#i had to flush it down the toilet i was wailing and sobbing the entire time

[dinoyoongi]

Cuddles & Kitty Cats

SYNOPSIS: After a night of drinking, you go to Yoongi’s dorm for some quality cuddles. Unfortunately, you’ve forgotten that you are currently giving him the silent treatment.

PAIRING: Yoongi x Reader

GENRE: Fluffy angst

WARNINGS: Language

WORD COUNT: 2292

AUTHOR’S NOTE: I have a million other things that I should be writing but this spontaneously jumped into my head. Nothing was planned, I just wrote whatever popped into my head. Hope you all enjoy!

_______________________________________

“Yoongi! Y/N is downstairs! Should security let her up or are you two still arguing?” Jin yells from the foyer of the apartment. Yoongi, who is currently slumped into the living room sofa and attempting to decode the obviously inebriated text messages you had just sent five minutes prior, lifts his head in confusion. He sighs heavily.

“I think she's drunk. Tell them to let her up.”

Your boyfriend and Jin idle by the door for what seems like fifteen minutes, waiting for the doorbell to sound. Yoongi is about to go search the floor for you when there's suddenly a loud banging on the door, followed by a pitiful whine. Jin yanks the door open quickly and both boys are startled when your body tumbles inside, crumpling to floor at their feet.

“Ow,” you half squeak, half hiccup. You slap the pristine, gleaming tiles with the palm of your hand. “Big Hit too cheap to spring for carpeting?”

“I don't think they anticipated drunk girls breaking their head open on our linoleum, Sweetheart,” Jin says, watching in amusement as Yoongi pulls you gently to your feet. He steadies you when you wobble, keeping one of you arms around his shoulder. Feeling his limbs against yours, you yank yourself away as if his skin is made of lava.

“I don't want to talk to you,” you say snottily, wrapping your arms around yourself. Yoongi snorts humorlessly, his eyes widening in disbelief.

“Then why the fuck did you get dropped off here?”

Jin has to stifle his laughter when you genuinely look confused – why did you instruct your taxi driver to take you here? It wasn't because you subconsciously wanted to make up with Yoongi and cuddle him all night. Nope. Absolutely not. No way. You were punishing him with the silent treatment and would continue to do so until he apologized for the things that he had said yesterday.

You hiccup again, your eyes moving toward the taller boy. He's surprised when you shove a finger in his direction. “Jin! I came to hang out with Jin. Jin is my best friend.”

Before Jin can even process what you've said, you have him by the elbow and you're dragging him into the living room, pulling him down to sit next to you on the sofa that Yoongi previously occupied. Yoongi leans against the wall of the entryway, already exhausted of your theatrics.

“So, Jin, how have you been lately? Tell me everything new that's going on!” you exclaim, kicking your leg up over your knee. Yoongi's eyes narrow at the expanse of skin that is suddenly revealed when your skirt shrinks in on itself with the movement.

“Uh,” a panicked Jin throws a worried glance at Yoongi, who motions with his hand and the rolling of his eyes to play along. “I've been … good. Things have been … good. Nothing new going on – just recording music and learning choreography and photoshoots … you know, BTS stuff ...”

You nod your head. “Of course. Sounds hectic.”

There's an uncomfortable silence. The weight of your expectant gaze targeted right at Jin is even more uncomfortable. He clears his throat. “And … yourself?”

By the way you perk up, shoulders squaring and posture suddenly proper, Jin can tell that you clearly didn't give any kind of shit about how he has been or what was new with him. He locks eyes with Yoongi again, both of them realizing what kind of game you were playing.

“I've been just peachy, Jin. Just peachy. I broke up with my neglectful boyfriend yesterday-”

Yoongi scoffs loudly. “We did not break up.”

“As I was saying,” you talk loudly over him with as much sass as you can muster, “I broke up with Yoongi and went to the bar tonight to find myself a new man who will actually remember my birthday and not call me immature for being upset about it.”

“You forgot her birthday?” Jin asks in incredulity, facing the younger boy with wide, disappointed eyes.

“I was only one week off!” Yoongi exclaims defensively. “I thought it was on the 18th instead of the 10th! I even had her present already bought and wrapped!”

“We've been together for three years, you asshat. And we've known each other for even longer than that. It is against the law for you to forget my birthday by now!”

Jin grimaces. “Err … that's not a law, Y/N.”

“Well it should be!”

“And this is why I called her immature. You're hammering the nails right into the coffin, Babe,” Yoongi drawls, shaking his head in amusement at your ridiculousness. The smug look on his face only enrages you further in your intoxicated state.

“And this is why I broke up with you! You are also hammering your -”

“You did not break up with me,” Yoongi interrupts, smirking when he sees your face flush red with anger.

“Shut up!” you screech, grabbing the first solid object that your fingers can reach and whipping it in his direction. Unfortunately for you, it was a stray sock and barely traveled halfway to where Yoongi stood. He stares at the piece of laundry for a few seconds before bursting into loud guffaws. Somewhere between throwing the sock and Yoongi laughing at you, your liquid courage dried up. A sudden wave of humiliation washes over you and you jump to your feet, ignoring the pain when your knee knocks into the coffee table hard as you run past Yoongi into the nearest bathroom.

Jin sighs, grabbing the edge of the coffee table to right it's position. “What I just witnessed was ridiculous. You know that, right? She's drunk. Why are you antagonizing her?”

“She came over here looking for an argument so I indulged her,” Yoongi shrugs. Something about Yoongi's nonchalant attitude sits wrong in Jin's stomach.

“Do you really think she came all the way over here to argue? She got drunk and probably missed you. And whether you'd like to admit it or not, you do owe her an apology for forgetting her birthday. That's kind of messed up.”

Yoongi sighs. “She understands. I forget important dates and anniversaries all the time and she always lets it go. I don't know why she's freaking out this time.”

“Do you ever forget my birthday? Namjoon? Jungkook? Any of the other members? Hell, you even remember to send some of management gift cards on their birthdays. Imagine how that must make her feel, Yoongi. She probably doesn't feel all that important to you.”

Yoongi's eyes fall to the sock on the floor by his feet. Jin was right – of course, he was right. When he forgot your birthday the first year, you were so calm and understanding. Yoongi had panicked and prepared for the worst but you soothed his worries and forgave him with no fuss. When he forgot your anniversary the next year, he could see that you were visibly upset but also let it go with a smile on your face. After that, it became routine. Yoongi didn't think these dates mattered to you all that much so he didn't put forth the effort to remember them. Has he been taking advantage of you and your feelings this entire time?

“You're right,” Yoongi sighs, rubbing the spot between his eyes with his thumb. “I really am an asshat.”

“I know you hate to do cheesy things, but I think you have to just suck it up this time. Go in there and apologize and be nice. And then bring her to bed because she seems on the brink of passing out. I'll make her a sandwich so she isn't so sick tomorrow.”

“Thanks, hyung,” Yoongi pats his elder on the shoulder before padding down the hallway to the first bathroom. He raises his fist to knock but leans his ear to the wood instead when he hears a faint whimpering from the other side. “Y/N? Jagi? Are you okay?”

When there's no answer, Yoongi turns the knob. Surprisingly, it opens. He finds you sprawled across the bathmat next to the shower, wet, mascara-streaked eyes trained on the screen of your phone. There's a faint melody of familiar music playing but he can't place a finger on what it is until you begin singing.

“It leaves me feeling seasick, baby ...” you half-sob, half-sing from your spot on the floor. Yoongi sighs, crouching down next to your body.

“Are you okay? Did you get sick?” he asks, lifting the toilet seat to check. The water is clear as crystal.

“No,” you whimper. The sight of your bottom lip quivering makes Yoongi's chest throb. “But I don't have any kitty cats for Jimin.”

Yoongi's eyebrows furrow in confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“The kitty cats!” you howl, sliding your phone aggressively to where Yoongi is crouched. He's overcome with a mixture of understanding and amusement when he sees the agency page of BTS World running on your phone. “Jimin is so sad but I don't have any kitty cats left to give to him.”

Yoongi hides his chuckles with his hand. Even sloppy drunk with smeared make-up, you still managed to be both infuriating and adorable at the same time. He picks your phone up off of the ground, sliding it into his back pocket before reaching down to gingerly lift you into his arms. Fortunately you don't fight him, choosing to instead wrap both arms around his neck for support. As Yoongi carries you out of the bathroom and into the hallway, you catch sight of Jimin leaving his bedroom.

“Jimin!” you wail. Your mouth is near Yoongi's ear and the volume makes him wince. It startles Jimin, too, who stumbles over his own feet. His eyes are wide as saucers as he stares at you; eyes puffy and red, makeup everywhere except where it should be. What a sight. “I'm so sorry that I couldn't give you the kitty cats. I tried so hard. All they gave me were the stupid flowers. I'm so sorry.”

Jin's laughter is high-pitched and loud from the kitchen. Jimin opens his mouth in confusion but Yoongi shakes his head, jerking his neck forward as if giving permission to carry on. He brings you into his bedroom, kicking the door closed behind him and lowering you softly onto his bed before heading into the bathroom for a damp washcloth. He sits down next to where you lay, dabbing and wiping gently at your ruined makeup.

“I hope you remember this in the morning because I'm terrible at this but … I'm sorry, Y/N. I'm sorry for not being attentive and forgetting so much that is important to you, to us. I'm sorry for being mean when you got upset. And I'm sorry for teasing you tonight. I'll be better, I promise.”

“And I'm sorry for throwing the sock at you. Violence is never the answer.”

A tired, amused smile stretches across your boyfriend's face. “That's right.”

“But Yoongi? Am I important to you?” you mumble pitifully. Yoongi's chest throbs harder.

“Of course you are, Jagi. You are the most important person in my life and I'm sorry for making you feel like you're not. Can you forgive me for being an asshat this whole time?”

You push down the queasiness in your stomach to roll onto your side, reaching out to grab his arm. He understands your motives and lays down next to you, tucking you into his side. You sigh in contentedness. This was what you wanted. This is what you came here for tonight. Yoongi cuddles were the best cuddles and you craved them even when you wanting nothing to do with him.

“I love you so I suppose I can forgive you,” your words are muffled by his shoulder. He chuckles. “Only if you make me something to eat, though.”

“Your best friend is in the kitchen making you a sandwich right now.”

“Oh? Why is she here? Did I bring her with me? Yoongi, she's a terrible cook. Can you ask Jin to make me something instead?”

All Yoongi can do is laugh. He reaches for the edge of the blanket and pulls it up over your body, knowing you enough to be prepared for the sudden slumber that you always fall into after you stop making sense. He watches your eyelids begin to droop.

“Jagi?” he asks, moving a strand of hair from your face. You hum in response. “You said you went to the bar to find a new man … you were joking, right?”

“He wanted to buy me french fries, Yoongi,” you mumble sleepily, your eyes never opening. “But I said no thank you, sir, I have a boyfriend.”

Yoongi's responding laugh is louder than he thought it would be. He slaps his hand over his mouth but the effort is wasted as you have already fallen asleep, your lips parted with soft snores. Still snickering, he leans down to kiss you lightly on the forehead before clicking the lights off and making his way back into the kitchen. Jin is already plating a large sandwich stacked with meats when Yoongi finds him. Jimin sits on a stool at the counter, flipping through the week's schedule.

“Might as well wrap it up and put it in the fridge. She's fallen asleep but I'll make her eat it for breakfast. Thanks, hyung.”

“Did you two work things out? No fighting?”

Yoongi smiles. “We're good. No fighting.”

“I'm really happy that you and Y/N are on good terms again but I have a question,” Jimin chimes in from his seat. Both boys turn to look at him. “What kitty cats and flowers was she talking about?!”

#bts fanfiction #btsboulangerie #bts fanfic #yoongi #min yoongi #suga #BTS suga #bts yoongi #yoongi fanfic #bts fic #suga fanfic #yoongi x reader #suga x reader #yoongi x you #suga x you #yoongi fluff #suga fluff #bts x reader #bts x you #bts #yoongi imagine #suga imagine #bts imagine #yoongi oneshot #suga oneshot #bts oneshot

[littlelambdrgnfly]

Tumblr exclusive fic

Hey y’all! So I wrote this fic a couple of years ago on my ABDL tumblr (which I’m not sharing because I did at first and it quickly got weird because that’s where I reblog all my fap material lmao), and it’s just straight up humiliation smut. Warning: it does get messy. Hope you like it! <3

Love and Punishment

Something John had never anticipated about extreme fame was the immediate lack of privacy and time to himself. He had come to relish the times when he was able to hide in the restroom for even just five minutes without someone knocking on the door to usher him to the next concert, press junket, recording session, charity event, or competitive ass-kissing he and his bandmates were pressured into on a daily basis. Sometimes, even a toilet break at all was an unusual luxury—there were often times that he found himself unable to find even a few minutes to relieve himself, and he had to hold it in until he finally had to excuse himself.

Paul teased him about it regularly, especially when John had a close-call which happened more often than John would like to admit. When they roomed together, Paul would help John out of his clothes and inspect his underwear for wet spots, which were usually present. “You naughty boy,” he teased, “I should keep you in nappies all the time, shouldn’t I?”

John squirmed in his seat, thinking about the thick nappies Paul liked to dress him in and not about the growing pressure on his bladder. “I have to go to the loo!” he whined to Paul. They were on their way to the hotel from their concert; as soon as they had finished the performance, the boys were swept into two separate cars, John and Paul in one, with George and Ringo in the other.

Paul only smiled and squeezed John’s knee. “You can hold it, right? You’re not going to have a smelly accident all over the car seat, are you?”

John flushed bright red, glancing up front to see if the driver had overheard. “I’m not a baby!” he snapped. “I can wait to use the toilet!” Paul didn’t respond to that; John knew that he could have named any number of embarrassing things John had done that would refute his claim of adulthood. He and Paul started playing these baby games months ago, and it made John so excited, even though the same process was so shamefully humiliating. They didn’t usually play these games while they were on the road, and John was getting desperate for his infantile release. He didn’t say this to Paul—while Paul acted as his daddy and often got more excited than John while playing, he didn’t want to admit how much he needed it. It was all right when Paul invited him to stay the weekend at his house, wrapped his arms around him and whispered in his ear how much he wanted to treat John like a baby. Having to ask Paul for it himself was beyond him.

By the time they arrived at the hotel, John was in the middle of an awkward pee-pee dance as they went to check into their room. It was late, and the lobby was nearly deserted except for the bellboys whispering among themselves about the famous pop stars in their midst, and a pretty, dark-skinned girl behind the counter, probably not too much younger than the boys themselves. The other car was nowhere in sight.

“Welcome to Magnolia Inn,” the girl giggled, “my name is Carrie! And what’re your names—except everyone already knows your names! Oh gosh, I’m sounding so silly!”

“Not at all,” Paul replied, turning on his thousand-watt smile, and John knew he had immediately forgotten all about John’s “situation.” “I actually like to travel under the name ‘Paul Ramon,’ it adds a little more mystery, don’t you think?”

“Paul,” John whined, shifting his weight from leg to leg, “Paul, please, I gotta—”

“John, I’m talking to this young lady, you’re going to have to wait,” Paul scolded, and John felt a stab of pain in his bladder as his temper flared at the same time. Paul was supposed to care about him, take care of him! This girl, this stranger, could never need Paul the same way John did!

He felt the wet heat between his legs before he fully realized what was happening—he was pissing himself! Carrie trailed off in the middle of her sentence, staring at John’s trousers in shock. Paul glanced over at his friend, then did a double-take at the wet streaks running down John’s legs.

“Look at you! You can’t hold your pee for more than half an hour?!” he yelled, and John burst into tears. He had had accidents before, but almost entirely when he was black-out drunk or in a safe environment with Paul egging him on to just let go, never like this, with a pretty girl staring at him with giggles in her eyes and Paul scolding him for the whole world to see.

“What’s going on?!” a familiar Liverpudlian accent exclaimed, and John wished the floor would open and swallow him. George and Ringo stood behind him, eyes wide as saucers. They knew about his and Paul’s romantic relationship, but absolutely no one knew what they did behind closed doors.

“Little Johnny decided that his trousers would be the best thing to piss in, and he didn’t even want to wait until we got upstairs,” Paul said sarcastically. He finished filling in the necessary paperwork, slammed the pen down, and grabbed John’s wrist, dragging him to the elevator while John sobbed, looking back over his shoulder to see the entire lobby watching them, except for Carrie, leaning over the counter to inspect the large puddle he left behind.

“It was an accident!” John wailed as soon as the elevator doors slid closed. “I didn’t mean to!”

“Bullshit,” Paul snapped, lighting a cigarette. “Were you jealous that I was paying attention to that pretty girl and not you? I’ve never seen you do something so babyish, even when you cut up that girl’s clothing in Hamburg. You’re in for a nasty punishment, little boy.”

John couldn’t reply, he was crying too hard. He let Paul lead them to their bedroom with no arguments, sniveling like a naughty baby as Paul led him by the hand with his trousers sticking uncomfortably to his thighs. As soon as they entered, Paul flipped the lights on and made John stand before the full-length mirror on the wall.

“Look at yourself,” he ordered. “I want you to see the big baby I see.”

John forced himself to meet his reflection’s eyes—his face, bright red, streaked with tears, and trousers, streaked with piss—he knew Paul was right. He was a grown man, but he looked just like an oversized little boy.

“This is what everybody saw, Johnny,” Paul growled into his ear. “You want to embarrass yourself like this, that’s fine, but don’t you dare bring me into it. I thought I had a good little boy who knew that he was only supposed to have smelly accidents in his nappies, but everyone is going to think that Daddy Paul can’t control his big baby. What do you have to say for yourself, baby?”

True to his childish self, even through his tears and sobs, John choked out, “I told you I had to go! You weren’t listening to me!”

The minute he said it, he knew he shouldn’t have. Paul’s face clouded over, and within seconds, John’s wet trousers and underpants were around his ankles, and Paul was yanking him over to the bed and over his knee. “No! No!” he squealed, kicking his legs in a useless effort to free himself, but Paul held him down strong and tight, locking one of John’s legs between his own to make sure that his naughty boy didn’t escape until he had suffered his punishment properly.

“Naughty baby!” Paul grunted as he brought his open palm down on John’s bare bottom. John howled in pain, squirming on Paul’s lap. “Stay still and take your punishment!”’

Despite the pain and the overwhelming humiliation, John was painfully aware of how hard he had become. Having Paul, who was younger than him, who looked so much more innocent than him, dominate him so completely, treating him just like a misbehaving child… John was initially horrified to find how much this role play turned him on, and as time went on, it still shamed him to the core, but he became more and more desperate for even more embarrassing baby situations.

Paul sniffed the air dramatically. “Ugh, you smell like piss, and you’re getting it all over my trousers. You better not wet yourself while you’re on my lap, I haven’t forgotten. You’re going to be Daddy’s good baby and wait until you have your nappy on, aren’t you?”

John only sobbed and moaned into the mattress. Paul loved to bring up the time he wet himself during a spanking, but shushed John every time he tried to argue that he told Daddy that he had to pee-pee before the spanking, but Paul had assumed John was only saying that to get out of his punishment. He didn’t want to wear his nappy tonight, he knew George and Ringo would be coming to their room shortly to demand an explanation, but it was hopeless to argue with Paul on this. John knew very well what the punishment for wetting himself was, and while that was all well and good in Paul’s bedroom, the thought of his friends seeing him in his most embarrassing secret made his heart pound so hard, he thought he may be sick.

Paul finished his spanking with his usual soft tap on the middle of John’s bottom. “All right, baby, let’s get you in that nappy. My little boy is just a regular fountain, isn’t he!” He let John up and helped him out of his shirt, leaving him naked and still sticky from his accident. With practiced ease, Paul pulled a terrycloth nappy from his suitcase and prepared it for John. “Come here, little darling, lie down, right on the middle of your nappy, there’s a good baby! Such a smart little baby he is!”

It was then, as John lay naked on the floor on top of his open diaper, that there came a knock on the door. John started to sit up, but Paul held him down. “No, no, you’ve lost your big boy privileges for the night. Everyone downstairs saw you wet yourself like a baby, so they’re not going to be surprised to see you like this. This is what you wanted, isn’t it, Johnny?” He reached into his case and pulled out John’s oversized blue dummy, popping it into John’s mouth before he had a chance to react.

That was how George and Ringo saw him as Paul let them in the door. He wanted so badly to cry, but resisted by suckling the dummy in his mouth, using it for just its intended purpose.

“What the fucking hell is this?!” George cried, mouth agape. “Is this some kind of gag?”

“John, what’s wrong with you?” Ringo asked. He looked visibly disturbed, but also like he wanted desperately to burst out laughing. “You pissed yourself downstairs, and now… this? Did you lose a bet to Paul or something?”

“Oh no, it’s nothing like that,” Paul said, kneeling next to John with the baby powder and wipies. “Johnny here needs to be treated like a baby sometimes. It’s really the only way to properly discipline him. You remember what a terror he used to be? Well, a few nights in nappies really sorts this boy out.” He patted John’s bottom. “Legs up, baby, let Daddy wipe your wet bummy!”

John felt like he was on another planet when Paul lifted his legs and ran a cool baby wipe over his abused bottom, exposing him to George and Ringo. The humiliation was so deep, so intense, he felt like cold clay in Paul’s hands, and was unable to react when Paul spread his cheeks to inspect his little hole.

“Tsk, Johnny, you haven’t been wiping properly. This is why Daddy should be in charge of wiping all the time!”

“This is insane!” George exploded. “John, get up! You’re not a bloody baby; you’re twenty-five years old! How can you let Paul do this to you?!”

Even the dummy wasn’t helping now—John bawled behind his pacifier, tears streaming down his cheeks, even as Paul continued his diapering process. “George, John can tell me to stop anytime,” Paul said calmly, sprinkling a fine layer of powder over Johnny’s neatly trimmed pubic area. “All he has to say is ‘Paul, I want to be an adult,’ and I’ll immediately stop. But he’s not going to say that, because as embarrassing as this is, Johnny loves being a baby. He’s actually quite a sweet baby, when he’s not being a naughty little stinker, and I love being his daddy. Even though I have my hands very full with this big baby’s nappies!” He tickled John’s chubby tummy, and John giggled despite himself.

 “He actually uses those nappies?” Ringo asked in obvious disgust. “He shits himself and everything?”

“Oh yes, he was reluctant to it at first, but now little Johnny loves to do his poo-poos in his nappy, don’t you, love? In fact, that reminds me…” He reached over to his suitcase once more to pull out his medicine kit, and from within it, a small jar of large pills. “Johnny has a long night of punishment ahead of him for that stunt he pulled in the lobby, and these suppositories are perfect for a naughty boy who likes to potty in his pants. Would the two of you like to stay?”

John whined loudly in fear as George and Ringo looked to each other, then back to their friends on the floor. “We won’t…” George started, hesitantly. “We won’t have to change him, will we?”

 Paul laughed. “Not unless you want to! But believe me, you don’t want to.” And with that, he swiftly slipped the suppository deep into John’s bum and pinned the diaper closed. “The only rule is that you won’t tell anyone what you saw here tonight. The only reason I’m letting you two see this is because you’re our closest friends, and we trust you. This isn’t hurting John, it’s about loving him and disciplining him the way he needs.” He sat John up, still red-faced from crying, and kissed his cheek. “We do love you, Johnny,” he cooed, stroking his hair back. “Even though you’re a naughty baby, we love you.”

Ringo crouched down in front of John, eyes twinkling in amusement. “Hullo there, baby Johnny. I’m your Uncle Ritchie, do you remember me?”

John only blushed and sucked shyly on his dummy. Even just a year ago, he never would have dreamed this would be happening! Ringo reached out and grasped John’s diapered crotch, making the boy gasp.

 “He is rather excited by all of this,” Ringo remarked to Paul, acting like John couldn’t hear them, or rather, that he was too young to understand. “I thought it may have just been from the nappy change, Zak gets little stiffies when he’s getting his dirty pants changed too.”

 “He does usually get a stiffy when I’m changing him,” Paul said nonchalantly, standing up but making no motion to help John from the floor. “Has Zak ever pissed on you while it’s up? Johnny’s gotten it all over my shirt before.”

John whined loudly, and hid his face behind his hands as the other boys laughed. “Sorry, Johnny, this is just what parents do!” Ringo chuckled. “They all talk about their little one’s most embarrassing moments… It’s just that usually the little one in question is too young to remember it happening!”

“So… he does really like this?” George sounded less angry than before, and John peeked through his fingers to look at him before quickly hiding again. “He gets off on it? And you do too?”

Paul hummed in agreement, and ran the tips of his fingers through John’s hair. “It’s really not as bad as you think it is, even the messy aspect of it. It was a process. It started with giving Johnny a spanking when he misbehaved and… ended up like this.” He bent over, stuck his hands beneath John’s armpits and hoisted him to his feet. “Oof, come on, darling! Your punishment isn’t over yet—it’s Corner Time.”

“No, Daddy, pwease!” John cried, the words muffled behind his dummy. Paul didn’t listen, of course, and John found himself with his nose pressed to the corner of the wall, tears streaming down his face as everyone else laughed and Daddy told him he had thirty minutes of punishment left.

“God, he looks just like an overgrown baby,” George commented, lighting a cigarette, and John heard the other boys follow suit. “This is seriously perverse, Paul.”

 “Aw, it’s not as bad as all that, Georgie. You know John didn’t have a dad growing up… This is therapeutic for him as much as anything. Have you ever seen John cry before? This makes it so much easier for him to let go of all his troubles and just focus on little baby things instead.”

“What does he like to do?” Ringo asked, voice brimming with glee. “Does he drink from a bottle?”

“Of course he does! Sometimes I’ll feed him from a bottle even when we’re not playing, he just loves it so much. He always wants to be sucking on something, whether it’s his bottle, or his dummy, or thumb, or even just my cock.”

John heard someone choke on their drink, and the three of them burst into laughter as John burned in shame in his corner. His cock ached against his soft nappy, and while Daddy was distracted, he rubbed his crotch gently, trying to get even the slightest bit of stimulation, but Daddy was much too vigilant.

“Ah-ah, Johnny! Hands behind your back, little boy!” Johnny obeyed with a sob, and heard Paul explain, “Johnny isn’t allowed to play with his pee-pee either. He knows that belongs to Daddy, and only Daddy is allowed to touch it.”

 There was movement from behind him, and moments later, John felt someone’s hot breath on his neck. “Is that true, Johnny?” George whispered into his ear, and John shivered, the reverberations of George’s voice going straight to his groin. There was a heavy smell of liquor of George’s breath, and it took all the strength he had not to turn around. “You like your nappy so much, but Paul won’t let you play with your… Your little pee-pee…” John tried not to moan as George groped between his legs; he didn’t fight, only rolled his hips against George’s hand, attempting for even the slightest bit of gratification.

But just then, as George kissed his sweaty neck, he broke wind so loudly, he was afraid it might have been heard from the hallway. Paul and Ringo burst out in hearty guffaws as George leapt back. “Christ Almighty, John!” he cursed. “Are you not potty trained at all?!”

John wailed in humiliation and whirled around to defend himself. “It’s not my fault! It’s the supp—”

“Back in the corner!” Paul thundered, and John did as he was told, cowering pathetically, slightly smaller farts filling his nappy. It wasn’t far away now.

“Daddy, please, please let me go to the potty!” John begged, shifting his weight from side-to-side. “Please Daddy, I don’t want to use my nappy!”

“Now now, Johnny,” Ringo said, “there’s no shame in using a nappy for what they’re meant for!”

“Thank you, Ritchie, that’s what I’ve been telling him for ages! You heard Uncle Ritchie, Johnny, go ahead and make your messy in your nappy. Daddy and your uncles will be here to change you.”

John moaned loudly; the thought of little Georgie, whom he had always treated as a child, an inferior, changing his shitty nappy, fried his brain, so deliciously humiliating that he would have done absolutely anything he was told. He squatted down, nose still deep in the corner of the room, and took a big breath as he began filling his nappy in front of his closest friends.

“He’s doing it!” Ringo cried. “Bloody hell, I wish I had my Polaroid!”

Paul was next to John instantly, kissing his cheek and stroking his hair. “That’s it, little darling, push all that nasty mess out. Daddy is so proud of you! Go poo-poo in your nappy like a good little baby!”

“Daddyyy,” John whined, tears still falling from his eyes, every squelching, rumbling noise that came from his backside making his scrunch his face up in shame.

“Daddy’s right here, lovey.” He patted John’s already-drooping bottom. “Get it all out, baby.”

 “Christ, that’s rank,” George muttered. “Hey Ringo, what smells worse, John or one hundred babies?”

“Oh, John, for sure! Babies have simple diets, but I see what John puts away on an average day!”

“Shh, Johnny, just ignore them,” Paul whispered, as John whimpered and sobbed. “You’re Daddy’s precious little boy and I love you no matter how stinky you get.”

It took several minutes of John pushing and straining to get all of the mess out of his system, Paul comforting him all the while. When he finally stood back up, the back of his nappy hung low on his hips, stained brown. George and Ringo hooted and hollered with laughter.

“There you go, little sweetheart,” Paul cooed, patting his nappy again. “Doesn’t the baby feel much better now that he has an empty tummy?”

John nodded and whimpered through his tears, “Uh… Uh-huh…”

“You were so good, honey, so Daddy hates to do this…” He checked his watch. “Daddy will change you in just fifteen minutes.”

John wailed babyishly, and Paul gave him a sharp smack on his messy bottom. “Don’t make me get the dummy ribbon!”

 “Dummy ribbon?” Ringo inquired.

“Johnny has a tendency to take his dummy out and complain if I don’t strap it in somehow. I found a lovely pink ribbon that I can tie around the clip of his dummy and then back around his head. You don’t want your uncles to see your dummy ribbon, do you, Johnny?”

John shook his head but didn’t answer. The mess against his arse felt disgusting, and he feared it was so full, the nappy may fall off his hips altogether, exposing his messy bottom to all of his friends. Despite the revolting load in his nappy and the most frightful humiliation he had ever experienced, John had never been this hard in his life. He spent the last fifteen minutes of Corner Time trying not to listen as Daddy Paul regaled George and Ringo with stories of his babyish habits and exploits, and trying not to brush the front of his diaper against the wall for any sort of relief.

“All right, baby, time’s up!” John turned around to see the three other men smiling wolfishly at him. “Now let’s get that nappy changed, shall we?”

Paul led him on shaking legs back to the towel that marked his changing spot on the floor, and grimaced as he sat his full weight into the mess in the back of his nappy. He understood why babies cried when they needed a change, he felt so perfectly helpless and disgusting that he couldn’t do anything but lie on the floor and suck on his dummy while Paul gathered his diapering supplies.

 “So what do you say?” Paul asked. “Do you guys want to help me with this?”

Ringo finished the rest of his drink in one large gulp. “I’m game. Two kids have inured me against being disgusted by shit.”

Paul turned his doe-eyes onto his youngest friend. “Georgie?”

George drew out a long, guttural groan, before saying, “Fine, if everyone else is…”

John lay perfectly still as Paul unpinned his nappy, and for a brief second, he hoped that he would start laughing and tell the other boys to leave so he could give John the privacy he deserved. That fleeting hope was gone the moment Paul pulled the front panel of his nappy open, and the full extent of his mess, and his leaking little erection, was revealed.

“Man alive!” George cried, waving a hand in front of his face. “He smells worse than a thousand stadium loos!”

Paul laughed. “You should smell him after he’s eaten beans! Now, both of you take a leg, and hold it up. We want to make sure Johnny gets nice and clean after his stinky accident!”

John’s legs were raised high in the air as Paul pulled on a pair of thick latex gloves. John could tell that Ringo and George were staring at his messy little hole and privates, but by now, he was almost too far gone to care. He squirmed under their scrutiny and the cool baby wipe that Paul ran over his bottom, but otherwise lay still, suckling his dummy peacefully.

“There we go, lovey,” Paul crooned. “Daddy and your uncles are going to make you all clean! Then we can give you a nice little cummy for being so good during your punishment before Daddy puts you in your nighttime nappy.”

 John gurgled and cooed happily from behind his dummy, even as George and Ringo laughed. “Oh, I think the baby likes his cummies,” George said. He stroked John’s chubby thigh with his finger, smiling when John turned his half-lidded gaze to him.

Soon enough, John’s bottom passed inspection and Paul threw the overloaded diaper in the trash, and in the back of John’s mind, he reminded himself to leave a very big tip for the maid in the morning. “Keep his legs up,” Paul ordered, and produced a small, bright yellow egg, that with a deft twist of his fingers, started to magically vibrate. Paul knelt on the floor and pushed the egg deep into John’s bum, making him pant and squirm on his makeshift changing mat.

“Now come, darling,” Paul said. “I want you to give your uncles a nice thank-you prezzy for helping change your stinky nappy! Ask them if they want a blowie?”

John sat up, and said in his most childish voice, “Uncle Ritchie, can I please give you a blowie?”  

Ringo grinned and stroked John’s cheek before unzipping his fly. “Now, how could Uncle Ritchie ignore such a sweet request? Go ahead, little Johnny, it’s all yours.”

John immediately started to bob and suck along the length of Ringo’s cock, the toy vibrating inside him making him sloppy and inexact, but no one expected more from a big baby. He tried to take it deeper, but choked, gagging around the shaft. Within minutes, Ringo’s large cock exploded all over John’s face, covering his cheeks, bridge of his nose, and lips with strings of white cum.

 “Daddy!” John exclaimed, wide-eyed. “Daddy, my face is sticky!”

 Paul and Ringo laughed. “It certainly is, darling!” Paul gushed, and wiped his boy’s face sweetly. “Now it’s Uncle Georgie’s turn.”

John turned to George shyly. “Uncle Georgie… Uncle Georgie, can I…

“Yes, go on,” Paul encouraged.

“Can I suck on your... Your baba?” John whispered, mouth dry.

“Fuck,” George whispered in return. “Fuck, Paul, I’m sorry I said what I did, I think I understand perfectly now.” And with that, he took the back of John’s head, fingers intertwining with his thick hair, and urged John’s mouth onto his cock.

John bashfully sucked on the head of George’s cock, so much larger than his own. He glanced up at his younger friend, and George let out a loud moan. “That’s it, little baby, suck it,” he growled, and John regained his nerve, bobbing his head up and down until George spilled his spunk into John’s mouth, and this time, John was able to swallow all of it.

“What a good boy,” Paul murmured, helping John to his feet and wrapping him up in his arms. His little cock was so eager for release, it looked painful to the touch, and a large pearl of pre-cum clung to the tip. Paul sat on the edge of the bed, and sat John down on his knee. John moaned as the egg pressed deeper inside him, buzzing against his prostate, and Paul took a firm grasp of his cock.

 “Baby has Daddy’s permission to cummy,” Paul whispered in his ear, and that was all it took. With a loud, quivering gasp, John finally found the release he had been waiting for since Paul had pulled him over his knee.

“Good baby,” Paul said, kissing the side of his head. “Now stand up for Daddy…” John did as he was told, and Paul bent him over to remove the egg from his bottom. His legs felt like jelly, and as soon as he started returning to his senses, he was hyperaware of George and Ringo watching him.

“Now we’ll get the baby in his nighttime nappy, and it’ll be time for night-night,” Paul said firmly, laying John back down on the bed. “Do you want to thank your uncles for taking care of you?”

“Th-thank ‘oo, Unca Ritchie. Thank ‘oo, Unca Georgie.”

Ringo smiled gently, and leaned down to kiss John’s forehead. “Think nothing of it, Baby Johnny.”

George stared at Paul. “Aren’t you going to get off too?”

Paul smiled as he unfolded a fresh nappy and slid it under John’s bum. “I will, just later. Daddies have to put their babies’ needs ahead of their own desires.” He quickly and expertly diapered John, and with a burst of baby powder, one would never know how foul he had been only a short while before.

George bent over to kiss John’s forehead just as Ringo did, then after a second, pressed another to his lips. “Good night, Baby Johnny. I’m sorry if I was mean to you tonight.”

“It’s okay, Unca Georgie,” John whispered. “I wuv you…”

George smiled widely. “And I love you too.”

Paul showed the other boys out of the room, saying his own good nights and reaffirming their itinerary for the following morning, before coming back and tucking John under the covers.

“I’m so proud of you for being such a good boy during your punishment,” he said, pulling his clothes off until he was nude, his erection stiff against his abdomen. “You’ve come such a long way in your baby training.”

John smiled sweetly as Paul snapped off the light and crawled into bed with him, spooning him close from behind. “Uncle George and Ringo won’t tell anyone, will they?”

“Of course not, baby. They would never do that to you.” John could feel Paul’s erection poking him insistently through his nappy, and he let Paul turn him on his front with no arguments.

Paul took one of the pins from his nappy and pulled it down enough for John’s arse to be exposed. With a little lube, he slid into John’s relaxed hole with ease, groaning with pleasure. “I’m so happy you’re my naughty little baby, Johnny,” he panted, thrusting into his boy. “I love getting to punish you and make you my good boy.”

John cooed in happiness. He had inhabited many identities thus far in his short life—troublemaker, teddy boy, pop star, troubled artist… But somehow, by no narrow margin, being Paul’s good boy was the best of all.  

[searchingwardrobes]

A little over a year ago, I self-published my first book, What Hindered Love. The story was told completely from the main character, Chloe Wren’s, point of view. I also wrote stories from Micah’s point of view. Since book two is still a few months from publication, I’m sharing some of those extra stories about Micah. This is one of my favorites because of the interaction between Micah and his dad. This story also illustrates one of the main themes of the book: that real love is sacrificial.

Summary: As Micah holds his son for the first time, the full truth about his drug addiction threatens to overwhelm him. He fears he will never be worthy of Chloe's love or the love of his son. He has a heart to heart with the most unlikely person - his estranged father. Maybe love means saying good-bye. Micah just hopes it isn't forever.

Rating: T for teen parenthood and addiction

Words: a little over 3k

What Hindered Love is available in paperback and ebook on Amazon here .

Tagging @snowbellewells​​ @teamhook​​ @xhookswenchx​​ @ekr032-blog-blog​​ @sherlockianwhovian​​ @superchocovian​​ @thislassishooked​​ @ohmakemeahercules​​ @kday426​​ @onceuponaprincessworld​​ @ilovemesomekillianjones​​ @nikkiemms​​ @kmomof4​​ @hollyethecurious​​ @bethacaciakay​​ @whimsicallyenchantedrose​​ @welllpthisishappening​​ @wellhellotragic​​ @tiganasummertree​​ @captainswanapproved​

Chloe Wren had never been so beautiful to Micah Barrett as she did in that moment, her hair clinging to her brow, sticky with sweat, and her arms holding their son in a gentle yet tight embrace. Her smile was one that was difficult to describe, but it was definitely radiant and breathtaking; a smile he had surely never seen on her face before.

“Oh Micah,” she whispered, “I don’t even have words.”

“I know what you mean,” he whispered back, brushing a kiss across her cheek.

The nurse took Luke from Chloe then, carrying him across the room to the hospital bassinet. Micah followed the nurse, a feeling of nervousness for his son’s well being suddenly overwhelming him. He was sure the nurse knew what she was doing as she bathed the tiny infant with a wet washcloth and soap, but Micah found himself flooded with worries. Was he too cold? Was he frightened? Was the nurse being too rough? As soon as the wet cloth touched Luke’s skin, his body startled and his eyes flew open wide for a moment before his entire face scrunched up for a loud wail. But in that brief moment, Micah saw his own blue eyes staring back at him. A miniature face just like his own. It was a bit disconcerting to see himself in miniature, but it also swelled his heart almost to the bursting point to see such visible, tangible evidence of his and Chloe’s love. Their love had brought forth this tiny human being before him.

“He has his daddy’s eyes,” the nurse told him.

When she finished bathing Luke, she diapered him and dressed him in a onesie Chloe had brought in her overnight bag. Then she swaddled him tightly in a hospital blanket and turned with the tiny bundle to Micah.

“Is Daddy ready to hold him?”

Micah swallowed hard as he reached out tentatively for the newborn. He knew babies were small, but he still hadn’t been prepared for just how small and vulnerable his son was. As he settled Luke in the crook of his arm, being careful to support his neck as the nurse instructed, Micah felt he could barely breathe. The weight of this love was overwhelming all of his senses, and one thought kept repeating on a loop in his head. He was responsible for raising this child in his arms; he was this little boy’s father. And he suddenly knew his own father had been right: he wasn’t ready. Cold realization swept over him; he was a drug addict and now he was holding a son in his arms. A son who deserved so much more than he could give him. A son who would surely endure the pain of being let down, just as Micah had repeatedly let Chloe down. Micah felt his heart beat faster and the blood rush from his head. What was he supposed to do now?

“Micah,” Chloe said softly, “it’s August 15th. We met a year ago today.”

He looked up from the babe in his arms to gaze into Chloe’s face. She was so happy, so at peace. Motherhood looked so right on her already. How could he go on the way he was? Letting her down at every turn when she needed him?

He swallowed hard, “We met a year ago today,” he repeated.

She frowned and reached her hand out towards Micah, “It’s fitting, then, isn’t it? That our son would be born on this day in particular.”

Micah took her hand and kissed it, holding Luke safely tucked in the crook of his left arm. A year ago he had promised Chloe so many things. He thought he could change for her - be . . . better, and look where it landed her? In a maternity ward at the age of nineteen.

“Yes, Wren, a lot can happen in a year.”

**********************************************************

Micah couldn’t shake the sense of dread that had fallen over him like a blanket. He stared out the window of the hospital cafeteria, looking pensively at nothing at all as he clenched his jaw over and over again. Even now, his body screamed for those pills. It was only a matter of time before everything crumbled to dust. And now he had a helpless baby who would suffer in the aftermath.

“Micah, son, please sit and eat something.”

Micah tore his gaze away from the hospital landscaping that he wasn’t even seeing. His father sat in a molded plastic chair in a hideous shade of orange. On the table in front of him was a cup of cheap hospital coffee. He gestured with his hand at the soggy sandwich and bag of chips across from him. Micah sighed and sat before the unappetizing meal. Even if the food had been decent, he wouldn’t have had the appetite for it. His father regarded him over the rim of his coffee cup as he took a sip. Tom Barrett's eyes held a tenderness and a hint of regret. Of course they did, everyone in his family regretted just about everything about Micah.

“Luke is precious,” Tom said on a sigh as he lowered his coffee, “When I held him up there, I never wanted to let him go.”

“Yeah,” Micah nodded with a half-smile, “I know what you mean.”

He noted his father’s concerned glance and raised the sandwich to his lips. He took a nibble, followed it with a swig of water, and then tossed a chip in his mouth. Tom leaned back in his chair, a little more relaxed now that Micah was forcing himself to eat.

“It reminds me of the moment I held you,” Tom continued, “he looks just like you did..”

Micah didn’t know what to say as his father regarded him. He was sure both his parents had great dreams for him, as all parents do. Holding Luke was probably a reminder of how spectacularly Micah had failed.

“I failed you, son.”

Tom’s words almost caused Micah to choke on his next bite of sandwich. He looked at his father and was surprised to see tears pooled in the older man’s eyes.

“I wasn’t there like I should have been,” he continued, “I worked too much. And I didn’t encourage you in your gifts.”

Micah was still so sure he must be dreaming, he grasped at his father’s last statement, thinking surely he couldn’t be serious. “What gifts? Getting in trouble all the time? Cracking jokes during Sunday school?”

“You’re an intensely passionate person, Micah. I should have encouraged that, helped teach you to use it in the right way. Your natural charm and sense of humor could have made you a great leader, but I was so busy worrying about my image, I tried to stamp it out of you. And your questions and your curiosity, they frightened me, to be honest with you. Because even pastors don’t have all the answers, but everyone expects them to.”

“I didn’t need a pastor,” Micah replied, voice thick, “I needed a father.”

Tom smiled as a single tear tracked down his cheek. “I know, son. I’m sorry.”

He reached his hand out to clasp Micah’s shoulder, but Micah quickly stood. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and paced back towards the window. His father followed him.

“Let’s talk about the elephant in the room. Shall we?”

Micah took a deep, shuddering breath, knowing full well what his father was referring to. “Chloe flushed the pills down the toilet two months ago, Dad. I haven’t had one since.”

“And how’s that working for you?”

Micah ran a hand wearily over his face as he whispered, “I don’t want to fail them, Dad.”

Tom clapped a hand on Micah’s shoulders, “It’s time to face your demons, but you don’t have to do it alone. It’s okay to get help, Micah. If you don’t do it for yourself, at least do it for your son.”

And suddenly, it was all too much to bear. The woman he loved was upstairs counting on him. His innocent, helpless son needed a father. And it was too much. Micah knew he couldn’t be the man they needed him to be. No matter how hard he tried. He turned to his father, expecting to see disappointment, or shame, or hurt. Instead, he saw . . . love. And it broke him.

“Dad, I’m so scared,” Micah choked out, sobs wracking his body.

His father grabbed a fistful of Micah’s shirt and yanked his son into a hug. Micah wrapped his arms around the older man in a way he hadn’t since he wrecked his bike in the fifth grade. He sobbed against his father’s shoulder, and Tom Barrett held him, cupping the back of his head as if he were a boy again.

“I’m right here, son. I love you, and I’m right here.”

*****************************************************

Micah’s hands were in his pockets as he shuffled his feet back and forth in the hallway outside Chloe’s door. He didn’t want to do this; the coward in him wanted to run. Tom slapped him on the shoulder and squeezed.

“This is the right thing to do, Micah.”

He nodded; he knew his father was right. The orderly who had checked him in at Hope Haven, the rehab facility his dad had found, was shocked when Micah explained detoxing at home. Apparently, it was something incredibly dangerous and stupid. He could have died. And the orderly wasn’t surprised that he was still struggling with the pull of his addiction.

Six weeks. That was the length of the basic program at Hope Haven. Six weeks with no contact whatsoever with the outside world. Six weeks completely focused on his recovery. Six very expensive weeks. When he saw the cost on the paperwork he was filling out, Micah had protested to his father. Micah had nowhere near that kind of money.

“Your mother and I will take care of it,” Tom had said firmly, shoving the clipboard back into Micah’s hands.

“But Dad,” Micah had protested, “pastors aren’t exactly rolling in money.”

His father had shaken his head and pressed his lips together tightly as if to say there was no point in arguing. “I’ll sell all I own; spend the rest of my days paying off credit card debt. Anything to get you clean, son.”

Micah had finished the paperwork, seeing that there would be no arguing. Micah had to list every controlled substance he had ever taken, even beer and nicotine. But that had been nothing compared to the more personal questions: Have you ever hated yourself? Have you ever wanted to harm yourself? Do you believe God loves you? Do you believe God has a purpose for your life?

It looked like the next six weeks would also force him to face his inner demons; the ones that had been there a long time before the pills. He told his father he was afraid in the hospital cafeteria; now he was downright terrified.

In the present, Micah took a deep breath and then slowly opened the door to the hospital room.

“Micah!” Chloe cried out the second he stepped through the door. Her eyes were bright, her face alight with joy and relief at seeing him. He hated to shatter that look. But he was about to.

“Chloe,” he answered her, forcing a half-smile on his face.

“Chloe and Micah need to talk,” Tom announced to the room.

Micah was vaguely aware of Chloe’s cousins hastening out the door. His eyes were focused on the blonde angel in the bed in front of him. Their tiny son was pressed against her chest, skin to skin, a blanket covering all but the tip of his button nose. The little lump beneath the blanket squirmed, and Micah was once again in awe of Chloe’s natural instincts as a mother. Thoughts tumbled through his mind of all the little moments he would miss with Chloe and his son in the next six weeks. It wasn’t going to be easy for her, and it killed him not to be there.

“Chloe,” he said finally, “Chloe, I have to go away for a little while.”

She gasped, “But why?”

Tears pooled in Micah’s eyes as he crossed the room and knelt at her bedside, “Because I want what’s best for you, Chloe. For you, for Luke.” He rested a trembling hand on the baby’s head, gently stroking his thin tufts of dark hair. “I’ve already checked into a rehab facility. I move in this afternoon – right now, actually.”

Chloe shook her head, tears spilling over to roll down her checks. Every tear was like a knife to Micah’s heart. “But you quit! You’re doing fine!”

Micah’s jaw clenched and the shame that overwhelmed him was so great, he could barely look at her. “No I’m not. You have no idea how I struggle to keep this addiction, this darkness, at bay. I’m barely hanging on. This place can help me conquer my demons. For good.”

“But I don’t want to lose you!”

Her words were so desperate, a look of despair and fear awash in her eyes. She wouldn’t even be in this situation if it hadn’t been for him. And yet, Micah loved her more than his own life. He reminded himself that was the reason he had to do this. Micah’s own tears finally spilled over as he caressed her cheek, “And I don’t want to lose you. But if I don’t do this, it’s only a matter of time before I relapse.”

And that was the other thing; he knew he might lose her by leaving. But how could he risk hurting her? Risk hurting Luke?

“But why now?” Chloe grasped at his shirt, a hint of desperation in her voice, “Can’t it wait? We need you!”

The edge of panic in her voice almost made his resolve crumble. In truth, it was the depth of his love for her that was helping him resist the temptation to stay by her side. Micah leaned closer, pressing his forehead to hers, “If I wait, I’m afraid I’ll talk myself out of it.”

“It’s just a six week program, Chloe,” his father spoke up from the corner of the room.

“Six weeks?” Chloe whispered.

“Six weeks,” Micah whispered back, “six weeks to become a man worthy of you. And our son.”

Micah kissed her then, with desperate passion, even though his father was in the room. Then he bent and kissed the top of Luke’s head.

When he walked out, he forced himself not to glance back. He could hear her sobs, and if he turned to look at her tear stained face, he might never leave.

****************************************************

Micah dropped his duffel on the floor of his dorm room at Hope Haven; his home for the next six weeks. He walked around the stuffy, institutional room, sitting tentatively on the edge of the bed covered in a hospital-grade blanket. At least the room had a nice view of the backyard, filled with a beautifully manicured garden of flowers. The edge of the property held a small pond where ducks and geese glided through the water.

“Ahem,” his father stood in the doorway, clearing his throat. “I got permission from the staff for this. They actually thought it would be helpful to your recovery.”

Micah stood, his mouth agape. He reached out to touch the tip of his guitar case, almost as if it were a mirage that might disappear.

“This is one of your gifts too, son,” his father told him firmly, voice laced with pride. “You haven’t played since the accident – “ Tom cut himself off, shaking his head, “since Rachel died. Perhaps it’s time you played again.”

Micah grasped the top of the hard leather case and pulled it towards himself. He gave his father a teasing smile, “What about that lecture you gave me at 14 about the inherent evils of the music I preferred?”

Tom chuckled, “Well, that may have had more to do with the headaches you gave your mother and I. That one band you liked was particularly grating – some song about a rat in a cage?”

“Smashing Pumpkins, Dad,” Micah laughed, “and I’d need my electric for that.”

“Oh, well, maybe you’ll learn some new songs.”

Micah nodded, “I’m sure I will, Dad.”

Tom shuffled his feet a bit, as if working up the courage to add something else, “Micah, figure out who you are while you’re here, okay?”

“I used to think I wanted to be like you, Dad. Or Josiah. But I don’t think I could measure up.”

“Then don’t look to us, son. Look to God. He’s got a plan for you, I know it.” Tom shook his head and raised both hands in a gesture of surrender, “Sorry, there I go being a pastor again instead of a dad.”

Micah just grabbed his Dad in a firm hug. “I love you, Dad. Even when you preach at me.”

Tom’s chuckle let Micah know he saw the humor. “I love you too, son.”

Then his father was gone, leaving Micah alone in the sterile room. Micah had to meet with a counselor in half an hour, so he had some time to kill. He swung the guitar case onto the bed and flipped it open for the first time in almost four years. He ran his fingers along the cool wood and the taut strings. He pulled it out and began tuning it. He had missed the feel of it in his hands; it was still as familiar as an old friend.

Maybe his dad was right. Maybe he should learn some new songs.

#what hindered love #my book #my writing #shameless self promotion

[unpack-my-heart]

Above, Beneath, Betwixt, Between - Chapter 9

@tinyarmedtrex​ @violetreddie​ @eds-trashmouth​ @constantreaderfool​ @xandertheundead​ @moonlightrichie​ @deadlighten​ @appojoos​ @annoyingtozier​ @burymestanding​

Read on AO3 HERE

The kiss changes both everything and nothing at all. The everything that changes, the hands that reach for each other in the hushed dawn, the eyes that lock over morning cereal, the afternoon laughs that melt into each other, the evening caresses on smalls of backs, is painfully overshadowed by the nothing. This nothing looms over their every moment, stolen moments shared together in ecstasy, rapturous but constantly aware of the behemoth that sits in the corner of the room and spits at them.

Richie’s leaving. A fact as constant, as reliable, as the autumn wind.

If Eddie hadn’t hung onto Richie’s forearm with a vice-grip as Richie welcomed the estate agent into the house, if Eddie hadn’t sat on the porch, face schooled into careful apathy as the estate agent took photos of the now finished cottage, if Eddie hadn’t sobbed with wild abandon into the frigid midnight air, great wracking moans that heaved Richie’s heart out of his chest with ghostly arms, Richie wouldn’t have guessed anything was going to change. But everything was going to change. Everything, and nothing at all.

It takes three weeks for Richie to book his flights. He opens and closes the page, getting as far as typing Edinburgh International to LAX into the search bar, but without fail, his hands shake violently and the laptop slides off his lap with a satisfying thud. Eventually, with a belly full of Dutch courage and Eddie squeezing his hand, he manages it. His flight leaves in a month.

The house sells easily. A young couple buys it, and they visit three times before putting the offer in. The man brays about the way the light floods into the study in the morning, and the woman squeals about the terrace balcony on the second bedroom. Richie accepts the offer, despite the fact it’s five grand under the asking price.

One week later and the For Sale sign is replaced by a bright red beacon, SOLD. More times than he’d ever admit, Richie catches Eddie staring at the sign with malice in his eyes. Richie always makes sure that he looks away before Eddie can catch him staring.

Two weeks, and they’ve hit the half way point. They’re still sleeping in separate rooms. Eddie had packed all of his possessions into boxes the day after Richie had booked his plane ticket. Richie only lasted six minutes of watching Eddie carefully fold his jumpers and his socks and those fucking tartan pyjamas before he had to excuse himself to wail violently in the bathroom. He’d given himself three minutes, before wiping his eyes furiously with a balled up piece of toilet paper, and emerging from the bathroom with a watery smile and tired eyes. But, as soon as he caught sight of Eddie sat on the bed, one of Richie’s old fleeces clutched in his hands, his attempts at self-preservation proved futile. They’d collapsed in a heap on the bed, a mass of shaking limbs, clutching, scrabbling hands and hushed confessions. I adore you, I adore you, I adore you.

Three weeks. They’d spent the last days in bed, moving for nothing but sprints to the toilet and visits to the kitchen. They don’t fuck. Richie surprises himself with the realisation that he doesn’t want to fuck Eddie. Not yet. He can’t bear the thought of their first time being a goodbye fuck, a ‘I’m sorry I’m leaving you’ fuck, a ‘you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to me and I’m still going to leave you anyway’ fuck. So they don’t. They lie together, they touch often and kiss sometimes. Eddie drags his nails down Richie’s arm absently, a soft scratchy feeling, as if to remind Richie that he’s still here, if only for now. Richie spends most of his time running his hands through Eddie’s hair, hair that was once immortalised in a plastic-perfect quiff but now stands on end, wild and free. They talk, regale each other with animated stories from their past. Richie tells Eddie of Bev, of Bill and Ben and the time they all got drunk and swam in the water feature of their college, he tells Eddie about his mother, about the time she took him apple picking when he was seven. Eddie tells Richie about his mother, a long, painful tale that ends in sorrow, but he also tells Richie about Rupert, and how they’d met and how the sky caught fire the first time they’d kissed. Richie had expected jealousy to bloom in his stomach, hot and bitter, but it didn’t.

“What’s America like?” Eddie asks on a Wednesday afternoon.

Richie tightens his grip around Eddie’s waist. “It’s … pretty fuckin’ shit most of the time, corrupt politicians and gun crime and hatred and bigotry but …”

“But what?”

“My parents lives there, and … it’s home, it’s shitty, but it’s home. Well, it was home, I guess”

“Was home? Why? What changed?”

“You gonna make me spell it out for you, Eddie Spaghetti?”

“You know I am,” Eddie said, batting his eyelashes coquettishly. Richie rolled his eyes.

“You’re such a little shite, you know”

“That sounded pretty Scottish”

“Mike’s been rubbing off on me”

“I should jolly well hope he hasn’t been rubbing off on you,” Eddie said with a faux-stern expression that was so ridiculously, so absurdly Eddie that Richie couldn’t take it anymore.

“Eddie?”

“Yeah?”

“Eddie, you know – I … You know that I really …”

“What? C’mon Rich, spit it out”

“I …”

“Richie”

“I really think we should mow the lawn tomorrow afternoon”

“…Oh”

– X –

Richie loved Eddie. It was a fact as clear as ice, as real as snow, as blatantly obvious as the nose on his face. The “I adore you’s” flowed easily, the “you’re my entire world and more” came naturally, but the admission of love, the wrenching his chest open, displaying his heart, that was different.  Telling Jasmine he loved her had been easy, partly because he’d never meant it. Endless false confessions. Perhaps it was cruel. Regret wasn’t something that Richie was used to.

“I’m going to stay with Mike”

“Huh?”

Eddie slumped down onto the sofa next to Richie, and tucked his head neatly into the junction between Richie’s neck and shoulder.

“I’ve asked him, and he said I could stay with him until you … if you … y’know. Until then”

“You know I’m coming back, right? I’m going to come back for you”

“I know you want to”

“Eddie,” Richie implored, shifting on the sofa until he was looking directly into Eddie’s eyes, “you’ve got to believe me, I’m going to come back for you”

“I believe you’re going to try”

Richie grabbed Eddie’s hands. “Eddie, please”

“Mike said I can take Mr Chips out anytime I like, I might bring him around here, check up on the house sometimes”

“Don’t change the subject”

“I hope they don’t change the house too much, I’d be ever so sad if I came back and it looked different, if it looked –”

“Eddie!”

Eddie closed his eyes, pulling away from Richie slightly.

“If you promise you’re coming back to me, it makes it too hard. I’ll just sit and wait, and I can’t … I can’t do that”

“I told you, I’m coming –”

“Don’t,” Eddie said, eyes still closed, “stop it. Just – tell me you’ll try and that’ll be enough”

“I’ll try”

– X –

Mike calls it a practice run. A trial run, he’d said, seeing as the last time Eddie stayed with him ended in a sleepless night for all three of them. Eddie’s reticent at first, initially refusing on the grounds of being patronised, but initially relenting after Richie pleaded with him that it probably was a good idea, if not for Eddie then for himself. Slowly, like melting ice, Eddie agrees. They bundle themselves into Richie’s car, the same car that Richie will return to the dealer the morning he leaves, and drive to Mike’s.

Mike’s house is warm, almost uncomfortably so, and Richie watches as Eddie peels his sweater over his head, face flushed red.

“Thanks for this, Mike. You’re a good friend”

“What about me?”

A familiar voice echoed from the kitchen.

“What the fucking fuck? Stan?!”

“Such a lovely greeting, Richard. Ever the pleasure to see you,” Stan said, sardonically, as he passed Mike a small tumbler of honey-coloured liquid.

“I thought you’d flown back to Ireland?”

“I did. I came back, though. I’ve grown rather fond of Scotland, and the things that live in Scotland”

Mike’s face flushed scarlet, and Richie hooted with joy.

“Well, well, well! The plumber and the wizard, a true storybook romance”

“Richard, do shut up. How are you feeling, Eddie? Mike tells me you’ll be staying with us for a while,” Stan said, turning to face a rather down-trodden looking Eddie.

“I – I was, but if you’re staying here too, I don’t want to … I don’t want to impose, you know”

“Shush, you’re more than welcome here. Has Richie told you about Skype?”

“Skype?”

Stan rolled his eyes at Richie. “Have you really not told him about Skype? Isn’t that what all the long-distance lovers are doing these days? Skype sex?”

Richie slapped a hand over Stan’s mouth, but got bitten for his efforts.

“Take your damn hoof off my mouth, Richie! All I’m trying to do is help you in your long sexless months ahead”

“We haven’t … um … we haven’t done that, not yet” Eddie stammered, face letter-box red.

“You haven’t? Huh. Well, Skype does serve purposes other than getting you virtually laid, I suppose. Do you still want me to show you what it is?”

Eddie nodded wordlessly, and followed Stan into Mike’s office leaving Richie and Mike standing in the living room.

“Ah take it ye told ‘im then?”

“Whatever do you mean, Michael?”

“Ye know exactly wha’ ah mean,” Mike said, passing Richie his own tumbler of whiskey before going to pour himself another. “Ye know exactly what I mean. The fact ye didn’t balk when Stan mentioned you two fuckin’? That’s how ah know ye know what ah mean”

Richie slumped into the cushiony arm chair, folding his limbs awkwardly. “Yeah, I guess I told him”

“It went well though, aye?”

“Sort of. I mean, he feels the same and … I know he knows that I adore him, but how well could it possibly go when I’m leaving him the day after tomorrow to fly back home to a country I no longer consider my home?”

Mike sipped his whiskey coolly, “ah see”

Richie sighed. He could hear Eddie’s voice floating through the house from the office, Stan’s voice chasing it.

“If ya don’t come back, if ya decide to stay in America, yer gonna have to tell him yerself. Ah won’t do it for ya”

“I am coming back,” Richie spat, but Mike just shook his head.

“Ah know ya think ya are, but be realistic, Rich. It’s a big commitment to make to someone ye’v only been involved with for a few weeks”

“That’s … that doesn’t even make sense, I’ve … I’ve loved Eddie for longer than a few fuckin’ weeks, Mikey, you know that”

“Aye. I do, but does he?”

“…Yes. He must know, I tell him all the time how much I adore him”

“Aye, I’m sure ya do. But does he know ya love him? It’s different,” Mike said, simply.

“I haven’t … managed to say those words yet. Not exactly, but he knows. He must know”

– X –

“Hiya, Eds”

“Hello, love”

Richie’s heart swells.

“This is weird”

“I know”

Silence falls around them. Eddie’s face, pixelated and two-dimensional on Richie’s screen, looks small and distant, and Richie’s fingers itch with the desire to reach out and stroke Eddie’s cheek. He does just that, but instead of flesh, warm and soft, the pads of his fingers meet glass, unmoving, cold.

“How are you?”

“I saw you less than three hours ago, Rich”

“I know, but a lot can change in three hours. Have Mike and Stan convinced you to have a threesome with them, yet?” Richie asks, cringing immediately as the words leave his mouth, but Eddie just laughs.

“Not yet, but hey, you never know, loneliness does strange things to a boy”

“Do you think you’re going to be lonely?” Richie asks, and now it’s serious. The smile slips off Eddie’s face like butter.

Eddie shrugs, a tiny movement Richie can barely see. “I guess. Probably”

“We’ll skype every day right? I’ll ring you twice a day, if I have to. We’ll talk all the damn time. Ask Mike to get you a phone, we can text, we can –”

“Rich,” Eddie interrupts, “it’s going to be okay. You don’t have to talk to me every waking second of every day. I’m going to be fine”

“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Richie mutters, but thankfully, Eddie doesn’t hear him.

They talk for hours, until Richie’s eyes start to droop, weighed down with leaden tiredness, and the pauses between their conversation grow longer and longer until they’ve drifted in and out of sleep in comfortable silence for over an hour. The last thing that Richie mutters to the slumbering Eddie are those words he can’t bring himself to say when Eddie’s awake.

#reddie #it 2017 #it 2019 #eddie kaspbrak #richie tozier #Richie Tozier x Eddie Kaspbrak #ghost au #property developer au #it fandom #ao3 #thefutureisbright

[fakeyellow]

I love angst. Based on an anon prompt, this is a story where MC gets ill. 

“I put my symptoms in WebMD and it says I have leukemia.”

Lily laughed, “Girl, you know WebMD always says you have cancer even if you only have a cold. You cough once and WebMD’s like you’re gonna die in ten seconds.”

“What’s WebMD?” Jax asked, a confused look on his face.

“It’s a website where you put in your symptoms and they tell you what’s probably wrong with you,” Celia replied, smiling at Lily’s words although there still remained a slight worry in her eyes.

“Hmm, you know, I have been feeling a bit tired lately, maybe I’ll try it out,” Jax mused, rubbing his stubble thoughtfully.

“Jax. You’re a vampire,” Lily reminded him, her face scrunched up in disbelief.

“Yeah, well, you never know,” Jax defended himself even as his neck flushed in embarrassment and Lily could only laugh at him.

“Perhaps you should go to the hospital if you’re worried. I’m sure it’ll be just a small cold like Lily said but it’s best to check,” Adrian smoothly interrupted.

“Will you come with me? I don’t like hospitals,” Celia turned to Kamilah with an earnest look reminiscent of a puppy’s.

“Of course,” Kamilah responded, and although she looked like her usual, unruffled self, there was just the slightest bit of concern in her eyes. After all, Kamilah had been there with her the entire week, had noticed how Celia was more tired than usual, had noticed how Celia had lost weight, her hip bones jutting out from her skin.

And strangely, it was that concern in an otherwise unmoveable woman that grounded Celia, rather than further worry her. No matter what, Kamilah lov- well, she had strong feelings for her and that was all she needed.

Besides, Lily was probably right. She probably just had a cold or infection or something.

—-

“I’m sorry but we found that you have acute myeloid leukemia...”

Celia walked about the dark streets of New York, moving as if in a daze.  

“But that’s what WebMD said,” Celia dumbly said, unable to comprehend what her doctor was telling her. 

“It’s not often accurate but I’m afraid it was in this case. Now, what this means is…”

The rest of the doctor’s words had blended into an unintelligible noise and now she was here, in the busy streets, not knowing what to do. Was she supposed to cry? Was she supposed to fall to the ground, wailing that she still had too much of her life yet to live? Was she supposed to lash out in anger at the world that had dropped this atomic bomb on her, at her body that had betrayed her? 

But Celia just felt… nothing. There was an empty numbness in her threatening to consume her, a hollow hole in place of where her heart was supposed to be.  

Without a real destination in mind, Celia just kept walking and walking until she found herself in Kamilah’s apartment, welcomed by that familiar scent of lilies and cinnamon. Her exhausted legs dropped her onto the side of Kamilah’s plush bed, and she just sat there, unable to do anything else.

There was no real sense of time passing in the heavily curtained room with its constant, warm temperature, but eventually, there was the sound of the front door opening. Kamilah briskly stepped into her room, her momentary pause the only sign of her surprise. 

“I went to your apartment but you weren’t there. What did the doctor say?” Kamilah asked casually as she took her blazer off and placed it in her closet.

When there was no response from the still woman, Kamilah went over and joined her on the bed.

“Celia?”

And it was this gentle call of her name, each syllable said with such tender affection, that finally caused her numb façade to shatter into pieces all around them.  

Great, heavy sobs ripped out of her chest and she turned blindly into Kamilah’s warm embrace, the woman’s arms immediately wrapping around her trembling shoulders.

When at last her tears stopped, Celia slowly lifted her head from Kamilah’s chest, looking embarrassed at the wet spot she left behind.

“Wow, that’s gross. I’m sorry I ruined your silk blouse.”

“Think nothing of it. Are you okay?” The Egyptian woman asked, concern written on her ageless face. 

“Yeah, the doctor said it was a virus. I think I was just really worried about it even though I tried to pretend I wasn’t,” Celia admitted, wiping the wet tears from her cheeks with a shaky smile.

The vampire’s eyes narrowed but she did not further press the matter.

“Well, shall we celebrate your clean bill of health?” Kamilah asked with a devious smirk, and when they fell back into the bed together, she noticed the uncharacteristically desperate, almost ferocious passion in Celia’s actions. 

Celia was hiding something from her.

—-

Celia collapsed onto her bed, too tired to be affected by the strong disinfectant smell pervading the apartment. 

The first week after her diagnosis, she’d visited the hospital more times than she’d ever been in her life, undergoing countless tests and even spending a few days in the ICU after she had caught a cold that had quickly gone downhill.

Although she had tried to maintain a double life, spending her days in the hospital and her nights in the world of vampires and corporate finance as Adrian’s chief assistant, it had quickly become too much for her. After falling asleep at her desk multiple times, Adrian had kindly told her to take a few days off to rest and she had all too eagerly accepted. 

But when her first chemotherapy appointment had been scheduled, Celia knew she’d need an excuse that would somehow give her several weeks away from everyone to recover. She had filed for a leave of absence, telling everyone that she needed to go take care of her grandmother who had suddenly fallen ill and praying that Lily would trust her enough to not mention that her grandmother had died two years ago 

Momentarily taken aback, Lily had quickly recovered and wished Grandma Lucia well, before texting Celia later that night that she would be waiting for an explanation. Everyone had accepted her lie without a hint of doubt but Kamilah. 

Celia had successfully avoided Kamilah until that moment, citing her work and her busy schedule as an excuse. For the first time, Celia had been grateful she’d never officially moved into Kamilah’s apartment because there would have been no hiding her secret in such close proximity. 

Her heart had ached at the sight of the beautiful woman she loved, but Celia had forced herself to keep a distance between them, hurriedly running to her car when it looked like Kamilah wanted her to stay back after the others left. 

Part of her had wanted Kamilah to run after her, stopping her, and forcing her to give up what she had been hiding so she could finally be with her again, and part of her continued to want that. But the larger part of her that loved her refused to break Kamilah’s heart, even as she felt unfairly hurt when Kamilah didn’t follow. 

That had been just yesterday, today filled with her first round of chemo. And while she had felt fine at the hospital and her anti-nausea meds seemed to be working, an overwhelming wave of exhaustion had crashed into her. 

It was only after she’d promised her doctor that she had someone to care for her and keep her apartment sterile that she’d been allowed to return to her home after the treatment. Because even though she was alone, Celia needed the comfort of her apartment. Thankfully, it was small enough that it hadn’t taken her much time in the morning to disinfect everything. 

And though her bed was not nearly as soft as Kamilah’s was, Celia found herself falling asleep with no troubles at all. 

—-

She didn’t know what time it was when she woke up, but all she knew was that her meds had failed and she needed to vomit. 

In the dark, she nearly tripped over herself in her frantic run to the bathroom, collapsing onto her knees when she finally reached the toilet. Without a second’s wait, Celia found herself heaving the measly contents of her stomach, hands tightly gripping the white porcelain. It was some time after her vomiting had been replaced by dry heaving that she finally noticed the cool hand on her neck, holding back her hair. 

She closed her eyes, feeling absolutely wretched, and rested her forehead onto the bowl of the toilet without care, when her eyes flew open. She jerked her head to the side only to gaze straight into bottomless, brown eyes, and she recoiled in horror at the implication.

“You can’t be touching me,” Celia gasped, her back pressed up against the bathtub after her attempt to get away. 

Kamilah stared back at her, a flicker of hurt appearing on her face before an unreadable look replaced it. 

Celia struggled to get up, placing a trembling hand on the bathtub for support, and in a flash, Kamilah was right in front of her, ready to support her. But Celia flinched from her touch and Kamilah finally let her arms fall limply to her side, forcing herself to only watch as Celia dragged herself out of the bathroom and into her bed.

Even as a storm of emotions raged in her chest, Celia’s fatigue proved to be the victor and she promptly fell asleep. 

—-

When Celia awoke, a sour taste was in her mouth but she felt infinitely better than she had the last night. The nausea had gone and-

The memories of the night before came back to her and she sat straight up, only to wince at the sudden rush of blood to her head. And Kamilah was right there, sitting at the edge of her bed, looking like she had been watching Celia the entire night even though the clock on the wall told Celia it was noon (a time Kamilah should have been sleeping). 

Her mouth was pressed together in a straight line as if to prevent the worry from escaping and without a word, she gestured to the glass of water on the bedside table. 

Celia hesitated for a second, and Kamilah said, “I didn’t touch it.”

Feeling guilty, Celia gave her a grateful nod and quickly drank the water down, relishing its refreshing taste. There was silence and a fraught tension in the room once the glass was empty, Celia’s eyes determinedly fixed on the glass and Kamilah’s eyes determinedly fixed on Celia. 

“You’ve been hiding something from me.”

Celia felt her throat dry and she wished that the empty glass in her hand was full again. She opened her mouth and closed it and opened it again before deciding she owed Kamilah the truth. She had already seen her last night; Kamilah would find out even without her telling the truth. And so, with a shaky exhale, Celia said,

“When I went to the doctor’s, they told me I have leukemia.”

The silence that followed was the worst Celia had ever experienced; she would have traded this silence for their previously tense silence over and over again.

Kamilah’s hand clenched into a tight fist, veins straining against her taut, tan skin and she suddenly looked every two thousand plus years of her age.

“I’m not going to lie to you,” Kamilah said in a deceptively calm voice, “I’m hurt you decided to keep this from me, but that’s not important right now. Why didn’t you tell anyone? Lily, Adrian, and Jax, you should have told someone even if if you didn’t tell me! Why would you go through this alone?”

Celia ignored the second half of Kamilah’s questions, tearily responding, “I didn’t want to hurt you.” 

Tears spilled over at the vulnerability she could see in Kamilah’s eyes, the vulnerability she had caused.

“I thought I could just go through the treatments by myself and once I was okay again, I could tell you so you wouldn’t have to be worried. I-I didn’t want to burden you. And I didn’t want to get hurt either,” Celia admitted.

“I was afraid you wouldn’t want to be with me anymore, not now that I’m sick. Not when you have thousands of years in front of you to be with anyone you choose,” she desperately rambled, needing Kamilah to know why she had lied to her, needing Kamilah to stop looking so heartbroken. 

“I love you so much but I’m just so scared,” Celia finally whimpered.

For one terrible second, Celia was sure that Kamilah was going to walk away from her forever but then Kamilah fiercely embraced her, somehow causing all of her fears to disappear.

“I love you Celia. I’m sorry I haven’t said it before and made you doubt my feelings for you but I love you and you’re going to be okay. It’s all going to be okay.” 

“I promise.”

—-

A/N: I actually had a friend in high school who diagnosed herself with leukemia using WebMD before she went to the doctor’s and got an official diagnosis. 

When you get chemo, your immune system is basically gone/severely compromised so you have to be really careful about germs, which is why MC kept telling Kamilah that she can’t touch her. 

MC didn’t tell Kamiah because she didn’t want Kamilah to worry about her and also they were together but their relationship was never officially defined so MC was scared and also MC just got diagnosed with cancer, she’s scared out of her mind, she’s not thinking properly. 

I’m definitely going to have a second part to this although I’m not sure how long it’ll be. It’ll probably be on the shorter side. 

#kamilah x mc #kamilah sayeed #bloodbound #playchoices #My writing #lily spencer #jax matsuo #adrian raines

[the-quiet-winds]

The Wheel Breaks the Butterfly

so, i wasn’t going to post this now... but the anon this morning made an excellent point and i felt that it’s time for one of the angstiest things that @ichlugebulletsandcornnuts and i have ever written together.

the last show of the week brings one tradition: drinks, hair, bed. as the queens parade down the hall backstage, katherine can't help but notice jane's lack of celebratory enthusiasm. instead, she immediately ducks into their dressing room bathroom and closes the door.

"mum?" katherine calls. "are you coming for drinks?"

"not tonight, love," jane answers through the door. "you go on ahead."

it doesn't surprise katherine when they get home and jane is already in bed. what does surprise her is when she gets up the next morning and the kitchen is empty. it's already half past nine, jane was usually up way earlier than now.

katherine waits in the kitchen for almost half an hour, eating a bowl of incredibly sugary cereal and glancing over social media on her phone. when it hits 10am katherine can’t help but wonder if something happened. jane was a morning person, much to the chagrin of the other queens, and getting up after 10am was unheard of for her. katherine goes back up the stairs and pauses in front of jane’s door, knocking gently. “mum?” she calls through the wood. “are you in there?”

she hears coughing from the other side of the door and she pushes it open. jane is curled on her side facing away from katherine, and katherine approaches the bed, concerned.

when jane woke up that morning, she knew something was most definitely wrong. she hadn't felt great the night before, but this morning was even worse. her chest ached from coughing and her stomach felt like it had turned itself inside out and flipped over at the same time. she couldn't bring herself to get out of bed that morning, which felt even worse.

"mum? are you in there?" she hears katherine's voice. she wants to tell her "i'm fine, darling. just fine," but her voice slips into another coughing fit. jane then hears the door open, and right at that exact moment, anxiety and fear and most likely food poisoning bubble inside of her until she throws herself on the floor, stumbles into her bathroom, and empties the already meager contents of her stomach.

“mum!” katherine gasps, darting after her into the bathroom. “mum, are you okay?”

she wasn’t entirely sure why she said it, considering that jane was very decidedly not okay at that second, but it was all she could think of to say. jane retches again, before breaking into a coughing fit.

“i’ll get you some water, mum,” katherine says hurriedly. “i’ll be right back, i promise!”

she practically runs downstairs, almost slipping on the wooden floor, and fills up a cup of water from the sink. she races back as quickly as she can without spilling it and finds jane sitting on the floor next to the toilet, looking pale and miserable. jane attempts to smile at her when katherine puts the glass down but she can’t even manage that at the moment without an accompanying cough.

jane very weakly brings her hands together with a cough. she's miming out writing something down...katherine jumps up and grabs a piece of paper and a pen and brings it back. jane's hand trembles as she writes the note and hands it to katherine. jane's normally perfectly loopy handwriting is jagged and shaky. "you should go, don't want you getting sick as well," katherine reads aloud. jane winces slightly at the words, before she flushes alabaster white and throws up again, shaking like a leaf over the toilet bowl.

katherine drops to kneel on the floor next to jane, hands wringing uncertainly before one hand goes to rub jane’s back comfortingly. “i’m not going anywhere, mum,” she says, voice uncharacteristically firm and a lot braver than she felt. katherine may not have been sure exactly how to make jane feel better, but she knew she wasn’t going to leave her side until she was.

jane's insides are turning over, not just from whatever sickness this is. she can't help but remember feeling exactly like this before she died, not even getting to hold her son. she doesn't want that to happen again. she doesn't want katherine to be there if history is doomed to repeat itself. her throat is impossibly tight and raw and she wants to scream but can't even make a sound. she wants to tell katherine to go to parr or aragon and let her be miserable on her own, but she just can’t. so, as much as she hates herself for it, she wrenches herself away from katherine's comforting touch. with a heavy cough and every muscle in her body burning, she backs away across the floor.

“mum?” katherine asks uncertainly, attempting to shuffle towards her, but jane shakes her head as best she can.

“mum, i don’t understand,” katherine says, fear slipping into her tone. “what’s wrong?” she reaches a hand out but jane backs up even further, muscles screaming in pain as she backs away from katherine.

jane's back is pressed against the side of the tub. her breaths are coming out as wheezy gasps, panic coursing through every sore muscle and burning ligament. she has to get katherine away from her. her vision blurs, with tears or from the illness, she isn't quite sure, but she sees the very recognizable shape of her daughter, pink hair and brown eyes and a loving concern on her face, hazily in front of her. jane blindly reaches behind her, grabbing an unwrapped roll of toilet paper, and weakly throws it in her general direction. it collides with katherine's chest and falls to the ground, both having the same quiet thumping noise.

“mum!” katherine says, close to tears. “mum, i’m trying to help you!” her gaze darts frantically from the roll of toilet paper on the floor in front of her to jane, and her bottom lip trembles. “i just don’t know how to help.” she stands suddenly, heart racing. “i’m gonna get parr,” she says, voice shaky and tears starting to escape, “but i’ll come back, i promise!”

the wool jammed in jane's head unclogs for just long enough to see katherine rush out of the bathroom with tears in her eyes. jane hates it. absolutely hates it. she also hate how she immediately lunges forward to close the bathroom door and locks it, leaving her sprawled on the floor, every fiber of her being feeling like it is on fire. she lays on the floor, her head against the cool tile, trying to ground herself. she barely reacts as voices being to float through the door.

katherine could barely communicate what was wrong to parr, but the distraught look on the girl’s face combined with the fact parr could pick the word “jane” out of katherine’s rush of emotion meant that she’d jumped out of her desk chair and followed Katherine right away.

“really not well- doesn’t want me there I don’t know why but she doesn’t-” katherine rambles anxiously as they approach the bathroom door and parr puts a hand on her shoulder.

“kid, it’s going to be okay,” parr says gently. “i just need you to calm down, okay?”

katherine nods, but the lump in her throat says otherwise. parr reaches out and grabs the handle of the bathroom door to open it. it doesn’t move. parr frowns and does it again, more forcefully this time.

“what’s the matter?” katherine asks, fear creeping through her. parr doesn’t answer, instead knocking firmly on the door.

“jane?” she calls. “jane, can you hear me?”

jane can hear the anxiety in katherine’s voice as it muddles its way into her head. she hears the door rattling and parr repeatedly calling her name, but she is too weak to respond. she breaks into another coughing fit, one that lasts far too long. she feels very drowsy, and the rug on the bathroom floor feels so nice... maybe she could just open the door, let herself fall asleep surrounded by her friends and her daughter...

no, she steels herself. she can’t fall asleep. she can’t give up. not on katherine. for just a fleeting second, her tired and messed up brain flickers to an image of katherine holding her body, screaming and sobbing. jane feels something in herself snap. if she dies, she dies here alone, and that’s that. she has no strength left to even pick herself up off the floor or move at all, so she continues to lay, stretched out on her stomach. the only sounds loud enough to pass through the door are her coughing and shorty, wheezy breaths.

“jane,” parr continues calmly as katherine’s eyes widen in terror, “jane, if you can hear me I need you to unlock the door. if you don’t then i’m going to have to call an ambulance, and they’re going to have to cut the door down to get to you.” there’s no reply from inside and katherine lets out a sob, grabbing uselessly at the handle and pounding the palm of her hand against the door. “mum, please!” she wails. “please, open up, please say something!”

parr pulls her phone out of her pocket, a grim expression on her face.

jane still hears katherine, her sweet, sweet katherine, crying out her name and banging on the door. the sound only added to the pounding in jane's head, which began to alleviate bit by bit as she slipped farther and farther into sleep. with a final burst of energy, she grabs the paper and pen, discarded on the floor, and writes one final note. she can barely keep her eyes open, her stomach is doing flips, and everything is white and blurry but somehow she writes her message perfectly, if not messily. "I'm sorry, my Kitty-Kat," it reads, "With love in this life or any other, mum." then every bit of strength in her already weak body gives out. the pen drops to the floor and jane's upper body collides with the tile with a mighty thud.

from the other side of the door katherine hears the thud and her heart feels like it stops dead. “mum?” she lets out a pitiful whimper and clutches the door handle desperately. she can vaguely hear parr on the phone to 999 but all she can focus on is the fact that jane was on the other side of the door, unresponsive and alone, and there was nothing Katherine could do about it. she sinks to her knees, desperate sobs racking her frame as she claws at the door, not caring as she almost breaks her fingernails. parr’s hands grab under her arms and pull her away from the door even as she struggles and cries for her mum.

“kid,” parr says urgently. “kid! katherine! the ambulance are on their way, they’re going to come and help. they know the door is locked and they’ve got some tools to open it. i promise you, it’s going to be okay.”

"how can you say that?!" katherine cries. "she's along in there!" her voice suddenly drops as she pushes tears from her cheeks. "you should have heard the sound, that i heard while you were on the phone. something's wrong." then she starts crying again.

"what's all this racket?!" aragon shouts as she enters the room, still dressed in her pyjamas. boleyn and cleves follow after, both similarly agitated. one look at the hysterical howard and grave looking parr sobers them, and the wailing of the ambulance sirens outside answers their questions. parr, the nimblest of the bunch, shoots downstairs to let the paramedics in. their boots and voices echo through the house as they come upstairs. the five women watch as they tear down the door to jane's bathroom. there she is, a horrid sight indeed. she's sprawled on her stomach, pale and barely breathing, pen and paper next to her hands.

the paramedics share a few brief words before they transfer jane over to a stretcher, one taking her pulse and another checking for consciousness.

“are they gonna take her?” katherine asks, voice breaking. “i need to go with her, please!” she tries to stand, almost falling when her knees buckle beneath her. Parr and cleves manage to steady her between them and one of the paramedics turns to her.

“are you a relation of the patient?” he asks, and despite his formal words he speaks kindly. katherine nods.

“i’m her daughter.”

the paramedic glances behind him, then back at her. “there’s room in the ambulance for one person to travel.” katherine looks at parr desperately who gives her a nod.

“you go, kid. we’ll catch you up in the car.”

the paramedic sends katherine a reassuring smile. “we’re going to take her out now, so come with us. oh and,” he holds out a piece of paper. “if she’s your mum, then I imagine this is for you.”

katherine can't bring herself to look at the paper that second, so she shoves it in her pocket and follows the paramedics down the stairs and into the ambulance. they speed off towards the hospital, and all katherine can do is tightly grip one of jane's hands. she can't look at jane's face. she just can't. jane should be smiling that gentle and loving smile and soothing kat's worries with a quiet and calm voice, not laying somewhere between life and death. "come on, mum," she pleads desperately. "i need you, please." with five minutes to go before they reach the hospital, she pulls the crumpled paper out of her pocket. with a trembling sigh, she opens it and reads it.

as katherine reads the words her hands start to shake. several teardrops escape and slide down her cheeks, dripping onto the paper and smudging the ink. katherine knew what jane meant; she thought she was going to die. in this life or any other. that’s what she meant. katherine crumples the paper up into a ball and shoves it back into her pocket, angry tears flowing faster and faster.

“you’re not dying on me now,” she hisses, taking jane’s hand and holding it tightly. “don’t you dare.”

of course, jane doesn't respond. the ambulance is too loud for katherine, the roaring of the engine, the beeping of monitors, the loud radio chatter. it all swirls around her head, topped off by the overwhelming fear and concern katherine is feeling. they get to the hospital and doctors whisk jane away without a second thought. as katherine brings herself to the waiting room chairs on very shaky legs, she can't help but wonder if this is what jane felt four months ago after the fiasco at the airport. there's too much to think about and too much to hear, so katherine just drops her head into her hands, but she can't bring herself to cry. she simply has to wait.

she sits there, head in hands, alone and silent with her mind whirring for almost half an hour before the other queens catch up. she hears them around her but she doesn’t look at them, can’t bear to see their pitying faces. when parr puts an arm around her, however, and pulls katherine into her chest, that’s the moment where katherine loses all control. tears stream down her face in pathetic sobs, clinging to parr as she holds her tightly in a way that reminds her so much of jane, but wrong somehow, because it’s not her. she sobs and sobs like an overtired child, soaking parr’s shirt and past the point of caring.

it isn’t long after katherine has stopped crying when the doctors enter the room, looking unfortunately neutral. katherine nearly falls over as she stands up. she clumsily wipes the last remnants of tears from her cheeks. “well?”

the doctor looks her straight in the eye. “it was a very sudden and very severe case of appendicitis.”

he says no more, and katherine wants to strangle him because he won’t tell her what she wants most to know. just as she is about to launch into a tirade, he speaks again.

“she’s out of surgery and awake, asking to see a katherine seymour?”

“that’s me,” katherine says hastily, swallowing down the angry speech she’d been about to give. “can i see her, please?”

the doctor nods. “follow me.”

he leads her into the ward and the second katherine sees jane, lying in that hospital bed, she can’t help race towards her bedside.

“mum!” she says, the only thing stopping her from throwing herself into jane’s arms being the knowledge that she just got out of surgery. instead  she drags a chair right next to the bedside.

jane still looks pale and incredibly weak, but she manages a smile when she sees katherine.

“hello, sweetheart,” she croaks.

katherine is so elated at seeing her mum alive that she almost forgets how angry she is.

almost.

the doctor leaves the room a moment later, then tears begin to run down katherine’s cheeks again. “you thought you were going to die...” she mumbles through her tears, eyes unable to meet jane’s. “you thought you were going to die and you wanted to be alone?” suddenly she looks up, and jane’s heart aches when that look, the look of a scared and lonely girl, is the only thing that she can recognize on katherine’s face. “you thought you were going to die and you weren’t even going to say goodbye!” her anger is diluted by tears, her voice strong but very shaky. she lowers it again. “all you were going to do was leave a note?”

“kat,” jane starts, voice weak and trembling. “kat, i’m sorry, love. i didn’t want you to see it happen.”

“so, what,” katherine says, voice thick with anger and tears. “you thought it’d be better for me to find your dead body? for that note to be my last memory of you? for you to lock me out-” katherine’s voice cuts off with a sob, unable to speak any more.

jane reaches out a trembling hand, pushing back the curtain of hair that had fallen over katherine’s shoulder, then resting it on her cheek, wiping some tears away with light strokes of her thumb. “kat, honey.” she speaks very softly, trying to keep any emotion out of her voice except for a quiet and gentle security. “i know it wasn’t right for me to do that to you. but i was just so scared...” she raises her hand to the top of katherine’s head, smoothing down some of the hair as it returns to her cheek. “scared of leaving you like i left my son.”

katherine leans into the movement instinctively, needing the reassurance that jane really was there, that she wasn’t going anywhere. “i was scared too,” she says in a quiet, broken little voice. jane struggles to sit up slightly,  wincing in pain and a gasp escaping her. katherine immediately turns anxious. “mum?”

“it’s okay, sweetheart,” jane gives her a smile through gritted teeth. “i’m just a bit sore from the operation.” she settles back against the pillows and takes katherine’s hand, pulling it close to her.

“i couldn’t face it,” she says softly. “the thought of leaving you. not again, not like this.”

“i thought...” jane starts, then breaks off with a weak chuckle. “i thought it’d be easier for you afterwards, with all of them there with you.” she runs her thumb over katherine’s knuckles. “i’m so sorry, love. it was so wrong of me.” she tries to lean forward, and katherine closes the distance and jane’s lips land on katherine’s forehead. she pulls back and holds kat at eye level. “can you forgive me kitty-kat?”

katherine holds jane’s gaze for a few seconds before her face crumples, and she drapes her arm across jane in the gentlest hug she could possibly manage, resting her head on jane’s shoulder.

“of course i can,” she sniffles. “just- if anything like this happens again, please, just please, don’t shut me out again.”

jane entire soul at the tiredness and anguish in katherine’s voice. “i promise, love. never again.” she chuckles lightly. “i mean hopefully i’ll never be so sick i nearly die...” she feels katherine shudder against her and she regrets her words. jane presses a light kiss into katherine’s hair. “bad timing, i’m sorry sweetheart. and i promise, no more locking you out. never again.”

“good,” katherine says, with only the tiniest amount of a pout in her voice. she shifts slightly and speaks again, voice muffled against jane’s hospital gown. “i love you, mum.”

jane smiles. “I love you too, kitty-kat. and i always will.” she pauses before she reaches the next part of their phrase, unsure if it was too soon to remind katherine of ‘any other life’.

katherine feels jane’s breath hitch in her chest, and she understands instantly. “in this life...or any other,” she finishes in a quiet voice. “but this one is all that matters,” she continues.

jane relaxes and brings a hand up to gently pet the back of katherine’s hair. “that’s right, sweetheart.”

they stay in this position for a little while until katherine’s legs start to cramp up from holding herself there, and she backs down to sit back on the chair again. jane keeps hold of her hand though, and squeezes it reassuringly.

“i should be able to come home within three days, that’s what the doctor said. maybe sooner, if everything goes well.”

“that’s too long,” katherine whines. jane smiles and giggles lightly at katherine’s childlike attitude. “i’m sorry, love,” she says. “but you can visit as much as you’d like, i promise.”

“i’ll stay here until they kick me out,” katherine says with a smile. “and then i’ll come back tomorrow as soon as they let me back in.”

“i don’t doubt it, love,” jane laughs. she yawns slightly, covering her mouth with her hand. “goodness, having an operation really does take it out of you.”

“i’m sure that’s not the only thing,” katherine says knowingly. jane blushes sheepishly. she certainly hadn’t gotten that much sleep. “but i won’t fall asleep!” jane declares, failing miserably at her goal. “not while you’re here with me.”

“it’s okay if you do fall asleep,” katherine smiles softly. “i’m happy to just sit here, and, y’know, you deserve a rest, mum.” She squeezes jane’s hand gently. “after all, we’ve got a whole lifetime to spend together.”

“i’m still going to try,” jane says with a soft laugh.

jane smiles sleepily. “oh kitty-kat, a lifetime together is all i want,” she drowsily mumbles. “my little seymour,” she breathes as she drops off to sleep.

katherine smiles, a feeling or warmth and security running through her at jane’s words. she leans up and presses a soft kiss to jane’s cheek, carefully so she didn’t wake her up. “love you, mum,” she murmurs.

#six the musical #six musical #jane seymour #katherine howard #catherine parr #julie and jess write #the wheel breaks the butterfly

[justwritingscibbles]

Don’t Leave Me

Commissioned by the lovely @lovejanetteadams for the anon who requested a deathly ill reader x Phantom angst fic. This was commissioned for you in the spirit of giving!! 

I hope you enjoy. 

Warnings: ANGST!!! LIKE...A LOT!

Want a Commission? See Prices Here

Phantom was up earlier than usual. He stretched lazily and turned over in his bed. Your warm body was instantly cuddled into as he reached out. Gently dragging you back into his embrace as he tucked the blankets better around the two of you. 

You murmured a drowsy greeting and Phantom pressed a kiss to your shoulder. He said nothing, only snuggled into your form and sighed in blissful contentment.  You two stayed like that for another hour. Letting the morning pass you both by as the day began to start outside your windows. Cars drove pass and people walked by on the sidewalk. You could hear the club downstairs begin to bustle with cleaners and workers. Here to do their daily routine after a hard night of customers.  Phantom had a suite on the top floor of his busiest and best club. And it was this very luxurious and expensive looking place that you and he spent most of your nights. Especially on your weekends and his rare few days off from work.

“I need to pee.” You mumbled suddenly. Phantom barked a soft chuckle and squeezed your waist tighter. Making you groan in annoyance and slight discomfort as your bladder was compressed. 

“But we were having such a nice cuddle session.” Phantom whined. His grip tightening as you tried to squirm out from under his arms. 

“And we can continue the cuddling after I visit the bathroom.” You replied. Laughing as Phantom gave an exaggerated groan and rolled onto his back. Releasing you from his grip and allowing you to bound from the bed and run to the bathroom. You slammed the door shut and Phantom sighed when he felt your side of the bed begin to lose it’s warmth. 

He loved these days. Where there was absolutely no need to get up. No rush. No business calls. Just you, him and the plush blankets of the bed.  If he could buy this moment and have it every morning, he’d gladly spend every cent to keep this bliss. 

Phantom looked over to the door as he heard the toilet flush. You hurried back to bed. Throwing yourself over Phantom as you leapt onto the mattress. Phantom laughed and grabbed you. His lips capturing your mouth as he rolled you under him. Laying himself on top of you so you were basically trapped beneath him.  You didn’t mind. You wrapped your arms around his bare torso and gladly melted into the kiss. 

“I love you.” Phantom hummed against your lips. You felt his heart-beat thundering against your chest. “So much, baby. I’m sorry days like this don’t happen as often as they should.” 

You hushed him with another feather light kiss against his lips. Pulling him down so you could embrace him properly. Your hands running down his back and up to his hair; where you entangled your fingers with the silky smooth strands. 

“I love you, too, Phantom. And don’t worry. I’m not so needy that you need to be with me 24/7. I’m an adult... in most ways. Plus...” You paused your sentence to kiss his cheek and playfully tap his nose. “Days like this are something to look forward too. Give me a sense of hope during a horrible, terrible, agonising week.”

Phantom smiled. Those three words catching most of his attention. He didn’t say it much. And he kicked himself for it too. He wanted to show you his affections in all ways possible. Gifts, kisses, hugs, small touches, soft spoken words or songs written in devotion to you. Theatre shows displaying his love through actors or giant bill-boards of a photo with the two of you.  Of course, he knew most of those things were a bit too much. But it was what he knew you deserved. What you should deserve.  Phantom lifted his hand to trail his fingertips along your jawline. Watching your chest rise and fall with every breath. The way your hair fell over your cheeks when you moved. He loved every little thing about you. Whether you saw it as imperfection of your body, or not. You were just.... perfect to him. 

“Phantom, you’re doing it again.” You whispered. Your smile was wide and flustered as Phantom rolled his eyes. The glazed look in his gaze flickering back into reality. 

“You’re distracting. I can’t help it.” Phantom said defensively. Playfully pinching your sides. Laughing when you yelped; your body convulsing on instinct. 

“Hey! No tickling. You promised.” Your pout was the most adorable thing about you. And Phantom had so many photos on his phone of your smile and pouts. Even though you hated selfies. Phantom loved you too much to pass the opportunity to capture and frame a moment.

“I only promised because last time we had a tickle fight, you broke a lamp.” Phantom reminded you. Laughing when you playfully smacked his arm. 

“You broke that lamp. I was only a witness to your shame! You thrash like a fish out of water when you’re tickled.” You scoffed. Smiling at the memory of the loud crash of broken porcelain and glass. The defending silence as you and Phantom both stared at the broken shards with shocked expressions. And then, the eruption of laughter when you two looked at each other.  In all honesty, you didn’t know who broke the lamp. You were both a little hysterical.

Phantom only rolled his eyes and kissed the top of your head. He rolled off you and then got to his feet, slipping on a deep red bath-robe to protect himself from the chill morning air.  “So, what would my love want for breakfast, hmm?” Phantom asked. Snatching up his cane and giving it a showy twirl between his fingers. The glass orb glowed a bright purple. Awaiting Phantom’s commands on who to summon. He had three chiefs within the orb, always ready to cook and prepare your meals for you. 

You yawned and shivered at the loss of Phantom’s body heat. You curled up under the covers; thinking of different things you’d think would be a good breakfast. But unfortunately, your stomach was not in the mood to give a proper answer. It only gave a painful twitch at the thought of food.  You frowned and shook your head. Cuddling into the pillows as you felt a wave of drowsiness come over you. 

“Maybe a little later. I’m not hungry yet.” You told Phantom. And the man frowned. Worry creasing his forehead as he came around to your side of the bed and sat next to you. He laid the back of his hand against your head. Feeling only a slight warmth there, Phantom sighed and moved his hand to rest over your hip. 

“(Y/N), you’ve barely eaten the last few days. And, to be honest love, I’m sensing there is something wrong.” Phantom’s playful tone lowered into concern. He had been sensing a drop in your Soul. The colours were dulling and something within you was growing. He didn’t know what, but he just knew it was beginning to effect you more. 

You hummed thoughtfully. Knowing that it was unusual for you to stay in bed for so long. And to refuse breakfast from a 5-star chief? You had an inkling you must be getting sick.  “Would you be able to make a doctors appointment for me?” You asked. You hated the doctors but you knew that you wanted to put this behind you. 

Phantom nodded and leaned down to press a kiss against your temple. “I’ll go and get the Doctor I go too. She’ll know how to help. Stay put, alright? And call me if you need anything.” 

                             ---------(One Month Later)---------

Phantom hasn’t moved from your beside in two weeks. He’s had his Collected go and get him food and water. He only leaves if it’s life or death. He lays next to you in the hospital bed. Careful of the tubes and drips that hooked you up to the machines. He spoke to you in a gentle tone. Clutching your hand with the utmost care.  As if he’d break you if he held on too tightly. And he was terrified he was going to. Even a small kiss to your pale pink lips made him worry. 

“Phantom...” Your laboured voice woke him from his half sleep. Your fingers loosely gripped his. The small amount of strength you had was set on keeping a hold of him. You were scared. Just as he was. And you didn’t want to let go, in case you fell away from him. “I love you.” 

Phantom’s lips trembled as he pushed forward a smile. He lifted his hand, the one that wasn’t clutching onto you, and cupped your cheek tenderly. His lips pressed a feather light kiss to your forehead and he rested his cheek against your hair.  “I love you too, (y/n).” Phantom whispered to you. His chest squeezed as he held back his sorrow. He could feel you slipping away. Your once bright and vibrant Soul was fading. Slipping out of his vision as your breaths became more laboured. 

His entire being screamed for him to take you. To nurture your Soul into the Orb where he can keep you safe and with him forever. But he left it too late. Your Soul was dying. You were dying. And if he were to take you now, you’d forever be trapped in this tormented state. Phantom, even though he loved you, you were his everything. His world. His stars and moon. 

He could never keep you in such pain. Even if he was selfish, he loved you too much to do such a thing to you. 

“I’m going aren’t I...” You sighed. And Phantom nodded. A tear slipping from his lashes as he moved closer against you. He hugged you tight. A soft sob escaping his lips as he whispered to you. 

“I’m sorry. I should have done more.” 

“You did all you could.” You replied. A smile, that wonderfully beautiful smile. Now becoming a bitter sweet memory to him. 

“Please don’t leave me.” Phantom wept. Hugging you so close now that you were buried against his chest. He was trembling. Holding you as if he could keep your Soul inside you. Keep it burning bright and with him. 

“I love you.” You whispered. And Phantom cried out as the last bit of light in you faded away. The machines confirmed what he already knew as he wailed into your hair. Begging you to come back. But you were gone. Travelling somewhere Phantom could never follow.

#phantom #phantom natewantstobattle #Phantom battle ego #battle ego #natewantstobattle egos #Phantom x reader #Phantom battle ego x reader #Phantom natewantstobattle x reader #Battle ego x reader #natewantstobattle ego x reader #angst #crying #I cried while writing this!! #reader insert #commissions #commission #commission prices #commission done

[cherryyharryy]

Everyone look at this incredible piece of art that Ellie wrote! You should head over to her blog and read, she’s incredible:) @meetmeinthehallwayeverytime

**********

This took me like an hour but–

To further break your heart: 😈

“Darling, go back to bed.” His voice is rushed, maybe the fastest you’ve ever heard him speak before. “I’m fine, I can handle this myself.”

Your eyes narrow and your lips almost pout as you fold your arms across your chest.

“Baby, I’m fine.”

“Say that with your head out of the toilet bowl and maybe I’ll believe you.” You retort, knowing full well his head isn’t actually in the bowl–yet.

He lifts his head up to force his eyes to stare at you instead of the toilet water. “I said I’m f–”

You watch as he swallows heavily, skin paling and nostrils flaring as his stomach rolls. Even the simple movement of lifting his head has upset his stomach, just as you suspected it might.

“I’m–I’m f–fi–” he lets out a pathetic whimper and curls his body forward as the muscles in his back jump and a harsh gag escapes from the back of his throat.

The sigh gliding past your lips goes unnoticed as he retches loudly into the porcelain bowl, his stomach barrelling up his throat until he is hurling violently.

His next whimper breaks your heart because you know that tears accompany it. Your arms drop to your sides and you kneel with him, your body at his side but a little behind him, not wanting to leave him feeling crowded.

He moans, mouth filling with saliva as his body prepares to reject his insides. Your hand leaps to his back, white t-shirt damp and sticking to his sweat coated skin. You scratch the fabric lightly, rubbing small lines up and down his spine, tiny circles into the small of his back.

Somehow the vomiting is more intense this time, it seems, or perhaps it’s just that this time, you’re able to feel his muscles twitch and contract, spasming like mad as his stomach makes an ugly reappearance.

Harry coughs hoarsely as he sits up straighter, pale, sweaty and severely out of breath as he yanks his shirt over his head in one fast, smooth motion, running the wet fabric down his face and over his trembling lips.

You flush the toilet wordlessly, standing to wash your hands and wet a small washcloth under the faucet as it spills cold water.

This time when his nostrils flare it’s from being on the verge of tears, salty water stinging the burning ducts of his eyes as he slumps his back against the bathtub in sheer exhaustion.

You feel like crying as you sit on the cold tiles and scoot backwards until you feel the cold porcelain of the bathtub pressing into your spine.

“Baby,” your voice is quiet, gentle even, perhaps bordering on cautious.

His teeth are chattering now, chin wobbling and nostrils flaring for a longer period of time as a tear slides it’s way down his cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, voice cracking and breaking unevenly. “I’m so sorry, darling, I’m so sorry.”

“For what, Harry?” Your eyebrows knit together of their own accord, your mind confused by the sudden utterance, a verbal garland of words strung together in a way you didn’t understand.

A harsh sob bursts from his lips, following a spluttering cough that makes you wince, his shaking hand reaching to clutch his chest.

“Do you need your inhaler?” Your voice is soft and calm despite the shattered heart in your chest and the hurricane of nervous butterflies, a frenzy of nervous Nellie’s fluttering dramatically in your belly.

Harey shakes his head, red nose crinkling as he sniffles quietly. “I’m so sorry, darling, really I am.”

“But why, Harry, for what? You ask softly, reaching out to push some of the sweat dampened chocolate colored curls from his glistening forehead, not flinching despite the clamminess of his skin. "Come here, baby, let me hold you.”

He shakes his head, heavy pout in his lips as he runs a hand beneath his nearly dripping nose.

“But why? Don’t you want me to hold you?”

He nods, looking at you with heavily lidded eyes, the deep and bright emerald color faded and gone, replaced now with all the glassy dullness of a dead man.

“I’m sorry I’m sick,” he croaks, hand leaping to rub at his throat, the raw and irritated vocal chords protesting the smallest of sounds. “I’m so sorry,”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” you assure him with a sad smile. “You take care of me when I’m sick, why would it be any different now?”

You’re startled when his eyes fill up with another wave of tears, this time falling rapidly down his pink flushed cheeks and clinging to eyelashes of licorice black.

“I’m sorry,” he croaks, voice so hoarse it almost pains you to hear. “I’m s-sorry, s-so sorry.”

Your arms wrap around his shivering body, your voice forming a small whimper at the burn of fire dancing across the skin clothed in sweat. He clings with one hand to your forearm, the other limp at his side on the white tile floor, the ceramic cold as icicles.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats again as you hold his heavy head to your thinly covered chest, running the short nails of one hand through the short locks of hair, scratching at his scalp as lightly and carefully as a kitten playing for the first time with a new ball of yarn.

You feel waves of hot tears, salty anguish soaking the large white fabric that swallows your body. “Baby, Harry … please angel, tell me what’s wrong. What are you sorry for? It’s okay sweetheart, I promise, it’s alright, everything will be just fine.”

“Never been looked after before,” he croaks out, voice harsh from the sobs escaping his weakened body. “Never been held like this before, never had somebody taking care of me.”

Your own nostrils flare now at the realization of deprived love, and you press a kiss to the top of his head. “I love you, Harry, I promise. You don’t have to apologize for being ill, it isn’t your fault.”

“You weren’t supposed to know, weren’t supposed to see.” His voice is cracked, hoarse and broken, harsh and fading as his aching throat throbbed. “Don’t want you to leave, need you. Love you so much, darling, please.”

“Harry, I promise, okay? I love you,” you grip him tighter now, your body fighting trembles as his entire body shakes, weakened from illness and slumped from exhaustion, broad shoulders hunched forward and jumping with each sob that racks him head to toe. “When you love somebody you love them through health and sickness both.”

His hand moves from the icy floor to grip weakly, almost pathetically, at the fabric of your shirt, his shirt, his nose desperately sucking in breaths of your rosy scent, mouth gaping to suck in the breaths of oxygen his burning lungs screamed for.

“I’m so dizzy,” he sobs. “My chest hurts so fucking badly, darling, it hurts.”

Your hand searches almost blindly for the washcloth you had discarded on the bathtub, gripping it in quivering fingers as you rub it lightly across the back of his neck, tracing across forehead and dancing across his heaving chest.

“Let’s go to bed, baby, okay?” You whisper, hiding despair and desperation from s voice begging to tremble. “We’ll get under the blankets and snuggle, you’ll be the little spoon and I’ll get you some water and medicine, and–”

“I’m sorry,” his voice wails again, his half-conscious and high fevered mind bordering on delirium as he falls into a feverish repeat of the same two words like a broken record. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

You want to help him to his feet, do more than hold him and run wet cloths over his flame hot skin, do more than get him doses of medicine and crackers or water he would inevitably throw up. You want to be more than something he clings to as he sobs his broken heart out in salty droplets from fog-visioned eyes.

You want to hold him in warmth, trace patterns on his skin through soft smoothness of slender fingers, play with his hair and listen to lame jokes come from the television as you tried to get a smile out of him. You want to kiss his forehead and hold him close, head on your chest to calm his mind with the beating of your heart, or the cool fabric of a pillow and cloth. You want to rub gently at his chest until the aching disappears, feel his forehead with the coolness of your palm and feel his nose scrunched and buried in your neck as an arm and leg lay slung across your body like that of a baby koala’s. You want to whisper words of comfort to him, hum lyrics of love and hold him tight as he needs. You want to make the ache in is stomach disappear, fever fade and headache vanish; you want to hold him and love him until any discomfort left and a feeling of protective warmth engulfed his body.

But instead you remain on the cold tile floor of a half darkened bathroom, hearing ragged sobs and feeling tears soak into your skin from a heated body, the sound of crickets in the starlit night lost as you held the frame of a broken man who held your heart.

#submit #submission

[kuromantic]

Whumptober Day 13: “Stay.”

Bokuto’s eyes fluttered open. It wasn’t morning yet, he could tell from the lack of light seeping in through the curtains. Akaashi’s warmth was beside him, snoozing away, his head resting on the comfy pillows. A small part of Bokuto was proud, being able to wake up earlier than Akaashi for the first time ever.

His relief diminished when an uncomfortable feeling in his stomach took over. He grabbed the covers and pushed them off his body, that now felt scorching hot and uncomfortable. Fanning the air, he fell back and let his head hit the pillow. He became increasingly aware of the hot churning in his stomach, which he ignored obstinately.

Although he lay on the sheets that became soaked with his sweat, Bokuto couldn’t get himself back to sleep. His head seemed to be engulfed in a ball of fire, cooking his brains into mush. He screwed his eyes shut with all the strength he could muster, convincing himself the physical discomfort was temporary.

Bokuto’s skin was slick with sweat, but his throat was dried up, in dire need of fluids. Maybe a glass of water would provide him with relief, he thought. “Ah, dammit.” He grabbed a fistful of sheets, gathering up some momentum to lift himself up again. It wasn’t supposed to be this hard to peel his body off the bed.

Taking care not to wake up the snoozing Akaashi, Bokuto used his trembling arms to manoeuvre himself off the bed. His feet touching the ground became colder than the rest of his body, while his head remained scorching hot. His joints screamed at him when he put a foot forward to walk. He hadn’t overexerted himself yesterday, so there wasn’t a reason for him to be so tired.

Bokuto’s legs almost gave way on the way to the bathroom, and he placed his hand on the wall to guide himself in. All he wanted was a splash of water on his face, maybe a cool shower to wash off his sweat. Instead, he found himself kneeling in front of the toilet after the nauseous feeling in his stomach took over. He swallowed the spit pooling in his mouth, wiping the sweat off his forehead. The unpleasant sensation crept up his throat, forcing a dry heave out of him.

He had no idea why he was so sick. He’d had food poisoning and dreadful hangover before, and neither of them compared to how horrible his entire body felt right there and then. His body seemed to radiate heat onto everything he touched, and his head hung over the toilet while he waited for the inevitable to come.

After what Bokuto could only guess was hours of waiting on the cold bathroom tiles, his body somehow burned even worse. He needed to vomit, if he wanted any sort of relief from the painful churning around his midsection. He forced himself to take deep breaths, each exhale bringing his stomach contents a little further up his throat.

When the inevitable finally happened, relief overtook Bokuto first. His stomach clenched hard, forcing warm vomit out of his mouth. He didn’t want to look at the mess that he had caused, and doing so made him throw up another stream of sick into the water. He spat out the disgusting mouthful and gagged until nothing came up except watery acid.

Bokuto couldn’t remember the last time he had been this unwell. His head spun as he reached to flush the toilet, curling in on himself to avoid the stimuli that made his head throb. The dizziness took over, gluing him to the one spot that he was slumped over at. His breath hot as he exhaled unevenly, he lay his head on the floor not caring about how unhygienic it was. He needed something cold he could press his skin against.

“Kou,” a voice whispered beside him, shaking him awake after he had fallen asleep on the bathroom floor. Bokuto let out a moan of discomfort, having been waken up from a rest that he desperately needed. “Oh god, you’re burning up.” Akaashi pulled his body towards him, holding him so that his palms rested on his chest.

“What’s happenin’, Keiji?” Bokuto leaned into Akaashi’s arms instinctively, seeking the comfort that his boyfriend gave him. The lack of nausea didn’t do much for him. His throat was scratched and sore, and his head pounded intensely. “I wanna go back to sleep.”

Gentle hands picked up Bokuto, carrying him back to his room. Akaashi was surprisingly strong enough to carry him, despite Bokuto being the obviously beefy one of the two. “I know, Koutarou.” Akaashi whispered, stroking Bokuto’s hair. “Why were you collapsed in the bathroom?”

“Felt… sick,” Bokuto murmured, rubbing his forehead against Akaashi’s shoulder. “I threw up earlier.” He let out a huff of comfort when Akaashi set him down on the bed, stripping off his drenched t-shirt and shorts and helping him into some fresh clothes.

“Try to get some more sleep, alright?” Akaashi made a sympathetic noise, placing his cool palm on Bokuto’s cheek. Bokuto let out a whine, reaching up to hold his boyfriend’s hand against his face. “Is there anything you want me to get? Does an ice pack sound nice?”

Bokuto’s glossy eyes lit up. “Yeah,” he choked out. The idea of something cool against his head or the side of his neck sounded like heaven. “And maybe some water…” he added, his threat scorching hot and aching.

“I’ve got you,” Akaashi assured him, squeezing his arm tenderly before leaving the room to grab the supplies he needed to gather. Bokuto pressed the fabric of the pillow against the side of his head, gripping the covers. He breathed heavily, realising just how bad whatever he had come down with was.

Without delay, Akaashi came back in with a soft clatter to indicate that he had brought multiple things for Bokuto with him. “Tell me if it’s too cold.” He placed two small ice packs on either side of Bokuto’s neck, and he let out an exhale of contentment. “Here’s a basin if you feel nauseous again.” Akaashi spread some towels out on the bed and sat the basin on it, handing Bokuto a glass of water with ice chips inside.

“I love you, Keiji.” Bokuto sipped his drink, delirious from the fever. The cold water felt amazing going down his abused throat, and he sucked on the ice chips until his entire mouth was numb from the cold. “You’re an amazing boyfriend, y’know that?” He slurred, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand.

With a loving sigh, Akaashi caressed Bokuto’s floppy hair. “Get better soon, Kou. I love you very much too.” He sat on the bed beside Bokuto, whispering to him until his breathing evened out and his eyelids closed.

The peaceful sleep Bokuto fell into didn’t last nearly as long as he needed it to. His eyes filled with tears as he woke up, looking around for anything that gave off light. The room was too dark. Something bad was going to happen, he was sure of it.

“Keiji,” Bokuto called out, tears dripping down from his chin. Fear grasped his heart, twisting it in a cruel manner, torturing his mind. Everything was too warm, and the heat trapped him where he was. “Keiji, please come here!” He stuttered, sobbing harder until he couldn’t breathe properly.

Nobody was there to help him. He was going to melt into the darkness, taken and forgotten. His cries reached a louder volume, until all he could hear was his own panicked bawling. Tear streaks covered his cheeks, which were still flushed from the fever that burned him alive.

“Shh, Kou. Nothing is going to happen to you.” Akaashi, who had picked up on his sobbing, was by his side in a second, rubbing his back in a steady rhythm to calm him down. “It’s just a dream, see? You’re here with me, Koutarou. You’re safe here.”

Bokuto wailed, grabbing hold of Akaashi’s arm for dear life. “Keiji, it’s scary.” He trembled, his breathing coming in hitched, shallow gasps. “I’m gonna be sick again.”

That was all the warning Akaashi got before Bokuto hiccuped thickly and brought up a splash of clear vomit into the basin. Akaashi had only positioned the container under Bokuto’s chin just in time. “You’re going to be okay. I’m real, Kou. Listen to me.” Akaashi held Bokuto’s midsection as he puked the remainder of his stomach contents out, the tears never stopping.

Bokuto’s throat burned, and the amount of heaving he had done in one night hurt his entire upper stomach region. “It hurts,” he whimpered, in a way that could only be seen as pitiful. The fever dream had caused his sickness to flare up even worse, and he was sitting up holding a basin filled with his own vomit.

“It’s all right. It’s over, Kou. You can rest now.” Akaashi took the basin away from Bokuto, before the sight and smell could make him sick again. “I’ll get something to help you feel better. Do you think you can wait here for a few minutes?”

Bokuto shook his head, tugging on Akaashi’s sleeve. “Stay.” He wrapped his warm arms around his boyfriend, latching onto his body until he couldn’t move. “Help me go to sleep again, Keiji. I don’t wanna have another nightmare.”

“I will.” Akaashi resigned himself to his fate, whispering comforting words beside Bokuto to lull him into a gentle sleep again. “You won’t have any more nightmares, I promise.”

#BokuAka #Whumptober #tw vomit #sickfic #Bokuto Koutarou #akaashi keiji

[thenickelportrust]

would it be too bold of me to ask for a scenario based on The Spider Patrol? 👀

You know I gotta do it now. (under the cut for length.)

(ft. Vega because I had google run a random number 1-3 and Vega was 2.)

There’s a common saying- ‘dead end job’- that’s normally used to describe when someone is in a bit of a occupational rut. For you, however, this saying has a couple of different meanings. One is the same as the common usage- working for The Rust doesn’t exactly do much more than pay the bills and it’s not going to get you anywhere fantastic in life anytime soon. The second is a bit more literal, in that there’s a pretty high likelihood that job might just end up killing you one day. The third ties into the second, which is that there’s been many a time when you find yourself at a dead end, back pressed up against the wall, waiting and trying to think your way out of a potentially lethal situation.

Normally, though, the dead end you have your back pressed up against isn’t your own home. And normally the terrors you face aren’t quite as demonic, nor as multi-limbed, as the nightmare that’s crawling towards you, agonizingly slow, with each wiry limb tracing slow gashes down the air as tiny, beady eyes stare at you from where it hangs, lowering itself by a single, silken strand. You hold the lamp to your chest, which had almost fallen off the nightstand when your back slammed up against it, wielding your only weapon- your only protection- from that creature of hell which has invaded your sacred home.

The Spider stares you down, swinging menacingly back and forth in a dastardly draft that dares to bring it closer to you.

You hop onto the bed, not trusting that this… this… beast isn’t going to make a lunge for your way. The very thought sends a chill of terror down your spine- those hairy little legs crawling across your skin, clipper-mouth snapping into flesh- nope. Nope, nope, nope. Nope.

You need out. You need that thing to get out. This is your house and you’re not about to be taken over by an invader like this!

Hell, you’re a Rust reporter! You tackle villains and heroes with powers beyond imagination every single damn day! You’ve brought humans with the power of gods to their knees all by the flash of your camera! You are not going to bow. Not. To. A. Spider.

You lift the light, taking a deep breath. The bed squeaks when you step forward, bringing your lamplight weapon above your head like a baseball bat as the spider clambers up its web and-

You drop the lamp, it hits the bed and then rolls to floor as you scutter back to the wall, hands pressed against it as if you could somehow push it down and make your escape. The spider moved towards you- it moved towards you! Now it slowly lowers itself to the bed, sitting on the edge cockily as if daring you to try and take it on once more.

It’s too strong. You can’t take this thing alone. You need help. You need… backup.

The phone! The phone is on the nightstand, where the vase once was, if you can just reach the phone then…

You scoot an inch, keeping an eye on the little black dot of death in your peripheral, the springs of the cheap bed squeak loudly, and the spider lifts one leg- daring to match you step for step. You can’t risk it. Leaning forward, you keep your feet in place, sinking into the covers, fingers just brushing the edge of the blocky phone, wiggling it forward… just… just a tiny bit more…

Aha! Scraping it from the table triumphantly you hold it aloft in the air with a cheer- then immediately snap your mouth shut when you see the spider scurry onto the side of the bedpost- and down onto the covers.

Thinking quickly you jump off the bed, slamming your leg against the nightstand as you sprint to the corner of the room, fingers flying and texting the first few people that come to mind. You copy-paste the same message over and over again- there’s no telling how many you’ll need for this, so you text everyone you know can deal with a problem as severe as this.

It takes a while, too long a while, for the first of your backup to arrive. You’re not entirely surprised by who it is- Finley is always a quick respondent when it comes to their reporters asking for help, part of their training, you suppose.

“Finn!” You haven’t budged from your corner, and the spider hasn’t moved a single too-long limb from its spot either. It’s a standoff if you’ve ever seen one. “Thank god you’re here, Finn.”

Finley glances around the room once. Then they open up their phone, giving it a glance and then looking back at you, “Yeah… mind explaining what it is you meant by ‘come quick, emergency, help me, please’’?” They then seem to notice your defense crouch, “… and what exactly it is you’re doing?”

“Hiding.” You explain, “Everytime I move it tries to kill me.”

“What does?”

“That.” You point an accusatory finger to your nemesis. Finley squints at the bed.

“Is that a-”

“Ah, a spider!” Both of you jump- er, you would jump, if you had anywhere to jump to, instead you just kinda slam your head against the wall in surprise while Finley jumps to the side, Vega grinning wildly behind them. “It would seem our dear friend has been confined by a vicious arachnid captor. How terrible!”

“Ok, well. The sarcasm is not needed.” You whine.

“Perhaps not necessary,” Vega winks to you, and bravely strides towards the spider, “But certainly a requirement.”

“Those are synonyms.” Finley deadpans, hands shoved deep into their pockets. They pass you a look that reads, clearly, ‘What the are they doing here?’

You return it with a kind of helpless shrug that you hope says ‘We might’ve needed backup.’

Vega is examining the spider with (frighteningly) keen interest, and a (frighteningly) coy smile.

Finley heaves a heavy sigh, “You got a paper towel in here somewhere? I can just flush it down the toilet.”

“Oh no no no!” Vega hops up from where they were testing the patience of spidery death, “You can’t just flush it down the toilet!”

You can see Finley take a deep breath, holding it for a moment as they gather up all the patience they have left and speaking in a slow exhale, “And why can’t I?”

“It’s much too boring, of course!”

“I’m not sure we’re going for the eventful here.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Vega clasps their hands in front of a pitying frown, “You must live such a dreary life…”

“Look,” You interject yourself into the conversation again. Waiting any longer just gives the spider more time to consider a plan of attack, and the only thing worse than having an enemy in your home is having an enemy in your home figure out your weakness… Which is itself… So you’re already fairly fucked. “I don’t give a damn how the hell you get rid of it but I want it out.” The spider crawls taunting back to the bedpost- feigning a retreat, “And preferably dead.”

“How about flambé?” Vega suggests with a wolfish smile.

“No.” Finley doesn’t skip a beat, a frown creasing their face,“We’re not setting the spider on fire.”

“Why not?” Vega, hands still shoved into their coat pockets, opens their arms in a shrug, “It’s easy. All we need is hairspray, and I have a lighter so-”

“Our goal is not to burn down this apartment building.”

“A little collateral damage never hurt anybody.”

A knock at the door draws your attention, Vega and Finley both seem to hesitate, glancing at you, but there’s no way in hell you’re leaving your barricade until the spider is gone. Eventually Vega wanders off to greet the rest of your backup, while Finley gives you a curious look, “How many people did you ask for help?”

“Uh, well, there was you, Vega, Raf, Ash… Jacob… and, um, Lucy?”

“Boss!” Both you and Finley respond almost automatically, looking to the door, where a rather frazzled Daisy stands, her face flushed red and chest heaving as if she ran up the stairs to get to your apartment. And, well, knowing just how reliable the elevators here are… she probably did.

“Oh, yeah, Daisy, too.”

“Boss are you o-ohhhhh,” Daisy, who had run into your room, skids to a stop when her eyes catch sight of the spider. “Ohhhhhhhh…” She stumbles back, until she’s wedged herself in the corner on the other side of the room. “Ohhhhh…”

“How aptly stated!” Vega swaggers back into the room, “I do believe we’ve a grand wordsmith in our midst, friends!”

Daisy shakes herself off, hopping back onto her feet, then backing away again as she hopped a tad too close to the spider for her comfort. “Uh, don’t worry Boss! I see the problem, I’ll help! I just… uh… you wouldn’t… happen to have any, um… gloves… would you? Maybe, uh, ones that go up the elbow? Or… you know… further if that’s at all possible.” She slides carefully to the side, placing Finley, who still stands closest to the bed with their arms crossed, strategically between herself and the spider.

“I-”

“Hello?” You hear a voice float in from the open door, “The door’s open should we just- hey wait!”

Before it can finish talking though, you hear footsteps trot down the hall, Ayesha’s head pops around the corner, a broad smile flashing over her face, “Hey! Lookit this! There’s a whole party in here! Raf, c’mon!”

“This isn’t really a party…” Finley’s mumblings go ignored as Ayesha strides into the room, followed just moments later by Raf.

“You shouldn’t just barge in…” He reprimands her with a quiet frown, then his eyes sweep across the gathered anti-spider army, “Oh, uh…” Eventually spotting you, still curled in the corner, “What happened? Are you ok?”

“No I’m not ok!” You can’t help but wail, “I asked all of you here to get rid of that and so far nobody’s done anything!”

Raf follows your accusational point, “A… spider?”

“An arachnid assailant!” Vega declares.

“It’s a bug.” Finley shrugs. “Vega wants to burn it.”

“I do have a lighter.”

“No.”

“Why do we have to kill it?” Raf interjects, “I can just take it outside if it’s bothering you…”

“But mercy is boring!”

“I just want it gone.” You’re on the verge of sobbing, not even out of fear anymore, but frustration that this is taking so long to get done. “I don’t care how you do it anymore, just get rid of it. Please.”

“I hear voices!” Blinking away the tears of annoyance, you look up into the doorway just as Lucy bursts through it, nearly taking Finley down with her as she runs into the room. Jacob hops to a halt just behind her, skidding on the carpet as he tries to avoid the collision in front of him as she tackles Finn from the back, catching herself and them quickly as she flashes an arm out and grabs Finley’s shoulder. “Sorry!”

“This really is a party!” Ayesha laughs to herself, leaning against the back wall, watching everything with an amused that just barely contains her laughter.

Lucy and Jacob both look ruffled and out of breath, both of their faces flushed with the same tell-tale red that Daisy had after running up the stairs. “We got… your text…” Jacob seems a little worse for wear than Lucy, who takes over as he leans on his knees and catches his breath again.

“I thought something bad had happened- ran into Jacob here who was also on the way, we figured since you texted us both it had to be serious. So we sprinted here.” She looks around, eyeing the snickering Vega, the now mildly annoyed Finley, the more surprised-than-she-was-fearful Daisy, the barely-contained Ayesha, concerned Raf, and, of course, you, still curled in the corner defensively. “Uh… What’s… the emergency?”

“There’s a spider.” Finley nods to the bed once.

“A spider?” Jacob’s head swings up, a bit of the red drained from his face, no longer panting between words. “Oh! That’s no problem, I can just-…” He trails off when he looks to the bed. Now, all the red is gone from his face. Instead, it’s deeply pale. “That’s a big spider.”

You watch as Jacob backs away, until soon he, too, is behind Finley- and now also Lucy- with Daisy. She pulls him into her own barricade quickly, one hand clasped to his shoulder… You’re not sure if she’s ready to throw him to the spider as sacrifice of if she’s trying to bring him into her safe area, too.

“Look,” Finley steps towards the bed, to which Daisy, Jacob, and even yourself all let out a weak warning. They stop, and sigh. “Let me just kill it, ok? I’ll just grab a paper towel and-”

Raf frowns, “-we could just let it go-”

So does Vega, “-but fire is a much better-”

Lucy shakes her head, “-we’re wasting time, I don’t need a paper towel just let me-”

Daisy jumps to action, almost pushing Jacob back- who lets out a protest of “Hey!”- as she takes a shaking step forward, “-I should prove myself-”

Ayesha is laughing in the corner, too much for her to join the mass of voices. All of which blur together incomprehensibly.

You find yourself looking from person to person- each one raising their voice margin by margin to get an inch over the others. Each one becoming more and more intelligible as they do. Soon, it’s little more than a roar of unknowable words and mashed-together voices, sprinkled with laughter. It makes you almost dizzy to listen to.

That is, until Jacob, who had remained mostly silent throughout all of this, speaks above the noise, “Hey!”

As if choreographed, he draws the attention of every eye in the room, including yours. But Jacob isn’t returning any of the many looks. No. His gaze is locked solely on the bed. “… Where’d the spider go?”

You’re on your feet in a second, pushing bodies aside as you shoulder your way to the bedpost. Now disturbingly spider free.

“Vega…?” Your voice is a whisper, eyes unmoving as if you might spook it back into existence.

“Yes?” They draw out the word, you can see a devilish grin pull back their lips as if they know exactly what you’re about to say.

“The hairspray is in the medicine cabinet,” You incline your head their way, still not glancing away from the spot, “Burn down the apartment, please.”

#tonight on: i write over 2000 words about a spider #but it was fun #i have zero regrets #answers #shorts #v bayer #jacob greenhill #lucille pinchette #finley 'im too tired for this shit' burke #aka #finley burke #rafael darzi #ayesha darzi #daisy kiddens #the spider patrol

[pilawforhire-archived]

A Toilet Meeting for @thatchtheawesomecook (can’t seem to tag you, sorry about that) for @op-rp Fall Fest

Which would you rather? Run out of toilet paper or be haunted while you poo? Unluckily for Thatch and Law, they get a two-in-one package one particular evening. (silly attempt at horror/comedy; read more for length)

~

It happens to the strongest of men: a rebellion of the guts arising from disagreements with food consumed hours ago. The gut could win the award for the pettiest, fussiest organ in all of the human body. A single morsel of a particular ingredient it disliked could piss it off greatly and instigate an all-out war. At that very moment, pale-faced with a grimace, Law hunched over and clutched his stomach as an army of ant soldiers stabbed their swords in rapid succession from the insides of his gut.

The pain was a harsh reminder that his gluttony was an excruciating mistake. He had gorged and thus he would pay. It was typically unlike Law to overindulge in food. However, there had been something of an addictive quality in the festival food that before he realised how much he had eaten, he had polished off plate after plate. An hour later, he could barely stand. His sword was reduced to a walking stick. With no medication on his person, his only best solution was to locate the toilet and brave it like a man. So he did.

Law asked a woman dressed in a bloody costume for directions. He could find the toilet himself but did not have time to waste. In his pain and suffering, Law failed to notice that the woman’s feet hovered inches above the ground. Nevertheless, her directions led him deep into the forest. Just as Law worried that he had been pranked, he sighted a white building prominent among the tall and thin trees. While a toilet in the middle of the woods seemed a little uncanny and ought to arouse suspicion, Law was highly motivated by the relentless protests of his gut. He started for the toilet without questioning its location further.

The toilet appeared to glow with an ominous light like a beacon amidst the dark shadowy woods. Although an inviting sight to any ailed with stomach or bladder distress, there was something inexplicably eerie about the air surrounding it. Nowhere did it state the word ‘toilet’ and the small dilapidated building looked on the brink of collapsing in at any second. Regardless, Law chalked the spooky atmosphere up to it being a night of Halloween celebrations. Law dashed inside.

Instantly, a foul odour hit his nose. The air was stale and the walls and floor were thick with grime. Most importantly, however, there were several cubicles for doing business. Being pirates, pooing outdoors was not unusual. Still, if given the option, Law would have preferred having the means to clean his ass with toilet paper. Thus, with a brief wrinkle of his nose at the stench, Law rushed into one of the cubicles, entirely missing the blurry and distorted but nonetheless observable face in the mirror despite there being no one else in the toilet.

With only a slight hesitation, Law leaned his sword against the corner and plopped his ass down on the toilet seat. A sigh of relief escaped his lips as he expelled the contents of his gut and they sank quicker than the Titanic --- but not without a great splash. An overhead bulb flickered, its light growing weak. A soft howling drifted through the toilet. Regardless, Law remained unfazed and continued his pooing. Within several seconds, footsteps jogged into the toilet.

An hour or so ago, lo and behold, Thatch had been enjoying the festival in the town with his crew. After a jolly good time with delicious grub and hearty laughs, a terrible pain struck Thatch in his gut. Now, as pirates, physical pain was a norm; injuries happened through fights or accidents. However, nothing could compare to the betrayal of one’s body as it turned on itself. Thatch’s gut hurt as if he had been kicked in the balls. Like Law, Thatch hunched over and searched desperately for the toilet. He asked the same bloody-costumed floating woman for directions and found himself running into the middle of the woods. Thatch paused and frowned warily at the strange location of the public toilet that looked a lot like a trap but ultimately, when you had to go, you had to go.

Thatch dashed into the toilet. The face in the mirror grew clearer at his entrance, almost as if it was eager to greet Thatch. Unfortunately, Thatch, like Law, failed to notice “her”. With a slight grimace at the stink, Thatch joined Law in the neighbouring cubicle. He carefully set down his sword before he sat down to take care of his business.

By then, Law was strongly under the impression that he was not alone. Not only because of Thatch’s footsteps, but a faint breeze tickled the back of Law’s neck, causing goosebumps to prickle his skin involuntarily. Law tried to ignore it for seconds but it persisted. It was as if someone was blowing gently against his neck. Law whipped his head around immediately --- and scowled. No one was behind him but a graffitied wall. Beside him, Thatch, too, felt a soft breeze caress his neck and sweep down his back. Following it, a chill shot down Thatch’s spine. He tensed up a little and whipped his head around but he sighted nothing that could explain the mysterious wind. Shrugging it off, for a moment, both men pooed in momentary silence before ---

Without rhyme or reason, the temperature plummeted to icy coldness. All the lights in the toilet flickered spasmodically, like the decorative lights on a Christmas tree. The howling noises intensified, accompanied by the rattling of the other cubicle doors. With no clue or idea as to what the fuck was going on, Law only hoped the place wouldn’t collapse while he was in the middle of a poo.

Thatch said, a tad annoyed, “Hey man, cut that out.”

Law, under the impression that Thatch was speaking to whoever else was making that racket, remained quiet. At least, that was Law’s intention before he let a fart rip loud and clear. It echoed within the toilet walls as if amplified by a loudspeaker, much to his embarrassment. Thankfully, he doubted anyone could identify him by his farts and figured his identity and reputation ought to be safe. Coincidentally, post-fart, all the din ceased and the lights returned to normal. Both men resumed dropping deuces into the toilet for a moment in peace and quiet until…

To his horror, Law’s eyes flicked to the side and widened. The toilet paper holder --- it was tragically empty! Law gawped at the empty holder, half expecting toilet paper to magically appear, wishing to be mistaken about his toilet-paperless fate. All the relief from emptying his bowels vanished in a second. There was no bidet, which meant he was shit out of luck, unless…

Beside Law, Thatch, also to his horror, felt his heart sink upon realising that his toilet paper holder too was empty. Thatched gulped. Sweat beaded on his brow. A sense of dread lingered heavy between the men. Both were silent for a while.

Law could use his Room to scan the surroundings for toilet paper, perhaps even switch himself some from the next cubicle (unless it was empty too…) but he really did not want whoever was in the toilet to learn of his identity after the disastrous fart bomb he’d dropped earlier. Fortunately, there was no shame in asking his neighbour for toilet paper --- he doubted anyone could tell his identity by his voice…

“Hey,” Law said. He knocked twice on the wall separating their cubicles. “You got any toilet paper?”

Thatch blurted, “No, why?” After a slight pause, he added, “You too?”

Law, dismayed, dread churning in his stomach, said a little testily, “You got a den den mushi with you?”

“…That’s not going to work, man. You’d subject the snails to that?” Thatch jested, deadpan.

Law’s tone was snappish. “I meant to call for hel--- toilet paper. Surely someone could bring us toilet paper? Your friends, family---”

“Yeah, I got no den den mushi right now.”

“…”

Just like that, the conversation died sadly. Once again, both men sat in an awkward silence as they contemplated their next move. But not for long.

A shrill, feminine cackling pierced through the toilet. The doors of the other cubicles slammed open and shut repeatedly. The lights flickered again and some of the bulbs blacked out.

Brows creased with unease and confusion, Law said sharply, “Wanna share the joke?”

“…I couldn’t laugh like that if I tried,” Thatch said. “Clearly we’ve got company --- Hey, you got toilet paper, woman? Some help?”

The cackling picked up again, screechier and harsher than before. Law jerked his head around when it sounded as if the voice was coming from right behind him. Naturally, he glimpsed no one else in sight that was visible to his eye. Law’s face grew taut. Rumours floated around of ghosts said to haunt certain crews and places. Although he had not seen one personally, he would not doubt their existence, in a world with the existence of devil fruits and haki powers.

“Anyone follow you in?” Law asked. He started to reach for his sword.

“Nah, I was alone, as far as I was aware,” Thatch said. “But it’s a public toilet. Anyone can enter.”

A problematic situation. If worst came to worst, and they needed to fight, Law figured it would be better to do so with his pants on than around his ankles. Not only was it a tripping hazard, he didn’t need anyone to see him in his heart-print boxers. Yet, it was a little… distasteful to be putting on his pants without first cleaning his ass. Perhaps the flush water could be used…? Or the sink…?

Law tried flushing. Unfortunately, it seemed that too was broken.

The female voice laughed. Guffawed. Chortled. Strangely enough, within seconds, she laughed so hard, her laughs became quiet sobs mixed with sorrowful wails, much to Thatch’s and Law’s bafflement.

Since the woman, woman ghost, or whatever the fuck she was, had not caused them any harm, that he knew of, Law interjected, “So d’you have any toilet paper?”

Thatch, on the other hand, thankfully, was more diplomatic in nature, especially when dealing with a woman in distress. Even if she was a ghost, she was still a woman, and she was still greatly upset. When her wails continued to resound through the toilet, Thatch asked with concern, “What’s wrong, miss?”

The ghost, choking back tears, sniffed and said pitiably, “My baby… They… They…” She sobbed uncontrollably, “My baby---”

“What about your baby?” Thatch probed gently.

“They killed her!”

A deafening crash pierced the already tense atmosphere. The mirrors shattered. Glass rained over the sinks and scattered the floor. All the lights went out and the walls tremored. Darkness enveloped them all.

“I just wanted… My child… I would’ve been a good mother if only they…”

“My condolences, miss,” Thatch offered sincerely. “You would’ve been a good mother. May you find peace…”

“Who killed her?” Law asked offhandedly.

“Pi… Pirates,” she faltered. A breeze swept through the toilet as she drifted past the cubicles. “I… They took my baby from me --- You’re not pirates, are you?” There was a discernible edge of anger in her tone.

Thatch and Law chorused simultaneously, without pause, “No.”

“Y-You’re not friends with pirates, are you?”

Thatch and Law, instantly, in unison, said, “No.”

“I’ll poison and kill every one of those pirates!”

“...They're awful---”

“---The worst.”

There was a brief contented hum, and then the lights turned back on. Thatch and Law blinked perplexedly as their vision adjusted to the sudden brightness. Both flinched when rolls of toilet paper were dumped over their cubicles onto their heads. Within seconds, warm air flooded back into the toilet and all was quiet once more.

Neither Law nor Thatch bothered to question where she had gone. Both had spent enough time in the toilet for the entire night and wanted nothing else to do in there. Before the building would collapse or the ghost would return, they grabbed the toilet paper gratefully and hurriedly cleaned their asses. Coincidentally, both exited their cubicles at the same timing. They carried their swords and strode carefully over the glass shards to the sinks, where they stopped. There was a long pause. Recognition settled into both their faces. Law had never met the Whitebeards personally but he had seen Thatch’s face often in bounty posters.

Law stared at Thatch. Thatch stared back at Law.

“You handled that well,” Law said flatly.

“Thanks, you too.”

“…”

“…”

“We pretend none of this happened?”

“You think she’s moved on?”

“I’ve moved on --- I’m moving on now.”

“Don’t worry, man. I’ve heard worse.”

Law had no idea if Thatch meant his thunderous fart or the ghost’s sad tragedy. Nevertheless, Law gave Thatch a sharp look before he rinsed his hands and left the toilet hastily.

#oprpfallfest2017 #thatchtheawesomecook #hey I hope this is all right #I'm sorry for the OOC of Thatch's part if any and hope it's not too off #sorry this is pretty bad though

[charsimatic]

4.20.17

Pregnant.

The word was very clear on all five of the pregnancy tests she had taken in Braylie’s bathroom.

It explained the nausea. It explained the excessive tiredness. It explained the cravings, the mood swings, everything.

Oh. God.

Her world began to spin. When she had taken the first one, she had been hoping it was a fluke. Those sticks weren’t always reliable. But this confirmed it. She didn’t know what was worse, having another child with Eli or having Freeman’s child and raising it without him. She couldn’t NOT tell him. He loved kids, he’d want to be a part of the child’s life, even if he didn’t want to be part of hers.

A sob tore from her throat, and she broke the stick in half, throwing it against the wall. She took huge, shuddering gasps, trying to force down the panic that rose in her. Not again. She couldn’t do this again, raising a baby alone. The idea of staying with Eli sickened her now. The idea of handing the child over to Freeman sickened her more. Her stomach churned, and she leaned over the toilet.

When she was done, she flushed, breathing heavily and sinking down onto the floor. She curled into the fetal position, hugging herself and shivering.

“Faye? What’s going on?” Braylie asked softly on the other side of the door.

Faye pressed her hand to her mouth, trying to stifle the sobs, but she couldn’t. She hated herself. She hated everything she had done and wanted to take it all back. She’d never stop hating herself, she realized, especially if she brought a baby into this world without a father to parent it. Again.

She leaned up and turned the doorknob, letting Braylie into the bathroom. Braylie took one look at the remaining tests on the counter, then down at Faye.

“Oh, no…” She sat down and pulled Faye into her arms, trying to get the hysterical girl to calm down. “Faye, it’s alright.”

“No it isn’t!” Faye hiccuped. “Nothing is okay! I ruined EVERYTHING!” She dissolved into sobs again. Braylie had no idea what to say, so she sat with Faye until Faye stopped crying. She lifted her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, and Braylie giggled.

“You have mascara everywhere.” Faye let out a wail and covered her face in her hands, scrambling to her feet.

“I’m a mess!” She cried, turning on the faucet and rubbing her face with her hands. “Braylie, what am I going to do?” Braylie sighed, pushing herself up off the floor.

“First, you’re going to properly wash your face. You look like a prostitute.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“THEN we’re going to make an appointment with the OBGYN and you’re gonna find out just how far along you are. And we’ll take it from there.” Faye leaned against the sink, one hand on each side of it, sighing.

“I can’t do this again, Braylie.” She wasn’t crying, but her entire body shook. “I…I can’t do the uncertainty, the fear, the stigma of having a child when you’re not married…my entire family has turned their back on me.”

“Faye, you know that isn’t true.”

“Really?” Faye turned to her, her eyes blazing. “I haven’t talked to Madlaina in MONTHS. Jaymie won’t answer my phone calls. My grandfather is traveling the world, and all I hear from him are postcards telling me how AWESOME his life is! Do you really think, if me getting back together with Eli made them turn away, that having another kid with him is going to suddenly make things all better? It’s not supposed to be like this! I’m supposed to get married, have babies, and live happily ever after with my family. I’m just missing a few parts of that equation! It’s all wrong!”

“Faye.” Faye sighed.

“I know, I know. I just-”

“Don’t apologize, I’d be freaking out too. Just wash your face. Then call your lady doctor.” She smiled at Faye, opening the bathroom door. “Like I said, everything will be fine. If anything, you have me.” She winked and closed the door behind her. @non

#sims 3 #ts3 #sims 3 writing #Faye Ross #Ross Family #Fayeman