#this just came to me in a fever dream because i bought a weighted blanket today | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

hailing-stars · 5 years

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blankets and brain melting fevers

Remember when I was all, all my irondad bingo fics are going to be post-endgame fix-its?? well this one is pre-infinity war, because I never know what im talking about

Summary: Tony jumps into dad mode when he figures out Peter stayed home from school sick and tries to take care of him.

Whump: Fever

Read on AO3

Peter was lying face down on his bed, buried in covers, burning up but also shivering, when Mr. Stark started knocking on the front door. He knew it was Mr. Stark, without a doubt, from his frantic, erratic heartbeat, and from the way the pounding got louder and more demanding the longer Peter tried to ignore it.

He groaned, crawled out from under his pile of blankets, and tossed his legs over the side of the bed, losing balance and almost faceplanting into the carpet as he did. He steadied himself, stood up, then dragged his feet out of his room and through the hallway.

Mr. Stark had been in mid-knock when Peter answered the door. He paused, then dropped his hand, eventually using it to support the brown paper bag he had cradled in the opposite arm.

“Hey Mr. Stark,” said Peter. His voice came out raspy and weak, and his throat ached with every syllable. “What are you doing here?”

He held up the brown paper bag. “I got an alert that you weren’t at school today, then aunt hottie told me you were sick, so I brought soup.”

Mr. Stark blew past him, entering the apartment without permission, and leaving Peter with his hand on the door, staring dumbly into the empty hallway and trying to figure out how and why Tony Stark got alerts when he didn’t show up to school.

“You made soup?” asked Peter, turning. Mr. Stark put the bag down on the dining room table and took out a few steaming containers.

“I boughtsoup.”

“Oh.”

Peter forced himself to move across the apartment again, but he collapsed into a dining room chair the first change he got. He watched with achy eyes as Mr. Stark arranged bowls and utensils, and he hoped Mr. Stark didn’t plan on forcing feeding him. Peter definitely wasn’t eating that stuff on his own, no matter what fancy restaurant Mr. Stark had got it from.

The smell made him want to gag, and if there was anything left in his stomach, he was sure he would have lost it the second Mr. Stark took the plastic lid off one of the containers.

“Peter.”

His eyes snapped back up and found Mr. Stark’s eyes. The edges of his face blurred.

“What?”

“The door,” stated Mr. Stark. Peter blinked up at him. His face came back into focus, but Peter still didn’t understand why he was saying door. “Jesus, kid, the door, you left it open.”

He turned in his chair and saw the door to his apartment, standing wide open, exactly like he left. Slowly, and with effort, Peter started to stand, but Mr. Stark pushed him back in the chair with a hand on his shoulder.

“No, stay there, I don’t want you passing out on my watch,” said Mr. Stark. “I’ll get it.”

He marched across the apartment, and when he came back to the table, pressed his hand against Peter’s forehead.

“You’re burning up,” said Mr. Stark, as he pulled back his hand and took something out from the inside pocket of his suit jacket.

“I kn-“

A thermometer was shoved in his mouth.

He leveled a glare at Mr. Stark, but clamped his mouth shut and put his tongue over the end of the thermometer, anyway. It felt like hours until the thermometer started beeping and Mr. Stark popped it out of his mouth. He squinted and frowned at whatever numbers he saw printed across the small screen.

“I don’t like how high that fever is.”

“I’m sorry?”

“You need to see a doctor.”

“What? No – no, I don’t,” Peter stammered. “I need to see my bed.”

“I’m gonna take you to the tower and have the medical staff look over you.”

“Mr. Stark…” He made his eyes big and wide. He tried to look more pathetic than he already did, but still, he could see it on Mr. Stark’s face. His dreams of going back to sleep were about to be crushed.

“No pouting,” he told him, tugging him up and out of the chair by his elbow. “Puppy dog eyes will get you nowhere if you’re dead. Come on, I’ll help you get your shoes on.”

Peter let Mr. Stark drag him back down the hallway and towards his bedroom. He complained the way. It was just a virus. It wasn’t a big deal. Mr. Stark didn’t seem to hear him. His protests fell on deaf ears.

Mr. Stark lowered him onto his bed, then looked around Peter’s messy bedroom.

“How do you find anything in here?” asked Mr. Stark. Peter replied with a shrug. “Where’s your shoes?”

He stretched out his arm and pointed towards his closet, sending Mr. Stark on his hunt. As soon as he had his back turned, Peter laid back down and burrowed under his favorite blanket, or at least, his favorite blanket to use when he was sick.

It was soft and warm and was the same blanket he’d clutched between his tiny fingers the day his parents dropped him off at Ben and May’s that time they never came back. It was the same blanket he sobbed into the night Ben took his last breath. It was red, gold and printed with a flying, cartoon Iron Man. It was safety cloaked over him, and Peter didn’t even have enough energy to care about the consequences of Mr. Stark finding out his childhood comfort object was Iron Man merch.

“Really kid?” asked Mr. Stark. He shook one of Peter’s feet. “Sit up.”

“I don’t need a doctor.” His face was smashed against his sheets, and he doubted any of those words were recognizable to anyone except him.

Mr. Stark released a breath, then Peter felt his bed dip with his weight. Before he could do anything to stop him, Mr. Stark slid his socks over his feet for him. Next came his shoes, and without much warning, a hand gripping his arm and pulling him into a sitting position.

And that was when Peter learned Mr. Stark was truly crazy, that moment he came at him with his winter coat.

He leaned back on his hands and dodged him. “Oh my god, Mr. Stark. It’s September.”

“I wouldn’t care if it were July. There’s a chill in the air and you know you don’t handle the cold well.”

A chill.

Tony Stark was standing in his bedroom, losing his mind, over a chill.

“And you’re sick,” he added.

Peter glared at him again, held out strong as long as he could before realizing Mr. Stark wouldn’t let him rest until they got this unnecessary trip over with. He stretched out his arms and let Mr. Stark help him into his coat, and that would have been enough, if it were anyone except Mr. Stark, but he wasn’t happy until Peter was wearing a hat, gloves, and a scarf.

“There,” he said, and patted his head. “Now we’re all set.”

Peter tried to deepen his glare, to turn his pathetic into something threatening, but from the way Mr. Stark’s lips twitched, he didn’t think he was very successful.

“Alrighty, let’s go get you better,” said Mr. Stark. He pealed Peter up from the bed. Before he could guide him out of the bedroom, he circled back for his Iron Man blanket. Mr. Stark gave him a raised eyebrow but didn’t make any comments.

Happy waited for them with a car out on the street outside, and once Peter and Mr. Stark were both settled into the backseat, Peter played with the window switch before giving Tony a look.

“Is this kidnapping?”

“No.”

“I don’t know, I’m being taken against my will, and May doesn’t know where I am. I think that counts.”

Mr. Stark clenched his jaw and stayed silent while the car stayed stalled outside of Peter’s apartment building. A couple of long seconds ticked by, then Mr. Stark made eye contact with Happy through the rearview mirror.

“Hogan, drive,” he said, as he took his cellphone from his pocket and called May at work on her cellphone.

“Well,” said the doctor. Peter clutched the edges of his Iron Man blanket and watched her from the bed as she peeled off her plastic gloves and tossed them into the trash can. “You’ve definitely got a sick kid.”

“What is it? What does he have?” Mr. Stark hovered over him, just inches away from the bed, and his face was comically worried. If Peter hadn’t felt so miserable, he might he laughed, because he knew exactly what the doctor was going to say before she said it.

“A virus,” she deadpanned. “He needs fluids, and rest.”

“That’s all?”

“It’ll pass on its own,” she told him. She stopped by the door on her way out and looked at Mr. Stark. “In the future, Mr. Stark, 101.1 is not a brain melting fever. It’s relatively normal.”

She left the room, off to assist in whatever the Avenger’s medical team did whenever there weren’t any hurt or sick Avengers, and Mr. Stark sunk down on the bed near Peter’s feet. Peter tried to catch Mr. Stark’s eyes, and once he had, he tried to look as smug as he could with watery eyes, a pale face and huddled underneath a blanket.

“Told you.”

Mr. Stark offered a weary sigh. “I guess you were right. I should’ve left you alone.”

“No,” Peter blurted out, the word coming before he could stop it. “Umm, just, I don’t want to be alone.”

He didn’t like being alone, but sick and alone, well that was much worse, and maybe May would’ve stayed home from work if Peter had asked her too, but he couldn’t do that. They needed the money, and he was getting too old to have a parent sit with him just because he had a basic fever.

Suddenly he was thankful for Mr. Stark’s ability to take a virus and turn it into Ebola.

Mr. Stark smiled at him. It looked more like a grimace, but Peter was starting to learn that was the way he smiled when he was trying very hard not to feel things. It was genuine, even if he was putting every effort into making it appear otherwise, and when that failed, he went with a distraction, a change of topic.

He pinched the fabric of Peter’s Iron Man blanket together, made a face, then let it drop.

“What’s the deal with the blanket?”

“It’s soft.” Peter brought the edges up closer to his shoulder and wrapped his knuckles under it.

“It’s ratty,” said Mr. Stark. He pointed to a spot that was a shade darker than the original red. “And stained.”

“Spaghetti O’s.”

Mr. Stark raised an eyebrow at him.

“After my parents died May and Ben could only get me to eat if it was Spaghetti O’s, and I wouldn’t ever let go of this blanket, so May taught me how to wear it like a cap and well, I was a pretty messy kid.”

“Couldn’t be without it just long enough to eat, huh?”

“It made me feel safe.”

Iron Man made me feel safe.

That part went unsaid, but Peter knew Mr. Stark caught it. He looked away and grimaced again and Peter could he struggling and failing in his battle to not feel things. One of these days, Peter was going to break him, but it wasn’t that day. Mr. Stark shook his head a little, then bit out a laugh.

“I can’t believe your aunt fed you spaghetti from a can.”

“You make it sound so scandalous.”

“Because my mother would never allow me to eat spaghetti out of a can.”

“Maybe you should try it sometime, Mr. Stark, you’re all grown up now.”

Mr. Stark frowned at him, patted his knee, and softened his voice. “Let’s get you back to bed. You’re becoming delirious.”

“The couch, not the bed,” said Peter, as he sat up. “And can you get a wheelchair? I don’t feel like walking.” Mr. Stark looked at him like he was about to say no, so Peter continued, “I wouldn’t want to pass out on the way to the suite.”

Mr. Stark went and found a wheelchair and pushed Peter all the way to the living room portion of his and Pepper’s suite in Avenger’s tower. Peter had to only stand up and walk long enough to put himself and his blanket on the couch. It was comfortable. Not more comfortable than the bed in his bedroom at the tower, but decidedly less lonely.

He planned on turning his pathetic to sway Tony into watching movies with him.

“Please, Mr. Stark,” said Peter, after his initial no. “You brought me all the over herein the chilland I just want to watch Star Wars with you.”

“Fine,” he said. “Ask me to make you Spaghetti O’s and I’m drawing the line.”

Peter grinned as Mr. Stark dropped on the couch next to him. He didn’t think he’d be feeling up to eating anything for awhile, anyway.

A couple of hours later, Mr. Stark brought him a Glacier Cherry Gatorade from the freezer, and Peter sipped on the frozen slush through a bendy straw while the opening crawl for the next Star Wars movie played.

He shifted in the cushions, scooting closer to Mr. Stark until he was so close, he could put his head down on Mr. Stark’s chest. He let him rest there, and after a few seconds, wrapped his arm around him. He was better than the blanket, but Peter was still happy he had both.

And if, a few weeks later, Spider-Man crawled up Avenger’s Tower and into Tony Stark’s suite to drop off a crate of Spaghetti O’s and old pictures of Peter Parker wrapped up in an Iron Man blanket as a kid, and if he stuck around on the windows to spy on Mr. Stark as opened the crate, made a can of Spaghetti O’s and gaze at said pictures with water in his eyes, he didn’t tell a soul.

#fanfic #irondad #tony stark #peter parker #irondad bingo #sickfic

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aaymeirah-writes · 5 years

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Unwarranted Dreams

.(Gift fic for AberrantAngel on ao3 as part of the Les Misérables BBC exchange)

Summary: Cosette just wants love, and maybe a fancy tea party. But who cares about the desires of a tiny, unwanted child? Not Éponine and Azelma, inseparable sisters who really can't be bothered to think about the kid their parents yell at day in and day out. Pardon my French.

The summer breeze blew through the village of Montfermeil. Leaves rustled, and a few villagers made their way from cottages to the small market or the public garden. Éponine clutched her doll to her chest as she looked at the new girl. Long, dirty blond hair hid a dirt-smudged face as she sat hunched over her knees, staring into the distance.

“I’m Éponine,” she held out a hand to her. The new girl made an aborted move to hold give her hand but ended up tucking it in between her folded legs instead.

“Cosette,” she mumbled.

“Are you going to play with us?” Azelma cautiously peeked out from behind Éponine’s back. Cosette nodded.

“You can’t have my doll, but you could go and get water, so we could have a tea party,” Éponine offered. Cosette’s eyes widened.

“What’s a tea party?”

“It’s what aristos in the big cities do. They sit around and drink tea all dressed up fine. A merchant told me that,” Éponine grinned, remembering. Maman bought Azelma and her their very own dolls.

“Maman used to sit with me and let me have tea. That must have been a tea party,” Cosette said softly.

“Why did she leave you here then? If you could have tea parties?” Cosette shrugged, retreating into herself once more. Éponine frowned for she was not used to being denied, over material wants or her curiosity.

“Can we just have a tea party?” Azelma asked, pulling on a lock of Éponine’s frizzy hair. Éponine swatted her hand away.

“Go get the water, Cosette. The river is just a little way in the trees,” ordered Éponine, the force of a spoilt girl permeating her words. Cosette nodded quickly and brushed her hair, which was tied back with a ribbon, out of her face.

“Do- do you have a bucket?” Cosette asked.

“It’s at the back. Be quick now! You can serve us tea and we’ll be fine ladies.”

“Alright.” Cosette stood and shuffled hesitantly towards the trees that fringed the inn at which Maman left her. She walked, scuffing her feet, then looked at the road that curved gently upwards, leading out of the village. Cosette could just see the form of her Maman walking away with her head bent, pausing at the rise that would, unbeknownst to mother and daughter, obscure her from Cosette’s view forever. She turned around and waved, Cosette smiled, just a bit, and waved back. Her maman would return soon.

“Cosette! Hurry with that water!” Éponine yelled. Cosette moved on, and when she turned back to look for one last glimpse of her Maman; she was gone.

Firelight. It did not cast its own shadow, for it was light, but the objects surrounding the smoking fire did. Cosette stared at the dancing flames, their movement hypnotic to her dropping eyes and work-clouded mind. Her stunted imagination began to wander, to a place of hugs and smiles, where brooms didn’t exist and she had a real Maman.

“Espèce de rate! Bring more bread out. We have hungry patrons and can’t afford you slaking off. Mon Dieu, why did I ever agree to take you off the hands of that putin you call Maman?” Madame Thénardier yelled this across the smoky common room, earning her an appreciative laugh from the patron to whom she was serving absinthe.

“Oui Madame,” she responded in a small voice, ignoring the harsh words Madame always used as she cast aside the reverie. She propped her straw broom against the fireplace and ran to the kitchen where Cosette piled loves of hard bread mixed with sawdust onto a stained wooden tray. Teetering under the weight, she carefully brought it out to the common room.

“The best table grenouille! Can’t go around giving out free bread, now can we?” Cosette knew better than to answer, so she made her way over to the ‘best’ table by memory, as her vision was obscured by the small loaves of bread. Once she had served it, Cosette ran back for the cheese, before Madame could order her to do so.

“Gavroche, I need that cheese,” Cosette said hesitantly when she saw the small, scruffy boy who only nominally lived at the inn stuffing a block of cheese into his pocket. His stomach rumbled audibly. Looking from the cheese to Cosette, he shrugged and broke it in half.

“Cut off the jagged edge and they’ll never notice a difference,” he advised, before flashing her a smile and disappearing out the back door. She stood with the jagged cheese and decided it was better than nothing. The big butchering knife was too heavy for her to pick up, let alone use. So Cosette climbed onto the counter to reach the cupboard with the smaller knives. The one Madame did not know she knew how to access. The one with the objects she wasn’t ever allowed to touch. Cutting the cheese and stuffing the excess into her mouth, she then ran out of the kitchen with it on a plate, certain her guilt would be noticed from the small drop of blood which welled up from the pad of her thumb where the knife nicked her.

“Grubby child,” Madame sniffed and took the plate out of her hands. “Finish sweeping, can’t have the place looking like a pigsty, now can we?” Cosette nodded hurriedly and resumed her eternal task.

“Under all that dirt, you could clean up nicely,” a man leaned over to eye Cosette, beard dripping with the foam from his drink. “Come closer little girl.” Cosette did not like his grin. Cosette did not want to come closer. She did the opposite. She ran. Away.

“Why did you give her half the cheese?” Éponine cornered Gavroche who finished his half hurriedly, then shrugged.

“Cosette would be in enough trouble already. I didn’t need it all.”

“But why would you help her? She’s just a bastard from a dissolute woman,” added Azelma before she was hushed with a glare from Éponine.

“I’m asking the questions here,” she reminded her younger sister. Gavroche ran his muddy right hand through his puffy hair.

“I suppose, because, well, she’s sort of like me,” a pause as Gavroche searched for the right word in his limited vocabulary. “Unwanted.” As the sisters digested this, Gavroche slipped beneath their blocking arms and ran off to convince a fellow little one to cause havoc with him.

“Well, Gavroche is nothing but trouble,” Éponine said eventually, picking at a scab on her elbow as they both stared at the place where that gamin was cornered just moments ago.

“And so is Cosette. Papa says so all the time,” said Azelma.

“You repeat everything Papa and Maman say,” retorted Éponine testily.

“Because they are right. And you see, we don’t cause trouble, so we get all the nice things.”

“I suppose so,” Éponine moved from picking at the scab to biting her thumbnail in consideration. After a short period of reflection, she decided in her self-serving way that the actions of Gavroche were not her concern and that Cosette’s problems were none of her business.

“Tag. You’re it!” Éponine put the matter out of her mind once she came to the conclusion so she could fully enjoy slapping Azelma on her arm.

“Hey! No fair!” Azelma took off after an already running Éponine. Their oblivious laughter soon filled the air.

“Girls! Calm down,” Monsieur Thénardier’s oily voice called from a window. They paused their game, which had morphed from Tag, to catch the convict.

“Come inside and help! It’s dinner and that useless Cosette is unavailable,” knowing not to disobey their Papa, they ran inside. Maman bent over to see their stockings.

“Éponine, what did I tell you about keeping your stocking clean?” Rough hands clasped her face and Maman wiped a smudge of dirt from her cheek.

"To keep them clean for a lady should never have dirty stockings."

“That's it! Now, add them to the wash, Cosette will clean them once she can function again. The little slacker.” Madame Thénardier switched from conciliatory to disdainful in a heartbeat.

“Girls, you must help out today, we are unusually busy. There is money to be made and no matter how pretty my two girls are,” Papa paused to pinch them each on the cheek, “the coins won’t enter my pockets themselves.” Azelma nodded at once, Éponine following suite a moment later.

“But why do we need to help? What happened to Cosette?” she asked.

“The ungrateful brat tried to run away and slipped into the river. We tried to get her up, but she’s just shivering and unresponsive. I knew it was a mistake when that woman left her here.” Maman said this as she moved away, the moment of outward familial fellowship broken. Papa’s face lit up.

“This means that I can ask Fountain or whatever her name is for more money! To treat Cosette and all!” Papa spoke this out loud to no one in particular, then continued, “go help your maman, I have a letter to write.” As he walked away, Éponine could practically hear him marveling at the novel fact that a letter asking for more money would for once be true.

“Éponine?” Cosette’s small, shaky voice stopped her in her tracks. Éponine was tired, and only wanted her bed.

“What?”

“Do you think I’ll ever attend at a real tea party?”

“Huh?” Éponine wondered what had prompted this. Cosette hardly spoke, let alone asked questions.

“A tea party. Like the one we had when I first came. Where you and Azelma let me play with too.”

“Oh. Well then, no. You’re nothing really. What makes you think you’d ever be in a position to sit around all fancy and just drink tea?”

“It’s one of my dreams.”

“Dreams mean nothing Cosette,” said Éponine forcefully as she turned and walked away to the room and bed she shared with Azelma. Let Cosette nurse her false fever dreamed hopes by herself, she wanted no part in it.

Try as she might, Éponine could not bring herself to fall asleep.

“Stop kicking me, and leave me some of the blankets,” she hissed in the darkness, looking at the indistinct outline of Azelma, curled into a fetal position. Inarticulate noises came from the lump that was her sister. Éponine huffed and yanked her fair share of the blankets over her own cold body.

“Stop it,” muttered Azelma.

“Give me the blankets," countered Éponine.

“Fine,” she was awake now too. They lay together in silence.

“Say, what do you think would happen if Cosette were to die from her fever?” Éponine asked.

“No one would miss her, just her help,” Azelma answered.

"But like, with the body and stuff."

“Maman and Papa would think of something. They always do. Besides, it wouldn’t affect us, so why would we care?”

“I suppose so,” Éponine agreed, wishing she could have the same confidence in their parents.

“You know, Cosette asked me if I thought she’d ever get a real tea party as we played a few months ago.” Azelma propped her head on her hand to stare at her sister.

“She’s a grubby nobody. If anyone would get a tea party, it’d be us, when Maman and Papa become rich.”

“You trust them so much.”

“Don’t you?” Azelma stared, wide-eyed at her sister.

“I don’t trust anybody,” Éponine sniffed haughtily.

“You don’t trust me?” Azelma asked quietly. Éponine looked at her searchingly, a small smile on her face.

“Alright, I trust one person.”

“Me?”

“Yes, of course, you. Silly. We’re sisters. We’ll stick together.”

“And when we’re rich we’ll have a tea party and four new dresses every year!”

“Of course. Bonne nuit, sœur.” Éponine said softly, brushing curly hair out of Azelma’s eyes. Azelma yawned and turned over, an action Éponine herself copied. Soon, she was asleep, dreams and worries, considerations and issues cast aside for the nonsensical dreams of her subconscious and the comforting presence of her sister at her side.

#les mis #fanfic #gift fic #angst #dreams #cosette #eponine #azelma #sisters #innocently cruel #gavroche #madame thenardier #mosieur thenardier #use of french #les miserables #bbc #my writing #writers on tumblr #aaymeirah-writes

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exxxoblr · 6 years

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ultraviolet

kim jongin x reader

wc - 1.6k // rated M for sexual themes.

author - admin C, gif not mine.

companion playlist here // requests

No matter how tightly he wrapped his comforter around himself; pressing his face into the worn material of the second blanket he had stolen from the living room couch, Jongin couldn’t escape the bone-chilling draft leaking from the window above his bed from shoving its icy fingers down his shirt. He had not one, but two pairs of socks on his feet, peaceful sleep not even being considered without them being pulled on and tucked securely under his flannel pajama bottoms. At quarter to three in the morning, he expected himself to be in a deep sleep, as you had been in for hours. Jongin snuck a peek at you, soundly asleep next to him.

After another Harry Potter marathon, watching until you both reached for a bottle of eye drops, Jongin insisted that you stay the night, deeming your droopy eyelids a danger to all others that would be unfortunate enough to be sharing the road with you. With a lot of whining, you begrudgingly indulged him.

“Why are you such a mother hen, Jongin?” You yawned, pulling off your thick sweatpants and tossing them amongst Jongin’s dirty laundry strewn about the floor. Constantly warm, you felt as though wearing fleece to bed was equivalent to roasting yourself alive. A little loopy with drowsiness, you admired your own snowflake-scattered panties before pulling Jongin’s comforter up to your neck. From the bathroom, you heard Jongin sniffle.

“I just don’t want my best friend to go to jail for vehicular homicide tonight, okay?” He replied, a pout gracing his lips. Your eyes widened at him in brief moment of disbelief before you snorted in laughter. “What?” He snapped, smirking himself.

In thick socks, large flannel pajamas and a waffle-knit henley, Jongin looked like he was almost ready for a snowball fight.

“Need a hat, Nini?”

You had flung the comforter off of yourself in a jarring unconscious movement, letting Jongin hog it. Part of the blanket still covered your right leg and most of your right side as you slept on your back, head tilted towards him. His eyebrows knit together in confusion, baffled at how your cheeks were flushed warmly. Eyes traveling from your pink cheeks, he felt his own heat up as he noticed the way your chest rose and fell shallowly, like you were short on breath. It was very hard for him to look away from your heaving chest. The tank top you were wearing was modest enough, but the way it had slipped down in your sleep had Jongin pulling his comforter away from his neck, heat climbing up his spine as he stared at your collarbones.

You shifted in your sleep, rolling over to face Jongin. The comforter had slipped completely off of you as you moved, one leg slung over Jongin’s. Feeling the weight of your leg on top of his, he looked down at your calf, resting on top of the blankets. Even though there were more than enough layers between him and your very bare leg, Jongin could still feel the searing temperature coming from your skin. He was very aware of the fact that you lacked pants, you never wore them while sleeping, but for some reason, that thought tonight made him a little too hot to be wearing two pairs of socks.

“Why’d you pick purple lights?” Jongin asked, raising an eyebrow as you tacked them up on his wall. You were helping him jazz up his bedroom, and had bought him some string lights.

“Because it’s pretty and purple is my favorite. I’m your best friend, so naturally this room is for you and I. It’s our space, so of course I get a say in the color of the string lights,” You rambled, really not making much sense but definitely getting Jongin’s heart to race.

“For you and me only?” Jongin teased, poking you in the ribs. His heart fluttered as you giggled, looking up at the lights as you turned them on.

“Right you are. And besides,” You turned, grinning widely at him. “I look great under ultraviolet lighting.”

You were right of course. Jongin had to admit, you looked absolutely stunning in any light, but in the soft glow and subtle darkness of ultraviolet hues, you looked nothing short of breathtaking.

“Jongin?” Your sleep-laced voice startled him out of his reverie, eyes caressing the swell of your hips. Jumping, he sat up quickly, running his hands through his hair, his heart threatening to bust out of his chest. He felt your hand grab his forearm tightly.

“(Y/N), you scared me,” Jongin breathed, his voice scratchy with exhaustion. Avoiding your eyes, he wished that you would retract your hand from him, your touch setting every nerve in him on fire.

“I’m sorry, I just had a dream and it woke me up, I was just surprised to see you awake still,” You whispered, settling back down on the pillows. He looked at you, a thin coat of sweat covering your skin. Becoming concerned, Jongin laid back beside you and rolled so he could face you.

“Do you wanna talk about your dream? Was it a nightmare?” Jongin asked in quick succession, glad for a distraction.

“Uhhh…” you avoided his eyes, or rather, his face in general, choosing to look down at his hands. A mistake, you decided, especially after the vivid dream you had jolted awake from. “I wouldn’t say it was a nightmare…”

He put his hand on your side, catching your attention. His touch sent bolts of electricity down the notches of your spine, making your breath stall in your throat.

“Come, on (Y/N), tell me about it! I’m curious now,” He pleaded, making you look at him by pulling your chin up to meet his eyes.

“You really wanna know?” You asked shakily. Nodding, he released your chin and looked at you expectantly. His thumb pressed to your bottom rib, making you reach your fever pitch. Grabbing his cheeks in your desperate palms, you collided with him, making a relieved sound as the plush feeling of his lips against your own.

Feeling his body stiffen, your eyes opened a hair to see that his were wide open in shock, his hand stilling. Pulling away, you stared at him. This was Jongin, your best friend, nothing either of you did was enough to scare the other away. It was just a matter of how each situation was handled between the two of you. Clearing his throat, Jongin threw his comforter off his body.

“Your dream…?” He whispered, touching his lips. Things starting to click into place; your flushed skin, your labored breathing. The thought made the air rush out of his lungs. Jongin looked back at you, still on your side and watching him carefully. “I was in your dream?”

“I can tell you more about it, if you want,” You murmured, taking a shot in the dark, staring at the sweat that dripped from his temple and down the curve of his cheekbone. Half a beat skipped by before he nodded once more, and you were in his arms.

This time, he melted on your lips like expensive chocolate, his hands molding to the shape of your ribcage like they were made to be an extension of your own body. You felt him smile into your kiss; you two were long lost lovers reunited once more.

You rolled on top of him, your hair curtaining him in a way that hid him from the word. He gathered it, sliding it over your right shoulder, before pushing his hands up your back and under your tank top. You were better than any drug, he decided, as you trailed your lips down his throat. He peeled the tank top from your body, sitting up with you still perched on his lap. Like in your dream, his hands were everywhere at once, exploring your bare chest, gliding down your back. The words unspoken between you two as he rid himself of his henley and you of your underwear hung in the air, not needing to be verbalized to be understood.

You weren’t exactly sure why you dreamt of his hands on you, but as he murmured in your ear, his fingers driving you slowly to insanity, you were very glad that this was the outcome of your fitful sleep. He relished in the sound of you crying out, riding out your high, then growing limp against him as you tried to catch his eye. Staring at you intensely, making the ebbing embers in you reignite, he withdrew his fingers from you and brought them to your mouth. Shocked, but incredibly turned on, you accepted his fingers into your mouth and delighted in his growl.

His pajama pants joined your abandoned sweatpants on the floor, his lips barely mouthing the column of your neck but effectively making you putty in his hands. Jongin felt sweat race down the line of his back, lolling his head to the side as you lowered yourself down on him. Letting you set the pace, he wrapped his arms around you in attempt to weld his body to yours. You sighed, exhausted as your thighs rested on his for a moment, and rolled your hips experimentally. Jongin groaned in approval, picking up where you left off. His pace was a beat faster, still slow enough to be tender, but forceful enough to probably leave you blissfully sore in the morning.

You didn’t need to speak, but you knew. The way his bottom lip fit between yours made it clear that you should have done this long ago; every part of your bodies slotting together like they were meant to be one. His skin slid against yours achingly, his sweat mingling with your own. In the glow of ultraviolet string lights, a breeze came through the drafty window above the bed, which Jongin now willingly welcomed.

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