Imagine you’re on a first date with John Price, maybe you guys met on a dating app or a mutual friend set you two up on a blind date, whatever the scenario is, you don’t know he’s a smoker. And the date’s going really well, he’s so polite and sweet, but he had smoked his cigar before coming to the restaurant (maybe a couple minutes before or an hour before) and the smell of the lingering smoke is triggering your asthma. You’re coughing so much and you eventually apologize, telling him that you have asthma and that smoke triggers it before you go to the bathroom to do your inhaler. And after you come back, he then also goes to the bathroom. You think, oh this is it, he’s leaving you. But he’s in the bathroom, desperately trying to wash away the smell of smoke off of him with just water.
He’s still so polite when he comes back to you and he apologizes in his gruff, gravelly voice. And he still wants to date you and vice versa, so for subsequent dates, he either smokes after the date or he smokes several hours before the date and then as an extra added precaution, he takes a thorough shower so you can’t smell the smoke on him. He makes sure to turn off the air fresheners in his house hours before and open the windows to air it out before you come over, he never lights any candles in your vicinity, and when you meet the 141 boys, he makes sure none of them are wearing any strong cologne or any cologne if you’re that sensitive. And the boys know he’s madly, deeply into you when after a very long and grueling mission where everyone comes back to base itching to go home, he refuses to go without taking a thorough shower so as to not trigger your asthma with the smell of gunpowder when he gets home.
Hello!! I love your writings and they always make my day. I was hoping for a request about an asthmatic reader (preferably fl) with Vanitas going all doctor mode on them, maybe acting with haste upon walking on them having an attack??? Thank you 💓
A/N: Your request made me giggle, dear anon. This oneshot has been slumbering in my drafts for ages (in pieces and horrendously un-edited), but I never got to complete it until now. As it happens, I have asthma myself, so that was really the only reason I wrote it in the first place. Though, I honestly thought it might be a little too self indulgent haha
À Couple Le Souffle
𝗙𝗮𝗻𝗱𝗼𝗺: The Case Study of Vanitas
𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴: Vanitas x Fem!Reader
𝗧𝗵𝗲𝗺𝗲/𝗚𝗲𝗻𝗿𝗲: hurt/comfort (?), more like a sickfic tbh, but we know I suck at categorizing
𝗥.𝗦: established relationship
𝗪𝗖: 2.3K
𝗦𝘆𝗻𝗼𝗽𝘀𝗶𝘀: On a cold December morning in Paris, you and Vanitas find yourselves caught in the rain. What begins as playful banter quickly turns serious when your illness worsens, leaving you breathless and panicked.
The air bit colder than it had yesterday, sharp enough to sting your nose despite the scarves wound high against your face.
Vanitas yawned into the fabric of his thick blue scarf, a large ribbon tied at his nape keeping it in place.
His jet black hair, stubbornly disheveled, stuck out in every direction as though the morning wind had fought him and won.
And then, his eyes, bleary with lack of sleep, narrowed against the drizzle that dampened the street lamps and slick cobblestones.
Vanitas stretched as they walked, long arms popping at the joints in a way that drew a faint groan of relief out of him.
Beside him, you buried your mouth and nose deep into your own scarf, a deep red, and scratchy thing, and far too long.
It was the kind of wool that never softened no matter how many winters it had weathered.
Your breath came back to you with a faint rattle, chest tight beneath your coat. You could feel the irritating tickle at the base of your throat with every single inhale.
The familiar pressure weighed down on your lungs, heavy and relentless, though you didn’t say a word about it.
Not here. Not now.
All you wanted was to get home, curl under a couple of blankets, maybe lean over a steaming bowl of water until you felt halfway human again.
The dizziness already blurred the edges of your vision, though you ignored it with the stubborn pride Vanitas had always accused you of having.
Of course, he noticed anyway. He always did, though he pretended not to.
The drizzle thickened, sharp pinpricks of rain beginning to spatter against the stones. Vanitas squinted skyward and then, with no warning, seized your hand and tugged you toward the opposite side of the street.
“Oi—!” You choked out, startled at the sudden grip.
Your lungs protested immediately, breath shortening as your body tried to keep up with his long strides.
By the time he dragged you under the awning of a nearby bakery, the rain was coming down steadily. He smirked, breathless only with amusement.
“Well. Could’ve been worse.”
You leaned against the wall, your legs trembling beneath you. Sitting felt safer, so you slid downward until you were seated.
Your knees bent too close against your chest. Bad idea. The pressure worsened.
A wet cough forced itself free, rattling through your throat until you covered your mouth with your scarf once more.
At first, Vanitas only squinted at you, still smirking faintly. “Don’t tell me you’re winded from that little run? Really, I expected better stamina from you.”
Another cough wracked your frame. You tried to breathe in, but it was shallow, weak, air scraping against raw lungs. The scarf muffled your trembling words.
“I just… need a moment.”
Something flickered in Vanitas’s expression. He crouched down, eyes narrowing with something closer to genuine scrutiny now.
Your face seemed just a little paler, your breaths fast, ragged, too thin to sustain.
“You alright there?” he inquired, sharp and cool. “What’s wrong?”
Your eyes widened, fear creeping in despite your usual indignance. You shook your head, tried to suck in air that wouldn’t come. “I—I think—” You swallowed hard, panic rising. “I can’t breathe.”
That made the alarm bells go off in his head. His smirk vanished entirely.
It took twenty agonizing minutes to reach your home. By then, you were barely holding yourself upright.
Vanitas moved quickly once inside. His medical bag, thankfully slung at his side earlier, was spread open across your table.
You lay propped up in bed, scarf, boots, and coat discarded in a messy heap on the floor. Your breaths came shallow and quick, every inhale a struggle.
He’d been at your side for half an hour already. In that time, he had tried everything he knew to ease your discomfort: having you inhale medicinal salts from a glass flute, rubbing pungent eucalyptus oil across your collarbones, even mixing tinctures.
None of it seemed to help.
Frustration prickled in his chest as he rifled through the worn leather notebook he kept tucked in his bag.
It was one of the last relics of his father’s practice. His bright eyes darted across cramped handwriting until he found what he needed.
“Datura stramonium,” he muttered. “What the devil was that again...”
He read faster, skimming notes on the belladonna alkaloids, their effects on constricted lungs, the prevention of reflex bronchoconstriction.
“Vanitas,” You rasped, weak but indignant. “You’re muttering nonsense.”
“It isn’t nonsense,” he shot back, lips curling faintly as if annoyed you dared to question him in this state. “It’s medical science. Do try to keep up, ma chére.”
You blinked at him, utterly bewildered.
He sighed, snapped the notebook shut, and ran a hand down his face. “Never mind. I’ll prepare it. You count as bed-ridden for now. Don’t even think about standing.”
You made a weak attempt to push yourself up anyway. “You can’t order me around in my own damn house—”
“I can, and... Oh, I just did.” He shoved you gently but firmly back against the pillows, with a flat hand placed against your shoulder. “Especially when you look like death warmed over. Stay put. I’ll handle it.”
You coughed again, miserably. “I can’t breathe.”
The admission was small, broken. Fear edged your voice. You were used to these frequeng symptoms, but at times, they grew especially harrowing.
Vanitas paused, gaze flicking over your trembling frame. His expression softened a fraction, though he masked it quickly. “You’ll just have to trust me.”
It didn’t take him long to prepare the remedy, smoke curling faintly in the narrow glass flute he carried back to your bedside.
He sat at the edge of the bed, thumb covering the top of the instrument. His voice was low, steady, all the flippancy gone.
“Sit up. Look at me.”
Your panic threatened to spiral. Your chest rattled with each ragged inhale, eyes glassy with unshed tears.
“Out,” he instructed. “Empty your lungs. Breathe every bit of it out until you can't anymore. Now.”
You hesitated. “What if—I pass out—”
“You won't pass out,” he cut her off sharply. “Now, do as I say.”
Your eyes met his. For once, you obeyed. You exhaled until it hurt, coughing harshly at the end.
“That's right,” he muttered absentmindedly, more to himself than to you. He held the flute to your lips, moving his thumb away. “Now. Inhale the whole thing. Keep your lips tight. Don’t waste any of it.”
You did as told. The smoke burned, thick and acrid against your raw lungs. Immediately, your eyes watered, throat protesting as though you were inhaling fire. For a moment, you thought you might choke.
But then came the relief. Subtle at first, a loosening in the tight bands around your chest. Another breath came easier. Another, easier still.
Your eyes fluttered shut. Tears spilled down your cheeks, but your lips parted with something like a shaky laugh. “It’s working…”
Vanitas leaned back slightly, exhaling himself. He placed the flute aside and watched you carefully, arms crossing over his chest in a false display of detachment.
“Of course it is. Did you expect anything less from me?”
You shot him a watery glare. “I could have suffocated, no?”
“And yet, despite your nonsensical beliefs,” he said smoothly, though his eyes softened in a way he couldn’t help, “you’re still alive. You’re welcome.”
You slumped back against the pillows, exhaustion dragging you down now that you could finally breathenfreely again. Your voice was weak but edged with indignation.
“You worried, didn’t you?”
Vanitas scoffed, standing to retrieve another blanket for you. “Worry implies sentiment. I simply don’t like when my patients die on me. It’s untidy.”
But when he tucked the blanket over your shoulders, his hand lingered at your wrist just long enough for you to know the truth.
You smiled faintly, eyes closing. “You're a little liar.”
Vanitas sat beside you, watching your breaths even out, the rise and fall of your chest slow and steady now. His own muscles eased only when he was certain you’d be fine.
The moment he brushed a stray strand of hair away from your face, his chest squeezed with something he didn’t want to name.
Because if you ever stopped breathing for good, he wasn’t sure what air would be left for him.
A/N 2.0: So, I've realized that knowing and living the symptoms vs. writing about them are two very different things. I had to google how to cure asthma in the 1800s... This is how I feel during asthma flares, but I think it might just be different for everyone </3
Request: Can you please write an asthmatic reader and Sam and Dean help calm her during an attack because they know what to do - helping her count and breathe and use the inhaler because it’s a really bad attack (I live for whump!) - Anonymous
Pairings: Sam x Asthmatic!Reader; Dean x Asthmatic!Reader
Author’s Note: Thank you for the prompt, Nonnie! I actually have asthma, so this was somewhat cathartic to write. I hope you enjoy!
Morning had always been your favorite time to run. There was something so calming about watching nature wake up: the sun rising over the treetops, birds greeting the day with their happy chirps. Living the stressful life of a hunter made you truly appreciative of these peaceful moments, and you did your best to incorporate them into your daily routine.
You were on a small trail that looped around the woods near the bunker. It stretched roughly two miles, the perfect length for a morning jog. Although you maintained a steady pace, you noticed your breathing rate increase around the one and a half mile mark. Wanting to enjoy the tranquility of the outdoors a little longer, you shrugged off the warning sign. Now, on the last leg of your run, a familiar sensation tugged at your chest.
Slowing your pace, you reached into your running belt and felt for your inhaler. When you found nothing, you tried the other pocket. It wasn’t there.
“How could I be so stupid,” you wondered. Asthma had been a part of your life for as long as you could remember, and you always had an inhaler with you in case of emergencies.
Panicking would surely make things worse, so you ran through your usual mantra of reassuring phrases:
“You can still talk, which means you’re getting enough air.”
“Your inhaler is close.”
“Sam and Dean will be able to help."
While your personal pep talk kept your mental game in check, the tightness in your chest continued to twist, and you were beginning to feel your throat constrict. By the time the bunker came into view, you were in the throes of a full-blown asthma attack.
The bunker door was twice as heavy in your current condition, but with a weak heave, you managed to nudge it open just enough to slink through. The door closed behind you with a thud, and you braced yourself against the loft railing.
"Y/N,” Sam called when he heard the bunker door close, “Dean found a hunt while you were on your run.” When you didn’t reply, Sam shouted after you again. “We’re in the library!”
No longer able to support yourself, you fell to your hands and knees gasping for air.
“Y/N?” Dean yelled a little louder, thinking you may not have heard Sam. When you still didn’t respond, the brothers exchanged a worried look.
You needed help, but you could no longer speak; there was no way you had enough breath to call downstairs. Trying to conserve what little energy you had left, you kicked over a small bucket of bullet casings sitting next to the door. At the sound of shells loudly scattering across the floor, Sam and Dean darted toward the stairs.
“Y/N!” Sam and Dean’s speed increased when they saw you on all fours. They quickly scaled the staircase and were next to you within seconds. Dean landed at your side and placed a hand on your back. Sam knelt in front of you, taking your face in his hands.
“Y/N/N, what’s wrong?” Sam’s hands moved from your cheeks to your shoulders and down your arms as he felt for injuries.
You responded by placing a hand on your chest.
“Y/N/N, are you having an asthma attack?"
Your eyes widened in confirmation and both brothers began to move on autopilot.
"Where is your inhaler?” Sam couldn’t hide the concern in his voice. He and Dean had been helping you cope with asthma ever since you joined them, but it never got any easier seeing you struggle for air, especially when an attack was this bad.
You tried to respond, but all that came out was a stifled wheeze. Sam knew they were running out of time.
“I think she keeps one on her nightstand?” Dean offered. Again, words failed you, but found the strength to nod “yes.” As soon as he had confirmation, Sam shot up and ran to your bedroom. Without Sam to lean on, you began to sway, and Dean slid behind you for support.
“Lean against me, Y/N/N.” Dean eased you into a seated position between his legs. Your fists gripped the rough material of his jeans as you fought for air.
“I know it’s hard, sweetheart, but try to relax.” Dean’s big hands enveloped your upper arms. He massaged them as he ran his thumbs across your shoulders. Your head lolled back in the crook of his neck.
“That’s my girl,” he soothed, “Try to match my breathing.” You could feel the steady rise and fall of his chest, but no matter how hard you focused, you could not calm the urgency coursing through your body. You were fighting a losing battle against the panic churning inside you when you heard the comforting sound of Sam’s boots growing louder as he bound up the stairs.
Sam crouched down, and you reached out a shaking hand to take your inhaler from him. “I’ve got it, baby girl.” Sam flashed you a sympathetic smile, “You just relax against Dean.”
Sam wrapped one hand behind your neck and eased the pump between your lips with the other.
“Ready?” You nodded weakly and Sam released a puff into your mouth. Sam’s heart dropped as he watched most of the medicine billow past your lips.
“I know it hurts, Y/N, but you have to do your best to take a deep breath.” Sam’s hand left your neck. “When you feel ready, squeeze my hand, and I’ll give you another puff, okay?”
You closed your eyes, mustering all of the strength you could and squeezed Sam’s hand. He discharged the medicine, and you took a shaky but complete breath.
“That’s it, Y/N/N,” Sam encouraged, “Let’s do a couple more.” After two more puffs, the tension in your throat eased. Sam set down the inhaler and grabbed your other hand.
“Slow breaths, Y/N/N,” Sam lowered his head to yours, “Look at me, baby.” Sam took a deep breath in through his nose and exhaled slowly through his mouth. You followed his example and took a shaky breath of your own.
“In: one, two three,” Sam coached, “Out: one, two, three, four, five.” He could see your face begin to relax as the medicine took its full effect.
Sam guided you through counting your breaths until your breathing evened and returned to a normal rate.
“How you feelin’, honey?” Dean questioned behind you, his hands still rubbing your arms.
“Better,” you replied in a raspy voice. “My chest is still tight.”
“We’ll get you downstairs to your room and set up a breathing treatment.” Sam assured. Both brothers were surprised when you shook your head “no.”
“Sweetheart,” Dean’s voice was gentle but firm, “you need a breathing treatment.”
“I know,” you wheezed, “Sammy’s room."
"You want to go to my room?” Sam asked, a hint of confusion in his voice. You usually wanted Dean after a particularly bad attack. When you nodded “yes,” his heart swelled. “Of course we can go to my room, Y/N/N. C’mere.”
Sam got on one knee and scooped you up in his arms. He carried you down to his room and laid you on the bed. He turned to go prepare your breathing treatment, but you grabbed his hand. Dean saw and smiled at his younger brother. “I’ve got it,” he mouthed across the room.
Sam walked around to the other side of the bed and propped up several pillows. He took off his boots and crawled in, leaning against the headboard. He reached over and pulled you to him, lifting you onto his chest. He used a pillow to support your back, knowing that being elevated would help your breathing.
Dean came back with your nebulizer and set it on the bed next to Sam. He filled the cartridge with medicine and attached the tubing to the mask. Dean gently lifted your head and placed the mask over your nose and mouth. He turned on the machine, and you began breathing in the mist, feeling relief almost immediately. Dean leaned in, placed a kiss on your forehead, and then looked down to his brother.
“I’m gonna get her some water, you need anything?"
Sam shook his head. All he needed was to know that you were okay. Dean left for the kitchen and Sam tightened his grip around you.
"Thank you, Sammy,” you muttered through the mask. Sam exhaled in amusement at your gratitude. As if there was anything he and Dean wouldn’t do to keep you safe.
“Anytime, Y/N/N,” he placed a kiss on top of your head, “That’s what I’m here for."
This is a masterlist of all of the Asthmatic!Reader Drabbles. This reader is gender neutral and there is both is one post with Simon "Ghost" Riley and three that are with John Price.
(Yes, I know that I've made masterlists on my main blog and could just link the masterlist to my pinned post, however, I'm making new masterlists so that I can just update this instead of the old one when/if I expand this series. Yes I am linking posts made from my main blog, yes this is me.)
Your First Date with John Price
John Price Gushing about You to Kate Laswell
Simon "Ghost" Riley Wearing Strong Cologne
John Price Giving You Flowers
This may not be a completed list (it may be expanded upon)!
Warnings: Pretty graphic descriptions of what it's like when I have an asthma attack. They've been happening a lot and I wish Frankie was there, ok? This is my indulgent lunch break drabble. (Asthma attacks are so different for everyone. This is a lot of what mine are like, not what it is like for everyone.) Don't read if you feel uncomfortable. I just need some Frankie TLC.
~~
You can feel it simmering in the background all day- that tightness in your chest that is always there in some form. It’s when you take the stairs (on the days you can do stairs) or even just leaning over to clean up a spilled drink. That shortness of breath, that perceived weight on your sternum, the cough that you try to mask. Frankie notices when your symptoms are worse but has stopped asking you all day long if you’re alright, because the answer is no…but yes. You’re enough okay.
Your rescue inhaler helps a little bit, but only to take the edge off. It manages to get you through your day if you distract yourself enough, like keeping Netflix on so that you don’t focus on your breathing, or pointing a fan at your face to trick your body into thinking it’s breathing. Frankie doesn’t mind the background noise either, as it helps him calm his own mind.
But then - even though you knew it was coming - it hits you out of nowhere. Frankie is in the other room when it happens, and you can’t get enough air collected to call out for him. Your throat feels like someone has an iron grip around it and you fumble for your inhaler again, barely taking in any of the medicine despite your best effort. You just need to get to the other room where you nebulizer is located. Fuck, it’s so far away. Fuck.
You dart across the house and try to put the liquid albuterol into the nebulizer, but your hands are shaking and you can’t stand still because your brain is screaming RUN YOU IDIOT, YOU CAN’T BREATHE HERE even though you know that’s just your body dumping hormones to create a flight response. Even when your body is breaking down, it’s still trying to function.
Tears are streaming down your face at this point and you’re struggling to remind yourself that you can still breathe a little bit. But your hands are shaking so much you can’t get the medicine open to dump into the nebulizer. Your body and your mind are both screaming for air, and you can’t, you can’t, oh god you can’t…
Suddenly strong hands are over yours, taking the medicine from your hands and deftly setting up the nebulizer, flipping it on as you raise the breathing mechanism to your mouth. Frankie’s here. Frankie’s here. Frankie, I can’t breathe, help me.
You can’t stay a word of this, of course, but Frankie knows exactly what you’re thinking. He sits you down on the edge of the couch, even though every cell in your body is telling you to run, but you need to conserve your energy. He’s right there next to you, one hand on your back and the other holding your free hand. Your eyes are squeezed shut, wishing every second that passed didn’t feel like an hour.
“It’s alright, honey. Just a few more seconds of this and then the medicine will work. You’re okay, you’re not alone. As deep a breath as you can take…yes, just like that. Again. Good job. Keep doing that,” he says soothingly over the few minutes it takes for your body to come back down a bit.
When you finally look at him in the eyes, he knows that you’re more under control. “Hi, baby. You’re doing so well. I’m right here with you.”
You nod and he’s wiping the tears off of your face. And he just sits with you. Patient. Caring. You know he’s worried but he is never going to show it while you’re in the thick of your attack- he’s too well-trained for that. Finally, when the meds are gone and the nebulizer is shut off, you feel like you can sit back against him. He wraps his arm around you but doesn’t hold you too tight because he knows you’re still not ready for that.
You settle into his warmth as best you can. “Thank you, Frankie.”
summary: you have an asthma attack at the end of a mission. luckily, steve is there to help
warnings: mini angst/comfort, exercise induced asthma attack (based on personal experience, but i know it can be different for people <3), gn!reader, asthmatic!reader, brief guns mention, let me know if i've missed anything!
word count: 1.3k
estimated reading time: 5-6 minutes
Lungs burning, legs aching, air thinning. Your aim was getting worse, taking three shots to take someone out rather than just one, and you could tell that Natasha could notice as you took cover again.
“Are you alright?” She shouted, taking another three shots. You couldn’t say anything, just nodding under the guise that you were moving too fast to say anything. You were almost done with the mission anyway, on your way out. But a sharp pain in your shoulder, stemming from your chest, was warning you against pushing too hard.
But you didn’t really have a choice; sauntering out the front door was not an option when there was the very real threat of death, waiting to be delivered by the many agents in the base. Every time you ducked for cover, standing up became harder. You began to stumble as it felt like you were inhaling cotton wool. Before long, you heard Steve’s voice in your ear, starting with your name, “Do you copy?”
You didn’t reply, you couldn’t. You motioned for Natasha to reply for you as you exaggerated having to catch your breath. You were worried that if anyone found out about your asthma, you wouldn’t be able to work in the field anymore, or that you would be viewed as more fragile than the others. Fury knew, of course, but he trusted you to keep it in check. Forgetting your inhaler was not keeping it in check.
“We’re approaching the south-west exit; you boys better be there,” Natasha said. Your final target required the rest of your bullets to neutralise, but for a moment you could enjoy the sweet sound of silence. Using a toppled over weapons crate, you push yourself up, unable to gather momentum as quickly as you could a little while ago. Your breaths began coming out in little puffs, your lungs felt as if something was squeezing them together to prevent you from breathing.
You heard your name again, laced with more anxiety now, and Steve repeated the question. “Sweetheart, can you hear me?”
Exit in sight, you were sprinting with Natasha, spotting the jet landing outside. It felt like a traffic jam of air in your lungs, none coming in and none coming out, even though it looked as if you were hyperventilating. All you could do was shout, “Yeah,” costing you valuable breath, because you were slowing down. Nat kept her pace, but you could only watch desperately as the distance between you both grew.
Approaching the large metal doors, there was a harsh wind that hit you. Shouts echoed through the corridor behind you, pairs of heavy boots falling in unison, like a chant. Nat turned, only to see you grappling with the wall, trying to find any grip to keep you standing. She said something into the comms, her voice flowing through your ears, but you couldn’t hear it. Running back towards you, she held her gun pointed down the corridor. You didn’t have the energy to stand up properly, leaning on the wall bent in half like a fortune cookie. It was then you had the heavy realisation that you had hit a more metaphorical wall. You couldn’t even feel if you were breathing or not, as the familiar wheeze you would normally get had passed long ago. Your lungs were like a vacuum, and you fell to your knees. Nat’s hand on your bicep helped you back up, and you heard her gun fire beside you.
After a moment, it wasn’t just Nat who was holding you up. You were scooped up within a second by a familiar pair of arms, the arms that would carry you to bed when you fell asleep on the sofa, or spin you around when you reunited. You became dead weight in his arms, head lolling against his chest as he ran, focusing only on breathing. Just holding on a little longer. You must not have been far from the jet, because after what felt like a minute, the metal clicking of footsteps alerted you to the interior of the jet. Steve set you down gently on the floor, trying to figure out where you were hurt. All you could do was grab onto his suit tightly, chest heaving.
“What is it, did they hurt you?” His voice was strained, and you shook your head. Thoughts drifting to the possibility of not being able to breathe again, which you knew was irrational. Your hand flew to your chest and you tapped it several times, wordlessly trying to tell him. His expression remained wrapped in concern until he recognised what was going on; an asthma attack.
“Oh. Okay sweetheart, let’s help you sit up. I used to have asthma, before the serum,” His large hands gently raised you to a sitting position. Once you were there he pushed your shoulders back to open your chest as best as he could. Your head fell back against the wall as you tried to get as much oxygen in as you can.
“Does anyone have an inhaler?” He shouted somewhere behind him, initiating a scramble of footsteps across the jet floor. “No, don’t breathe in so much. Try to breathe out.”
You had no control over the strength of your breathing. What once was a deep exhale was now stalling like a car, only a fraction of a puff due to you not having the strength to exhale. “What kind of advice is that, Rogers?” Tony’s voice pierced your ears. “They need air, and you’re telling them to breathe it out?”
“The biggest danger is if your lungs overfill with air, you need to free up space,” Steve snapped back, before turning back to you with a hand on your knee. Your eyes must have shown your panicat that, because he rubbed your leg reassuringly as if to say it wasn’t going to happen to you.
A hand on his shoulder revealed your saviour. The little blue inhaler that had so much control over whether you lived or not. As soon as he caught a glimpse of it, Steve uncapped it and shook it firmly. You took it with a shaky hand and didn’t bother trying to empty your lungs of air as you normally would. You just started spraying it into your lungs, seeing what would stick. Anything that would help to loosen the pile of bricks stacked in your lungs.
It didn’t work immediately, it couldn’t. And with every spray that didn’t magically release you from your prison, came more concern on Steve’s face.
Three sprays at a time, you tried to time it with one of your sporadic inhalations. After what felt like twenty - you certainly weren’t counting - it felt as if the dam was breaking, and you could finally attempt to exhale more and more to perfect the timing of your medication. Soon, you felt the wheeze appear again in an ugly fashion on one such exhalation. You coughed, releasing the mucus that always appeared during an asthma attack, and eventually, you felt well enough to put the inhaler down.
You were covered in a thin layer of sweat, and you felt slightly dizzy from having far too many doses of your reliever. Nat passed you a water bottle, which would come in useful to counteract any side effects, and Steve waited patiently for you to be comfortable again, helping you onto a more comfortable seat in the jet.
“Are you feeling better?”
You nodded. “Thanks, love. Didn’t know you were such an expert,” You tried to joke, but the raspiness of your voice ruined the lighter tone you tried to take, recarving the worried creases in Steve’s forehead.
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?” He asked.
“I wanted to stay in the field. I would get such bad cabin fever stuck in an office all day. Usually I have my inhaler with me, but I forgot. So here we are.”
Steve considered this. “I wouldn’t have benched you if you could handle it. You clearly can, seeing as this is the first we’ve all heard about it. I’ll just be carrying an extra with me from now on.” He said, pressing a kiss to your temple.
“Thank you,” You whispered. He acknowledged you with a squeeze of your hand, making a mental note to ensure you don’t go anywhere without your inhaler again.
hello! welcome back if you’re a regular here and it’s very nice to meet you if you’re new! I decided to write this as i can't recall seeing any asthmatic!reader fics, and with all of the running the avengers do it would be comforting to read how they would react to an attack. to all my fellow asthmatics here who i never really see any fics for: i will be happy to write more asthmatic!reader fics!!
Early in their careers, it came down to a choice between Wardlow and Y/N as to who would move up. The situation gets brought back up years later, but now they are on opposite sides.
Pairing: Wardlow x Reader
Warnings/Promises: angst, SMUT, conspiring
Word Count: 2760
Note:I don’t know why it took so long to write up my Wardlow thirst, but here’s the first of potentially many. As always, comments and reblogs are super appreciated.
This was the feud that would never end.
MJF still wouldn’t leave Wardlow alone to enjoy his life, so Wardlow kept stepping in to mess up his plans. Which is why MJF hired you. You were the one person he’d left most of the talking to. And, considering your non-wrestling status, people were disinclined to swing at you. Which you appreciated. What he didn’t know wouldn’t kill him. But what he didn’t know wasn’t supposed to come to light.
***
“Alrighty,” you coach looked over his clipboard for the thousandth time. The other students were gone, shipped off to their next step towards the brass ring that controlled the wrestling world. Some to fight in the rings, other to help kept best laid plans going straight. You and the man standing next you were either side of that coin. “There’s only one position left, and I’m afraid there’s only one answer.”
Wardlow bristled at the coach’s tone. He knew it too well.
“Japan has an opening for a quick-thinking ring-side counselor.” He held up an envelope, offering it to you. “Congratulations, Y/N.”
“Thank you, Sir.” You took it, beaming with pride and almost shaking too much to give a decent handshake. By the time you needed your next breath, you were already at the door and finally remembered to look back. It popped a hole in your enthusiasm.
Coach had his hand on Wardlow’s shoulder. “This isn’t the end. Something will come up. You’ll see.”
***
Three years later, the man that once stood by your side stood on the opposite side of the ring. He cut a good look in his suit and tie, hair slicked back and out of the way. You had to admire the way he’d advanced in wrestling since you saw him last. But now he was a problem.
“The second your ‘client’ stops getting in my way, I’ll stop getting in his.” Wardlow’s bargain was simple. But Max was not a simple client.
“That was never the deal, Wardlow.” You ignored how Max muttered ‘Warpig’ under his breath. “You’re supposed to be gone. Kaput. Out of sight and out of mind for one of the best rising stars of our generation. And you and I both know the gene pool out there.” You let your voice soften, hoping it would get your point across and end your headache. “There are other wrestling companies out there. Ones that would appreciate your drive and enthusiasm a lot better than here. I have connections if you need them.”
If Maxwell Jacob Friedman never spoke another word, it would still be too much. “You need all the help you can get. Take the deal. This isn’t the first time Y/N’s known best, is it old friend?”
How did he know about that? He wasn’t there. Granted, a lot of the talent backstage had been, but this wasn’t usually a story that people would tell.
***
It was the last time you two worked together. For over two months, you’d run as his valet, making sure he kept his cool in and out of the ring, finally leading up to this match. The original plan was to be a coed team, but your lungs didn’t have the stamina, so you settled. Talent scouts were in the audience, and they were ready to pick the best of the best. Backstage, you all shared a handshake, wishing each other good luck for the match, and for the future ahead.
Then everything went wrong.
First, nerves got to Wardlow. He stumbled on his way into the ring, almost taking you down with him. The match had a rocky start, and a rocky middle. Then, he zigged when he should have zagged, and caught a kick square on the jaw. While the referee checked on him, you created a distraction by grabbing a kendo stick from under the ring before stomping across it to get at the other team. By the time they were able to “talk you down” and the ref could kick you back to ringside, Wardlow was mostly recovered. He won, but not with as strong a finish as planned.
Your quick thinking got you the last open talent spot. Despite his protests at the time, you regretted every bit of it.
***
“You may have always had the brawn, but you’ve never had the brains.” Max continued to poke and prod at what he perceived to be Wardlow’s shortcomings. “Even then, Y/N is a brilliant strategist. She could probably outsmart you at every turn and beat you. You know what, let’s get a ref out here. You could be one half of AEW’s first coed match. You’ve only got half a wit, but it’ll be enough to show you just how far beneath everyone else you really are.”
With a groan, you stepped between them before Max got knocked out. “This really isn’t necessary. If we could get back on topic-“
Then Shawn Spears piped up before you could stop him. “Naturally, wanting to be a gentleman, you’d lay down for the lady, and we’d respect you. Or you could just walk out. That’d be easier to everyone.”
Wardlow pushed against your hands on his chest.
Things were rolling out of control and Max picked up the thread. “Natural. There’s a word to describe you. All brawn, no brains, just,” he flexed his shoulders, “just wild instinct with a touch of modern civility. C’mon. Let the beast out. Fight the beauty. But I still believe the girl could best you ten out of ten without breaking a sweat. The most natural thing in the world.”
“Max-“
“It’s not natural for girls to fight.” Wardlow instantly winced at his words, stepping back. “I don’t mean that-“
Too late. You had a frigid reply. “No, it’s not natural for someone to be as stupid as they are tall. But, oop. There you are.” Behind you, Max laughed with his usual loud, obnoxious bark. You were too busy glaring at Wardlow to tell him to shut up. “This conversation is over. Either we will come to terms and see eye to eye, or Maxwell Jacob Friedman and the Pinnacle will walk over you one last time before the world forgets about you.”
Boldy, you shouldered past him. He let you.
***
Backstage, you quickly separated yourself from the guys and found a dark, quiet corner to breathe your blood down from boiling. Why did everything have to be so hard? And every word so sharp? You shed your suit jacket, running your fingers through your hair. You chose this. And you were going to keep it, no matter the struggles. You had to.
Familiar footsteps found you two minutes later just when you were starting to relax.
“I don’t want to hear it.”
“Y/N,” Wardlow blocked your path. “I didn’t mean a word of that-“
You growled, “it doesn’t matter. You said it anyways, knowing better than anyone else my health issues and why I can’t wrestle like I want to. Max is a pain in the ass, but you used to be better at this than letting him get under your skin like he does.”
Wardlow reeled. “Wait. You’re still having pulm- puls-, ah, lung issues? I still shouldn’t have said it, but you made it to the big leagues. The doctors still haven’t helped-“
“It’s the roughest side of asthma, Michael. It doesn’t fix up overnight, much less in a couple years.” Both of you knew yelling would only inflame internal problems, so you took a deep breath. “And doctors take money. I’m only just now starting to get the amount I need to afford better pulmonologists. It takes a lot to afford inhalers these days. Even with insurance, if you’ve got it.”
The pity in his eyes burned from your stomach to your spine. You reached for your jacket.
“About that scene-“
“Oh my God.”
“…it got away from me and I wanted to apologize.”
You tossed the fabric down, this close to going ballistic on your former partner. “There’s a lot about your career and tonight that’s gotten away from you. But there’s not much you can do to change it, so let it go. It’s out there, on live television, it’s probably all over the internet. Nothing you can do to stop it-“ Your next words were muffled with Wardlow’s hand over your mouth. He pushed you back into a wall to lessen your struggle.
“My god, you’re worse than Max.” He took a deep breath, looking down at the floor as if reconsidering every step that got him here arguing with you in some back hallway. His head tilted with a change. When he looked back at you, he was sure about something… and you were afraid.
With his hand over your mouth you couldn’t get away. When you tried, his grip tightened just enough to freeze you into place.
“One of Max’s problems is that he really needs a good fuck to work out everything that makes him a frustrating person to work with. Problem being that he can’t ever get laid because he’s annoying as hell.” He leveled his gaze with yours. “But you’re more capable than that. Always have been.” Slowly, he lowered his hand. And you were too intrigued to move.
“Are you offering something?”
“I am. Do you have an answer?”
You licked your suddenly dry lips. This was the line neither of you would cross back in the day. It was too messy then. Now would be disastrous. Then again, standing next to him didn’t make your skin crawl like standing with the Pinnacle. It was familiar. Safe.
Your brain was going a million miles an hour, and he knew it. Gently, he cupped your face, tilting it up. “May I?”
“Mhmm.” You leaned up to meet him.
Slow and steady, you tilted and moved with one another. His hands landed on your hips, holding you in place as his hips pressed you further against the wall. Yours clawed at the soft fabric of his shirt, moving up the collar before lacing behind his neck. He reached behind you, spreading his large hands across your lower back to arch you further into his kiss. Giving you a second to breathe was a mistake.
“We can’t do this, can we?” You whispered it against his chest. Before he could stop your mouth with another kiss, you managed, “everything could blow up in our faces. This would be the final straw for Max taking you out. I could lose everything-“
He kissed you deeply, dazing you. “I won’t let that happen.” The movements between you were coming to a head, becoming more frantic and needy for more, or to stop before you’d do something you’d regret. Wardlow’s hands managed to get under your blouse, almost burning you with the shock of finally feeling his touch like this.
Still, your brain turned. “If anyone finds out-“
“Do you ever shut up?” He grunted as you rolled your hips into his. “Max really has turned you for the worse.”
You mock gasped, even as he mouthed at your throat. “Do you always talk about MJF with your partners?”
“No. They usually have the pleasure of never knowing who he is. As you are not that blessed,” he stopped, gripping your chin to force your gaze, “I’m going to make sure the only name you can remember tonight is mine.”
The second he waited for your denial, your escape, passed in an infinite flash.
Then teeth clacked, tongues met, and you both hurried to undo each other’s shirt buttons. He managed yours first, ripping it apart without snapping any buttons off. Your hands fumbled, unable to manage the same for his touch distracting you to no end. Down went your sensible pants. You at least managed his belt buckle and zipper. Wardlow hiked you up around his hips so he could kiss the swell of your breasts. You gave up on his shirt, managing instead to lightly rake your nails down his chest. You could always plan an attack. Stage something to explain all the marks on each other-
“You’re thinking again. Stop. Just be here. With me. Not out there.” He ruffled out of his shirt so your hands could explore the whole expanse of him.
It was the grounding you needed. All that muscle under your fingertips. All that flushed skin to touch. To finally feel flexing, blood pumping in time with yours. Wardlow sucked harshly on your neck, making you gasp into his shoulder. As he tweaked your nipples, massaging your breasts in between, you rocked more and more desperately against his bulge. It was too much. His mouth on your neck. His hands caressing, leading your body into passion. The pressure building in your core. The tipping point came when your rolling stuttered, forcing a groan out of Wardlow. You shuddered at the sound, head to toe to core.
“Did you just come?” He smiled and kissed the underside of your jaw. “Dearest, we’ve just begun.”
With your mind in a haze, you didn’t feel the shift in the last layers of clothing until he was fully against you, hot and hard and ready. You bit your lip, holding back many wanton sounds as he rutted his cock through your slick.
“Please, Michael, please-“
“Hang on.”
He wrapped your arms around the back of his neck. You curled your fingers in his hair, mussing it, and dragging your nails along his scalp. He hummed in delight, but remained focused on filling you inch by glorious inch. Your head fell back into the wall, your mouth opened slack. When you finally composed yourself to look him in the eye, he was already watching hungrily for your next reaction.
The draw out was the last slow moment you had before he let the beast out. Filling you. Pounding into you wonderfully enough for you not to care if anyone heard you. There wasn’t a thought in your head. Just him. The stretch of him within you. Hearing his moans and grunts against your ear when your body clenched. Once again the peak approached.
Wardlow braced himself against the wall, his hips stuttering. “Do- do you remember… when we main evented Chicago that one time?”
“Yes.” You clawed at his back.
“I wanted to ravish you then.”
He moved faster. Shorter thrusts, but never losing his depth.
“End of matches.”
“What?”
You whined, so close to the edge. “Win or lose, I wanted to jump you after every match.”
“What took you so long?”
He smiled against your forehead. Then, with a strained roar, he filled you, pumping thrusts to chase the sensation, taking you down with him. His chest muffled your shout. As the orgasms washed over you both, you clung to one another like you’d never let go.
It may have been five, it may have been twenty minutes before either of you recovered. Like old lovers, you passed one another their clothes, helped with buttons, never letting a touch go unlingered.
Wardlow held back your suit jacket. “You can’t go back to him.”
“Sure I can.” You held up your hands when he gripped your shoulders. “He’s paying my bills, and then some. Yeah, he’s going to stab me in the back eventually. But I’ll see the signs. And I already have an exit plan built,” you added with a shrug.
Wardlow huffed. “Yeah, with whom?”
“Well, I was hoping it could be you, but if you don’t think that’d work I can ask Omega and the Elite. They might be able to finally kick MJF’s ass-“
“Wait, wait, wait. Me?”
“You.” With a swallow, you thought back over what Max poked at earlier. “We both know the reason I got so far was because it was at your expense. If I can repay that in any way, this might be it. Are you interested? Are you willing to keep an eye out for when the wind changes?”
Wardlow crossed his arms. “What all does this plan entail?”
“A lot of kendo sticks and maybe a barbed-wire bat.”
He hugged you close, laughing into your hair. “I’ve missed you.”
You both needed the gentle silence that followed. He ended it with a kiss to the top of your head.
You composed yourself quickly. “Remember, you hate my guts until I give you the signal. Right?”
“Right.”
You had to grin. You missed how quickly he caught on with your harebrained schemes. Without another word, you left him in the dark, not looking back.
***
Masterlist
Wrestling/WWE Masterlist
***
Other Wrestling Angst/Smut:
Preparing for the Future (A, F, S, Breeding Kink) - Baron Corbin
Only Yours (AR, A, S) - Cesaro
My Favorite Things (AR, A, S, F) - Drake Maverick
Fuck the Demon Away (A, S) - Elias Samson
Don’t Rush This (AR, A, S, F) - Jack Swagger
No More Whispers (AR, A, S, F|F) - Peyton Royce
Hard Feelings (AR, A, S, Trans!OC) - Rezar (AOP)
Doubt Comes In (AR, A, F, S, F|F) - Rosemary
To Heaven and Back (AR, F, A, S, Plus!Reader) - Sami Zayn
Break Each Other’s Hearts Again (AR, F, A, S) - Seth Rollins
DO NOT REPOST THESE FICS AS YOUR OWN OR ON ANY SITE, EVEN IF YOU GIVE THE AUTHOR CREDIT! Unless you have permission from the author, do not claim, translate, or repost things that don’t belong to you. It’s rude; don’t be an asshole.
[18+] means NO MINORS! This is not to be discriminatory; it is to protect you and the authors.
***this list is linked in my Marvel Fic Library so be sure to check it out so you can see some other amazing fics!***
Loved a fic? Reblog it to show the author some love! Reblogs > likes!
Thank you, not only to all the authors on this list, but to fanfic authors everywhere for sharing your stories with us! 💜
I hope you all had a happy and blessed Easter and/or Passover, and I wish you a very prosperous month of May!
Violet ❃
✪ STEVE ROGERS ✪
Piggyback Rides [headcanon] by @rodrikstark
★ BUCKY BARNES ★
Cocoon [blurb] @sweetascanbee
Honey and Chamomile by @wkemeup
Here and Now by @sunlightdances
Timeless by @ohheyjanie
Star-Crossed [18+] by @heli0s-writes
Tell Me Which One Is Worse (Living or Dying First) by @nightowlwriting
Looped (again) by @softlybarnes
Daisy Chain [soulmate!au] &
Because the Sky is Blue [soulmate!au] by @aphrogeneias
The Last Name [series: ongoing] by @demonpoxballad
Reflections [series: ongoing] by @breadqueen95 [yes, I am rec-ing this again because she posted a new chapter and you should read this series.]
untitled [asthmatic!avenger!reader] &
A Correspondence of Obligation [royalty!au: prince!bucky, princess!reader; series: ongoing] by @pellucidconstellations
No Such Thing [college!au: collegefootball!bucky; series: complete] by @sanguineterrain
🕸 PETER PARKER 🕸
London Bridge [nwh] &
Project Partners &
Light Pollution by @certifiedskywalker
