she could, and begin searching for a new client. Then probably order Harry new furniture. He stayed silent. His anger settled into sadness. He felt so dejected.

Sighing softly, she cupped his face. He looked so sad. “Do you know you told me you loved me when you were sick?”

He looked up at her curiously. “What?” He momentarily forgot about the turmoil he felt about his company.

“You were delirious,” she smiled. Harry thought she looked like an angel. He swore she had been sculpted by an artist. Even when he felt so terrible, she was just so pretty. It felt like he was healing. “You were falling asleep and just told me you loved me,” she shrugged.

“So y’knew all that time,” he murmured with a smirk toying at his lips. It was weird how he could make him feel better. Even at a time like this.

She nodded excitedly with an impish grin. “Yeah...” she smirked.

“And y’still thought I didn’t love you with m’whole heart after that? That I wouldn’t have...” He rolled his eyes as he trailed off.

She giggled and shrugged. “People can say crazy things when they’re sick.”

He looked at her. “I love you.”

“I’m aware,” she said cutely. If she had a free hand, she would have flipped her hair behind her shoulder. Harry laughed at her, shook his head so his nose bumped hers. “I love you,” she whispered.

“Say it again,” he murmured, his eyes getting this dreamy, far-off look. His chest felt warm. Part of him never wanted to leave this couch. He never wanted to move. The idea of dealing with what was in store for him seemed so bleak.

She was never bleak. She was perfect. She made everything better, even when he didn’t want her to. “I love you,” she repeated effortlessly. “So much. No matter what. No matter how much money you have or how many porch swings you buy me.”

He cupped her face and leaned so his lips just barely brushed hers. “Don’t know how I did this without you before,” he murmured.

“You’ll never have to do it again,” she promised.

Harry was dreading getting a new phone and a new computer, knowing how bad it was about to get. But somehow her ability to worm her way into his heart and his brain made him believe, even for a moment, that it would be okay.

Or maybe it was just the taste of her lips between his that made him believe.

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girl-effigy · 2 years

Text

After a long night of transgender depravity, I returned to my apartment today. Sore and sleepy, I decided to prepare myself a nice cup of tea before retiring to my hovel for a day of rest. I removed the teabag after letting it seep for just a few minutes longer than recommended - I like it strong - I went to pour the oat milk to top off my beverage of choice. I noticed, to my slight dismay, that we were nearly out. I filled my cup as I wanted it, but the half-a-thimble left in the quart was mocking me, so I poured it into my cup. This left it precariously full.

I had to climb a full flight of stairs to reach my desk, where I type this post.

And I took it in the ass last night.

Slowly, ever so slowly, in a feat of precision and stability that would be envied by world renowned surgeons and streetwise pickpockets alike, I managed to work my way up the stairs. One at a time, with heavy use of the railings - a name so reminiscent of the treatment that had left me so impaired in my ability to walk.

I reached my desk, and sat the mug down. A surge of pride hit me, as I had not spilled a drop. Surface tension proved itself to be an ally to the trans community. I sat down in my chair, but my hubris was to be my downfall. I bucked my hips to scoot forward - again, a motion reminding me of the way my prostate was treated like a heated length of metal beneath the strikes of a hot orc woman blacksmith wearing naught but an apron - and the armrests of my chair collided with the desk. The tea spilled all over, scalding my bruised thighs. And, so, after mopping up yet another hot and sticky mess from my pelvic region, I came to tell you all my story. Remember my mistakes - Don't overfill tea or you might spill on your dick. Even if this means your roommates might mock you for leaving just enough oat milk to outperform a trans woman's best attempt at a facial.

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wooataes · 6 months

Text

하품 (Yawn)

Pairing: any member x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 0.8k

Warnings: angst, hurt/comfort, swearing

Summary: you’re just tired.

A/N: listening to the Yawn teaser in the Highlight medley made me think of this lil idea🥰 Lee Jihoon, this song will break my heart I just know it. This song feels like a warm, comforting hug.

-Tae 🩷��

Masterlist | Ask to be added to my Taglist

Today couldn’t have gotten any worse if it tried.

It all began from when you slept through your morning alarm, making you late for work and stepping in a puddle in your attempt to rush to make it on time. While in your rush, you were also blessed with an unwanted shower by a passing bus, the dirty rain water drenching your brand new white shirt. This was followed swiftly by a loud scalding from your manager in your office, leading you to sit silently at your desk, damp, dirty and on the brink of tears. It didn’t help your case when every mistake that could’ve been made by your team decided to be executed all today too, making your already large workload even larger from your incompetent coworkers.

Due to your tardiness, you were only able to drink a poorly made coffee from the coffee machine in the break room while you worked through your morning tea break to fix up the mess left behind by your coworkers and eat a now soggy sandwich through your lunch break. You think that is the end of your bad luck for the day, only for the bus to break down on your way home, causing you to walk the 20 minute walk him in the rain, seemingly giving up on turning the day around.

You heave a sigh of relief as you step into your apartment, wanting nothing more than to have a hot shower, change into a fresh pair of pyjamas and order a take-away pizza for an impromptu date night with your boyfriend. As you step into the bathroom and turn the shower on, you feel the tears fill your eyes once more as only cold water runs through your fingers. The stupid fuckers upstairs have clearly used all the hot water in the complex for the third time.

You feel stupid, crying over something so small. The water seemed to be the last straw for you as you let out a weak sob, turning the shower off before curling up on the bathroom floor.

Fuck today, you think. Fuck this stupid fucking day.

You let your sobs leave your body for what feels like hours, hugging your knees tightly to your chest.

You’re just so fucking tired. Why can’t you have anything good go for you today, just once?

Your cries turn into whimpers after a short while before your body jolts at the feeling of two strong arms hugging you from behind. Just as you’re about to fight back, your whole body relaxes as his voice whispers to you.

“Hey, you’re okay. I’ve got you.”

You sniffle and let out another weak cry, which only makes him coo and scoop you into his lap, tucking your head into his shoulder and wrapping his arms around your waist. His warmth seeps into your bones slowly like a cup of warm tea, and your cries begin to soften as his fingers run through your hair, rocking you ever so slightly.

“I’m sorry,” you hiccup, but he only just shushes you and presses his lips for your forehead. “No, don’t. I-I’m dirty.”

“Oh hush.” He scolds you playfully. “It’s just a little bit of rain. I won’t die.” He kisses your forehead once more, standing slowly and carrying you to the bedroom carefully.

You don’t even want to know what your face looks like right now, eyes puffy and cheeks blotchy, lips red from biting on them all day out of frustration. And to top it all off, your hair probably looks like a birds nest, all knotty and soaked from the rain.

“Come on, you.” He guides you to the end of the bed carefully, getting you out of your wet clothes and changing you into one of his large hoodies and a pair of your Pyjama pants. “There we go.” He’s praising you with every article of clothing he manages to change you into, which you follow almost robotically with no complaint.

“Today sucked.” You whimper as he leads you to the bed, making you lay under the covers.

“You don’t have to talk about it.” He urges, sliding under the blankets beside you.

“I’m just so tired.”

“I know, Jagiya.” He doesn’t wait for you, taking your arm and pulling you into his waiting hold, arms circling around your waist. “I know. You can rest for the day, I’m not going anywhere, Kay?”

You nod slowly as your head rests against his chest, letting your eyes flutter closed at the sound of his heartbeat in your ears.

“I love you.” You sniffle.

“I love you too, my love.” He coos, fingers running through your hair delicately.

You may have had the worst day, but you feel damn lucky that you have your amazing boyfriend to help you pick up your pieces.

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wildhosh · 1 year

Text

svt as baristas

pairing: gender-neutral reader x svt

warnings: obvious mentions of coffee and drinks

wc: ~ 0.7k

requested

anna’s notes: this was so cute and fun to make, i love picturing them as baristas in my local shop <3

seungcheol

tries to guess what you order every time. you’re known for switching it up each visit. sometimes he bases his guesses on your outfit. “ooo green sweater today, i think you’re feeling matcha!” … or weather “it’s cold you’re ordering a hot cocoa” … or time of year “it’s finals week i’m thinking you want a double shot of espresso!” each guess made with the biggest smile as he leans across the counter to hear your response.

jeonghan

talks shit with you about his coworkers and other regular customers. if you came there to do homework, good try. you’re not getting anything done. you could talk to him for hours and he feels the same. his manager absolutely hates you because when you’re there, he doesn’t focus on making good drinks, or making anything at all, for other customers. your drink is the only one that matters to him.

joshua

you always hit him with the “surprise me” or “what’s good?” and he has the best suggestions that slowly become catered to your tastes based on what you say about the other drinks you’ve tasted. when you finish trying the entire menu he starts working extra hard to make new stuff that you’ll love. “you’ll like this one i mixed up, i promise, it’s good! trust me.”

jun

talks to you way too much while he fixes your drink, he entirely forgets a pivotal part of it. you don’t correct him. you could have ordered a hot tea and recieved an iced americano and you would still drink it with a smile to appease the cute boy across the counter.

hoshi

you tell him you like honeycomb ONE TIME and BAM! it’s the specialty flavor of the month the next month. he smiles when you order it.

wonu

you tell him that you burnt your mouth on a scalding hot coffee one day because you just couldn’t resist drinking it right away and now he makes it early to have it ready and drinkable for you when you get there. it’s cooled off to the perfect temperature by the time he gives it to you.

jihoon

thinks your drink order is absolutely disgusting but he makes it perfect to your liking every time because the smile on your face when you take a sip is better than any coffee snobbery he could muster.

dokyeom

buys you a mug to keep at the shop because he knows that the paper cups they give out get too hot. he doesn’t want you to burn your hands :( he even takes the mug home and washes it in his own dishwasher or sink because he wants to make sure nothing happens to it. the mug would also have some reference to something you love like a cartoon or a book on it :( he’s so cute

mingyu

one time you came into the shop and his coworker started to fix your drink while he was working on someone else’s and he abandons their drink to take over yours. only he knows how to make it right. he’s like “no no no they like extra sugar and light ice” >:(

minghao

when you’re there, he takes extra time on his latte art!!! he’s like: there are other customers in line? no i’m too busy making my favorite person a swan out of their favorite cream. he makes sure to have only the extra prettiest things for you <3

seungkwan

he spilled your drink on you one time and now he’s terrified to hand you your order when it’s ready and avoids looking you in the eye. he always asks someone else to hand it to you. you think you did something wrong but really he’s just beating himself up every day because he ruined your cute sweater that one time :(

vernon

watches you from afar. he doesn’t say much to you but gives you a smile as he makes your drink with extra love, often giving you a larger size than you asked for, and always putting a star or some cute doodle next to your name on your cup.

chan

flirts with you over the counter while you sip your drink. he ALWAYS asks about what you’ve been up to. “how’d you do on that test?” he notices when you switch up your order. “trying something new today are we?”

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theladyofbloodshed · 2 months

Text

SJM Romance Week - Day 6 - Romantic Gestures

@sjmromanceweek When a grouchy man starts haunting her coffee shop, Nesta's romantic gestures come in the form of insults on his coffee cups.

A drizzle had misted the glass and as the world darkened, the yellow streetlights were blurs on the other side.

At the opening of the door, a brisk wind blew in. The man it carried with it was sharp-faced in a finely made dark pea-coat with an umber and orange patterned scarf tucked into it. It contrasted starkly with his red hair and pale complexion.

Emerie nudged Nesta in the ribs: target acquired.

He’d turned up a couple of days ago, coming after the evening rush and poor Gwyn had the displeasure of serving him. His first coffee had apparently been too cool despite being close to scalding. Then he’d summoned Emerie to wipe his table despite the evidence of the previous wiping still evaporating as he sat down. Nesta would handle him today. The best part of her day was to offer up the same rudeness that was given to her friends.

‘Yes?’

The man’s odd, amber eyes snapped from the signage to her. ‘Black coffee.’

Of course, he had needed to scan the entire menu for that difficult choice. Nesta ensured he could see how hot the water pouring from the machine was lest he complain that the temperature wasn’t warm enough.

‘Anything else?’

‘A little bit of customer service wouldn’t go amiss.’

Nesta shrugged one shoulder in response. ‘When you rediscover your manners.’

He stalked away to pounce on one of the vacant, highly-popular armchairs tucked away amongst the tall shelves. It was slow that evening; they were staying open later, trying to offer an alternative to bars for the non-drinkers, but it hadn’t quite taken off the ground.

There was no need to do it, but when his coffee was ready, rather than deliver it – as she might do for anybody else – Nesta called out, ‘Black coffee for the man with no manners.’

Emerie was wide-eyed. He’d reduced Gwyn to a stuttering mess when he’d pressed her for the details of suppliers for their snacks and refrigerated drinks. Emerie had simply called him a dick at the end of her shift when she got home.

To Nesta’s surprise, he pulled himself away from his book to saunter to the counter.

‘Thanks.’ His eyes glanced at her cleavage then noticed there was no name tag pinned there. There was a slight flush to his cheeks when he realised that he’d simply looked at her breasts.

‘Want my name to complain to the manager?’

His brows raised. ‘Not interested in your name.’

‘Oh, just my breasts.’

The man didn’t dignify her with a response, merely took his coffee then strolled back to his table, plucking a different book off the shelf as he went.

‘His name is Eris,’ supplied Emerie.

‘His name is a pain in my ass.’

As the evening wore on, the shop became more subdued. With only four people left – a group of three plus a solitary Eris – Nesta ushered Emerie home for the evening.

‘I don’t like you walking home alone so late,’ she complained.

Nesta held out Emerie’s jacket to help her into it. ‘Well, I like my dinner cooking when I return home, wife.’

‘You wish.’

‘Sometimes I do,’ she replied.

Emerie leaned back against the counter, arms folded. ‘It’s Gwyn’s turn to cook tonight.’

‘Get home, immediately.’

She gave a laugh and tossed her dark braid over her shoulder. ‘If there’s anything left of the house. If a fire truck is there when I get home, I’ll call.’

‘Such a beautiful woman but she cannot cook for shit,’ said Nesta with a shake of her head.

Emerie placed a hand on her heart. ‘Thank goodness she’s got us. See you at home. Be safe. Call me if you need.’

When the group left, Eris called her over with a beckon of his fingers as if she was a hound.

‘Can I get a camomile tea?’

Nesta gestured to the counter on the other side of the store. ‘Have your legs stopped working?’

Eris gave a pinched smile in return. ‘You don’t seem particularly rushed off your feet.’

That was true, she’d give him that. Nesta swept an imaginary cap through the air, collected his cup then set to brewing a tea for him – and one for her. She dimmed the lights in the coffee shop although the candles were still illuminating the tables and soft lights were on in the bookshop area. It had been an idea that had come as a result of burnout in corporate life. She’d climbed the ladder almost ruthlessly, soaring to the top, giving hour after hour to her job then her sister almost died in childbirth and she’d not seen Feyre for nearly her entire pregnancy. Work always took precedent. After that, it felt pointless. Her life revolved around work and she didn’t enjoy a single moment. Nobody ever woke up with the dream of spending twelve hours a day in an office. With the money she had been hoarding, Nesta lived her dream. Maybe it was a little dream, but she made the place she wanted; a cosy bookshop with good coffee and better cakes. It wasn’t a fortune maker, but Nesta loved it. Emerie and Gwyn worked with her to help out in its first few months of existence, but it was going well. Nesta had made something that she was proud of.

When she carried the tea over, Eris had swapped books. She knew that merging a coffee shop with a book shop would result in patrons reading while they drank, but it wasn’t a library – so she told him as much.

‘What if I chose one book and only read that when I’m in here?’

‘Again, not a library.’

A shrug was offered, but that shrug gave her pause because she’d been there before, been that person without a spark. As Nesta went through the motions of cleaning out the coffee machine and washing up the last few mugs, her eyes continually flickered to Eris. He hardly read the book in his hands. His eyes kept drifting to the wall then he’d skip a page or two and try to focus like his heart wasn’t in it. Not once did Nesta see his attention stray to his phone. He was somewhere else – a bad break-up maybe plaguing his thoughts.

Taking pity, Nesta plated up the last few sugary items – the three of them wouldn’t shrivel up and die if they didn’t polish off the stock for once – and set them down on his table with a paper bag.

‘Yours, if you want.’

‘Oh.’

‘Thank you, Nesta. You are welcome. There, manners.’

There was an elfin quality to his face like the bones of his face was sharper, more pointed than others. ‘Your name is Nesta?’

‘No, the other person working right now.’

Her sarcasm usually cut the skin, but Eris snickered. ‘Thanks, Nesta.’

By the time he left, Emerie was blowing up her phone with calls asking why she wasn’t home yet along with a picture of the charred dinner Gwyn had made then a message asking her to pick something up on the way home for them to eat. She’d stayed open later than usual because she felt too guilty to kick Eris out when his mind seemed occupied elsewhere. He’d thanked her again before he left along with returning his plate and mug to the counter – and a hefty tip that she was not expecting.

***

Eris came in every single day that week. He’d stand, stormy-faced in the queue, awaiting his black coffee. Depending how snappy or short he was, depended what name she scrawled on his cup. Grumpy man in the coat. Man who looks like a drowned rat. Mr. Miserable. He never took much offence by it, just raised his brows, paid for his drink then stalked over to the books to sit alone. By Friday, Nesta began preparing his coffee the moment he came in from the rain. When his lips parted, she pressed the cup into his hands. Eris scanned the writing on the receipt.

Mr Can’t-even-crack-a-smile-on-a-Friday.

‘I’m going to touch your newest books with greasy fingers.’

‘You wouldn’t dare,’ she said.

His lips quirked. ‘Try me.’

When he retreated to his favourite corner, Emerie cleared her throat. ‘Excuse me.’

‘You may be excused,’ replied Nesta.

She rolled up a tea towel and whipped Nesta across the thigh. ‘What’s that? Were you flirting?’

Her jaw dropped. ‘That was not flirting. That was me warning a customer that if he ruins a book, I will beat him with it.’

Emerie gave a slow nod, not believing it for a moment. ‘I wish I had that shield. I go home feeling bad if a customer is rude. Gwyn cries. You grow more powerful.’

‘When they ask to speak to the manager, I hit them with the uno reverse card.’

Once the coffee shop had cleared out, Nesta was left alone again with Eris. Like the previous nights, he was unsettled. No book truly held his focus.

‘Camomile tea and a brownie. If you get crumbs on the books, I will bill you for the damage.’

‘This music is awful,’ he said, not tearing his attention from the novel – although she’d been watching and this was the most focused that he’d been all evening so it was likely a façade.

‘Take it up with the manager,’ she replied.

‘I wish I could,’ he muttered.

While he drank, Nesta changed the window display. New stock had arrived that morning so she was eager to have it on show ready for the morning. Through it all, Eris murmured that a book was wonky or the colour schemes clashed.

‘Would you like to do it?’

‘Not particularly,’ he replied, sipping at his tea – but for once there was some life behind his eyes, a slight brightness that hadn’t been there all week. ‘What time does this place close?’

Nesta mimed looking at an imaginary watch on her wrist. ‘Oh, about seventeen minutes ago.’

Eris screwed up his face. ‘I thought you’d be eager to kick me out.’

‘It’s a Friday night. You’re a young, presumably single, handsome man. If this is the only place you have to go on a Friday night then I feel bad to kick you out.’

‘Well, I sound pathetic.’ He drained his tea. ‘Sorry. Your boss won’t be mad?’

‘Yeah. She’s a bitch. Don’t mess with her.’

Surprising her entirely, Eris asked if there was anything he could help with to ease the lock up process. She’d already put the day’s takings in the safe, so she handed him a cloth and spray to wipe down the tables again. Dutifully, he set to the task.

‘You after a job?’

Eris gave one low chuckle. ‘I have a job.’

This was a man that she simply could not work out. From the exterior, he seemed sour and irritable, but he took her sniped words and parried them back.

Even when Nesta locked up the door, Eris remained nearby, watching over her shoulder as revellers began to emerge for the night and stumbled down the pavements.

‘Can I give you a ride?’ He gestured to the rain then pointed to a car worth more than any she’d ever sat in before. It was a massive, gas-guzzling beast that could plough down anything in its path. If the four horsemen of the apocalypse upgraded from horses to vehicles, it would be this one.

‘I don’t make a habit of getting in cars with strange men. Goodnight.’

It was a twenty-minute walk, fifteen if she moved her legs a little quicker to avoid the drunken idiots staggering around the streets. Nesta zipped her coat to her chin then steeled herself for the walk.

Eris turned his car around and she heard it roaring behind her.

It crawled along the road beside her, keeping pace with her walking.

‘If you won’t accept a ride then I can at least make sure you get home safely this way.’

‘You’d be so cut up if something happened to me,’ she scoffed. ‘We’re strangers.’

‘True,’ Eris admitted, an arm resting on the wound-down window. ‘But it's difficult to find a decent cup of coffee around here.’

Each night, Eris had given a generous tip to the pot which was at odds with his prickly demeanour. He could continue to come and be miserable if a fat tip was pushed into the jar at the end of it all.

Nesta made a tutting noise. ‘Will you stop this? You make me look like a woman of the night, driving along beside me and calling out the window.’

‘Ah, a jezebel,’ he said with a laugh. ‘It’s pouring. I’ll drop you off. Get in.’

She slipped her phone from her pocket and hastily flung a badly typed text into the group chat telling them she was in the car with Eris and shared her location. At the sensation of the heated seats, Nesta eased out a satisfied noise. The car was not what she expected on the inside. A blanket was strewn across the back seats and it was covered in muddy pawprints and dog hair. More of it was on the upholstery.

‘You have a dog?’

‘Uh. Yeah. I did,’ he replied, face tightening. ‘Tell me the way.’

‘I’ll give you five stars if you don’t talk to me,’ she quipped but the sadness had already leaked into his expression like those first couple of nights that he’d come to the shop. Maybe not a break up at all.

In a silence that was only interrupted by her directions, Eris drove her home. He was a good driver, never speeding, never taking risks despite the engine that thrummed with power. At the house, he pulled up.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

Nesta nodded. ‘Sure. Eight 'til eight tomorrow, but we have shorter hours on Sundays.’

‘Thanks for the heads up.’

Her fingers stilled on the door handle. ‘Are you alright? You’re spending every evening until close in a coffee shop. Don’t you have a home to go to?’

‘Yeah. I don’t want to be there,’ he said without expanding on it. ‘Goodnight Nesta.’

***

That weekend, they continued their strange dance. Nesta called out orders for the dude with the stick up his ass, the guy who needs to get a library card, and the neat freak who keeps re-arranging the books. Each time, Eris sauntered to the counter or waved his hand through the air expecting table service, not at all bothered by her insults.

‘You’re definitely flirting,’ murmured Emerie as she hung up her apron for the afternoon.

‘I’m harassing him,’ countered Nesta.

Gwyn shook her head. ‘He seems to like it.’

Eris was sprawled out in a chair, shoes off, socked-feet resting on the chair opposite as he read. A cookie had chunks bitten out of it sporadically as he remembered its existence. He looked well and truly at home in the alcove cut into the wall. It was Nesta’s favourite part of the shop – the main reason she’d purchased the building. They’d pinned a lattice to the wall and wound fake ivy and fairy lights through it to make it something special.

‘Are we kicking him out to close?’

Nesta chewed on her lip. ‘I feel guilty every time. He’s got nowhere else to go.’

‘It’s not a shelter for waifs and strays. It’s a business,’ said Emerie.

Sunday was meant to be a chill out day with the coffee shop closing just after lunch to at least give Nesta a little bit of free time away from it. Eris seemed far too cosy to turf him out. She convinced Em and Gwyn to go on ahead in the gloomy weather and she’d catch up. Then, Nesta plopped down on the stool beside Eris.

‘Closing time?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

Eris heaved a sigh as he closed the book.

‘You know you can buy the books,’ she said, raising a brow. ‘That’s how we make money.’

‘Sorry. Tell your boss I enjoy the ambience too much.’

She gave him a half-sigh. ‘I am the boss.’

He reached back to the shelf to slide the book – a fantasy one – back into its place. ‘I was wondering why the manager put the grumpiest member of staff on every single day.’

Nesta choked on a laugh. ‘Me, grumpy? You have an aura like a sad, wet cat around you. It sucks me in like a black hole. That’s why I stay away.’

Eris slipped his long feet back into his shoes and tied up the laces. He wasn’t particularly dressed down for a weekend. All of his clothes screamed money.

‘So, what’s the story? Why do you spend every minute here?’ Nesta scanned him from head to toe. ‘Bad break up? Don’t want to pay for heating at your own home?’

‘I just don’t want to be there.’

Under her piercing stare, Eris crumbled. He pulled his phone from his pocket and slid it across to her. She was expecting a gorgeous woman there or a cute couple’s photo. Instead, Nesta was met with a massive, black dog with masses of shiny fur.

‘My boy,’ said Eris, wincing as he spoke. ‘Fifteen years old. Put to sleep last week.’

‘Oh. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s so quiet at home. I can’t bear to get rid of his bed – or that blanket in the car.’ Eris shook his head. ‘I know, just a dog. Get over it.’

Nesta clenched her teeth together then, ‘That’s not true. Fifteen years is a long time to love something. It’s natural to grieve a pet. Sorry for insulting you for the last few days. If I knew there was a reason for this mood, I’d have left you be.’

‘It’s alright. It was fun. I just needed a place that was open late so I didn’t have to go home. Then I found you. Your insults stopped me feeling sorry for myself.’

His words, though not deep, still had her heart giving a flutter. ‘I’ve still got to kick you out, I’m afraid.’

Eris dipped his chin then buttoned up his coat. He carried his own tray to the sink and loaded the items onto the dishwasher because he was practised enough with the closing routine.

‘Black coffee tomorrow for the dog lover?’

‘Ask your manager when you can get the night off.’

‘Drop me home and you can talk to her.’

#neris #sjmromanceweek2024 #sjmromanceweek

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ctitan98official · 3 months

Text

Anonymous: sub Miranda priestly? 👀🙏❤

Fuck yeah! I’ve always had a head canon that she’s a sub. She’s just incredibly stressed and definitely needs to be taken care of. Reader, as usual, is gender neutral. Let’s get into it!

You had been Miranda’s assistant for much longer than most. You attribute your staying power to the fact that you just don’t really care about wearing expensive clothing and the latest styles. You want to be true to yourself. You don’t care if you fit in with everyone else’s expectations. Of course you dress professionally, but you don’t go overboard. You’ve done your research and understand the business, however, you’re not getting discouraged and drained by it. You’re confident in yourself and don’t feel the need to put up a facade.

Sure. Nigel and Emily tease you. But slowly, they’ve come to accept you for who you are. You three often go out for drinks after work.

Miranda, however, has apparently not warmed up to you as much. (That’s actually not true, though. She’s just really good at hiding her attraction to you.) She still won’t call you by your actual name and sends you on ridiculous errands. But, she has also started asking for you to bring the book by the house. She only sends people she trusts with the book. You’re honored.

Today, Miranda is in a much worse mood than usual.

You, Emily, and Nigel are chatting and making each other laugh when Miranda arrives. She’s half an hour later than she typically is and that’s seemingly contributing to her frustration.

She storms in and flings her jacket on your desk, unintentionally knocking Nigel’s scalding hot cup of coffee all over the front of your shirt and in your lap.

If Miranda noticed what she did, she didn’t acknowledge it. She goes right into her office and closes the door.

You hiss in agony as you bite back some cuss words.

Nigel gasps and immediately grabs some tissues to try and soak up the spill on your desk. “Are you okay, Y/N?” He asks, horrified.

“Yeah, Nigel. I’m fine… But, I can’t walk around like this all day.” You say and grimace at your stained clothes. “What the hell am I going to do? I don’t have the time to run home and change.” You ask.

Nigel looks at Miranda’s closed office door. He can tell she’s going to be a while. He turns back and grins at you. “Where do you think you are, Y/N?” He says… And immediately decides to make you his next project.

Nigel gives you tons of clothes to try on. You tell him he’s going overboard, but he just glares at you and you shut up.

By the time you’re done, Nigel has picked out the perfect sleek suit for you to wear. He helps you style your hair and tells you to go look at yourself in the mirror.

“Wow… That’s me?” You ask in shock. You look like a completely different person.

Nigel nods with a pleased smile. “It’s certainly an improvement.” He says jokingly. “Keep up that usual confidence and people are going to think you own Runway.” He winks.

“Thanks, Nigel. I really appreciate it.” You tell him.

“Don’t thank me, I was just tired of seeing you dress like an accountant.” He says, crinkling his nose.

You roll your eyes and get back to the office. As you walk in, Emily almost spits out the tea she was drinking before she starts coughing violently.

You raise a perplexed eyebrow. Emily’s cheeks are burning. “What is it, Em?” You ask.

Emily composes herself and clears her throat. “So, you actually look decent for once. Hell must have just frozen over.” She says, trying to seem disinterested in how great you look in your new outfit.

“Haha, very funny.” You say and go to sit back at your desk.

Before long, you hear Miranda’s voice from her office. “Emily.” She says. You huff. She said it in the tone she uses when she means you.

You quickly get up and walk in with a notepad and pen. “Yes, Miranda?” You ask and look down at the paper to get ready to jot some stuff down.

Miranda doesn’t speak immediately.

The silence makes you look up at her in confusion.

Miranda’s face can’t hide the shock she clearly feels. Damn. You look really hot. She can’t help but wonder how much better it would look off of you, though… With your hands exploring her body… Shit! Pull yourself together, Miranda! She thinks harshly to herself and tries to snap out of the trance you’ve put her in.

She knows what a heartthrob you are (She’s not dumb), but this… This is just not fair to suddenly spring on her.

You clear your throat after Miranda’s been staring at you for a while.

The editor slightly shakes her head before her brain gets the message to start working once again. “Get Marc on the phone and make a reservation at that place I like. And Patricia needs to be picked up from the groomers.” She says in her calm, but demanding voice. Her momentary internal freak out has finally passed.

You nod. “I’m on it.” You say quickly and leave.

Miranda clenches her jaw. This is Nigel’s doing, she’s sure of it.

——————————————————————————

The rest of the day goes by routinely. Impossible demands are met and you take great pleasure in your efficiency. Later on, Miranda leaves for the day and you finish up some work before going to take the book over.

You get to the townhouse and enter… However, there is an immediate and noticeable tension. Something is wrong. You hear a man’s furious voice and… Miranda’s. You can tell she’s trying to placate whoever she’s talking to, but the man’s voice only grows louder. You’ve never heard Miranda so… Shaken up. You look up at the stairway balcony and see two frightened little redheads peeking their faces out at you. They are silently pleading with you to do something.

Your vision goes red. You stomp up the stairway and make your way to the sound of Miranda’s voice. She sounds… Scared. You turn the corner and see a man, about Miranda’s age, yelling and berating her. You’re almost positive that this is her husband. You and Miranda’s eyes meet. She is so relieved to see you.

The man reaches out to grab Miranda’s arm roughly, but you immediately pull him back by his collar before he can lay his disgusting hand on her. You shove him hard up against the wall, seething. “Alright, you’re done, asshole! Let’s go!” You tell him and drag him harshly down the stairs with your arm tightly around his neck.

“Who the fuck are you?!” He shouts, grunting in pain from your iron grip.

“Your worst fucking nightmare if you continue to make bad choices.” You say darkly. “If I see you back here again we’re going to have a problem. Get it?” You ask and violently shove him down the townhouse’s front steps.

The man stumbles and trips over himself. He splutters as he gets up and looks at you stupidly.

“Beat it!” You yell at him.

The man sees the rage in your eyes and decides to get going. He’s not going to mess with you.

You watch as he leaves like a pathetic idiot. You make sure that he’s gone before closing the front door, locking it, and sighing. You turn around and see Miranda at the top of the stairs.

Her eyes are red from crying and she looks so… Vulnerable.

Cassidy and Caroline begin to sob as they hurry over to hug their mother.

“It’s okay, bobbseys. Mommy’s here.” She assures. Wow. Her voice is so soft and warm right now. You… Love the sound of it like this. It’s comforting.

You quietly make your way up the stairs. “Are you all okay?” You ask gently.

Miranda sees you approaching and begins bawling herself. She reaches out to pull you into a group hug with the girls. “Thank you, Y/N. Thank you.” She says.

Your eyes grow wide. You’ve never heard her say thank you before. You enjoy the feeling of them all in your arms. You could certainly get used to this.

You four finally pull away from each other, but Cassidy immediately clings to your side. She feels safe with you. Not to be outdone, Caroline quickly grabs onto your other side. You look to Miranda in astonishment and she can’t help but chuckle tearily as she looks at the shock on your face.

“I would say that you have won these two over.” She says with a smile and looks at her precious daughters.

You decide that you rather like the idea of the girls approving of you.

Miranda leads you all to the girls’ bedroom and Caroline and Cassidy immediately hop in the same bed and cuddle with each other. Miranda tucks them in and sits on the edge next to them. “Now, bobbseys. I know that was very scary.” She says. “But Y/N protected us.” She says and looks at you in gratitude.

“Thank you, Y/N.” Caroline says.

“Yeah, thanks, Y/N!” Cassidy eagerly adds.

You blush intensely. “My pleasure.” You mumble out, embarrassed.

“Stephen will not be a problem any longer.” Miranda says, looking back at the girls. First thing in the morning, she’s filing divorce papers against that son of a bitch. A restraining order too.

“So, Stephen’s not going to live here anymore?” Caroline asks.

Miranda cups her face. “No, he won’t, bobbsey.” Miranda promises.

Caroline nods, feeling relieved.

“Now, would you like a song to help you fall asleep?” Miranda entices.

The girls eagerly nod.

Miranda turns to you and pats the bed next to her. You quickly take a seat and can feel her lightly leaning against you. She’s so warm. She gently holds your hand and squeezes it.

Miranda sings a beautiful Yiddish lullaby. You are once again falling in love with her voice. You could listen to it constantly.

The girls are soothed by their mother’s singing. They quickly fall asleep.

Miranda ends the song and kisses each daughter on the head before standing up and guiding you out of the room. She turns off the lights and closes the door.

Miranda grabs your hand and leads you to her bedroom. “Y/N, I… I can’t thank you enough.” Miranda says, breaking down once again.

You wrap her in a hug. “Hey, it’s all going to be okay.” You tell her and rub her back.

Miranda lets herself cry for a minute and you calmly whisper soft reassurances in her ear. You will never let anything harm her or the girls again. Something about your dynamic with them has completely changed. You will protect them with your life from here on out.

After Miranda has allowed herself some time to cry, she suddenly pulls back and looks at you closely.

You look back at her. “Miranda?” You ask.

“I… Feel safe… With you, Y/N.” Miranda reveals. She’s just pinpointed why she loves being around you. Every time at work when Miranda has forgotten something or made a tiny mistake, you swoop in and fix it… And now… This. You’re like her own personal superhero.

Miranda’s statement makes your heart rate pick up. You love that you make her feel secure.

“I think that… I haven’t felt truly safe and protected like this since I lost my father.” Miranda realizes and looks you in the eye. “I… Want you here with me, Y/N. Please, will you stay tonight?” She pleads.

You had no intentions of leaving anyway. You wanted to make sure Stephen was really gone. You smile. “Absolutely. I’ll go sleep on the couch.” You tell her. “Good night, Mi-”

“No!” Miranda all but shrieks.

Your posture becomes rigid. Miranda’s never raised her voice before. It’s quite startling. You turn to look at her but Miranda suddenly cups your face.

“Please… Stay in here with me.” She begs.

You can’t say no to her. You nod. “Okay.” You agree.

Then… Something happens that totally changes you for good. Miranda leans forward and places a gentle kiss to your lips. Your brain short-circuits for a second before you kiss her back. Her lips are so velvety. You need more.

Miranda moans softly and it’s the most tantalizing thing you’ve ever heard. She pulls away and looks critically at you. “Nigel knew what he was doing when he dressed you.” She says with a small smirk. “What an evil way to torture me all day.” She whispers.

You laugh and wink. “You can blame yourself for that. You spilled coffee all over me.” You tell her.

Miranda is mortified. She doesn’t remember that. “I… What?” She asks, confused.

“Forget it. I’ll tell you later.” You grin and start to trail kisses down to the base of her throat.

Miranda whines as she grips your hair, wanting you to keep going. You carefully pick her up and lie her on the bed before positioning yourself on top of her. “Let me take your shirt off, doll baby.” You tell her and begin unbuttoning her fancy blouse.

Miranda all but melts as she sees the feral look in your eyes. This is what she needs. To be taken care of and… Completely worshipped.

Note: Haha, so no smut, but the unexpected dom/sub dynamics were really fun to work with on a more emotional level. Depending on if y'all like this one, I may write some smut for it. Hope you enjoyed this!

Masterlist

#miranda priestly #the devil wears prada #dwp #miranda priestly x reader #devil wears prada #emily charlton #nigel kipling #caroline priestly #cassidy priestly #meryl streep #emily blunt #stanley tucci

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softagenda · 7 months

Text

devil's claw (leander)

leander x reader(neutral)

injury / hurt & comfort

originally posted on ao3

masterlist

Preview

“Where’s the fire,” you asked, surveying the empty Wick as the barkeep wiped down a mug with a ratty towel. Even in the late morning, you could usually find a group or two of hounds eating an early lunch or sleeping off a hangover in the corner booth.

“Wall Day.”

“What?”

“Once a month, the Bloodhounds perform a sweep of the monsters surrounding the city walls.” Barkeep yawned. She set the glass down and hooked the kettle with a finger. After refilling your tea, another mug appeared and she poured herself one.

You paused, staring into the murky tea as steam drifted across your nose and cheek. Most monsters lingering outside the walls were Soulless, drawn to the city by the immense, compressed aura of the souls living within. Still, there were other monsters - natural beasts of the land that sometimes wandered too far outside their natural habitat.

The armored dingonek for one. Massive reptilian lizard with venom and a nasty temper. Then the wildewolves that roamed the wastes in packs. Rumors of a naga had passed around the bar not too long ago too.

Leander’s confident, cheery smile drifted across your thoughts, before you shoved it to the back of your mind. He would be fine. You’re not worried about him. A mage of his caliber, he’d incinerate most any monster with a snap of his fingers. It’s the others you’re worried about. Most bloodhound members were human who knew their way around a weapon of some kind, but their strength lied in their numbers.

Their fearless leader did have a reckless streak, though. He’d dared to touch your cursed skin, regardless of the consequences.

“Do you know where they start? What direction they go in?”

Barkeep’s brow lifted, her gaze knowing and amused. “East. Chasing the sun.” She watched as you tossed the mug back, scalding your throat in the process, and slid a coin over the counter. “They’ll be back any minute. Not much point in joining them now.”

“Don’t have any plans today.” Not exactly true - you’d intended to grab another job out of the guild hall, possibly stop by Leander’s clinic and offer your time to grind herbs or organize his files - but this seemed more… time sensitive.

“Mmhm.” Barkeep’s smirk was just visible over the rim of the mug.

“It’s not because…”

“Sure, sure.”

Your lips pressed together, prickles of heat blooming on your cheeks. “...don’t say anything?” You slid another coin over the counter.

Without a word, she slipped the coins off the counter and into the till. Barkeep winked before striding off to the kitchens, adding that vegetable soup would be on the menu that night.

With a grumble of thanks, you slid off the stool and checked your coat, cataloging your weapons with a touch and checking your spare potion. That should be enough for a simple culling of nearby denizens. You started toward the exit when the doors of the bar were thrown open.

Three men stumbled inside, one with his arms thrown over the others. Two bloodhounds carried Leander’s weight forward, speaking under their breath with hurried tones. Your stomach dropped at the sight of him.

The massive nub of a black talon jutted out from his side, spearing through his clothes. Blood seeped from around the talon, slipping in rivulets down his thigh and falling to the floor in a trail of ruby drops. Leander’s face was twisted in pain, his eyes glowing green - using magic to halt the flow of blood to that area as much as he was able.

“The fuck are you bringing him here for?” you asked, sprinting forward, heart hammering in your chest. “He needs a doctor - take him to Kuras!”

Leander’s head jerked up at the sound of your voice. He smiled wanly, his face pale. “Finally awake? You missed out on all the fun.”

The men propped him up on a seat for a moment, hovering around him with panicked faces. “We took’m there first! The doctor wasn’t in!”

You blanched. Gritting your teeth, you shifted through your options in a panic before turning on your heel. “This way.”

Heaving their leader between them, the hounds hurried to follow, sweat pouring down their faces.

“What happened?” you snapped, holding the door to the back rooms as they passed through.

“Griffin,” Leander hissed, jostled by the tight squeeze through the door. “Got the better of me.”

“Clearly.”

He shot you a pained half-smile through the messy fringe of his hair. “Wish I’d had you to guard my back.”

Turning to hide the flush that threatened to rise in your cheeks, you stormed down the hall ahead of their huddle and threw open the door to your rooms. Leaving it gaping into the hall, you straightened the sheets on the bed and dropped to the floor by your trunk. Kuras had given you a small medi-kit shortly after your arrival in Eridia, with a pat on the head and an earnest if soft request that you bring any serious injury to his clinic.

Boots and bodies shuffled behind you as they finally reached your door.

“On the bed,” you ordered, tugging the kit and opening the contents onto the table by the window.

“Can’t tell you how long I’ve hoped to hear those words from your mouth,” he sighed, then grunted as his men lowered him onto the mattress as gently as they could.

You paused as the words sunk in before shooting an incredulous look at the two hounds. “Did you give him drugs on the way?”

“Uh. No.”

Then why would he - “Oh, just delirious with pain then.”

Leander let out a thin, wispy laugh. “Just delirious.”

When you turned around, bandages and numbing agent in hand, his men avoided your gaze. “What should we do?”

“Do either of you have any experience with first aid?”

“...Not me.”

“Nor I.”

You shot Leander a pointedly flat look. His smile thinned. “Been meaning to address that sooner or later.”

“Too bad it’s apparently ‘later’ than a griffin punching a hole in your abdomen.” To the hounds, you said, “Go back to Kuras’ clinic. The moment he returns, bring him here. Anything I can do will only be a temporary fix.”

They bolted out of the door, managing to look both uncomfortable and relieved at the same time.

When you turned back to your would-be patient, Leander’s eyes had fallen shut, his jaw tight. Sweat poured from his temples. His skin, already pale, looked sheet white. His magic might have slowed the bleeding, but you doubted it had done anything for the actual pain of the injury. Swallowing around a dry throat, you brought the whole kit over to the bed and crawled up beside him, each movement ginger and slow to keep from jostling him.

The shirt would have to be cut away. A shame, as Leander invested in magi-armor fabric - thin and smooth as silk, but strong enough to withstand any number of perforations. Exceptionally expensive. The kind you’d acquire from a Hightown armory.

You whispered a silent apology before lifting the scissors from the kit and slowly cutting the fabric away from his skin. More chiseled muscle bared with every section you removed. Occasionally his stomach would flinch at the brush of your knuckles against him. The rest of him had survived the battle fairly unscathed. Without the fabric soaking up his blood around the wound, you could get a better look at the damage.

“Magi-armor took the worst of it, from what I can tell.” You didn’t dare tug around the wound itself, but the talon seemed to have punctured through only at the tip of the claw. Horrid, undoubtedly excruciating, but not nearly as bad as it could have been.

“Figured. Otherwise my organs would be griffin baby food by now.” Leander squinted through his lashes at you, his smile strained.

You lifted a small bottle of dull yellow liquid. “Want this?”

He read the label through hazy eyes before a short bark of laughter rattled through his chest. “Devil’s claw. The irony.”

“You know what they say. Hair of the dog. Or in this case, claw of the griffin that hooked you.”

“No white willow?” At your grimace, he nodded. “I’ll take it.”

Scooting closer on the bed, you uncorked the bottle and brought it to his mouth. You lifted the back of his head with one hand, just enough to swallow down the potion, before letting him down again. Without thinking, your hand brushed the hair back from his face, smoothing back the sweaty fringe.

Leander’s eyes closed for that brief second, his chin tilting up like a cat, before opening once more to fix you with an inscrutable look.

You brought your hand back, flustered. Why did you do that?

Clearing your throat, you said, “I won’t even attempt to do something about that - the talon’s holding your gut in place, at least. Kuras never strays from his clinic long, so…” Help should come fast. Your gaze trailed down his body, taking in the nicks and torn fabric in places. “I could treat other things while we wait.”

“Thanks.” His voice raspy, Leander’s head lolled slightly as the concentrated devil’s claw began to take effect, soothing his pain.

Worried he might fall asleep, you nudged him on the arm. “Nothing wrong with your head, right? Apart from the usual.”

“Ha ha,” he echoed, a true laugh slipping in and evoking an immediate wince as his torso moved. “No. Just the usual.”

With that, you began carefully pulling away pieces of fabric from his trousers, dabbing a cleansing solution on any cuts or abrasions you found. “These pants are headed for the trash.”

“You can take’m off for me, if you want.”

Your hand slipped with the edge of his thigh, nearly sending you face first into his crotch. “I’ll leave that to the fallen angel and psuedo-family figure.” Righting yourself, you perhaps dab a little too enthusiastically on the next cut below his knee.

“I deserved that.”

“Mhm.”

You smoothed a numbing salve across his injuries, pressure as delicate as you could make it in light of the pain he must be in. Occasionally a shiver would work its way through his body. You checked his forehead to make sure the devil’s claw hadn’t dropped his temperature, avoiding his gaze with your hand on his brow.

“Your bedside manner,” he started, his tongue appearing to swipe across his dry lips. “It’s good.”

“I’ve wondered what would get you to talk less. Mortal wounds. Noted.”

“I’m serious.” Leander panted shallowly, staring up at you. “...water?”

With a quick nod, you climbed gingerly off the bed and grabbed a small kettle from the top of the dresser. You cleaned it quickly and thoroughly before returning with a fresh, cool well. He turned his head and drank from the spout, small sips to keep from upsetting the wound. When a drop escaped from around his lips, the curl of your fingers automatically caught it before it could sink into his collar.

On accident, you looked up and met his gaze. Your cheeks heated.

“I should - I should go see if those hounds are back yet. Maybe they forgot which room to go to.”

“No, wait.” Before you could vault off the bed, Leander’s hand caught yours. His skin burned, feverish and clammy. “Stay,” he asked, low and hopeful. “Please?” Silvery green eyes begged from a flushed, sweaty face, and it shouldn’t work, it shouldn’t give you terribly inappropriate thoughts given the situation, but -

Damn it.

“...sure you don’t want a whiskey?”

His mouth curved into a half-smile, strangely gentle and knowing. His thumb slowly stroked over the ridges of your knuckles, his callouses like cat’s tongue on your skin.

When Kuras arrived ten minutes later, his full surgeon’s bag in hand, the doctor paused just by the foot of the bed. You initially thought he was inspecting the massive talon in Leander’s abdomen, before realizing his gaze was fixed slightly beyond that: where his hand was still wrapped around you.

Leander’s wounded look at your sudden leap from the bed seemed somehow more genuine than the one he’d worn after arriving at the Wick earlier.

“Now that we’re alone… I have taught you how to heal such a wound.”

“Hmm.”

“Was it worth half an hour of excruciating pain?”

“Every second.”

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a/n: comments and likes are appreciated! thank you for reading!

#leander x mc #leander x reader #leander fic #touchstarved imagines #touchstarved fic #touchstarved fanfic #touchstarved leander

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