DON’T MAKE COMMENTS ON CHILDREN’S WEIGHT

Now what? After 3 weeks of protests and educating ourselves and educating others, how do we keep the momentum going for this civil rights movement? How do we make permanent change?

X

am I just too tired to wink

Title: am I just too tired to wink

Pairings: Hakuba Saguru/Kuroba Kaito/Kudo Shinichi/Hattori Heiji || HakuKaiHeiShin

Rating: T

Word Count: 1k

Summary: Saguru, Heiji, and Shinichi are all working on a case that they just can’t seem to solve. Kaito helps out by making them get some rest. Forgive the shitty title.

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he's like me fr

König Headcannons – Part II:

If I wasn’t clear in my last set of sfw headcannons, I interpret König as having ADHD and Social Anxiety Disorder. I’m going to get into some diagnostic criteria and give some of my headcannons for how they appear for König specifically, and some blurbs throughout because I never learned how to stop talking. 

Social Anxiety Disorder (Social Phobia):

Anxiety surrounding social situations in which there is the potential for scrutinization. I think König’s anxiety would be particularly focused around interactions (conversations, meeting new people, etc) and being observed. 

- He isn’t comfortable with crowds, the dislike of being surrounded by people is intensified by the tinge of constant situational worry that comes with being a soldier. 

         -- If you take busy public transport, where there’s people packed into a bus or a subway car, he’ll sit bouncing his leg and playing with your hands. If you’re standing, he’ll be right behind you with one arm around your waist keeping you close against his chest; if it’s a particularly bad day he’ll hunch himself over to bury his face in the crook of your neck, breathing in the smell of you and trying to ignore everyone else. 

- Even in more regular social situations he’s got this habit of coming up behind you and resting his chin or cheek on your head. You’re used to it, often grabbing his hand and putting it on your waist, but the reactions from whoever you’re talking with range from befuddlement to discomfort, to outright terror at this massive dude just lingering directly behind you. 

- He does not like having his picture taken, especially when he isn’t aware that the picture taking is happening. He will get upset if anyone refuses to delete photos they took without his knowledge and permission. 

         -- He does, however, usually let you take polaroid with him – they develop soft enough that his worries about the photo being horrible are eased, plus he finds he’s fond of the way you’ve got them tucked around the house. Once you took a polaroid of him that he clearly didn’t like, he wasn’t really saying anything about it but you could tell, and you fucking lit it on fire – you went and got a zippo and burnt the fucking thing. He was oddly touched by your wiliness to commit a small act of arson purely for his comfort. 

- I also think he’d not particularly like eating in front of others – as a result of his anxiety he thinks people watch and judge him more than they do, and there’s too many opportunities for something to go wrong, so the threat of that embarrassment causes him to take most of his meals alone. 

         -- The knock at his door is soft and measured, three knocks just loud enough to catch his attention but not startle him. He knows, really, before even opening the door, that it’s you. He wants to see you, he really does, but the thought of it kicks his heart rate up and he feels the urge to fidget with his hands or the edge of his shirt as he takes the few steps needed to reach the door. You’re standing there, holding two full meal trays, flashing a bright smile up at him as you explain that you noticed he’d left the mess hall without eating. You ask to come in and he wordlessly steps to the side, hesitating just slightly as he contemplates if he should ask you to leave – he reasons with himself that he’s confident if he did ask you to go, you would, and that’s reassurance enough to have you stay – before shutting the door behind you and praying he won’t do anything humiliating. You chatter about how you weren’t entirely sure what to grab him, setting his tray on his desk, and sitting cross-legged on the floor with yours balanced across your knees. It twists something unfamiliar in his guts when he looks at his tray and realizes it’s a fairly accurate representation of what he would have gotten himself. He thanks you, the murmur of his voice barely audible. Then, the battered slice of cake catches his eye. The sweets they serve on base aren’t ever particularly good, but it’s chocolate and, fuck, he loves chocolate. Usually these slices, provided to the base kitchens already in a small plastic container, are hard to get and it’s even rarer for someone to make it out of the mess hall without being forced to give it up on some grounds of hoarding. The way there’s frosting smeared on the inside of the container suggests you underwent that trial. You must notice him looking at it for longer than anything else and you immediately grin, devious and triumphant, and regale him with the tale of how you managed to sneak the cake out, all because you offhandedly remembered he’d mentioned once about liking chocolate. You even apologize for the dubious quality of it, and he thinks he could cry. The story gives him time to settle across from you with his own tray largely free of intensive notice. By the time you’ve shifted to discussing a different topic with him – giving his responses a genuine attentive regard that makes it difficult for his anxiety to think you’re secretly judging him – he swears if you ripped out his heart right at that moment, you’d find your name written all over it. It just… becomes a Thing™ to meet up like this for meals, in his room or yours. You always seem to know when to talk, when to turn your head away from him, when to let him think you don’t notice his fretting, and when to either coax him into conversation or sit in easy silence. He panics less about it. He finds himself becoming more and more comfortable with you – fond of the peculiar way you habitually gesture with your fork, how you’re always willing to split things in half to share, how you inexplicably manage to scrounge up hot drinks during the cold months – and he's surprisingly glad to have your company. 

- An individual with social anxiety can be fearful of acting in a way that shows anxiety symptoms that will be seen negatively. 

         -- I think König would be worried most about being the reason people reject his company or take offense to his presence. He, at his core, wants people to like him, no matter how much he buries it. He has a hard time knowing whether or not you’re joking if you ever pretend to be disapproving or mad – his fear of driving you away, of you viewing him negatively, totally wipes away his ability to detect when you’re being sarcastic or playful. I think once you two are close he’d look to you in public settings for indications on when other people are kidding around or not – he trusts your evaluation of tone and social context far more than his own. 

         -- I also headcannon that one of the rare times he isn’t worried like this is when he’s really, really tired. When he’s exhausted, he’ll flop next to you, lean his weight on you, and laugh when you struggle to hold him up. This is when he’ll be the most blatantly transparent. You often feel like you should excuse yourself as soon as possible when this happens, but sometimes it’s on missions when he’s falling asleep while you keep watch and you can’t go anywhere; or at base when he’ll grab your wrist and ask you to stay, and how could you say no to him? All you can do is try to mitigate whatever comes out of his mouth, so he doesn’t reveal too much when he’s barely lucid. When he’s out of his mind tired is when he’ll look at you, starry-eyed and with no attempt to school his expressions into something less embarrassing, and whisper how beautiful and kind and perfect you are. He rarely ever remembers doing it – in his memories the comfort of your presence slots in seamlessly with the relief of collapsing on his bed for the first time in two days. 

                   ---- I think the same thing would happen if he’s ever on hella painkillers. He’s awake but definitely not all the way in his own brain so he’s just babbling about how wonderful you are. He’s just… narrating his thoughts. You’re the medic with him throughout the helicopter evac when he’s covered in more injuries than God should allow? You’re getting more of an honest confession of his feelings than the situation calls for. You’re the doctor moderating his recovery from a nasty concussion? Holy shit you’re going to hear about how you personally make the stars shine. Your whole medical team will know how he feels about you before he ever knowingly confesses. 

- Avoidance of anxiety inducing situations.

         -- I love him, but König has a frustrating habit of avoiding or retreating from you when his anxiety spikes. He needs a lot of reassurance that you don’t think of him the way his anxiety tells him you do. 

- I also think, as a comorbid symptom, he suffers from a bit of body dysmorphic disorder regarding his height/size and his accumulated scars – he perceives these things, respectively, as defects and flaws due to the way they’ve only ever drawn attention to him in situations where he’d rather everyone not even notice his existence. 

         -- His heart is going to explode. It’s going to explode and shred through his lungs. Is that medically possible? He feels like it is. It has to be. Because this is the first time you’ve seen him in a short sleeve shirt and you’ve got your hands on his arms and you’re currently looking at the jagged silvery scar that curls across his bicep and- and fuck, he needs to remember to breathe. He offers the stories behind each scar you ask about nearly entirely on autopilot. Can you feel his pulse? He’s scared of what you think, even as you hum and trace your fingertips carefully over each flaw on his skin. He’s marred, he knows it, and he makes a desperate attempt at casualness with some quiet self-deprecating joke about how the scars are ugly, but they couldn’t really make the rest of him worse than it already was. He misses the mark by a fucking mile, apparently, because your hands go tight around as much of his forearm as you can manage to wrap your fingers around and you're staring directly into his eyes with the intensity of the goddamned sun. He wishes he could throw himself into the sun right about now. But he’s listening, mostly, when you tell him that he’s handsome and well-built and nothing even has the possibility of changing that, not to you. That you like his scars, the proof that he’s endured, and you wouldn’t change a single thing about him. He’s listening, mostly, he swears, but he’s also super fucking concerned about how his heart has definitely just exploded and every other organ in its vicinity is splattered across the inside his ribcage. He can’t function like this, for god’s sake, can’t do much more than offer a jerky nod and let you resume your exploration of his arms, littered with grumbling comments about how you can’t believe he doesn’t think he’s good-looking, has he looked in a mirror recently, is he fucking blind.

                   ---- Bonus points if this somehow takes place before you’ve ever seen him without the sniper’s hood on; so he counters that you can’t possibly know if he isn’t hideous and you cut him off telling him he’s beautiful, and he’s like you’ve never even seen my face, and you tell him you know it’s pretty because it’s him and because it’s him it’s pretty, it has to be, regardless of anything, because he’s inherently pretty, and he just… has to blush about it for several business days.

ADHD

We all know about how our boy couldn’t be a sniper because he was 1.) too fucking big and, more to my point, 2.) couldn’t stay still. König has ADHD, argue with the wall. 

- The inattentive criteria I think he specifically meets are difficulty organizing tasks, avoiding activities that require sustained mental focus, often losing things necessary for tasks, easily distracted by extraneous stimuli and that his mind seems to be elsewhere even in the absence of any obvious distraction, and he tends to be forgetful regarding daily activities. 

         -- I think for work stuff he’s got a whole mess of systems to help keep himself on task and completing everything he’s supposed to be doing – sticky notes in improbable places, a seemingly nonsensical ways of going about starting things, using things like the amount of time it takes someone else in the barracks common room to reload their clips as a timer for how long he has to do something of his own, etc etc. He'll drag his desk three feet to the left just so he'll notice it in the morning and remember something. I think he very often writes things on his actual self with permanent marker, usually on his hand or forearm, if he’s really got to remember to do something. He might even have a more regular system for that, like a dot on his index finger means he has one important task to remember. 

         -- He fucking hates paperwork. It’s boring as hell and his brain never wants to do it. Very much “but I know who’s saying I have to get this done; it’s me, and I know I’m full of shit” vibes. Deadlines aren’t real until they’re tomorrow. He bribes himself with sweets or something he actually enjoys for every few pages he gets through – if you see him buying a pack of multitudinous candy from the vending machine, he’s likely got a stack of reports to do. 

         -- It seems like he’s got a staring problem, and most people are super intimidated by it, but he’s usually just spaced the fuck out. You’ve got this odd habit of crossing your eyes at him whenever you catch his gaze and he sort of refocuses; he doesn’t quite know why you do it, maybe just to communicate to him that you notice, but he finds it endearing. 

- Hyperactivity and impulsivity – fidgeting, uncomfortable with being still for extended periods of time, excessive talking, an inability to wait for his “turn” in conversations or blurts out answers before the question is fully asked, difficulty remaining seated, and general restlessness. 

         -- Fidgeting. Don’t… don’t ask me to explain this, and it might not be everyone’s cup of tea… but… I think maybe, maybe, he’s got a lip ring or tongue piercing that he fiddles with. It’s a secret from his superiors, obviously, because that’s definitely not military protocol compliant, but I think with how often he’s got his hood on it wouldn’t be awfully hard to hide. I’m fixated on imagining him with one silver lip ring or a tongue stud, someone please explain to me why. Anyhow, I’ve mentioned before that he will fidget with your hands, but I also think he’s prone to messing with whatever’s near – whether that be a pen or a weapon or some part of his gear or clothes; he has a habit, of dubious safeness, of spinning a butterfly knife around and has more than a few small scars from where he’s accidentally nicked himself. 

         -- He’s prone to squirming if he has to sit somewhere for a while, especially if there’s not much for him to pay attention to. He ends up sitting super crooked most of the time. 

         -- I think he uses running or otherwise working out to burn off some of his energy, especially when he’s particularly restless and when he’s on base. He hates feeling stuck in the small room he’s assigned to sleep in, and there’s something satisfying and grounding about the ache in his muscles and the way he has to concentrate on his breathing. 

         -- When he’s comfortable with you, which absolutely took an ungodly long time, he will go on tangents and simply not shut up until he starts worrying that he’s annoying you. If you ask him about whatever his recent fixation is, he’ll be over the moon about it. Good luck getting anyone else to believe he can talk that much though, the most they’ve heard him talk is over comms in the field and that’s nothing compared to what you’re privy to. He always apologizes when he interrupts you, no matter how often you tell him you understand and that it’s alright. 

Other prattling unrelated to me thinking way too much about psychology: 

- Loves that you make the effort to learn how to pronounce his name correctly. When he’d first told you his name you said it back to him, asking if you had it right. He usually would just tell people they had it fine to avoid the awkward back and forth of trying to get them to say it right, but something about the way you looked at him made him actually give you the slight correction you needed. Then – and this is one of his endless fond memories of you – you sort of looked off into the middle distance, staring unfocused at his chest, and said his name softly over and over again with entirely correct pronunciation before giving a short nod to yourself, looked back up at him and continuing the introduction. 

         -- He’s watched you correct other people on their pronunciations, casually but like it was absolutely necessary that everyone else say it properly, and it never fails to warm his heart. 

- Very rarely gets drunk but when he does, he’s the type of drunk to call you and tell you how amazing you are. Shit, he’ll tell anyone about you. Much like how he’s quietly honest when tired, but his drunk honest is louder and more social. Tells his teammates or friends how beautiful and clever you are, tells the bartended how much he loves you, tells the people next to him how smart and lovely you are, tells the closest table how you make him so happy. Someone tries to flirt with him, they tell him it doesn’t matter that he has a partner, and said person is now trapped in a lecture about exactly how much you matter to him, complete with photos. 

         -- If you end up coming to get him, nearly the entire place will say hello to you because he hasn’t shut up about you for the past hour. He lights up when he sees you, holding your arms and swaying slightly as he stares down at you with the biggest smile on his face, mumbling about “See? Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I tell you how wonderful they are? See? Look. Look at you, so perfect. I love you; you know that? So much.” 

- Loves when you steal his clothes. Cannot get enough of how you look wearing his shirts. 

- I will accept criticism and differing opinions on nearly anything, but I am adamant that König has the sluttiest little waist. I think he was lanky before he started gaining serious muscle in the military, and now he’s a little more bulky but still has that litheness about him so his proportions just give him a slutty little waist. I don’t make the rules, he’s just built like that. 

- I think, to an extent, he knows how to sew. Nothing fancy, and his stitches aren’t even or perfect by any means, but he knows how to mend worn patches and tears well enough. Hates threading needles. But if he notices you’ve got a tear in your coat or something of the sort, you’ll just find it fixed the next day. Left exactly where it was but mended. Like a house brownie. The only way you’ll figure out it’s him is if you catch him doing it. 

- I know this lovely couple, both from a country outside where they currently live, and every time the husband travels back to their home country he’ll pack all his clothes and whatnot in a suitcase and then pack that suitcase within another suitcase. He does this so he can fill the extra suitcase with all the food and things his wife wants from their home country and take her back essentially a giant package of all the stuff she misses and can’t get in the country they live in. Long story short, if you’re not yet going home with him, König absolutely would bring you anything you wanted from Austria, even if he has to bring a whole extra bag. 

- I don’t think he’d carry any sort of photograph of you with him during work or on missions. If there’s a chance of anyone getting their hands on the photo, of learning that you’re important to him, of hurting you or using you to gain leverage over him, he will not have anything on his person to even indicates that you exist. I think he’d love the idea of it, the romantic sentiment of having a polaroid of you tucked in a pocket over his heart, but he just isn’t willing to take that chance. On leave though, at home, he treasures every little sign that you’re around and involved in his life – from photos to the notes left on the kitchen counter, the way you kick off your shoes by the door, the hickeys and scratches that make it look like he got mauled by a fucking tiger, how you always text and ask if he wants anything while you’re out, and even just the fact that he knows at the end of the day he gets to crawl into bed and fall asleep with you next to him. 

- Piggyback rides. You can jump up on this man whenever and he will go on about whatever he was doing as if nothing’s happening. 

- If he’s drinking anything hot – it might be in a coffee cup, but don’t be fooled – it’s hot chocolate. He makes the real kind at home, with real chocolate and cream on the stove. 

HELLO IVE BEEN WAITINT DOR THIS MOMENT CAN I REQUEST FOR LAW A ONE SHOT OF HIS SO BEING SICK N HES JUST SUPER WORRIED N SCARED FOR HER WELL-BEING AND NURTURES THEM BACK TO HEALTH THANJ YOU I LOVE TOU HAVW A GEWAT DAY/NIGHT TOODLES POOKIE PIE

A/N: Apparently I don’t know how to write short fics anymore. Here you are :) Word Count: 3k Characters: gn reader x Law CW: reader sickness, serious sickness, angstttttt (with fluff at the end. i'm not a monster)

Sickness

It took a sniffle for Law to finally see the signs. 

You were already asleep, sprawled out in the bed when it happened. You had been abnormally warm today, spending most of it in a tank top and shorts despite being in a winter ecosystem. When it was time for meals, you opted for ice cream over anything else. You hadn’t been very hungry, and that was the only thing you craved. The crew had made fun of you, but you hadn’t shot back any witty remarks like normal.

And then at bedtime, you had immediately pulled Law into bed when you both entered the room. Your cold feet pressed against his calves, causing him to hiss and jerk away from you. But you just gave a soft, sleepy giggle, wrapped your arms around him, and fell asleep almost immediately. He enjoyed your snuggles, but not even ten minutes later, you had pushed him away and kicked the blankets off, sprawling out in the bed in the little clothing you had on.

It’s not exactly where Law thought the evening was going. You had been so clingy over the past few hours, silently begging him to go to bed. He just thought the two of you were just playing a game of teasing, one that would end in a night of fun. 

And then you sniffled in your sleep and readjusted, groaning from the heat in the room. And Law realized what he had been missing all day. You were sick. How could he even call himself a doctor if he couldn’t see the obvious signs with you, the person he knew best? 

He needed to run a scan. He wasn’t sure how serious it was, and early intervention was always the best cure. He slowly, painstakingly, tried to get out of bed without disturbing you. 

“Law?” Your voice was thick with sleep, your eyes only opening a fraction of an inch. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” he assured you. He bent down to kiss your forehead, but thought better of it. If it was contagious, he didn’t want to catch it. Instead, he put a hand to your face, and his breath caught in his throat. He could feel the warmth radiating off of you. Your skin was hot to the touch as he swept your matted hair away from your forehead. 

He was panicking now, but he gave you a tense smile. He had to maintain his composure. “Go back to sleep, alright?”

“I’m hot,” you whined, flipping over your pillow and pressing the cool silk fabric to your face. “I don’t feel so good.”

“I know,” he cooed, still brushing the hair out of your face. “Let’s get to the bottom of this, okay? See what’s going on.”

You gave a weak nod, too tired to do anything else. “Can we just do the exam here?”

“I’ve got you,” he whispered. One arm slid under your back, the other slid behind your knees, and Law scooped you up in one swift, gentle motion. 

You laid your head against his chest, and he could feel the heat coming off your body in waves. He forced his heart to remain steady and unbothered, fully aware that you could hear it. 

Silently carrying you to the medical room, his mind raced through the options of what you could be sick with. It was likely a virus, which meant it would be difficult for him to remove. And viruses could change and multiply on a dime. You were already displaying signs of-

“Law.” Your groggy voice jarred him from his thoughts. “I’m fine. Stop panicking.”

He had been so focused on his heart, he hadn’t been paying attention to the rest of his body. His grip on you had gotten too tight, his pace was just short of sprinting, and his breath was shallow and rapid. 

“You should’ve told me,” he said, carefully maneuvering you through the examination room door. 

“I didn’t think it was a big deal. It’s just a cold.”

“It could be-”

“Don’t start spiraling,” you scolded, giving a light cough. “Just do your job.”

His eye twitched in irritation, but he wouldn’t say anything because you were sick. He knew you were right, of course. But he hated when you had to call him out like that. He placed you gently on the cool metal table, and you hummed in delight at the refreshing sensation against your skin. 

He grabbed his sword and ran a quick scan, trying to find the source of your sickness. 

A red icon appeared in your scan around your lungs. “Bronclima,” Law breathed. “A very rare parasitic virus that can be caught in winter islands. The virus can hibernate for hundreds of years, usually residing in old snow caves.”

You gave a weak laugh. “Like the snow cave we climbed down into yesterday, huh?”

“This isn’t funny!” Law snapped. He ran to his bookshelf, searching for any information about it. “Bronclima is extremely rare and…”

“Deadly?” you finished for him. You suddenly felt infinitely more tired. “Can’t you just take it out?”

“Parasitic viruses are tricky,” he mumbled, flipping through an old book. “You have to get it all or else your body just becomes more susceptible to them. It’s hard to use a room technique on viruses in general, but parasitic ones are alive and can move, which makes it almost impossible.”

“Antibiotics, then.”

“No.” Law’s teeth were grit together; you could tell he was only keeping it together so you wouldn’t break down in a panic. “Antibiotics only work on bacterial infections. Viruses just have to run their course.”

“The strong survive,” you hummed, closing your eyes. “The weak die. I see.”

“You’re not dying,” Law hissed. “Bronclima only likes the cold, so we're going to keep you hot and force this thing to die, okay?”

“I’m already so hot, though,” you whined, rolling over on the exam table. At least the metal helped you cool down.

“Good. Stay hot. Stay alive.” Law picked you back up, and you groaned at the sudden movement and absence of the cold surface. 

He carried you to the shower without a word and set you down inside it. You could feel the anxiety rising in him as he fiddled with the temperature gauge, and turned the shower on.

You cried out in pain as the hot water hit you, and your hands flew up to try and block as much of the water as you could. Your skin immediately started to turn red, welting as the water cascaded over you.

Law saw your reaction and quickly tested the water with his hand, but it was only lukewarm. He clenched his teeth and slowly turned the water hotter, adjusting the nozzle so the water was raining down directly on you.

“Law!” you shrieked, trying to get out of the way without moving. You couldn’t find the energy to crawl away from the water, even though your skin felt like it was burning off. Law watched you carefully, turning the water temperature up slowly. 

“Please,” you sobbed, curling up into a sitting fetal position. “Please stop. You’re going to kill me, Law.”

“Hey.” Law crouched down next to you and tilted your head up to look him in the eyes. Tears and scalding water streaked down your face and blurred your vision, but you could see the familiar outline of him. He had stripped down to only his boxers, and he pulled you into his lap and held you close to him as the water rained down on your both. He kissed the top of your head, trying his best to comfort you. “You’re strong. You can handle this, okay?”

You let out a sob in response, but you nodded into his inked chest. You had been through worse, though you couldn’t remember a specific time at the moment.

The two of you stayed there for a long time. You weren’t sure exactly how time was passing, so you counted how many times his fingers ran down your hair. It was 259 strokes before you finally passed out from exhaustion and pain. 

You woke up, now in a steaming hot tub, Law still holding you. You let out a soft whimper from the pain, and Law jolted up. 

“Sorry,” he mumbled, readjusting you slightly against him. “I must’ve dozed off.”

You gave another small nod, too tired to do anything else. 

“We need to get your entire body submerged,” Law said, his voice steely. “At least up to your shoulders.”

“Law, please-”

“I know.” His voice broke when he spoke. “I’m sorry, but I can’t lose you, okay? So please keep fighting.”

You could hear the desperation in his voice. He was on the verge of tears, barely holding it together for you. 

You had to fight for him. You owed him that much, and so much more. He always had faith in you, he was always saving you. This was the least you could do. Clenching your teeth and bracing yourself, you completely submerged yourself in the scalding bathwater. 

The heat of the water took your breath away, and you clamped your hands over your mouth to prevent any more air from escaping. You felt like your skin was melting off, but you forced yourself to stay completely under. You’d stay under as long as you had to if it meant getting this wretched virus out of your system. 

Two strong hands grabbed your arms and pulled you back to the surface. Law’s golden eyes pierced into your soul, scanning your face for any signs of distress. 

“Let me go back under,” you begged between heavy breaths. 

He scowled. “So you can drown?!”

You pulled away from him and plunged back into the water. It still burned, but it wasn’t as hot as before. 

Law immediately pulled you back up, trying to get you to calm down. 

“Soup,” you gasped, wiping the tears from your eyes. “I need soup.”

“What has gotten into you? Where’d this energy come from?”

“I want to live. I want to be with you. I’m not being taken out by some stupid virus. So go get me soup!”

Law grabbed your face and went to kiss you, but you pushed him away. As much as you needed his lips as encouragement, you couldn’t have him getting sick too.

“Soup!” You pushed him out of the tub, and he ran out the door in his boxers. You could only hope nobody else on the ship was awake yet. You were certain that would cause a lot of questions between captain and crew. 

Alone in the tub, the water felt much warmer. You could feel yourself sweating, and you were starting to get nauseous. Your body felt like it was on fire, but you forced yourself to keep your body submerged. You desperately wanted to get out, just for a second. But you couldn’t. You refused to give this parasitic virus even a moment of rest. Law was right. You were not weak. 

He came back into the room with a bowl of soup, and your nausea increased just from seeing the steam rolling off of it. 

Bile rose up your throat and into your mouth at the smell of the hot dumplings. You leaned over the side of the tub. “Law, I think-” 

Law quickly put the bowl down and grabbed a trash can, his skilled fingers wrapping around your hair and holding it back just as you emptied your stomach into the bin.  

“It’s okay,” Law soothed. “You’re okay.”

Once you were finally done, he set the trash can aside and grabbed a rag to help you get cleaned up. “That’s a good sign,” he said, brushing your stringy hair away. 

You gave a light laugh. “How are you not completely disgusted with me right now? I’m a mess.”

“I could never be disgusted with you.” His voice was so caring and soft, you almost broke out in tears. 

“Soup,” you choked out, desperate to change the subject as tears welled in your eyes. You didn't want to be physically and emotionally vulnerable with him right now. One was enough for him to handle.

He gave you a small knowing smirk but didn’t say anything. Instead, he rested the soup bowl on the edge of the tub and climbed back in with you again. 

You reached for a bowl, but he intercepted your hands and pulled you into his chest instead. “Give yourself a moment to recuperate,” he said. “How’s the water feel?”

“Hot,” you groaned, but you nuzzled your head into his chest. “You’re a nice addition though.”

He trailed his finger up and down your spine, both of you laying against each other in silence. You could almost fall asleep like this if the water weren’t so uncomfortable. 

After a few minutes, he tapped lightly on your back. “Ready for the soup?”

“I’m probably going to barf again,” you warned. 

“I think I can handle it. I’m a doctor after all.”

You rolled your eyes, but picked up the bowl. It was so hot that you almost dropped it from shock, but Law grabbed your hands to steady it, and he nodded at you encouragingly.

The best course of action would probably be to drink the broth first, and then eat the dumplings. You pressed your lips to the rim of the bowl and inhaled. The steam burned your nostrils and the back of your throat. Every part of you was screaming in anguish, but you opened your mouth and tilted the bowl upwards. 

The broth flooded your senses- first with flavor, and then immediately with a burning sensation. You sputtered and choked from the pain, and Law pulled the bowl away from you as you coughed, attempting to clear your airway. You tried to settle yourself down, but you couldn’t figure out what was wrong. It was like you were choking and hyperventilating all at once. There was too much air, yet not enough. 

Law put the bowl of soup on the edge of the tub and began rubbing your back, trying to get you to calm down. You could see the panic in his eyes, despite his cool exterior. 

“What hurts?” He asked urgently. “What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” you said between coughs. “Just burns.”

After another few minutes, you finally calmed down enough to breathe without coughing. “Let’s try again,” you offered. 

“I hate being so useless,” Law said. “You’re working so hard and I can’t even do anything to help.”

“What are you talking about?” you scoffed. “You’re the only thing keeping me going. Every ounce of me wants to give up. And I would’ve if it weren’t for you.”

“That’s not what I-”

“Being a doctor is more than just operations, okay? You’re doing the best you can. Cut yourself some slack, Trafalgar Law.” The amount of energy you had to use just to form those words was making you a little dizzy, but you didn’t regret it. “Now give me that soup.”

It burned going down. You wanted to scream and cry and curse, but you didn’t. Even with tears streaming down your face, you drank the entire bowl. You could feel your stomach bubbling, trying to decide if it should reject the liquid again, but it stayed down. 

Law moved you to the shower again, and you let the hot water rush over your skin while he refilled the tub. The water from the showerhead still burned, but it was more like a tingling sensation now. You weren’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. You’d mention it to Law later; you didn’t want to inconvenience him with possible bad news at the moment. 

“Ready to move back to the tub?” he asked, poking his head into the shower. 

You gave a weak nod and pulled yourself to your feet. You began to take a step, but stumbled and fell. Law closed the gap between you in an instant, catching you and keeping you steady before you hit the ground. 

“You’re standing,” Law said, looking at you as if you had just performed a miracle. “You haven’t stood on your own since you got into bed last night.”

You gave him a smile. “Help me to the bath? I don’t think I’m quite ready to walk on my own.”

“You’re standing, though! Do you know how big of a deal this is?” You could hear the excitement in Law’s voice, which sparked your own joy. 

“Tell me.” You took a step towards the bath, your arm wrapped around Law for support. 

“You don’t understand,” Law said. “Bronclima takes your energy from you and you never get it back as long as it’s alive. If you’re regaining energy, then…” He helped you into the tub, afraid to say the last part. He was scared to hope for the best outcome. 

The water felt warm against your skin, but in an almost pleasant way now. You sat down and sunk into the water so that your entire body up to your shoulders was submerged once again. 

A blue hue emitted around the room, and Law ran another scan on your body and you closed your eyes and enjoyed the steamy atmosphere. 

“Clear,” Law mumbled. “It’s clear.” You could hear the scan being run again, and the soft positive beep of no issues being found. 

“Am I cured, doctor?” you hummed, your eyes still closed. 

“It’s gone,” Law whispered, hardly believing it himself. That virus had a 15% survival rate and usually lasted for days. And you beat it in less than 10 hours. 

“We can’t let this bathwater go to waste.” Your entire body suddenly felt very limp, worn out from what you had just put it through. “Come lay with me.”

“In the bath?” Law raised an eyebrow, but you held a hand out, beckoning him in. You knew he couldn’t say no to you after all you had been through. 

He gingerly stepped into the tub and rested his back against the wall of the tub. You felt his tattooed arms wrap around you and pull you up onto his chest. You rested on him, the water feeling much more inviting now than it had earlier. 

“This is nice,” you murmured, already starting to doze off to sleep.

“We can lay here as long as you want,” Law said. He held his composure until he was certain you were asleep, and then cried silent tears of relief until his eyes were red and puffy. He had been so close to losing you because of his negligence, and he vowed to never take you for granted again. 

Ending the stigma of drug use will save lives.

🔶 The story of a Dragon and his Phoenix – and a bond that transcends time. 🔥

so the academy is reviewing whether or not to remove Will Smith’s award and here are some interesting tweets about that :)

Opposite shipping

Zane fighting Kai’s self doubt (the first one is an incorrect quote.)

— — — — — —

Kai with the self doubt: I wouldn’t even date myself.

Zane: Your standards must be impossibly high then.

Kai:

Kai: You smooth, motherfcker.

— — — — — —

Kai after having a fight with Wu: I’m not good enough.

Zane: You’re better than good. You’re magnificent.

Kai: *blushing*

— — — — — —

Kai, looking at the night sky: I wish I was a star.

Zane: But you’re already five stars.

Kai: Zaaaaane.

— — — — — —

Kai after having to stay in bed due to an injury: I’m so stupid.

Zane: Stupidly hot.

Kai, turning red: Oh my god.

— — — — — —

Kai: Am I ever going to find love?

Zane: Well… I did. And I’m looking right at him.

Kai:

Kai, after connecting the dots: FUCK! WHY ARE YOU SO GOOD!

— — — — — —

After getting married…

Kai: Zane?

Zane: Yes?

Kai: Can you give me a pick me up? I don’t feel like myself right now.

Zane: I see. Well, can I order a date in ten minutes?

Kai: Pffft.

Zane: Veggie burger, medium fries, and a medium strawberry raspberry smoothie ordered at your favorite fast food.

Kai: Zane.

Zane: Then get the best seats in the house watching the most finest of cooking served with garlic bread as a side to go with your dinner.

Kai: Oh my god.

Zane: But that is not all. The most softest of blankets complimented with the most exquisite seating. And the best part is that we get it all to ourselves.

Kai, smiling and red: You over-dramatic flirt. You could have said: “Hey, Wanna eat fast food while watching tv and snuggle?”

Zane: I save my over-dramatic flirting for the person I love the most.

Kai: Dork.