🎪Fandom: The freak circus.
🌹Pairing: Pierrot x female Reader.
🤹🏻 Rating: very explicit.
🍿 Summary: Pierrot loves you. But he doesn't love you the way you imagine. He loves you with his claws and his teeth.
🔞 Warnings: extremely graphic sexual content, violence mixed with intimacy, bloodplay, CNC, obsessive love, yandere Pierrot, possessive and dehumanizing language, sadistic behavior, cannibalistic undertones, emotional and physical domination, horror.
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Author’s Note: I was inspired by the song "The red means I love you".
You know when you love someone so much that you feel the need to hurt them?
Exactly this.
I'm a toxic person with dark thoughts, and I really resonate with characters like Pierrot. The metaphors of violence/cannibalism and romance really suit him.
This story is told from Pierrot's POV.
Key: when you read the text in italics and yellow, you' find yourself're in Pierrot's head.
When you read the text in italics, I am referring to the lyrics of the song.
I hope everything's clear, happy reading!
Ah...
I’ve finally found her.
She’s finally alone.
She’s finally mine, and I can taste her, savor her flesh.
Her body.
You’re here, in your big sized, empty bed.
A thin, white nightgown—almost sheer—clings to your delicate curves, accentuating your soft shape.
I move closer, unable to hold myself back.
I want her.
I want... you... too much.
I want to make you mine.
To push so deep inside you that you’d be only mine, forever.
My body feels wrapped in flames.
I can hear my heart pounding.
Proud.
Wild.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Thump.
Thump—thump.
Thump.
Thump—thump.
It beats and beats, carving out a void only you can fill.
Because you’re mine, aren’t you, Y/N?
It feels like it wants to pull out of my chest, tearing through my flesh just to be with you.
Ah...
My thoughts scream, they confuse me, they claw at my mind.
I can’t think.
You... you don’t let me think.
You’re so beautiful.
Your gentle face, your soft skin…
I want to wear it.
I want to be hers.
I love you.
I love you so much.
I’m drooling.
How careless of me.
That’s the effect you have on me, my Love.
I love you.
I need to hold you.
To feel your warm breath brushing against my skin.
Please… you don’t know what you do to me.
You don’t know how much I burn, always—but especially now, seeing you on that bed, alone… one hand pressing gently between your thighs. Were you thinking of me?
Were you touching yourself because of me?
Do you want me that much?
I do too, if only you knew how much… my Lady.
Ah… just the thought of being able to smell her skin drives me insane.
Your scent… damn… I’m hungry.
Hungry for you.
I move closer to your bed, climbing onto it—one knee, then the other.
I try to be quiet, but the bells on my hat are loud, tinkling melodically in the silent night—alive only by the sweet sound of your breathing.
You draw me in so effortlessly, as if I were under a spell.
I’m holding my face in my gloved hands; I didn’t even realize it.
They’re warm, because I’m burning… for you.
You’re beneath me, now.
A mess of (your color) skin and (your color) hair spread across your flushy pillow, and I can’t decide if I want to (fuck) LOVE you or eat you… alive.
Probably both.
Or... on the contrary… definitely, not just probably.
Damn it, you’re making me lose my train of thought too.
See?
You drive me mad.
Unable to think.
I only think of you. In so many ways… it almost embarrasses me...
I think about you dressed, while you work, while you bite your nails, your lip, while you smile.
I think of you even when you’re unconscious, like now.
Unconscious.
Beautiful.
I don’t want to scare you, but it’s easier this way.
The things I would do to you…
I want to sink my claws into your lovely flesh.
Dig deep, down to the bone.
And it still wouldn’t be enough...
I want you.
I want you… Y/N.
I wish I could open you up, make space for myself in your chest after removing everything in the way.
Be your heart.
You don’t need anything, just me.
I love you.
I need to feel you as mine so completely that I no longer know where you end and I begin.
Am I mad?
Can you understand this silly desire of mine?
I love you.
I would never want to hurt you, but I can’t help it.
Your body… your skin… you’re so soft.
I could use you as a pillow.
Caress you.
Lick every inch of you, savoring your flavor, testing it on my tongue that wants nothing more than to savor you.
My taste buds ache at the thought of having your flavor on my palate.
My hands are shaking.
They always shake when I see you—when the mania starts clawing up from my gut, wrapping itself around my ribs like a second skeleton.
You look so innocent, so trusting, so stupidly willing, and it makes my cock ache so bad that I can break just by looking at you.
Unusual. They say strange fascination, infatuation.
A lunatic.
I’m so close to your face now, moving slowly.
Gods, how much effort it takes not to devour you like a beast.
Which I am…
I press my lips to your throat, tasting.
My tongue moves from your collarbone over your pulse point, feeling the frantic thrum of your heart beneath the skin.
Ah…
Do you sense me?
Can you hear me?
Are you awake? Or are you just pretending to sleep?
Is it so you’ll let me do whatever I want?
I hear you gasping; a small, little sound escaping your plump lips.
I feel your fingers twisting into my hair, and I bite down, just enough to feel the give of your flesh between my teeth, to hear the little high-pitched whimper you let out.
Call me what suits your taste. I just wanna taste.
“You’re so soft,” I mumble against your neck, my voice ruined, scraping out of a throat too tight, burning with need.
Need of you.
My hips grind down against yours, my cock sliding through your thighs.
Just there.
Teasing.
Waiting.
Can you feel it?
Can you feel how much it pulls?
How fucking hard is it?
How fucking big it is? For you?
She’s so soft.
Gonna ruin her.
You whine, trying to arch up into me, trying to take me, and I smile gasping on your throat; a breathless sound that spills out of me like I’m losing my goddamn mind.
And I am... for you.
And I’ve always heard it’s what’s inside that counts.
I can’t resist…
My claws drag harshly over your chest, right across your sternum, while watching you open your eyes.
Watching your pupils dilate.
Are you scared?
Are you afraid of me?
Do you know my intentions?
Or maybe… you like it?
And it’s exactly what you want?
To die for me.
To die for the man you love, deep down.
Isn’t that right?
There’s nothing more poetic.
Nothing more tragic.
This is the story of my sad, little comedy.
You know I don’t want to hurt you, right?
But my love for you blinds me!
How can I survive it?!
You’re my obsession, my Little One…
Stupid me, I’m tracing your breastbone with my fingers, pressing harder, penetrating your flesh, leaving behind a shimmering red mark: mine.
I want to bathe in your blood.
Live there.
Live in you.
I pull back just enough to look at you better.
Your lips are parted, flushed.
Your eyes open wide with that look of fear that makes my blood sing.
You want this.
You want me.
Even the parts that scare the rest of the circus into crossing themselves when I walk by.
‘Cause my insides are red, and yours are too.
And the red on my face is matching you.
“You’re gonna let me mark you up so deep no one ever forgets who you belong to. Right?”
You nod, finally awake and conscious.
Your lips trembling, thighs spreading wider in invitation, for me.
She’s my precious, good girl.
I don’t make you wait.
I’m not that cruel…
I take my turgid cock out of my pants, in my hand.
I slam into you in one brutal thrust, burying myself to the hilt in your already wet, heat-soaked cunt.
Ah… she’s a dirty girl. Isn’t she?
Your back bows off the mattress, a desperate cry ripping from your throat, and I don’t slow down.
I can’t.
I need this—you—need the drag of your walls gripping me, the slick sound of my hips slapping against yours, the way your nails rake down my back, my shoulders, hard.
And goodness, you’re bleeding…
I press harder my claws on your chest.
They sinks in, more deep, just enough that wells up with bright red blood, beading on your skin like fucking rubies, its little drops splashing on my mask.
You scream, but it’s not only pain; it’s shock, it’s pleasure.
It’s love.
Right?
Ah… I can feel her cunt clenching around me so hard I see stars.
… what a wonderful feeling!
I remove my sharp nails from the wound they have branded, your moans lost in the sound of our ragged breathing, in our messed up thoughts.
My mouth is on the wound before I can think, my tongue lapping at the hot, sweet blood, groaning against your skin like I’ve just tasted the best thing I’ll ever have.
You’re down and you’re pleading…
“Please,” you finally sob, and I don’t know if you’re begging me to leave you or to never fucking stop eating you.
Your legs wrap around my waist, heels digging into my ass, pulling me deeper.
And I comply.
I always comply when you get like this.
When I get you... and when I get you like this.
… my head is just reeling.
I fuck you harder.
Messier.
My hand finds your throat and squeezes, just shy of cutting off your air, just enough to feel your pulse flutter under my palm like a trapped bird. My hips slam into yours, relentless, punishing, chasing our freedom.
I bite your lip hard enough to split it.
It bleeds.
What a feeling… what a taste…
The red means I love you!
I lick the blood off your mouth, sharing it then between us, kissing you with my tongue, braiding it and tying it to yours, moving it in your mouth.
Tasting your blood means I love you!
My pace turns sloppy, desperate.
I’m not making love to you, even if my intentions were these, I swear they were from the heart.
Instead...
I’m consuming you.
With my love for you.
Every thrust drives my cock deeper into that tight, sopping heat, and every time I pull back I chase the feeling with my hips, trying to get impossibly closer, trying to crawl inside your skin.
The red means I love you!
The red means I love you...
Your body is trembling, your head thrown back, your throat exposed and painted in bloody handprints.
You look like a sacrifice.
You look like mine.
Unfortunate. They say such a shame, I turned out this way.
A maniac.
“I am a maniac, when it comes to you,” I hiss into your ear, punctuating the words with particularly brutal thrusts.
“But you love me! Don’t you? You love the way my heart-shaped irises circle fast for you when I see you! When I’m inside you! You love this!”
Well, yeah, I get manic when I cause a panic.
Your nails dig into my shoulders again, scratching my costume.
I groan, fucking into you harder, faster, my rhythm completely gone—just raw, grinding need.
And of course, I’m excited when I see you around.
I pull out just long enough to flip you onto your stomach.
You don’t resist.
You just let me manhandle you, your body pliant and eager, your ass lifted for me like an offering.
What a good pet she is...
I spit on your cunt, spreading it, watching it drip down your folds.
But what kind of man would I be if I didn’t taste you?
I want my mouth all over you.
Every inch.
Do you understand?
I slowly approach your pussy.
It smells good.
I feel its heat enveloping me and gently burning my face.
My mouth kisses it.
Savors it.
My lips move around yours.
I can’t resist.
I want more...
My tongue slips out of my mouth, pushing its way into your pussy.
Penetrating.
Sliding in, working its way all the way in.
It’s very long; it manages to reach your rubbery uterine walls.
Oh, fuck, it feels so good.
I need to bite you.
I fucking need it.
As my hands move to cup the junction of your ass and thighs, I show my teeth.
I grab your clit between them and... bite it.
Your reactions are… everything I need.
You’re driving me crazy.
I suck, and suck again.
And you cum on my face.
You cum in my mouth.
You, on my tongue.
You’re on my tongue.
A little essence of you.
I’m blessed.
But I want more. I want to be wrapped in you.
I slide two of my fingers inside you.
I need to feel you everywhere.
I push them all the way in, again and again, while my lips greedily suck your clitoris and my thick tongue fucks you.
That’s not enough.
I need to be inside you.
And then... I am.
My cock is completely accommodated by your pussy, so deep I feel your body shudder around me.
‘Cause my insides are red, and yours are too.
I lean over your back, my hands gripping your hips, my teeth sinking into the curve of your shoulder.
Blood wells up, hot and red, and I suck it like I’m drinking from a fountain.
It all spills over my face, staining my visage of—my mask—the color of your living blood.
And the red on my face is matching you.
I pull back, leaving a ring of teeth marks.
And goodness, you’re bleeding, what a wonderful feeling!
You’re down and you’re pleading, my head is just reeling!
“Please, Pierrot— please—I’m—!”
I wrap one of my huge hands in your hair, yanking your head back as I fuck into you, my rhythm completely shattered, my whole body trembling with the effort of holding back my orgasm.
But I don’t want to come yet.
I want to stay here, in this feverish delirium of blood and your little broken moans.
Admiring your ruin at my hands.
The red means I love you.
The red means I love you.
Your hand reaches back, touching my muscular abdomen, grasping blindly for mine.
I take it, lacing our fingers together, smearing blood between our palms.
You leave me high and dry.
A rush comes to my mind.
At the drops of blood you leave behind.
I feel you start to come undone.
Your walls flutter, clench, grip—and I know you’re close, again.
I reach around, my hand on your hip moves on your pussy, my fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen, and I press down hard, rubbing it as I keep fucking you.
Run as you might...
My love will never...
Ever...
Stop.
“Cum for me, my Love. Please,” I growl, my teeth grazing the shell of your ear.
“Cum all over my cock, soak me in it. In you.”
And you do.
You do…
Your orgasm rips through you like a speeding train: loud, violent, your whole body seizing as you scream my name.
WHAT A WONDERFUL FEELING!
Your cunt milks me, pulsing, pulling, and I can’t hold back anymore.
I bury myself as deep as I can go, my balls pressed flush against your blood-smeared skin, and I cum.
Hard.
So much.
Hot, thick, endless jets of cum flood into you, mixing with the blood and the sweat, until I’m empty and shaking, collapsed over your back.
After a while, I roll off you, pulling you into my arms, not caring about the mess.
I press a kiss to the wound on your shoulder, licking away the excess blood.
And the red on my face is matching you.
And goodness, you’re bleeding, what a wonderful feeling!!!
My hand rests over the fresh stab mark on your chest, feeling the warmth of your blood seep between my fingers.
The red means I love you!
Tasting your blood means I love you!!!
The red means I love you!!!!!!
I press my lips to your ear, my voice a hoarse, breathless whisper.
“I love you,” I murmur. “Forever.”
Even if I have to devour you… precisely because I love you.
And I mean
every
fucking
word.
Author’s Note: thank you for taking the time to read this story! ♡
Hope you liked it! I probably went out of character but I'm a toxic person with dark thoughts, and I really resonate with characters like Pierrot. The metaphors of violence/cannibalism and romance really suit him.
All banners featured in this work are created by me.
Please do not take, repost, edit, or use them without my permission.
New easy artstyle, been busy due to my architecture stuff. I passed my calculus and now I'm planning to make an 18+ twitter acc soon to celebrate it, serving as a fellow artist making tfc characters + mc honeymoon come true heheh😙✌️💖✨️
Minor please do not interact unless your old enough thank you👁👍💐✨️💖
16k || All my content is 18+ MDNI || CW: sick fic; throwing up (not really described other than it happens, reader is not the one being sick); smurf; self-hate; insecurities; fear of being left; fear of abandonment; fear of loss; very quick mention of a gun while discussing the past; quick thought about suicide; sappy; soft; soft; soft; soft; fluffy; fluffy; fluffy; fluffy; no use of y/n.
Summary: You take care of Andrew when he gets sick. That's it. That's the fic.
AN: I don't know about this friends lol. It sure doesn't feel like a sick fic needed to be 16k. Anyway, this man deserves to be loved on and taken care of when he's sick!!!!! I love him so much, let me rub your tummy and nurse you back to health and kiss your sweaty temple. 🥺 Per the poll I did, I went with calling him just Andrew this time! This was based on this request from the 1k celebration, which I am finally getting close to finishing lol. I know I'm terrible, I'm sorry, but I promise I haven't forgotten them! I hope this is okay and that you enjoy, and thank you so much for reading!! ♥️
"Hey."
The word sounds off as it comes out of Andrew's mouth as he lets himself into your apartment in the early afternoon and locks the door behind him.
"Hi." You smile at him and tilt your head up for a kiss when he walks over to you. It's a short and sweet thing but that's part of what makes it perfect in its own right. Something is off though, enough to make you start to worry a little. "You okay?"
"I'm fine." He strokes the top of your head once and then walks away into the kitchen.
You don't even mark the page of the book you were reading, just toss it aside and get up and follow him, eyes tracking him as he grabs a glass and the filtered pitcher from the fridge and pours himself some water. It strikes you as a little strange. You give him a little space, leave five-ish feet between you. "You sure?"
"Yeah," Andrew nods. He takes a sip of water before dumping it out into the sink and setting the glass down. The entire thing is so incredibly odd you're not sure what to make of it. "I thought you were going out."
"Soon, yeah. I was going to start getting ready in a couple of minutes." You tilt your head at him but he doesn't see. He's staring at one of the walls.
You can tell something is wrong. You knew immediately, from the second he walked in.
It's in the way he's holding himself, his body language, and the expression of his face, but more than anything it's in the way he won't make any eye contact with you for more than a second or two. That last part has you worried, a cold anxiety washing over you.
Your mind goes straight to him wanting to break up with you. You're not sure why exactly it does and you hate yourself for going there immediately but you do. The thought of losing him, of him just suddenly no longer being in your life scares you. It makes you wonder why, what you did, what you could've done more of or better.
You've only been together around six months but in those six months you and Andrew have gotten close. You're pretty sure you've never been as close to someone as you are to Andrew. Which makes sense because you know you've never loved anyone the way you love Andrew.
And you're pretty sure that Andrew has never been as close to someone as he is with you, has never loved someone the way he loves you. You're pretty sure Andrew has never let anyone in the way he lets you in, pretty sure he's never let anyone see him, all of him, the real him, the way he lets you see him.
Love is a word that's only recently started to be exchanged, two weeks of ‘I love yous,’ despite the fact that you've both felt it for longer. You knew that phrase would be a lot for him to hear even when you mean it in the purest, truest and most gentle way. Because Andrew doesn't really know love like that, at least not in a capacity and strength to override what Smurf taught him love meant.
You'd learned quickly once you began dating that love was a complicated emotion for Andrew, one with negative connotations more than anything, that had been warped and manipulated and abused and used against him and to make him do things, horrible things he hates himself for, that he would never otherwise do. So once you fell in love with him, once you knew you were in love with him, you knew that one of the most loving things you could do was to wait to tell him until you were able to spend time showing him that you love him and that love could be a good thing.
Andrew had known it was coming and that's why one night he came over already nearly in tears and rigid in a way you'd never seen before and told you everything. Everything he'd ever done, every sin.
It wasn't that he was trying to talk you out of loving him exactly, he just couldn't stand the thought of you loving him and then having to watch you fall out of love with him when you found things out. He didn't want to abuse your love by making you fall in love with a person who didn't really exist, who wasn't the man you thought he was. And while it'd been a lot to take in and work through it hadn't changed anything and you hadn't rejected him, he hadn't seen the love dissolve in your eyes right in front of him. You'd held him while he'd cried, very carefully took and put away in your closet safe the gun he'd brought with him to go use on himself and himself alone in the event things went badly, went the way they'd gone before, because if you had rejected him, been disgusted with him, then there was no hope for him.
Andrew hadn't said it back immediately and had felt awful about it, you could see the flashes of self-hate in his eyes especially at your reaction. You'd kept your face neutral but he could tell it hurt you and more than that he could tell that you'd known he wasn't going to say it back and something about that killed him. Because it wasn't that he didn't love you, he was sure he did by then, it was that he was scared of loving and being loved and he wanted to make sure he knew how to love you the way you deserve to be loved before he said it.
Sure, not hearing it back hurt and made you self-conscious and sent you spiraling more than once but each time you were able to come out of it and realize it was loving of him in his own way. You could tell that he wanted to make sure he knew how to love you right and what love really was and supposed to be. He didn't want to tell you and fuck up and somehow teach and show you that love was bad or that you deserved to be loved in any capacity and way less than how you truly deserve to be loved.
Him waiting had made that night on the beach when he told you for the first time all the more special and meaningful. And it'll make losing him all the more painful and destructive.
"Andrew, what's wrong? Please talk to me," you whisper, stepping closer to him even though you're well aware it might be the wrong move. Might be something he doesn't want. "I'm worried about you."
It's been six months of you worrying about him and Andrew still isn't used to it. Honestly it's been longer and you both know it, you guys became friends and flirted and danced around the mutual physical and emotional attraction for three or so months before Andrew finally asked you out.
You met when he came into the café you were working at. Andrew hadn't had any intentions of returning to the café after that day, but he'd been back nearly every day since just to see you. And after three or so months he finally asked you out. Six months later you find yourselves here.
"I don't know," he mumbles, shrugging and breaking his stare at the wall. He doesn't look at you though. He looks down at the counter.
Your heart races and tears are already preemptively stinging at your eyes as you try to think of things you could've done wrong, or the wrong words you could've said. As you study him more you realize that while he still looks incredibly handsome, Andrew looks rough. He's pale, a little sweaty but in a a way that looks clammy, his eyes are glassy and don't seem completely present, he's hanging his head and almost hunched in on himself a little bit and you know him well enough and have spent enough time listening to him breathe in bed with your head on his chest to know that he's breathing heavier but slower than normal.
Your mind won't let go of him wanting rid of you, though. You take a step back and Andrew's head snaps up, his eyes finding yours. The move tells him you think it's you, and your eyes confirm it, that you can tell he's off and you think it's something you did, that you probably think he's going to break up with you. Before he can reassure you you're asking about it. "Did I do something wrong? I'm sorry if I did. I'd really like the chance to fix it if possible. But I understand if not."
"No." He says it quickly so that you know it's not something he has to think about but not so quickly that it'll seem like a lie. "No, you haven't done anything. This, it's not you or us." He takes a couple of slow breaths and closes his eyes for a second and swallows hard. You recognize that for what it is. He just breathed through an intense wave of nausea that almost made him sick. "I just… I don't feel so good."
"Yeah," you murmur, walking up to him. "I can see that now. I'm sorry for thinking it was me, that was selfish." Part of you wants to ask why he didn't just tell you, but realistically, you already know the whole host of reasons. "What's going on Handsome?"
Andrew shakes his head just barely. "I'll be fine. It'll pass. Go out with your friends. I just need a second and…" Another wave of nausea overtakes him and this time he has to put a hand out on the counter to help steady himself with the dizziness that accompanies it. "I just need a second and I'll leave."
"It doesn't matter if you'll be fine, you're not fine now. And if it passes then I'll go out when it does." You reach up with the back of your hand to feel his forehead and he pulls his head back away from you at first but then sighs and lets you feel. "You have a fever." You let your hand run through his curls and then hold the side of his face gently.
"I don't need to be taken care of. I never have." There's a little bite to his words but you know it's because he's so conflicted, because there's far more going on here than just him being sick and trying to push you away.
You smile softly and let out a quiet, loving sigh. "I know you don't need to be-"
"Then go," Andrew snaps. He's never quite snapped at you like that before, but then it's also been a long time since he's put up his carefully constructed walls around himself to try and keep you out. Or tried to, at least, because it's not working. You're still right there with him, still seeing all of him.
When you pull your hand from his face Andrew's certain you're going to leave and he almost has to run to the bathroom to finally be sick. He’s certain you’re leaving not just in the way that he's asking right now, but leaving him completely. He’s certain that you’ve finally seen enough, seen the truth that you deserve more and better and not some fucked up thing like him. Because he knows that's what he is. He doesn't know how you ever fell in love with him.
A quiet beat passes between you with you looking over the man you love and adore more than should be humanly possible and Andrew staring at the counter with his head spinning because physically he feels like such shit, hasn't felt this awful in a long fucking time, and mentally he feels just the same because he just snapped at you while you're trying to help and he's never deserved you and he can't believe being sick is what's finally going to show you and convince you of that.
"See… I'm sorry. Please just go," he mutters, sounds as awful as you're sure he must feel on every level. "I don't, I don't…" He can't bring himself to lie to you and say he doesn't want or need you right now. "I'll be gone when you get back."
"Andrew," you whisper. "Look at me. Please." You know that this isn't him truly not wanting you around, not wanting your touch and care and comfort. This isn't him telling you that he doesn't like to be touched while he's sick, or that he prefers being alone while he's sick.
Despite what many people think Andrew is actually a physical touch person. Especially in the context of a romantic relationship. So your touch, he craves it and needs it and loves it. He wants it all the time, tries, consciously or not, to always have at least some little piece of him touching you.
It takes a second but eventually hazel eyes that look miserable and full of self-loathing for the way he just spoke to you find yours. "I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you can look me in the eye and tell me you really want me to leave. Because I don't think you're really asking me to leave, I think you're pushing me away. Do you really want me to leave or do you think you don't deserve me taking care of you? Because you do. Unquestionably, you do."
His eyes drop from yours and it's just further confirmation you're right, both the way he drops his gaze to the counter and the look in his eyes you catch a glimpse of just before he does. Andrew's body language tells you it too. You're right but there's more here, there's something else going on.
He starts to look back up at you but stops, his eyes slamming shut. You watch the color drain from his face as he grimaces and clutches just slightly at his stomach, the softest hint of a groan coming from his throat as he can't quite swallow the sound down all the way this time. Nor can he breathe his way through the nausea and urge to be sick this time.
It breaks a little piece of your heart when he runs to the bathroom because you know how awful being sick is, know how terrible the stomach flu you're pretty sure he has is, how the constant being sick and dry heaving is just fucking painful when combined with the intense body aches and headache. You know based on the sound alone that his knees will be bruised from how hard he drops to them to be sick into the toilet.
You follow him, of course. You're not about to let him be sick and in pain and miserable alone, not when you're sure that's what being sick has been like for him for decades now. You carefully sink to your knees behind him and start rubbing his back and speaking softly to him. "Okay, Darling, it's okay, don't fight it."
Andrew isn't sure if the tears that slip over his lash line are from the force of being sick or your tenderness with him, especially in the wake of him snapping at you. He can remember the last time he was throwing up and sick like this and feeling so completely shitty like this and as stupid as it sounds and may be, your gentle words and the way you rub his back make so much of a difference, make it far more bearable and not quite as bad.
When he's finally stopped dry heaving and coughing you sit back on the floor with your legs spread open so that when he sits back he'll be sitting between them. "You wanna get into bed?"
"No," he mumbles, sitting back just like you did once he shuts the lid and flushes and he's a little surprised when he finds himself wedged between your legs, the pressure actually helping his body aches in the places it reaches. "I'm just going to be sick again and don't want to have to run."
"Okay," you murmur.
Andrew doesn't fight it when you shift with him so that your back is against the wall and pull him back gently so that his back rests against your chest, his head leaning in the crook of one shoulder and turned toward your neck a little, resting under your chin. He doesn't have the energy to fight it, nor does he really want to. He wants to stay just like this, he wants you to hold him and keep doing all the little things you're doing that make feeling this sick not so bad.
But he doesn't deserve it.
It'll push you away.
He knows it’ll make it hurt worse but he decides he’ll give himself five minutes of this. Five minutes of your care before he leaves so that you’re not having to deal with him or see him like this.
The newness of your relationship heightens his fear and anxiety, you've never seen him like this, sick or injured, and he's sure this vulnerability will make you leave. You've seen him cry once, when he told you everything, but other than that you haven't seen him this vulnerable.
Or at least not that he realizes. Because you know that every time Andrew tells you something about himself, every time he shows you something he likes, every time he tells you one of his fears, every time he tells you how he's feeling, every time he lets you see his emotions, every time he says I love you, he's being just as vulnerable as he consciously feels he is right now, even if he doesn't realize it. You know what all of that means, how special it is, what a gift it is.
You know it's Andrew Cody handing you his heart on a silver platter, gifting you the ability to destroy him and trusting that you won't in the face of every traumatic memory that tells him not to.
You're not sure what you ever could've possibly done to earn that, but holding his heart in yours is a privilege you'll never take for granted and that ability to destroy him is one you'll never use.
Andrew's also sure you'll leave once you realize how weak he is right now.
Because this isn't who he is. He's the enforcer. The protector. That's his job. Always has been. Smurf made that very clear, made it very clear that's all he's truly good for, doing all the dirty work and terrible shit, taking every hit. Protecting his family at any cost to himself and his psyche.
And so what good is he to you if he's weak and vulnerable and can't protect you? Why bother being with him if he can't do the one thing he's good for?
You're going to see it now and realize that the only thing he's good for is protection and you deserve more than that. You deserve someone who can give you everything you need exactly how you need it.
Deep down Andrew knows that you've seen him this vulnerable before, that you do all the time. He knows you don't think he's weak right now. Deep down, beneath the flu and exhaustion and fever foggy brain, Andrew knows that in your mind, he's good for so much more than protection. That you're not with him for protection. That he gives you everything you need exactly how you need it or does his fucking damnedest to try, which is all you truly need. He knows he's safe in your relationship, that he's safe with you, that he can be this vulnerable and this weak in front of you and can trust that you won't go anywhere, won't use it against him or take advantage of him or throw it in his face later. He knows that. He trusts you.
But sick and fevered and exhausted, and therefore irrational and illogical, Andrew struggles to remember and truly believe and hold onto all of that. It has nothing to do with you or what you are or aren't doing or saying, and everything to do with him and his mind and what he believes he deserves and the trauma that's taught his brain patterns and what happens next.
The other shoe will drop. He knows it. Maybe it's better for it to be now, six months in as opposed to six years in.
One would be enough, he's sure, and both are present here, so Andrew works himself up in his mind and convinces himself that if this continues, you'll run. That seeing him this weak and vulnerable will make you leave.
But then you kiss as much of his temple as much as you can and brush some sweaty curls from his forehead and start rubbing his tummy and it breaks through. Andrew remembers and he thinks maybe you'll stay and everything will be okay and he won't lose you.
It's not quite that simple, his mind is still a battleground, still all over the place vacillating between you staying and you running, him getting more time with you and you leaving him, but it's better, his mind is quieter, the fear not quite as intense, his certainty not as certain. You make it so much better in those three stunningly simple moves.
He has to try one more time, though. Has to try and push you away first, get you to leave at his suggestion because then he'll have had control over it, you'll have done what he told you to and so it won't hurt so bad. Or at least that's what he tells himself.
Before he can though he's pushing himself off you to be sick again, and you're right there with him leaning forward to rub his back and murmur sweet reassurances, press a couple of kisses to his back over the shirt he's very quickly starting to drench with sweat as his fever climbs higher. All of it gets worse. It feels like he's only just finished with this round and has only started to move off his knees when he's lurching forward to be sick again. And you stay right there with him.
Neither of you are sure how long it continues like that, where Andrew barely gets a break between the rounds of throwing up. It's long enough for you to have helped him get out of his shirt and jeans because you could feel him getting way too hot, and long enough for him to have run out of anything left for his body to throw up three times over, you both swear. However long it is in reality, it's too long for the both of you. Andrew's body is exhausting out which means his mind is too and so he's back to being totally and completely convinced you're going to leave if you continue to stay and see him like this and if he asks you for anything more than what you've already done for him.
It's a little ironic almost, but in the least funny of ways because you're behind him still rubbing his back and soothing him and pushing sweaty curls off his forehead and out of the way and nearly in fucking tears because you hate seeing him this miserable and in this much pain and not being able to do a single fucking thing about it. Because you can read the pain in the way his body is tensed up, the strain of being sick, especially when it turns into mostly dry heaves, making the body aches that are burning his muscles and his headache a thousand times worse.
He never complains though. Not a single word of complaint. Just some thank yous and the occasional I'm sorry.
When he finishes this time Andrew stays slumped forward as he breathes hard and tries to get himself back under any level of control. For the first time in a while he doesn't feel like he's going to imminently be sick again. It's not over, he still feels like he'll be sick again, but not for a bit.
You seize the opportunity of him not being sick and needing your immediate comfort and not leaning into you. You have no idea that you're about to send Andrew into a tailspin.
"I'll be right back, okay? I just want to grab us a few things," you tell him softly as you stand up behind him, kiss the top of his head and grab his shirt and jeans before walking out of the room, texting your friends to let them know you won't make it as you start to speed around the house gathering supplies.
There it is, Andrew thinks.
He knew it.
He knew it.
You're leaving him. You saw how weak and vulnerable he is and you're leaving.
A few tears fall and he's quick to wipe them away, is glad he can blame them on the force of being sick.
He needs to get out of here. It hasn't been two minutes yet but being in your space is killing him, hurts worse than his body and stomach and head combined.
You're gone. He lost you.
Andrew's sick again.
"Shit!"
Andrew's just able to hear you hiss the word and a dulled thump of a bunch of something hitting the carpet outside the bathroom.
And then your hand is on his back and he can feel you kneel behind him again. "I'm sorry, Handsome, I thought I'd have a little more time. It's okay. You're okay, I've got you, I promise. I'm here." You press a kiss into the hot, sweaty skin of his upper back.
You came back. Andrew doesn't understand why.
He stays leaning forward again when he finishes this time, and it's not a position you love. One, because it can't be comfortable for him and two, because you're worried that if he gets even a little dizzy or slips at all he's going to end up slamming his head on the tile of the floor or the tile of the edge of the shower bath combo you have.
"Andrew?" You shift a little behind him. Andrew forces himself to sit up a little and turn slightly to look at you. "Do you think you can sit against the wall here and sip on this pedialyte? Just while I make things a little more comfy, yeah?" You've never been more glad that you keep a bottle in the fridge for when you inevitably forget to drink water for a week or so and the dehydration finally catches up with you.
He gives you a single nod. He'll do whatever you want if it means you'll stay and help him and hold him. God, he'd really like you to hold him. Or to rest his head in your lap.
You move and help Andrew get sitting up against the wall. He takes the bottle of pedialyte from you when you offer it but just looks at it for a minute. He knows he nodded but holding the bottle makes it feel like such a bad idea. "I'm just going to throw it up."
"Will you try some really tiny sips? Like really, really tiny." You give him a small encouraging smile.
"Okay," he whispers.
Something about it feels automatic in a way. Choice-less. Like he thinks there's only one right answer. You don't like it. You don't want him feeling like he has to do anything for you, now or ever. You don't want to be overbearing.
"Hey," you tell him softly, wrap your hand gently around his arm before he can bring the bottle to his lips. "You can say no. You can say no to anything I do or offer, Andrew. It won't upset me."
A beat of silence passes between the two of you and you realize he didn't think he could, that the something more you felt going earlier relates to this. You let go of his arm and are still trying to figure out what to say when Andrew moves the bottle closer to his lips. "I want to try," he mumbles before taking the smallest sip just like you instructed.
You nod slowly and watch him take another sip before you turn your attention to what you dropped outside of the room. You fill the plastic cup you brought with you with some water and put the washcloth you grabbed from the towel closet in it, set them down in the corner where the wall meets the bath.
Andrew continues to sip on the pedialyte as he watches you fold a large, old quilt into quarters and then spread it out over the bathroom floor, gently picking his outstretched legs up to get it under them. You throw another couple of blankets in the room and grab the drink you brought for yourself and then settle in the corner by the cup.
You look over at him and smile softly, suddenly feeling incredibly self-conscious about all of this. "I, um, I thought you'd probably want to lay down but stay in the bathroom and the quilt won't make it super comfy but it should be better than laying directly on the tile, especially with the body aches."
There are a million things Andrew wants to say. He wants to tell you to go. He wants to push you away and tell you to leave him here before he ruins everything with this. He wants to tell you he'll never be able to articulate how loved he feels in this moment. He wants to tell you he loves you. He wants to cry at how sweet and thoughtful and loving what you've done is as he tells you thank you. One thought wins out.
"You should go."
The words don't surprise you. With the way he was looking at you, you kind of expected something like that. You know he's struggling to accept any of this, to accept any of your care. You know he thinks he doesn't deserve it and you get that, you really do. Because a lot of the time you don't feel like you deserve his love or care or any of the millions of things big and small that he does for you.
You tilt your head at him. "Why?"
"I don't want you seeing me like this," Andrew admits.
"Sick?"
He shakes his head slightly. "Weak."
Your eyebrows raise at the word. In retrospect you should've expected it, but for whatever reason you didn't. Probably because that word was nowhere on your radar. "You're not weak, Andrew. I don't think you're weak, I've never thought that. You're the strongest person I know." He doesn't say anything and you watch him for a moment, try to put your finger on what else is going on. "Do you want me to leave?"
The look in his eyes and the way his body flinches toward you give you your answer long before he forces the word out. "No," he whispers.
"Okay," you nod slowly, "that's good, because I don't want to leave." The longing in Andrew's eyes when you say that is what makes it hit you. "I know you think you don't deserve my care and comfort and I get that, I promise I do, you know I do, that that's a shared struggle. But are you afraid that this is going to make me leave? That you being sick and needing or wanting me or to be taken care of is going to make me leave now or tomorrow or in a month or a year?"
He's quiet for a moment but you can tell he's trying to think of what to say through the fog of his illness. He doesn't give you a yes or no answer when he does speak, but he answers the questions anyway. "I shouldn't need to be taken care of, I should be able to just… take care of myself," he finally mumbles. Yes.
You read between his lines so perfectly it's almost scary. "Andrew, my love, this isn't going to make me go anywhere. I'm not going to leave because you're sick and I'm taking care of you. I'm not going to leave because you're sick and you want me to take care of you or need me to. I want to take care of you the same way you take care of me. And I'm not going to leave if you want or need me to take care of you one day when you're not sick or hurt but just because you're down or feeling needy or for no reason at all. I’m going to take care of you, happily. I'm not going anywhere, I promise. I'm staying."
"I'm not with you for what you can do for me, in any sense, or for how you can protect me. Who you are is enough. You are enough. Just you. I don't need you to do anything for me, ever, that's not why I'm with you. I'm with you for you. And I don't say I love you because I love the things you can do for me or how you protect me, though I do love the things you do for me and how you protect me and love me and make me feel loved, don't get me wrong. But I say I love you because I love you."
You give him a soft smile, your heart aching at the way he's been treated and taught that he's not allowed to need or want while he's sick, that he's only worth what he can do for someone, only deserves love and affection in equal proportion to what he does for someone, that love and affection will be taken away and disappear if he's vulnerable. "I really don't care about what you can or can't do for me or whether you can protect me or whatever else you're thinking about. I care about you. You wanting and needing me when you're sick and not feeling well physically or mentally makes me happy. Not happy that you're sick or not feeling well, but happy that I'm where you turn, I'm who you turn to, I'm who you want and need."
Andrew slumps against the wall a little despite how hard he tries not to. Keeping himself sitting up even with the help of the wall is exhausting and painful. He just wants to lay down with his head in your lap and have you play with his hair and scratch at his scalp. But more than he wants that he wants you to stay. He tries to take your words in and really believe them, internalize them so that he'll calm down a little and the nausea from anxiety won't be adding to the nausea from whatever illness he has. But it's hard. He trusts you, he really, truly does. It's just so, so incredibly hard to get his mind to go against every learned instinct that tells him you'll leave.
And it's scary, the thought of losing you. He'd rather suffer through this physically and keep you than take comfort from you right now and have it push you away and you leave, than have to suffer the loss of you. He's not sure he could come back from losing you, from not being enough while simultaneously being too much. He's not sure he could survive your broken promises.
Those thoughts compound everything because now he feels like he’s worse than a piece of shit for doubting you when you've never given him a single reason to doubt you and every reason to trust you and your word. How does he explain that to you? How does he try to get you to see that he does trust you and your word, he just can't hold onto it right now? He doesn't deserve you. This is just bringing him further certainty on that point. His head pounds, the whirlwind of thoughts straining his brain and amplifying his headache.
"Andrew." You murmur his name just loud enough to get his attention. "You're thinking about all of this way too much, Darling, and I get it because I do the same thing." You tilt your head at him and hold a hand out. It hurts seeing him feeling so poorly and hurting so much physically and mentally. All you want to do is hold him and make it better.
"I want to take care of you. I want you to be clingy, as clingy as you want, I want you to be almost literally adhered to me. I want you to want to sleep on me. I want you to give into how shitty you feel and let yourself feel it and let yourself want to be taken care of even if maybe, yeah, you don't strictly need it in a sense. If that's all stuff you want, then that's what I want," you nod to emphasize your words. "I want to be a safe and comforting space for you, I want you to know you can turn to me whenever for whatever reason or no reason at all and that I'll take care of you, willingly and happily."
"You're allowed to be taken care of and you're allowed to want to be taken care of. I'm not trying to be condescending or instructive, I promise. I just want you to know that because I know your whole life has taught you the opposite. You deserve to be taken care of. You deserve to be loved and held through all of the shitty things life throws at you and us. You deserve to not have to be strong all the time and you deserve to not have to always do everything alone and you deserve to not have to always take care of yourself." You pause and hold your hand out for him. "Even if you don't think you deserve any of that, I know you do."
You know you've thrown a lot at him, probably more than you should've asked his exhausted, fever foggy brain to take in and process and believe. But you can see in his eyes the way he's truly doing his best to try to accept your words and not fight them, the way he's thinking and trying to get his brain to let him want and be clingy and miserable and taken care of.
"Will you come here?" you murmur. "Come be with me, yeah? You can lay on me however you want, I'll hold you however you want. Please."
Andrew's eyes hold your gaze for another few seconds before dropping down to your hand, longing filling his eyes and washing over his face and mixing with his anxious hesitancy so that he looks painfully conflicted. He knows what he wants to do. And he knows what he should do. And he knows that those are the same thing and that it's safe to. But he still finds himself frozen as body aches sear through his nerves and he starts sweating and flushing from his fever again. "I…"
"Andrew," you wiggle your fingers at him and nod, confident and steady and reassuring. "I've got you. I promise."
A few seconds pass and then he nods once, pushes himself off the wall as you move closer to him to help keep him steady as he gets over to where you've made a spot for yourself. You get yourself comfortable as he sits facing you on one side.
Before you can tell him you're good for him to get comfy however he wants he speaks. He needs to be looking at you properly for this. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you and being so difficult."
You smile at him softly, bring a hand up and smooth back a few sweaty curls, hold one side of his face gently. "I forgive you for snapping. We all have our moments. But you aren't being difficult." You shake your head at him. "Not even close."
"I know it's, I know that it's safe, you're safe." Exhausted and glassy hazel eyes plead with yours. "I trust you, I promise, I just…"
"I know," you reassure him. "I know it's different when you're sick and feeling vulnerable and weak and so things you know at any other time aren't always there for your brain to grasp and hold onto in the same way. We are so similar in our thoughts, sometimes, Andrew. It would be funny and cute if they weren't shitty thoughts." You give him a wry smile with a flash of your brows and he lets out a small huffed laugh that makes your heart soar. "I promise I'm not offended or hurt and I don't feel bad or like I'm not enough and don't do enough or that you don't trust me. I understand. And I promise you I'm not going anywhere and I will tell you and reassure you of that as much as you need, okay?"
Andrew nods and you brush your thumb over his cheek and then give his face the gentlest squeeze before leaning forward and pressing a lingering kiss to his too warm forehead that he leans into. "I love you. That's not going anywhere either," you murmur, lips brushing against his skin. "Promise."
"I love you too," Andrew whispers.
You press one more kiss to his forehead that he's pretty sure he could melt into if you'd let him and then settle yourself again and smile at him. "How would you like me?"
"I just wanna lay down," he mumbles, grimacing in pain.
"You wanna put your head in my lap?"
Andrew is nodding and saying, "yeah," before you finish the question.
You help him get laying down, hear him hiss in pain as he lays on his side and shifts to get his head in your lap facing away from you comfortably, can see the pain twist his face as you look down at him. You hate it. You wish there was more you could do. You'd give him meds but you're pretty sure they'd hit his stomach and make him throw up immediately.
One of your hands finds his curls as soon as his head is on your lap, the other hanging on his shoulder for now as he settles, gets his head comfortable and rests his top hand just above your knee. He's still for a moment, you know he's still trying to adjust and let himself have this, but after a minute or so he surprises you a little and moves his bottom hand up until his fingers brush yours and takes your hand, lets himself have even more of your comfort.
As you lace your fingers together the best you can and continue to run your hand through his hair he turns his head and looks back and up at you a bit. He's breathing a little harder from all the movement and pain and you pray he isn't pushing himself up and out of your lap to lunge for the toilet and be sick within minutes of laying down and getting comfortable on you. "Thank you."
It's the softest thing you've ever heard from him.
"Of course. Anytime," you murmur. "I mean it. I like you being close. And it makes me feel better having you close when you're sick, honestly. Lets me keep a better eye on you."
Andrew just hums in response and you feel his body start to slowly relax more and more as your closeness and smell and hand moving through his curls perfectly help sleep find him.
It's short lived, unfortunately. Very short lived. Andrew can't be asleep or at least dozing on you for more than thirty minutes before you feel his body tense and then he's sitting up and getting to the toilet and is sick again.
And you're right there behind him again, rubbing his back and giving him soft words of encouragement, reaching around and rubbing his tummy because all you want to do is comfort him. You wish you could take it away, take it on for him despite how much you hate throwing up. Watching him suffer is far worse.
Andrew is still amazed at how much your presence and your touch and your words make it better, make it so much less awful than it could be. He slumps back into you breathing hard, knowing he's going to be sick again soon and so not going to bother making either of you move to go back so he can lay down just to immediately or close to immediately have to move again.
You reach behind yourself and grab the washcloth from the cup, ring it out a couple of times as much as you can with one hand and then use it to dab at Andrew's forehead and neck, wipe off the sweat that's accumulating. You kiss the top of his head, reach around with the hand not using the washcloth and rub at his tummy again. He all but melts back into you a little more at the feeling and you smile to yourself.
"Thank you," he murmurs.
"Course, Handsome," you murmur back. "You think you could take some medicine? Something acetaminophen or ibuprofen to help get your fever down?"
As soon as Andrew starts to think about taking meds and having to swallow them down his stomach lurches painfully and he gags a little, manages to keep from throwing up again quite yet. "No, I don't think I could even get them down."
"Yeah, I'm sorry, I shouldn't have even brought them up and risked making you sick again." Your hand slows just slightly and he can feel you stiffen a little as he reclines against your chest and he knows you're upset with yourself.
"Don't apologize or blame yourself, it's not your fault." He grabs your hand that's rubbing soothing circles over his tummy with one of his and squeezes it gently before releasing it.
You hum in acknowledgement, clearly not convinced and Andrew has no idea why it makes him realize something he somehow hadn't thought about until now. He doesn't understand how his brain fucked up so massively and ignored the obvious and is immediately livid with himself.
He sits up out of your arms and you go to follow, thinking he's about to be sick again but he's not. "You should go, I'm gonna get you sick with this, I'm sorry I didn't think about it earlier."
The concern and worry and almost sheepishness in his voice makes your heart break. You know he can't help it, that he doesn't truly think you'd leave him over something like that, but that he's struggling to bring what he knows to the front of his mind over what he feels, how he thinks you should react.
"Hey," you say quietly, nuzzle your nose against his sweaty neck and kiss the back of his head as you let your hands rest on his waist. "You could've told me to go earlier and I wouldn't have gone. And you can tell me to go now and I won't go. I can't let you be in here sick and miserable alone. You deserve so much better than that, and getting sick is a risk I'm more than willing to take to help you. I think I'd be more miserable sitting right outside the bathroom door listening to you suffer alone than I'll be if I get sick. And it's an if. We don't know that I will."
"No, but…" Andrew trails off as he feels the certain wave of nausea and stomach pain that tell him he's about to be sick again. "I…" He shakes his head slightly before he leans forward to be sick again.
"It's okay," you murmur softly, rub his back gently like you have been. "No matter what happens it's gonna be okay and we're gonna be okay and I'm not going anywhere, I promise."
Andrew hates himself for it but in the moment he's not sure if he believes it. He's not sure his mind will let him believe it. He tries to believe you. He wants to believe you. And deep down somewhere subconsciously he does believe you and he does trust implicitly and completely or he wouldn't let you in the way he has. But his whole life, almost everything that's ever happened to him has made him weary of kindness and love and trusting others and letting someone else take care of him. There's always been punishment, verbal, physical, and psychological.
You don't hold his difficulty trusting against him. You know it's not personal, that it has nothing to do with you, nothing to do with what you say or don't, what you do or don't do, how you treat him or how you don't. And you know that he does trust you, that he does believe you. Because you also know that if he didn't he wouldn't let you in how he has.
At some point he finally stops and after sitting up for a few minutes he turns his head a little to half look back at you. "I'd like to lay down again," he mumbles. "You don't have to stay."
You move your head and duck it down a little so you're in his line of sight even as he tries to avoid eye contact and give him a small smile. "I know I don't have to," you whisper.
You start to move back to where you guys were before he jumped up to be sick, help him as you do. He sips some of the pedialyte as you get yourself comfortable and make sure everything is within reach again. When you're ready and he feels like he's had as much as he can have to drink without risking immediately throwing it up, Andrew gets himself laying down with his head in your lap again.
This time his lower hand doesn't wait for yours to find his shoulder so that he can brush your fingertips with his and then take your hand. It just waits there for yours, fingers spread so you can lace them together how you did last time. Because he can't see your face and quite frankly because your fingers in his curls are already drawing him under Andrew misses the watery and slightly trembling smile that him holding his hand up for you causes you to make.
You lace your fingers together and squeeze gently as much as you can. "Get some sleep, Handsome," you murmur. It's only a few minutes later you feel him relax fully and get a little heavier on your lap when he falls asleep.
Your reaction to Andrew holding his hand up for you to take would seem absolutely ridiculous to anyone other than you because it was such a simple move. A lover seeking just a little more comfort from his partner while he lays on them curled up sick. But it's so much more than that with him and his past. It's trust. It's letting himself want comfort. It's letting himself seek comfort out. And him letting himself want and seek comfort while feeling awful and sick and vulnerable and weak like he said earlier is everything to you.
Like last time, you slip your hand from his at times to dab at him with the washcloth. When he finally gets the chills you get one of the lighter blankets you brought with you and put it over him, make sure you keep an eye on how hot he's getting.
Andrew is out for a while. You didn't look at the time but it has to be at least two hours. Your ass and feet are numb and hurt a bit but you have your phone and have been able to scroll and read and do whatever.
At some point you let your head rest against the wall and doze a bit. You're pulled back awake by Andrew letting out a soft groan of pain and flinching in on himself and you hate what you're sure that's going to precipitate.
You're proven correct a little less than a minute or so later when he's up being sick again, you right behind him and soothing him just like you have been, your ass and feet tingling as you get feeling back to them. It doesn't last as long this time which gives you some hope that he's through the worst of it at least in terms of throwing up. You talk softly together again and he sips on some more pedialyte.
This time he leans into how awful he feels even more, lets himself want and take a little more comfort from you. Lets himself not be the strong one. Andrew just leans back against you, his back against your chest and abdomen more or less, at an angle that leaves you wondering how on earth it's comfortable for him, but it clearly is because he's out on you like that again quickly.
He's not out anywhere near as long this time before he's sick again but this time is much shorter and he finally feels like he's not going to be sick again as he slumps back into you. "I fucking hate this," he groans quietly, an incredibly rare complaint that shatters you because if he's letting himself complain, even only in four words, it has to be bad.
"I know, my love, I hate it for you." You bend your head and kiss the top of his a few times before resting your cheek against it gently so he doesn’t have to take any real weight, just enough of a press to feel close. "I'm sorry you're feeling so awful."
Andrew shakes his head just a little, his voice dipping down into irritation and anger, both clearly directed at himself. "If you get this from me I'll…" He doesn't even know what he'll do short of throwing himself off the nearest fucking cliff. "I'll…"
"You'll take care of me just like I'm taking care of you and once I'm better life will continue exactly the same as it was before we got sick," you murmur, your words gentle and reassuring. "We'll be exactly the same." You don't bring up the fact that there is absolutely no way in hell he will be in the bathroom with you if you do get sick and have to spend hours living in here. No way in fucking hell. It doesn't bother you at all when he’s sick in front of you because it's him and you love him. But the thought of him seeing you be sick just makes you vaguely embarrassed and feel gross.
"Yeah," he grunts. You know that's way too simple of an answer, that it wouldn't be that easy for him, he wouldn't be able to not hate himself the entire time you were sick. It wouldn't matter how much better he made you feel, wouldn't matter how much you told him that it wasn't truly him that got you sick, that it was a virus, that it was nothing he could help or control. He'd still hate himself the entire time and for a good while after you recovered.
He's still breathing hard and fairly slow and you know it's because he's in pain, probably has awful body aches setting in. And he does. He wants to get up and go to bed but that seems like so much fucking work right now and he knows that it's going to fucking hurt and he's just so tired. But it's not comfortable here, for him, or for you he imagines.
It's the fact that it's likely not comfortable for you that gives him the motivation and small boost of energy to get up and into bed. "Can we go to bed? I don't feel like I'll be sick again soon."
There's something about him asking that's at once so pure and sweet and Andrew of him and also so fucking awful because his life, his mother, if you can really call her that, has made him think he has to ask, that he can't just say what he wants or needs, especially when he's sick.
"We can do whatever you want or need, you don't have to ask." You move your cheek off the top of head and give him another kiss there before helping him sit up on his own. "You wanna shower before we get in bed?"
He would love to. God he would fucking love to. Showers make things better, especially showers with you. He knows the warm water would help soothe the body aches tearing him apart. But showering would be even more work than getting to bed and he's honestly not sure he could stand long enough for it to really help at all.
Andrew shakes his head slightly. "Too much work and standing."
You know he has to be feeling absolutely fucking awful and must be beyond exhausted if he's turning a shower down.
"Well how about you just sit in the tub, okay? We have the handheld shower head, you can sit and I'll wash you, okay?" You keep your tone as light and pressure free as you can, want him to know he can say no and it'll be okay, that you won't be offended or shut down or stop talking to him or stop taking care of him or leave. "I think getting the sweat off and just feeling clean might help you feel a little better."
You shift so that you can see him and give him a reassuring smile, a smile that you hope tells him you love him and want to help however you can. The conflict in his eyes is obvious, a look you recognize from earlier when you held your hand out to him.
It's dumb, perhaps, but this feels so much different for him. You bathing him is more… complete, in a way, it's you completely taking of him like he can't take care of himself when he can, he could if he really wanted to. It's completely surrendering himself in a way, or at least that's what it feels like to him. And while everything that's happened so far has reassured him, while you've reassured him and you've stayed, there's a huge part of him that's still terrified like he was earlier, that he'll be even more vulnerable like this, that he'll let himself not be the strong one, not be the protector and fill that role and you'll realize it and leave because if he can't fill that role then what is he truly offering you.
But then he's the only one of the two of you who thinks he has that role, isn't he? You don't. You never have.
That's something he's imposed on himself courtesy of his mother. Like you said earlier, you're not with him for what he can do for you or how he can protect you. As hard as that may be for him to wrap his mind around and believe, especially now while he's sick, at the end of the day he knows you'd never lie to him.
"Being taken care of, letting yourself be taken care of and wanting to be taken care of doesn't make you weak Andrew. Especially not in my eyes. I know how hard it is for you." And you do. You know how hard it is for him, how this is going to feel so much different than washing each other in the shower together. It's you washing him, not you washing each other. He's not giving anything, just being taken care of. And you know he still struggles with that. Accepting it and trusting it.
Andrew starts to nod slowly and the huge beaming smile you give him reassures him a little and at least makes him feel good that he was able to make you happy and smile. "Yeah, okay."
"Okay, great. I'll get it started." You get up and lean over him a little to reach the faucet and get the shower on and water heating up. "Can I feel you?" Andrew looks up at you a little confused about what exactly you mean. "I want to know how high your fever is to know how hot we can get the water."
"Yeah." Andrew is a little at war with himself. He's so appreciative of this and you and everything you're doing for him and he doesn't want to hurt you or upset you and he knows he should just grin and bear it, but the words slip out. "I really don't want to shower if it has to be cold or cool, I'm sorry."
"That's okay and more than understandable. If you're super warm and really shouldn't have much heat to the water I'll just turn it off." You say it so simply as you reach down and put the back of your hand to his forehead, like it doesn't upset you in the slightest, like you're not holding it against him or mad he accepted your help and then changed his mind. Of course Andrew knew that's how you'd react. It's just hard and his brain is so fuzzy and so it's all worse than normal.
He's definitely warm, warmer than he normally runs, but he's not as hot as he was for a while earlier. You're praying this is just some 24 hour thing that's working its way out of his system and so his fever won't spike again.
You don't think he's so warm that he really shouldn't have much heat to the water. Something closer to tepid would probably be better, but you know he won't go for it, truly understandably so like you told him, and showers are just so good for your Andrew. They help him reset and clear his mind as much as possible, help him physically relax which helps his mind follow. And you know he enjoys feeling clean after getting sweaty.
"Here, let me adjust it and then you can feel and decide, okay?" You reach back over and adjust the dial before putting your hand out into the stream. Once you think it's at an okay temperature you switch the shower so that water only comes out through the handheld shower head and test it like that. "See what you think about this?"
You bring the shower head down low and Andrew reaches over with one hand into the bath to feel the temperature. It's not as hot as he'd like but it's not cold, not going to make him feel colder. "It's good," he nods.
"Alright, Handsome, good." You set the shower head in the holder and keep your hands on him as he gets himself up enough to step into the shower bath combo and sit down. "Still okay?" you check with him when you bring the shower head down and start getting his hair wet.
"Feels nice." Andrew lets his eyes flutter closed as you get his hair and body wet, hold the shower head so that it feels just like he's standing under the normal one. He feels bad because he knows he's being even less talkative and more quiet than usual, especially compared to what he's like when the two of you are alone together. He knows you understand and get it but he still hates it. Hates that he's doing this to you.
Andrew knows how much reassurance you take from him talking to you, from just hearing his voice. You've never said it, in some ways he thinks you might try to hide it a little because you don't want him to feel pressured, but he sees it. He's always seen it. And so he's angry at and with himself from taking that from you and not being able to give it to you.
"Good," you hum at him. You continue to hold the shower head so it feels like he's standing under the regular shower head for as long as you possibly can, switching hands on and off when your muscles start to scream because you want to give him this. Want to give him the shower soak that you know he loves and wants but doesn't have the energy for.
Andrew's not even truly aware of time passing. He lets his head hang forward slowly and actually nods off for a little bit because the water is warm enough and relaxing and he's so tired and you're nearby. You don't say anything, happy to sit on the edge of the tub and do this for him even when your ass is numb and your arms are burning.
When he rolls his shoulders and neck you speak to him softly. You'd love to give him more but you genuinely think your arms might fall off. "You wanna hold this while I shampoo you, Sweetheart?"
He opens his eyes back up and looks over his shoulder at you and nods, holds his hand out for it and then holds the shower head near his neck so that water runs over his back and chest and keeps him warm. "Do you have a headache?" you ask him as you get some of his shampoo in your palm.
"Yeah," he mumbles.
"Okay," you murmur as you lean in toward him and start lathering curls you adore more than is reasonable. "Let me know if this hurts or starts to hurt, okay?"
He nods silently and once you have his hair well lathered you start to give him a scalp massage, drag your nails over his skin gently, use the pads of your fingers to do something closer to a real massage. Andrew absolutely melts into it. It feels so good his eyes close again and his lips part as he breathes through them a little heavier because relief he didn't even realize he needed pours over him. You continue to switch between your nails and the pads of your fingers, start to drop your hands a little lower until you're massaging his neck gently and then slowly move out toward his shoulders and massage them for a bit before working your hands back up to his scalp.
The little sighs of relief and non-sexual pleasure that Andrew gives you, likely unknowingly, are all you need to keep going until your fingers hurt just as bad as the rest of your arms. Eventually you're forced to stop though. Your place has a good hot water heater but you don't want to risk it with how long you let him soak.
"Okay if I rinse you Sweetheart?" you ask softly.
"Yeah, whatever you want."
You don't make a comment that this isn't about you and what you want but him and what he wants and needs. It won't be productive at this point and might just end up making him feel bad in both directions and shut down a little. "Tilt your head back a little for me, yeah? I don't want to get soap in your eyes."
Andrew does as you ask while handing you the shower head and you bring it up to rinse his curls, run your hand through them a bit to make sure you get it all out. "I'm gonna hand you this back and get some conditioner on for you." He takes the shower head back from you and holds it where he had it earlier and stops tilting his head back.
You grab some conditioner and work it through his curls, hum to yourself softly as you do. He wears his curls just a little longer than he has before because you love it so much and he wants to make you happy and the length doesn't really bother him one way or the other.
"You wanna brush your teeth while that sits?" you ask as you finish up, cut into his line of water spraying down his back so you can get the extra conditioner off your hands quickly. He's quiet for a beat too long, partially lost in his head and partially just taken by surprise at the question somewhat. He just wasn't expecting it. "Sorry, you don't have to obviously, maybe that was a weird idea," you titter. "I just thought, you know, it's nice to brush your teeth after you're sick but that takes energy to stand there and do it so I thought maybe sitting in the shower would be better. I guess you could just sit on the toilet while you brush, but then still, to rinse you'd have to stand…"
"I'd like to, please," he murmurs once you trail off.
"Oh." It's almost half questioned, reflecting the way you'd already dismissed your own idea. "Yeah, okay, of course." You pop up from the edge of the tub and swallow down the slight groan of pain that comes from sitting there for so long after sitting on the floor even on top of the quilt for so long. You grab Andrew his toothbrush and some toothpaste and hand it to him, sit back down and hold the shower head for him as he brushes his teeth. You kick the quilt you had on the floor over so that it won't get wet when he gets out.
You trade again and he holds the shower head for a few seconds as you put back his toothbrush and the toothpaste, hands it back to you and tilts his head back a little once you're sitting again so that you can rinse the conditioner from his hair. It doesn't take long to get it rinsed out and you and Andrew move in silent harmony, don't have to say a word to each other for him to know that he's taking back the shower head and you're grabbing some body wash for him.
There's nothing wrong, the comfortable silence between you is simply a byproduct of how well you know each other and the quiet intimacy of the moment. Andrew turns the shower head so no water hits him and sprays against the wall instead and you get enough body wash in your hands and lather it a bit before you start to run your soapy hands all over him.
You use the perfect pressure, something more than a light touch or the pressure you'd normally use to wash him like this but not too much pressure, cognizant that he might still have some residual body and muscle aches. Your eyes track your hands as you wash him, take in his toned definition with the perfect softness he's kept, trace constellations in freckles you could easily spend the rest of your life trying to memorize.
It feels so ridiculous in the moment, but when Andrew only relaxes further the second he feels your touch you swear you almost burst into tears because you see him flinch all the time when people touch him and Deran has told you how bad it was with Smurf, how Andrew would flinch and be rigid most of the time with her, especially toward the end of her life. The feeling of tears make anxiety spike through you for a minute because while you know that Andrew is going to be just fine and is already doing better and this isn't even going to be remotely close to life-threatening, it still makes you think about it, about losing him for a second. Or several hundred.
You don't know what you'd do without him. It makes you breathless to think about. You don’t know that you’re strong enough to bury him.
Andrew feels the same way. The way your hands glide over him with such care and reverence hits him square in the chest, and when you get to his tummy and he feels your hand soften as it starts to wash it and then rub at it soothingly just because you can and you think it'll make him feel better, he thinks he could cry. Because he can't believe he has you and you're doing all of this for him and speaking to him and looking at him with absolutely nothing but love and adoration and devotion on your beautiful face and in your eyes and your voice.
He can't imagine ever losing you, ever not having you in his life, by his side, can't imagine not hearing your laugh or not getting to kiss you and feel you smile into it or hug you when everything is too much, and so that voice that had gotten quiet in the back of his mind flares a little and his anxiety about you leaving returns to where it was.
Once you've run your hands over him enough to sate you for right now you rinse his body and then wash his face for him. After another little soak you turn the water off and make sure he gets up safely, keep a hand on him as he steps out of the tub and then wrap him in one of your big fluffy towels and help dry him off.
You give him a hopeful smile after you hang the towel up and shove most of the stuff you'd brought into the bathroom with you into the hall out of the way for now. "Feeling a little better?"
"Yeah." He takes a step closer to you and grabs your hand, squeezes it. "Thank you," he whispers.
It's a thank you for asking but more than that it's a thank you for everything. Thank you for staying, thank you for making the floor more comfortable, thank you for letting him sleep on you, thank you for dabbing at him with a washcloth and rubbing his tummy and back while he was sick and thank you for showering him. Thank you for loving him.
"Of course," you murmur, step closer and squeeze his hand back as you press a soft kiss to his chest. "Let's get you to bed."
Andrew nods and you grab the most important things you'd brought into the bathroom with you, your phones and the pedialyte and then lace your fingers in his and walk to your bedroom together. You pull open your comforter for him to slip under and then step to the side so he can climb in.
He tells himself you not getting in doesn't mean anything. You just want to get him in first. "Thank you," he tells you again quietly as he slides in and leans against the headboard for now, nervously, if he's honest.
His nervousness and anxiety skyrocket when you sit on the edge of the bed next to him instead of getting in and look conflicted, like you're fighting yourself about whether you really want to say whatever's on your mind. It's quickly relieved though.
"I'm hesitating to ask because I don't want to make you sick again, but do you think you could try to have some broth?" You deliberately don't add 'for me' at the end of your question like you didn't with the pedialyte because you know it'll unfairly make it harder for him to say no because he'll feel like if he does then he's depriving you of something you want. And you have no interest in pressuring him or manipulating him. "I really think it'll help you feel better, keep your body fueled to fight this off."
His immediate reaction is no, but not because he thinks it'll make him sick. Because he doesn't want you to leave, doesn't want to not be able to see you. He knows he doesn't need to be worried, he knows and trusts that you're not going to leave and disappear and tell him to be out by a certain time. He's sure it's probably terribly codependent and wrong and he knows it's a stupid reason not to have some broth. But Andrew is just so fucking scared.
This is scary for him. This level of vulnerability. It's never gone well for him before. And he knows you're not his before, that you're so fucking different from everything in his life before you, but it's so difficult to not let his past tint his view of the present and the future.
He reminds himself of everything that's already happened today, all the things you've done for him, how you ran out of the bathroom to grab some stuff earlier and came right back. Yes, he could ask to go with you or just follow you out there but he knows you want him in bed and frankly that he wants to be in bed. And he needs to do this. For you and for himself. He just hopes the anxiety of being alone suddenly and you not being in the room with him won't make him sick.
God, he needs to get a fucking grip, he tells himself, asks himself why he can’t just be fucking normal.
He lets out a long breath and nods slowly. "Yeah, I'll try."
You smile widely at him and it makes it all worth it. "Okay, Handsome, thank you." You scoot toward him a little and kiss his cheeks and his forehead before you slip off the edge of the bed. Before you head to the kitchen you make sure his phone and the pedialyte are right next to him in case he needs either and close the curtains.
Once you're out of your room you run and grab your earbuds, put one in and then facetime him as you walk into the kitchen and start looking around for something you can prop your phone up with that will make it so you're in frame the whole time and he can see you, your earbud making it so that the microphone will be with you.
Because you know.
You know how hard this is for him and how much it's freaking him out. Given your conversation earlier and him trying to push you away, you know how scary it is for him, how real it feels to him that you could just leave, walk out the door and never come back into his life. At the same time you know the rational part of him trusts you. It's just that right now that part is struggling to be in control. So if you can do this one simple little thing to help him, you absolutely will.
Andrew is almost annoyed when his phone starts ringing. He can't be fucking asked to deal with his brothers or J right now. He sighs as he grabs his phone and is frozen for a second when he sees that it's you trying to facetime him. He connects of course, your face coming into view and drawing up into a cute smile at his slightly puzzled expression.
"Hi." You step away from your phone and start moving in the kitchen, looking to see what broth you have. In an ideal world you'd have time to dress it up a bit or even make him chicken noodle soup from scratch. But it's not an ideal world and that's okay. You know he doesn't mind. You know he'd frankly much rather have you in bed with him. "I'm assuming you're okay with chicken broth? I don't think I, oh… No, wait… Yeah I do have beef broth here if you'd prefer that."
His head spins as he fully processes what's going on. What you're doing for him. He realizes you're waiting on an answer from him. "Chicken is good."
"Alright, Handsome, I'm going to heat it up on the stove. I know it'll take a bit longer but I'm struggling to be able to bring myself to bring you microwaved chicken broth." You step closer to your phone and watch his reaction. If he really needs you to get back as soon as possible you'll go, and you know you'll be able to tell by the look on his face. Luckily, the facetime does what you hoped it would and seems to calm him enough that he's okay with it, giving you a small nod and even the quickest quark of his lips at the corners. Andrew finds your inability to bring him microwaved chicken broth to be a very you thing in a way that's so cute it warms his heart.
He's struck by the way that from the start of the call, you haven't pretended that you're doing this for you. You haven't said you called because you wanted to keep an eye on him or wanted to talk to him or had a question for him. You just ignore it. You don't offer a reason why you called, don't bring it up. Both of you know that you didn't call for you, not really. As much as you do like the fact that you get to keep an eye on him this way, that isn't why you decided to do this.
While saying that white lie might be okay with other partners, you think that you saying this was for yourself when you both know it's not might almost feel at least somewhat belittling to Andrew, even though you know he knows you'd never mean it that way.
You start moving around in the kitchen to grab a pot and a few very light seasonings to make the broth more palatable. As you move and stir the broth while it warms up you chatter to him. Not too much because you know he has a headache and too many words, especially talking too fast, would just make it worse. You talk about whatever pops into your head so he can hear your voice. Occasionally he'll say something back or make a little noise that tells you he heard you.
Andrew never really saw marriage for himself. For lots of reasons. He never thought he'd find someone he wanted to marry. Never felt the need to. Or at least that's what he tried to convince himself, that he'd be fine without that kind of love, even once he'd had a taste of it. He had moments where he wasn't sure that, if he found someone who he wanted to marry, someone he loves more than anything, he should subject that person to him forever. He didn't think he deserved it, that kind of love, that kind of commitment. He's still not sure if he does.
So he never saw it for himself. Never thought he would.
But when he thinks about all you've done for him today without being asked, when he listens to you talk about whatever comes to your mind while watching you stand at the stove and heat the broth up for him after facetiming him so that he could see you and you could help soothe some of his anxiety, when you go out of your way to prop your phone up so it could see the whole kitchen and get an earbud so that you'd have the mic with you and he could hear you easily, when you did that for him without him asking, without you asking him and making him have to say yes he wants that, when you knew what he needed, picked up on his anxiety and saw what he needed without him having to say a word, when you kept it so natural and simple and didn't comment on it, when you didn't make it a big deal or make it seem like you were doing him some huge favor he was going to have to repay you for, when you loved him enough to just do it, to just give him what he needs when you realize he needs it, Andrew knows.
Andrew knows he's going to ask you to marry him one day. And despite how deep down he buries it for now so as not to jinx things, Andrew knows you're going to say yes, that you're going to say yes somewhere between a giggle and a sob as your eyes sparkle with tears that fall over your lash line and glitter down your cheeks, that you're going to say yes while you look at him like he's all you need to survive and be happy. Him. Just him. Just him as he is, no matter what that looks like on any given day. Just Andrew. Just your Andrew.
Because that's all he ever has to be with you. Him. However he needs or wants to be, however he just is. It's always enough for you. He's always enough for you.
Once the broth is warm enough you turn the stove off and get it into a bowl for him, grab yourself a drink and something quick to eat from the fridge, hang up and head back into your bedroom. As he starts to sip at the broth and before you start to eat you make sure there's a trash can next to the side of his bed just in case and turn the nightstand lamps on and the overhead light off, shut your bedroom door. The more broth he has and keeps down, the more relaxed you both feel, and at some point he offers to try some meds which makes you smile as you grab them for him. You hate seeing him in pain and still a little feverish and know the meds will help with that, hopefully allowing him to get some good sleep.
When you've both finished you set his bowl and what's left of what you grabbed on your nightstand to deal with later. Right now you just want to get him some sleep.
There are two things you know Andrew wants right now. The first he might ask for. The second you know he absolutely will not ask for right now.
You're not going to make him ask for either, of course.
The first thing you know he wants is you naked. Andrew loves sleeping together naked, snuggling together naked. He loves feeling your soft skin against his, being able to run his hands over you and truly feel you, be as close as he possibly can to you, have absolutely nothing between the two of you.
You don't bother sliding out of bed to get the comfortable clothes you've been in all day off, just wiggle them off as much as you need to and then toss them on the floor so that you're naked. You can feel his eyes on you from where he's still resting against the headboard waiting for you, already naked himself since he never put any clothes on after the shower.
"Need anything?" you ask as you turn to look at him. In retrospect maybe you should've asked before you took your clothes off in case you need to get up, but oh well.
"No," he shakes his head slightly.
"Okay." You smile and nod at him as you turn off your nightstand lamp and slide your way closer to him on the bed. He starts to slide down from the headboard so that the two of you can get comfy, turns the other lamp off as he does.
The second thing you know he wants, probably desperately, is to be held.
And you know that he will not ask for it.
Maybe he will someday when you've been together much longer than six months and when he's not already scared you're going to leave him because you've had to take care of him so much. But for now he won't and that's okay. You'll make sure he still gets what he wants and maybe even needs. "Why don't you lay on your side facing the wall, Handsome?"
"Okay." Andrew does as you ask, knowing where it's going but still worrying you're going to scoot back to the edge of your side of the bed far away from him so you don't have to touch him.
After he gets comfortable you slide up next to him and spoon him from behind the best you can with your size difference. You plaster yourself against his back, rest your head just behind and slightly below his on the same pillow so that you only have to move your head forward slightly to kiss the back of his neck. Your legs tangle together naturally and you adjust so your bottom arm goes under the pillow and then bends at the elbow so you can run your hand through his hair. You slide your top hand over his side to his tummy and start to rub soothing circles into it, anxious about him getting sick again all because you wanted him to have some broth. You'll feel so fucking awful.
Andrew melts into it, melts into your body and your hands. But he has to check. He doesn't want you to feel like this is something you feel like you have to do and end up resenting him. He knows that's his mind spinning out but he can't help it, especially not right now. "You sure?" he asks quietly.
"Of course." You press a kiss to the back of his neck and Andrew can feel you smile against his skin and any remaining tension bleeds out of him. "I love spooning you."
"I love it when you do." His admission is whispered and there's something so achingly beautiful and sweet about it and the timing of it.
You kiss his neck again, right at the nape over his curls. "I know you do, Handsome," you murmur. "I love you. Get some sleep, okay? If you need anything just wake me. I'm gonna stay right here and hopefully you'll wake up feeling better." You can't help but kiss the back of his neck a few times, nuzzle your nose there.
"Okay, I love you too," he mumbles, sleep already coming for him hard with the exhaustion of being sick and the fever and your hand rubbing his tummy so soothingly and your other hand in his hair brushing through his curls and scratching at his scalp. "You'll be okay?"
You smile to yourself at the way he thinks of you, worries about and checks in on you always. "Of course, you know I'm always down to sleep."
Andrew hums in acknowledgement, manages to get out a few last mumbled words. "True. My sleepy girl."
You could scream. It's a testament to yourself control that you don’t scream about how fucking adorable that was and that you don’t fucking bite him with how cute it was and how hard it triggered your cuteness aggression. His sleepy girl. His fucking sleepy girl. You can't think of anything else to aspire to be in life right now. Just Andrew's sleepy girl.
"Yeah," you whisper against his skin. "I'm yours, Andrew. Always."
Both of you fall asleep and you have no idea what time it is when feeling Andrew stretch against you wakes you up. He gently starts to try to roll, waiting for you to roll with him. You think it means he's awake and taking care not to smush you. "Andrew?" you whisper.
There's no answer. He's still out.
You roll with him and let how he moves in his sleep guide you. He ends up laying almost completely on top of you with his head on your chest. It's admittedly not the most comfortable position you've been in with him, but it's not so bad that you can't deal with it. You just focus on the fact that he was asleep when he got you into this position. That his body and mind are subconsciously comfortable and relaxed and feel safe enough with you to roll on top of you to cuddle this way during the night. You tangle your legs with his again the best you can and wrap your arms around him so that he still feels held.
You keep yourself awake for a few minutes so that you can enjoy this, Andrew laying like this on you.
Hours later Andrew wakes with a half start from a nightmare that today went exactly as it had earlier except when he woke up in bed you were gone. You were just gone and you never came back. He never saw you again.
But Andrew wakes up to the sound of your heart beating beneath his ear and your arms wrapped around him, holding him as tight as you can while you sleep.
A few seconds later you stir, sensing that he was awake. "Hey, you okay?" you mumble, sleep thick and adorable in your voice.
"I'm good. Gonna fall back asleep," he mumbles back with the same sleep in his voice.
You hum at him in agreement and force yourself to stay awake until you feel him relax all the way and hear and feel his breathing change and know he's fallen back to sleep. It doesn't take you long to follow him back into dreamland. And you stay.
The next morning Andrew wakes up to the sound of your heart beating beneath his ear again. You stayed.
Andrew is still worried, terrified, that tonight or in or a month or a year you'll think back on yesterday and realize it was too much, that he was too much and he offers nothing and you'll leave him.
He's feeling much better physically, it was some 24 hour thing like you'd been praying. You don't have anything planned so the two of you stay in bed for the most part and just snuggle and watch movies together and you tell him how glad you are that he's feeling better. Toward the end of the night you keep jerking yourself awake every time you fall asleep on his chest so that you guys can spend more time together and you can finish the movie.
"Hey," Andrew murmurs, his arms wrapped around you, one hand rubbing up and down your back in a way that's lulling you right to sleep. "Let yourself fall asleep, sleepy girl."
You hum and sigh, almost grumble a little as you wiggle your way up him slightly so that you can bury your head in his neck and nuzzle into it, mumble something completely unintelligible into his skin that makes him smile to himself. A minute or so later your breathing evens out and he feels you go dead weight on him, asleep on his chest curled into him. And you stay.
A month later Andrew's buried deep inside of you, drinking down every little noise you make for him. His favorite is when you say his name, when you sigh it or moan it or scream it a little. Andrew. After, once he's confident you can stay standing for more than a few seconds at a time, you soak in the shower together, speak in touches and kisses. You spoon him that night as you both fall asleep. Instead of rubbing his tummy though you let him take your top hand and hold it in one of his hands against his chest. And you stay.
A year later you and Andrew are moving into your new place together. That night you find yourselves on your mattress on the floor in your bedroom of your new place snuggled up in bed together. The furniture people had fucked up and gotten the date of the delivery for your new bedroom set wrong and you'd already tossed the old frame. So a mattress on the floor it is. It feels kind of ridiculous and comical and that's what makes it so perfect and has you laughing together and reminiscing and dreaming about the future while cuddled under the sheets until you both fall asleep on your sides pressed against each other. And you stay.
And three years later Andrew asks you to marry him.
And just like he knew as he watched you heat up chicken broth for him over facetime all those years ago, with eyes sparkling with tears that are falling over your lash line and glittering down your cheeks as you look at him like all you need to survive and be happy is him, just him, just your Andrew, somewhere between a giggle and a sob you say it. "Yes."
I JUST WANT TO LOVE HIM!!!!! HE DESERVES EVERYTHING!!!!!!! I WANT HIM TO SLEEP ON ME!!!!!!!!
I hope you enjoyed and that it was okay! ♥️ I appreciate you taking the time to read so much, thank you! I love hearing your thoughts and comments too, and thank you for all of your support and patience!
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You’re away at a medical conference and you accidentally text your attending, Jack Abbot, something not meant for him. It works out in your favor.
tags: phone sex, age gap, 1 use of daddy, jack abbot is down bad, mutual masturbation - 18+ EXPLICIT CONTENT.
notes: back on tumblr woo hoo! (formerly known as Syd-djarin). hope u like it :) title is from “God is Fair, Sexy Nasty” by Mac Miller. also posted on AO3
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You're in California for a medical conference with your besties from day shift, Santos, Whitaker and Javadi. It's been a nice change of scenery from the bone chilling winter in Pittsburgh, though you find yourself missing a certain night shift attending. You've been harboring a crush on him since your first day —and it seems like it gets more intense the more you see glimmers of his personality underneath the layer of his typical stoicism.
The end of a lengthy seminar finds you and your crew at rhe hotel lobby bar, swapping gossip and sipping on one too many dirty Shirleys.
Unfortunately, you've always been a sappy drunk. Your mind drifts to Jack again, heart yearning for his calm, steadfast presence. Sometimes at night, your mind feeds you the delusion that your unwavering longing is requited, that Jack is deeply in love with you too. Tonight is one of those nights.
Your phone dings. A text from your best friend back home.
Bestie♡: how's it going?? deets please
Bestie♡: is the hot doctor there 😜
Another diiiiing!
Your tummy flutters seeing a text from Jack.
Abbot🐰: How's it going?
You reply to your best friend first, not wanting to seem too desperate to reply to him.
You: Going good!! Need a facetime date to give you all the deets
You: Abbot isn't here 💔💔💔
You: Probably for the best though I'm ovulating and let's just say he wouldn't survive being in a room with me rn lollll
Jack doesn't know what to think when he reads the text from you. Clearly intended for someone else and explicitly confirming you hold a torch for him. He's keenly aware of how your eyes twinkle up him, though he was certain its an idolizing-your-mentor- type of way.
Now, he's rethinking every accidental touch, every lingering stare, all the toothy grins you seem to only reserve for him. Warmth prickles his skin.
He knows damn well he shouldn't, but he replies anyway.
Ding.
Abbot🐰: Missing me already?
Abbot🐰: Curious to what you'd do to me that would be fatal, considering I survived deployments.
"Fuckfuckfuckfuck!" You yelp, causing the whole table to turn their attention to you. Humiliation stings your cheeks.
"Just um, forgot to call my friend. Different time zones and all, ya know? Uh, see you guys tomorrow!"
You scurry from the lobby bar back up to your room, not daring to look back at them, and certainly not trusting your inebriated state to keep your secret from your colleagues, especially not Santos - she has the annoying trait of being acutely observant and can suss out a lie quicker than anyone you've ever seen.
Your head spins when you get back to your room, finally letting out an exhale. How the fuck are you supposed to do damage control here? Send a lengthy paragraph surely to overexplain yourself? A phone call? Knowing Jack he'd be much more appreciative of that. Maybe now is a good time to consider a transfer to a hospital where you didn't just admit your big fat crush on your attending to your attending!
Before you can make a decision, another text from Jack comes through.
Abbot🐰: I know that was meant for someone else. I shouldn't tease you about it. I'm sorry.
You: No omg you shouldn't be sorry!!! I'm the one who is sending inappropriate texts about my boss. Dr. Abbot, I am so incredibly sorry. I understand if you're uncomfortable working with me now :(
Abbot🐰: Not the first time one of my residents has had a crush on me.
You: I'll ask Robby about switching to days when I get back. I'm so sorry again, Dr. Abbot.
Abbot🐰: If that's what you want to do, by all means.
Abbot🐰: But I'd prefer you stay on nights.
You: Really? Are you sure?
Don't make him spell it out for you. He'd fold immediately, with the smallest of nudges he'd spill his guts to you. You bring out his vulnerability that once laid dormant for years.
Abbot🐰:. I'd rather not lose my best resident to Robby.
You: I'm your best?
Abbot🐰: Don't tell Ellis or Shen but you're my favorite.
Abbot🐰: I'll keep your secret if you keep mine.
Suddenly the frigid hotel air conditioning isn't cool enough, the lingering alcohol in your system making you perspire. You strip down to your underwear.
You: Yes sir your secret is safe with me
You: Again I am so incredibly sorry Dr. Abbot.
Fuck you for calling him sir.
Abbot🐰: Don't worry about it. Besides I'm flattered.
You: I hope you're not making fun of me :(
Abbot🐰: Never, sweetheart.
Abbot🐰: I don't get why a pretty, brilliant lady like you would want an old man like me
You: You think I'm brilliant?
Abbot🐰: Brightest of the brightest.
You: Now I'm the one who is flattered
You: Have you always had a thing for me?
Abbot🐰: Have you always had one for me?
You: I asked first!!!
Abbot🐰: After your first shift I knew I was a goner. Now your turn.
You: I was intimidated by your presence at first, not gonna lie
You: But then I realized you're a softie under that dark, brooding exterior.
Abbot🐰: You bring out my soft side.
Fuck if that doesn't almost do you in completely. It's time to crank things up a notch, you think.
You: [attachment: 1 photo]
You: since I've seen yours already. ;)
You're laying in the hotel bed, tits on full display. He smirks thinking about you walking in on him shirtless tending to his wound from being shot at. Jack can see the bottom half of your pout in the frame and it sends blood rushing straight to his cock.
Abbot🐰: Fuck me, your tits are beautiful baby. You know how to make this old man feel things
You: That was the point ;) let me see you pleaseeeee
If Robby knew he was about to send a dick pic to his favorite resident he'd never hear the end of it. He feels a bit embarrassed by this, but the throbbing in his cock takes over all his capacity for thought.
Abbot🐰: [Attachment: 1 photo]
You: Holy shit
You: I knew you'd be big. Making me think all sorts of ideas ;)
Abbot🐰: Tell me more, baby.
You: [Attachment: 1 Video]
"I wish these were your fingers, Jack…" you moan.
Your legs are spread open, your core on display for the camera. You’ve got two fingers teasing in and out of your glistening pussy.
He can't take it anymore. He needs to see you. Needs to hear your sweet voice.
Incoming FaceTime from Abbot🐰
"Hi Jack," you whisper, suddenly feeling shy.
His curls are perfectly disheveled, his eyes are tired but warm.
"Hi sweetheart," he clears his throat. "Sorry I don't really know what I'm doing…" his face blushes and it's the most adorable sight you've seen. "Just wanted to see you and hear your voice."
You giggle. God this man.
"You're so old school."
"You don't seem to mind," he quips back.
"Getting ready for your shift?"
"Yeah, gotta leave in an hour. You want to uh, help me with a situation?" He asks almost shyly.
"Is it the situation causing the tent in your scrub pants?"
"That'd be the one, yeah," he chuckles.
If you'd known it'd be this easy, you would have spilled your secret months ago.
You prop your phone on a pillow to give Jack full camera access to you. The air quickly turns from shy flirtations to something deeper, sexier — a flip has switched. Jack's eyes darken and are locked onto you, like you're his prey and he hasn't eaten in days.
"I bet that pretty pussy is soaked for me, isn't it?"
"Yes," you moan.
"Show me." He commands, but gently.
You spread open for him again, this time gathering your wetness on your fingers, holding your slick fingers to the camera.
"Fuck baby, you're gonna be the death of me," Jack groans.
"Do you think about me when you touch yourself? The way I think about you?"
He removes his shirt, his biceps ripple with the movements and you're mesmerized.
"You have no idea…" he admits.
"Let me see you," you purr.
Seeing your hot attending naked has you reeling. All his scars, wrinkles and freckles, you wanna trace them with your hands, your tongue. His cock lays heavy against his stomach, leaking at the tip.
"Come with me," he says, starting to stroke up and down his length.
Matching his pace, you fuck yourself with two fingers.
"That's it, baby, nice and slow… look so fucking beautiful like this."
You beam at his praise. He can't help the grin that breaks out on his face.
"How do you feel, baby?" He slows down to check in.
"S-so good, daddy." You're lost in the buildup you barely register the words escaping your mouth until Jack nearly chokes. "Oh my god, um—"
"You're daddy's pretty girl aren't you?" He cuts you off.
"Uh-huh."
"Use your words, baby," he commands, once again gentle but stern.
"Yes daddy, I'm your pretty girl," you all but squeal. Your whole body is alight, sweat clings to your skin.
He picks up the speed, both of you panting and moaning, enraptured by each other.
"'M close, daddy!" The familiar swirl of pleasure in your body almost to its peak.
"Come for me, pretty baby, daddy's right behind you," he grunts.
It hits you and you cry out his name, he follows suit and he chants your name like a prayer.
"Did so good, looked so beautiful…" he praises, out of breath.
"That was so hot, goddamn."
"I usually don't do this," he says after you've both caught your breath.
"Phone sex? Or phone sex with your resident?"
"Both," he smirks. "Normally I'd have taken you to dinner first, the way you deserve. I'd like to do that when you get back if you'll have me?"
"Absolutely," you grin.
"Alright, I gotta get cleaned up before shift. Get some sleep."
"Have a good shift."
You doze off with Jack still fresh on your mind. When you wake up, you find a text from him— a screenshot of the menu of a local restaurant.
annaxmalina
areudirty
ellievsbear
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turnnoffyourmind
