#My nose is clogged up so bad and I’m quietly sobbing I only cry like this when a family member dies

[little-shiny-sharpies]

Not over this post bc I’m falling asleep and thinking about me being one of those plushies with a production error in a claw machine in some alternate world where they’re real and catch a glimpse of me in the claw machine window and they have to take me home so they spend like 4 hours in some random place desperately trying to win me and refusing to give up. They spend so many quarters on me and I’m making myself cry typing this out like they’d try so hard and keep going because they just saw me and instantly wanted to commit to the dreadful work but it’s not dreadful because it’s me and they stay so long that at some point somebody with keys closing up for the day says “fuck it” because they’ve been here all day and they don’t wanna bother with these dudes so they just open the case and then they get to hold me and they laugh at my wonky face but they love it and they love me. And then they drive home and take me inside and put me where they see me every day and they love seeing me and they smile and I live there with them forever and hear their laughter and my little plush heart swells with love every day

[thisissirius]

my version of the “ok but in the finale eddie gets shot, right?” fic

to touch the sky [ao3 link] eddie/buck, finale speculation. major injuries. mentions throwing up. 

Eddie can see the sky. 

Is he supposed to see the sky? His ears are ringing and there’s a hazy quality to all the noise, like it’s coming from a long way off. 

Move, Eddie tells himself. 

There’s a dull ache beneath Eddie’s breastbone, a tingling in his fingers, and he’s finding it hard to breathe. Something about that should scare him, but it’s too hard to focus. He grunts, remembers his training; pinpoint one noise, one feeling. 

Sirens. Eddie winces, wants desperately to cough but can’t. 

A voice. Buck.

Choosing Buck’s voice is easy; Eddie focuses everything on it, on trying to move his head, but he doesn’t need to. The sound of something scraping and then Buck’s head appears above him, eyes wide, panic in his expression.

“Eddie,” Buck says, but it sounds murky. Eddie blinks, licks his bottom lip as he tries to solidify Buck’s face. Instead, his eyes drift down his body and he notices that Buck’s not wearing his uniform. Why? It’s something Eddie should know and he’s frustrated that he doesn’t. What’s happening? “Eddie.” 

“I’m fine,” Eddie tries to say; but it comes out a gurgled mess. There’s blood on Buck’s hands when he touches Eddie’s face. He looks scared. Eddie hates it when he looks scared. “Shit.” 

“Don’t swear,” Eddie tries. Again, it doesn’t make sense even to him. He can’t focus on why that is, just the terror in Bucks eyes. 

Buck is still touching him, hands wet and red, and he’s shaking. “You hold on for me, okay?” 

Can do. Not that he knows why he needs to. Eddie’s done it before. Thinks if Buck asks, he’d hold on forever. That sparks something in him; he is waiting for Buck. He’s been waiting, but about what drifts just out of reach. He wants to—

Pain explodes in Eddie’s chest and he makes a noise, one that makes Buck’s face screw up. “I’m sorry, I’m so fucking sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?” Eddie tries. Some of it must slur out because Buck’s gaze sharpens, a little hope. “You’re bloody.” 

Something crumples in Bucks face. Eddie thinks it’s the worst thing he’s ever seen. 

“It’s yours,” Buck says, his voice high. “Eddie, it’s yours.” 

Oh. That doesn’t sound good.

Drifting for a while, Eddie stares up at the blue, blue sky. It’s bright, sunny, and it’s a nice day. The park. Eddie’s supposed to be taking Chris to the park tomorrow, his day off. Alone, because someone else, someone who comes with them somtimes, isn’t there anymore, but the name drifts away, just the image of a smile, a name he doesn’t like. 

“Eddie?” 

It’s a lot of effort to move his head but Eddie does. Buck’s crying and Eddie wants to reach out, wipe the tears away. His fingers are still tingling and all he can manage is a weird jerk of his fingers. 

“Stay with me, alright? I need to get you on the basket so it’s gonna hurt.”

“Nothing hurts,” Eddie tells him, but for some reason that makes Buck close his eyes, take a few breaths. “Okay?” 

A laugh, sad. “Yeah, Eddie, I’m okay.” 

Eddie groans when pain shoots through his chest. He ignores Buck’s muttered apologies, focus on the way the sky tilts, his eyes taking in a building, the side of another. 

“You got him?” Chimney. Chim’s here? 

“We at work?” Eddie asks. Buck doesn’t answer for a moment. “Buck?” 

Eddie can’t help the way his tone banks into panic. 

“Easy,” Buck says immediately, and his face reappears. “I just had to get the harness on, Eddie, alright? I’m still here.” 

Eddie stares at him. Harness? Nothing about this makes sense. When whatever he’s laying on sways, he feels sick. “M’gonna throw up.” 

“Shit,” Buck says. “Alright, Eddie, do what you gotta do, okay?” 

“M’kay.” Eddie blinks. “Glad you’re here.” 

Buck laughs and again, it sounds funny. “You and me both, buddy.”

There’s a lot more swaying, and nausea bubbles up until it’s overwhelming. “M’sorry,” he mutters as he throws up, chest flaring with pain until it’s all he can focus on. 

“Hey,” Buck says, his voice cutting through whatever’s whining. “Eddie, listen to me, Eddie, you need to focus, okay—HOLD THE FUCKING WINCH—sorry, I know that was loud.”

Eddie closes his eyes, embarrassed, but there’s a hand in his hair. 

“Eddie,” Buck says, his voice gentle, and the swaying is less. 

“Buck,” Eddie manages, and the whining’s stopped at least. “Feel funny.”

A pause. When Eddie opens one eye, he can see Buck hovering over him. He’s wearing a helmet, blood on his forehead, his shirt, but he’s there. He touches Eddie’s face. ���I know. We’ll be at the hospital real soon.”

Hospital. For Eddie?

“Yeah, for you,” Buck says, voice cracking. 

“’kay,” Eddie mumbles, and closes his eyes. He can feel the rocking, the noises filtering back in, but Buck’s hand is on his forehead the whole time. 

“Don’t sleep,” Buck says more than once.

Eddie tries. He tries so hard. “Just a little—”

“Eddie,” but Eddie can feel the tug of sleep taking him over. 

-----

Buck’s hands are shaking. 

“Hey,” Hen says, resting a hand on his thigh. “You need a coffee?”

“No,” Buck says immediately. He’s staring down at his sneakers. They’re covered in blood. Eddie’s blood. Like his hands—he’s tried cleaning them—like his shirt, his everything. “How long—”

Buck’s phone cuts through the silence, Chris’ familiar ringtone drifting out of his pocket. A couple of people glare at him, but Buck ignores them, grits his teeth as he answers. “Hey, buddy.”

“Buck,” Chris says, sounding scared. “Abuela said Daddy—”

“He’s hurt,” Buck says, not wanting to scare Chris more than he has to, but he’s not lying. “I’m in the hospital right now, okay?”

A pause. “Can you come home?”

Buck closes his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. Home, like he lives there. Like there’s not been a steady distance building between him and them for weeks. “I need to be here for your dad, alright? As soon as I know anything, I promise I’ll FaceTime, okay?”

“Okay,” Chris says quickly, which means he knew. “You’ll hold his hand?”

Ana will, Buck thinks viciously. Out loud he says, “Both of them. For me and you.”

Chris doesn’t stay much longer; Isabel takes the phone. 

“I’m sorry,” Buck starts. 

“Don’t be silly,” Isabel says, in the way only she can. “Eddie is strong. He will come back to his family.”

“Yeah,” Buck breathes. 

Isabel makes a frustrated noise. “To you.”

“I don’t think,” Buck starts. 

“To you,” Isabel says again and hangs up. 

Staring at his phone, Buck wonders if Isabel knows about Ana. She must? Eddie’s not the kind of guy to not tell his family and he’s met Ana, so surely—

“Buck,” Hen says, tapping his leg. 

He looks up, sees the doctor walking towards them and abruptly realises they need someone here, Isabel or Pepa, he should have kept them on the phone. He realises, with growing dread, that Ana might be Eddie’s emergency contact. 

“Is there a Mr. Buckley here?”

Buck startles, almost drops his phone. Hen and Bobby share a look. “I’m Buck. Uh, Mr. Buckley.”

The doctor nods, approaches. “Is it okay to have a private word, Mr. Buckley?”

“You can,” Buck starts, frowns, doesn’t know what to say. He looks pleadingly at Bobby. 

“I’m sorry,” the doctor says, with a sense of urgency and patience that Buck doesn’t think he could ever master. “You are Mr. Diaz’s agent, are you not?”

Buck almost says no, but he’s too surprised, too shocked to do anything but stare. Hen pinches his thigh and he nods in reaction, says, “yeah.”

“Good,” the doctor says. “We’re about to take Mr. Diaz into surgery to treat the pericardial tamponade. I need to confirm whether there’s a DNR in place?”

Buck doesn’t know. 

“I,” Buck starts. He thinks, tries to recall Eddie ever saying—

"I don’t have a DNR,” Buck says. “Do you?”

“Are you kidding?” Eddie snorts, nods at Chris. “Neither of us is allowed to go anywhere, Buckley.”

—“No,” Buck says. “Please, he doesn’t wanna die.”

“Alright,” the doctor says. He says something else, something Hen and Bobby are listening too, squeezes Buck’s arm and disappears.

“What’s a pericardial tamponade?” Buck asks, he knows, but he needs them to say it. 

Hen doesn’t look at him. 

“Compression of the heart,” Bobby says instead, approaches slowly. 

Buck’s glad of that a moment later when his legs almost give out.

“Easy,” Bobby says, lowering him into a chair. “Breathe, Buck.”

“Why am I,” he gasps out. “He made me his POA, and I can’t—”

“Of course you,” Bobby says carefully. He squeezes Buck’s hand and Buck squeezes back, probably too hard, but he needs something to ground him. Eddie’s got a fucking heart compression and Buck knows that’s bad, so bad, but he can’t—

“Bobby.”

“Listen to me,” Bobby says. “Of course it’s you. That man loves you—”

“Don’t,” Buck says. “Please. I know you mean well, but Ana.”

There’s a silence Buck can’t explain. 

Hen sits down next to him, looking concerned. “Buck, Eddie broke up with Ana this morning. He didn’t tell you he was going to?”

“No,” Buck says, unable to comprehend. They didn’t speak that morning because Buck’s phone went off and he was with Taylor and they’d gone for coffee. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Someone moves something close and Buck throws up, feels guilt and horror well up in his stomach. Eddie’s in surgery, a doctor asking about resuscitation, and Buck didn’t know he’d broken up with Ana because he was celebrating Taylor’s promotion. 

_____

Numb.

There’s a steady beeping in his ear (hospital) and a rustle of sheets (his own?)

He tries to open his eyes. Nothing. Making a noise of frustration, he tries again. 

“Hey,” someone says in his ear. “Eddie, you can do it.”

Something is clogging his throat and he can’t speak, it hurts, something thick and it hurts. 

Someone says something, but his chest is tight, his panic palpable and then nothing.

When he next wakes, his throat hurts but he can breathe. He wants to sob with relief. This time, he can open his eyes. The lights are too much and he abruptly shuts them, makes a noise in the back of his throat, and shifts. 

“They’re off,” someone says quietly, and he feels a hand in his hair. “You wanna open them again for me?”

Eddie wants to say no but his mouth won’t cooperate so he makes a noise. 

“Please?”

The voice is trembling. Afraid? Eddie doesn’t want anyone to be afraid. He cracks open his eyes, grateful when the lights are off. He turns, ignoring the floaty feeling in his head, his body. 

Buck. 

“Buck,” Eddie croaks. His throat hurts. Buck must realise, because he holds out an ice chip. Eddie takes it, sucks on it gratefully, but can’t look away from Buck. He looks exhausted, a cut on his forehead, and his clothes look rumpled and bloodstained. “Okay?”

“Fuck,” Buck mutters, letting out a watery laugh. “Of course you’re asking if I’m okay.”

Eddie doesn’t know what that means. “Awake before,” he manages, before Buck’s shoving another ice chip at him. 

“Slowly,” Buck admonishes. “I need to alert the doctor.”

“Stay,” Eddie says, sudddenly panicked. 

Buck abruptly moves, puts his hand in Eddie’s hair. “I’m not leaving. Just pushing a button, okay?” Eddie nods and Buck does so, but he doesn’t move away. “God, you scared me.”

“Sorry,” Eddie says. Then, “woke up before.”

“I know,” Buck winces. “They intubated but didn’t know you were gonna wake up so soon. They had knock you out so they could take out the tube.”

Eddie tries to focus on that, but the words drift away like smoke.

“You had a cardiac tamponade,” Buck continues, as if he can’t see Eddie’s confusion. “They weren’t sure you’d be safe to consciously handle—”

The doctor interrupts him, striding in and taking over.

Eddie tries to focus, to pay attention to what the doctor’s saying, doing, but he just clings to Buck, hopes Buck’s paying attention. 

“I got it,” Buck whispers in his ear. “You can rest if you need to, okay?”

“Stay?” Eddie says, scared.

Buck leans down, kisses Eddie’s forehead. “I’m never leaving you.”

Eddie falls asleep with those comforting words in his ear. 

[thenextchapter22]

Mail Order… Kitten Girl

Part 7: Bath Time

Description: Satan accidentally orders a special type of ‘cat’ online after having a few too many drinks…

Tags: Past Abuse, Past Non/Con, Slavery, Pet Play, Cat Hybrids, Fluff, Comfort, Explicit Sexual Content

Pairing(s): Reader/Everyone (but Luke)

Link to my AO3: Click Here

In this chapter: Continuation of the last chapter... Asmo gives Kitten a bath, featuring some fluff and hurt/comfort...

Part One  Part Two  Part Three Part Four Part Five Part Six

+++++ MINORS DNI +++++

Asmo carried you into his bedroom first, and then straight into his bathroom which adjoined it. It was one of his favorite places, he always told you.  

The smells that hit your nose were sweet, and the air was warm and pleasant on your exposed body. You began to purr, tail flickering lazily, occasionally brushing against his body to make him shiver. The continued contact with another person always brought you comfort, so you curled up into him, pressing your breasts to his shirt, feeling small in his arms like you did with all your Master’s when they held you or carried you. They were large demons, after all, and you loved to be coddled.  

"Smells nice," you commented quietly.  

Asmo smiled down at you. "I was hoping that these aromas wouldn't overwhelm that sensitive little nose~" he leaned down and eskimo kissed you, making you giggle.  

He set you on a cushioned bench along the wall. As he sat you down, you squeaked and reached up for him immediately, your bum tensing up. "Ngg!"  

The demon made a sympathetic sound. “Oh Kitten, does it hurt?” He lifted you up again into his arms, careful to hold you at your thighs and back with each arm. You did, after all, still have that plug nestled inside of you, your hole throbbing around it.  

You shook your head, pressing into his neck. “S-sore, ‘s all.”  

“Here, let’s lie you down instead.”  

He got a pillow and placed it at the edge of the bench, and lay you down on your side. The leash was still attached to your collar, and so you moved it to drape it so that didn’t get in your way. Your Master would take it off, you were not permitted.  

There were still some aftershocks from before, and you blushed remembering what happened. Cumming in front of all your Masters... So obscene, and really fun, too.  

But now, as you watched Asmo pouring oils of different colors into the large tub, you made the realization of just what was about to happen, and it honestly started to scare you.  

You had a fear of water. Or rather, a fear or taking baths. Of being dunked in deep water. So far you had only showered, and the warm rain-like water made you clean and felt nice—you liked the rain, it was calming—and you had room to breathe inside the shower.  

The fear was like a dark smoke clogging your lungs, and every inhale made it harder to breathe. Memories of past baths at that terrible place began washing over your mind, and you whimpered, bringing a claw-extended hand to your mouth to keep quiet. Your Master wanted you to take a bath, you had to do it...  

But Asmo heard your groan. His head popped up to face you from where he was kneeling over the giant tub. “Kitten?”  

His soft-spoken concern had you crying. You sniffled, and your voice echoed in the room, “No bath, please!”  

His orange-yellow eyes widened. “Baby, no, don’t cry,” he begged, quickly rushing to you. He took your hand from your mouth and held it tight, stroking over your knuckles with his thumb. “What’s wrong, do you not want to have a nice bath?”  

Your mouth stretched open into a wail, “Nooooo-”  

He hushed you, and pet your hair with his other hand. “Love, it’s okay, I’m here. Please tell me what’s troubling you, so I can help.” His hands kept caressing you, trying to alleviate your anguish. From your head to your cheeks, he was continuously touching you, grounding you.  

Eventually he took a seat on the bench by your head, and you crawled into his arms, the plug in your butt was uncomfortable but it took a backseat to the emotional distress. Your hands curled around his neck, and your legs outstretched one way over his, and you cried for a little while, his arms rubbing your back and neck, his lips kissing your head and cheeks, shushing you softly.  

“Darling, I have you,” he would say over and over.  

Soon enough you were just shaking, and breathing slowly and with minimal trouble. Your face felt raw, as did your throat. You leaned back a bit from his body to breathe, and glanced at his face. His kind eyes stared into your own, and you gathered the courage to speak on the past that haunted you.  

“They-” you stuttered out, “w-would make m-me go un-nder. Hold m-me, h-hurt me...”  

“You’re talking about where you came from?” he said, tense as he held you.  

“Y-yeah...” you sniffled.  

Flashes of ‘before’ came behind your eyes. Dunked in a large basin with cold water, or too hot water. Your ears got wet and it hurt. They tore your tail with rough scrubbing, and your skin was fire hot and itchy.  

You sobbed dryly. “I-I’m scared...”  

Asmo kissed your head. “Do you want me to go in with you? I can put on my swimsuit, or not. Whatever my Kitten needs.”  

You nodded. That would be better, you thought. Having him close, your Master by your side. “Please, in with me? Um, n-no clothes? But I don’t wana play... Is that okay, Master?”  

He cooed. “Of course, dearheart.” He reached around and grabbed your collar, the bell ringing, “let’s get this off, and then we’ll go in the tub.”  

The collar and leash were taken off, and he lifted you up as he stood. You gasped, not expecting that, and frantically gripped his neck, claws digging in a bit. He winced but said nothing. Then he set you down on the edge of the tub, and you stood on shaky legs. “Put your feet in and tell me if it’s too hot or cold, okay?”  

You did as he asked, dipping a toe in, and it was perfect. You looked up at him and nodded shyly. “The water is fine...”  

He grinned. “Perfect!” He held out his hand, and you took it, and he helped you step in. “Careful, there are steps here to get in.”  

You took a deep breath, each step making it harder. Eventually you were up to your breasts, and he got his clothes off quickly and slipped in the tub, too.  

“Why don’t you go over here, beautiful, so I can take out your plug,” he pointed to the side.  

You bent over the side of the tub, knees on the outer seating but still in the water, just a few inches of your back out of the warmth. He put his hand on your inner thigh and pulled you open, and then grabbed the plug to gently twist and pull. It hurt a little, and you clenched down.  

“No, no, love, you need to loosen up so I can pull it free. Bare down now,” he whispered.  

You did, and it was easier then, and the plug came loose. Your bottom felt open and loose, and he softly rubbed his finger over your abused hole. “Does it feel good, or bad?” he asked matter of fact.  

You shifted from side to side, and winced. “Hurts, not a lot, though.”  

“Hm, that’s very good. Satan used plenty of lube. When we’re done, I'll put some lotion on it to help the aches.”  

You settled back down, sitting carefully on your bottom. He came over and maneuvered behind you, and you felt him against your back, his cock wasn’t hard but it was there, and you suddenly had a thought that you should please him.  

“I-I...”  

He understood, and placed his hands around your body, skin to skin, chest to your back, his head fitting to the side of your face. He was soft and warm. “It’s okay, we don’t have to do anything. Let me wash your hair, and your tail if you’d like that.”  

You were glad of that. You loved pleasing them, but the non-sex stuff you did with them was fun, too.  

“Please... I-I'd like that, Master...”  

“All right then, lovely kitty, we’ll get your hair wet first.”  

He cupped a hand over your eyes, and water was pouring over your head, and he was mindful of your ears, too. You were tense, though, and he paused after he did it the first time. “Kitten, are you okay if I keep going?”  

You swallowed with eyes shut tight. “Y-yes. Just... my ears, please...”  

“I’ll be careful not to get water in them, I promise.”  

He used a cup and poured it over your head, and was patient when you tensed up. He kissed your cheeks, and said how proud he was of you, how brave you were. It made you blush.  

“So sweet~”  

“Master, please...”  

He laughed, and nodded. “Okay baby, now for the shampoo.”  

He lathered up a sweet-smelling shampoo that was on the outside of the tub in a basket and scrubbed it on your scalp. You immediately leaned back into it. “I put some calming oils in the tub for you, and this is one of my favorite shampoos. It softens your hair and smells like cotton candy. You like sweet things, don’t you, Kitten?” he teased.  

You blushed. “Yes, Master, I do...” It was known by now that you liked sweets. Cakes, candy, anything with cream. It was all tasty and you never got to have much.  

“I love sweet things, too. Especially sweet Kittens like the one in my arms,” he bent to kiss your neck, and you shivered. It was a sensitive spot for you, your neck. He just hummed, “Let’s rinse this out, and then we can condition your hair.”  

You were thankful he was telling you what he was doing. You still felt a nervous but having his hands caress you and guide you was perfect.  

He finished rinsing your hair, and it was done. Then he did the same with conditioner, and it was all good, no water in your ears.  

He pecked your cheek. “Such a good job,” he praised. “Can I touch your tail?”  

You nodded, and lifted your tail out of the water. “Here... ‘m sensitive at the base of my tail.” They sort of knew that, but you wanted to double check.  

“Okay, thank you for telling me.”  

He did the shampoo and conditioner and was very gentle, and it was nice to have your tail pet like that. Usually, it was just your ears that got pet, so this was a nice change.  

“Okay, my dear, all done. Do you want to soak, or do you want out?”  

“Out.”  

He didn’t laugh at how quickly you replied and instead helped you stand up. The water dripped down your nude body and the air felt cooling on your skin, your nipples hardening. Asmo didn’t pay mind to that, either, and led you to stand on a rug. He put on a robe and tied it around his waist. You did see his mild erection, but right now you didn’t want to do any of that. Your head wasn’t in the right place, and thankfully your Masters were kind enough not to force you into doing things.  

Asmo was rifling through the closet for towels, picking at them and shaking his head, looking for a specific one obviously. “I have a nice fleece robe for you, and cozy slippers. Do you want me to blow dry your hair, or let it dry naturally?”  

You didn't like the sound of the blow dryer. “No dryer,” you said adamantly.  

He chuckled. “Got it, love.” He used a towel to dry over your body, and you let him, feeling pampered. The towel was so soft and fluffy. You purred, leaning into his touch. “Ugh, you are the most precious little thing ever,” he cooed, kissing at your cheek. Then he grabbed a bathrobe, pink and fluffy, and put it around you loosely.  

“No underwear?” you asked with a frown.  

“Do you want some?” he asked back.  

You pursed your lips, and swished your tail back and forth. The robe was snug and felt soft on your body, so no, you actually didn’t want underwear.  

“No thank you.”  

He nodded. “We have to put cream on your bum anyway, so come this way,” he held out his hand, and took you to his bedroom and had you lay on the bed on your belly. He left for a quick second, and then he was back and lifted the robe up and spread your cheeks open with one of his hands, your puckered hole tensing from the cool air.  

“Master...”  

He hummed, and a cold finger glopped with something rubbed over your hole, dipping inside just so in order to curl and rub. He did this for a few seconds and then his finger was gone. “Good, that’ll help you feel better.”  

You turned your head, and then decided to just roll over on your back. He came over to kiss your nose, and you swiped at his face with your tongue playfully, catching his chin. You felt warm and soft and floaty from the last hour of sex time and bathing, or it could have been longer or shorter, you were not totally sure.  

“Playful Kitten,” he teased. Then your stomach growled. He giggled. “Hungry Kitten, too. It is dinner time.”  

He frowned a second later, and sat on the bed next to you, grabbed his phone and started texting. You leaned over to see him messaging Beel for food. You whined. “Can I have sweets?”  

“After dinner, lovely. We can all have some cake that Barbatos made.”  

Your ears perked up. “Barb made cake?” your stomach growled louder, and your cheeks reddened.  

Asmo cooed. “He came by while we we’re in the bath to drop it off. I'm not sure why or what it was for, but it looks good. And Beel promised to save some for you.”  

There was a knock on the door, and Beel peeked in after Asmo gave the okay to come inside. He held a plate of food, steaming and aromatic. His eyes ran over you, and he seemed satisfited with what he saw and stepped in fully.  

“None for me?” Asmo blinked, but he had a small smile on his face.  

Beel frowned. “Sorry, I only brought food for Kitten.”  

Asmo sighed. “That’s okay, I've been watching my figure lately anyway.”  

Both your Master’s sat on either side of you, and took turns feeding you. It was nice. You leaned back against the soft pillows eventually and yawned.  

Beel’s large hand went to your head, and he smiled. “You should sleep now after eating all that food. Your stomach isn’t as big as mine.”  

You yawned again, and smiled sheepishly. “Yes, Master. Can I have a hug before bed?”  

Beel grinned. He held you to his chest, smoshing you perfectly. He smelled like warm spices, and his hugs were some of your favorite hugs out of all your Masters’ because he was so big—muscles, you meant, not fat. He did work out, and you also liked to lick his sweat from his pecs or neck.  

The red-headed demon kissed your forehead, humming. Then his lips pressed to your cheek, and slid over to your lips. You licked at them for a second, tasting him, but he didn’t let you in. That was okay, though.  

“You get hugs and kisses, little kitty. Always,” Beel said, and he pet your wet hair from your ears and smiled.  

Cheeks flushed, you reached up to peck his lips in one last kiss. “’night.”  

Beel took the plates and turned at the door to smile at you, “Good night, Kitten. Sweet dreams.” He shut the door as he left.  

Asmo wiggled on the bed and whined. “My turn for kisses now!”  

You laughed. “Yes, Master,” you leaned over and gave him several kisses on his soft lips, and one on his nose, your fangs grazing ever so slightly.  

“Kitty has such a lovely mouth,” he sighed.  

You yawned, and reached for him. “Cuddle me?”  

He did not hesitate. “How can I resist that face?”  

He curled himself around you, his fingers went to your bare belly to rub circles, and it soothed your full stomach. His hair was wet at the ends and dripped on you, but you didn’t care. This was exactly where you wanted to be.  

“Sleep tight, lovely,” Asmo whispered in your ear, right as you shut your eyes to enter dreamland.  

[mymadmedleyw]

Portal

Summary: It represented something like hope, something unearthly, something worth examining, but now, for Maddie, it was nothing else just a reminder, telling that she failed.

(ao3 | ff)

---

Maddie was staring at the swirling green madness, trying to recall the days when it wasn't a curse or seemed more than an acidic green-ness of doom, but- she shook her head, she couldn't tell. Now, at the present, she couldn't remember those days.

Her son was dead, and partly she had made it happen. And she called herself a good scientist! But, after all, she called herself a ghost-huntress too, and...

She bit her lips. She had been both at a certain moment of time and also a mother, who should have been a support to her little boy, but- now, who she was? But this damn thing couldn't answer her question either, it was wordless and- and just the shifting swirl was speaking in silence, telling a tale that she hated to hear, it told that- that she had failed. As a scientist, as a ghost-hunter, and as a mother too.

Maddie took a careful step closer, wondering. Had it been painful? Surely, it had supposed to be. It had killed her boy. But- she almost could imagine him, shrieking in pain and falling to the floor, unaware yet that his life had changed and that- that it never would be normal again. She had made it. She had let it happen. She had killed her baby. Just as-

"Mom!" a sudden shouting voice made her stop to take another step. And then, in the corner of her eye, a bright green light slowly was flying closer. "Come back, it's dangerous."

She had to laugh at the note – if she could have been able to crack a smile on it. Dangerous, he said, dangerous! It had been dangerous, a hazard too at the first place and-

Suddenly something grabbed her shoulder and then in a blink of an eye she was at the other side of the lab, being pushed down in a chair. A glowing green gaze locked her eyes, worried. "Mom, you're okay?"

Maddie had to blink a few, realising what had just happened, that she was placed – by flying obviously – away from the portal, because- because she had been standing too close to it, that- that she had been too close to harm herself with it, just like-

A little shake got her out of the thinking. "Mom! "

Maddie shook her head, trying to concentrate. It took a huge effort, but then she looked back at the bright gaze, nodding. "I'm okay, sweetie, don't worry, I was just thinking there."

Her boy – now in ghost form – moved backwards, giving a sceptical look, crossing his arms and floating in the air with spectral tails. "It's dangerous, mom. You can't just walk into the Ghost Zone. For humans, it's better to wear something like uh- sort of protection or else who knows how it could affect the body or even hurt you. It’s not safe for you, to walk in, just like that.” he lectured, but the only word she heard was the word ‘hurt’.

Hurt … not safe… just like that… dangerous. Fatal maybe even – not maybe, literally, because- because- Now, it reached the edge, Maddie buried her face in her hands, breaking out weeping. What had she done? He was- he was worried over her that she would get hurt by the portal and- and she supposed to be the mother, to take care of her son and- who was she now? Nothing else, just a failure.

For a moment there wasn’t anything else just her quite sobbing, and then something made a bright flash of light and a nearly uncomfortable cold something embraced her, flinching by the touch, but not releasing her otherwise. It took a second to realise what it was, what – who – was hugging her, comforting her. Maddie pushed him away.

“Danny, change back immediately!” Her son, confused and surprised blinked at her. Maddie stared at him seriously. “Now, sweetie!” The boy raised his arms in the air, giving up, but wincing in pain by the movement, only confirming by it, that him, being ‘human’ caused him indeed trouble.

“Okay, okay, gee!” rolled the human formed boy his bright blue eyes that were still dimmed by the hurt he still was in. “Ancients, if someone had told me a week ago, my parents would force me to stay Phantom, I would have thought they were too long in the Thermos and lost their mind.” he mumbled under his nose, but then the white rings appeared and his form changed back into the ghost-state. Maddie gave a sigh of relief and wiped off the remained tears on her face.

“Honey,” she turned to her baby, “just because I am still processing this whole, it doesn’t mean, you have to change back to human and comfort me, just because you assume I’d be less freaked out.”

The boy in embarrassment scratched the back of his neck, this time with a lack of frowning by the movement. “I thought- I thought…” but then, he stayed wordless.

Maddie reached out for him, slowly grabbing his uninjured hand, looking straight into the glowing green gaze. “Danny, you have to heal, and you said, you heal faster as Phantom. Staying ghost is obligatory till then, got it?” the boy sheepishly nodded, she continued. “I might not be able to protect you from everything, but I am your mother, and as a mother, I have to take care of you as much as I can.” she gave the explanation.

The boy pursued his slightly trembling lips, visibly near to crying, but he didn’t say anything, he was just quietly floating in the air, rubbing his upper arm uncomfortably. “Okay, but-“ he gazed at the floor, but then lifted his eyes, letting out a breath. “Just don’t go into the Ghost Zone without protection, okay? If you want to explore it or something, tell me and we’ll figure out how I can show you around safely later.”

Maddie stared at her son, shocked, he was- but after all, he was the hero of the town, the Ghost Boy, protecting Amity Park from the other ghosts and… even if she was his mother, she didn’t have a word who was in charge connected to ghosts. She nodded.

“All right,” he accepted it, and moved a bit backwards, giving a quick glimpse towards the portal. “You don’t might if I shut it off now, do you?” he flew towards the panel. Maddie shook her head, slapping herself mentally why didn’t she yet do it, after the other ghost had appeared and disappeared, and…

“Uh-“ she facepalmed, cursing herself that she hadn't been thinking at all. The ghosts were coming to Amity Park from the Ghost Zone, through their portal and- and if any showed up right now, Danny was still weak and healing to fight them and- she was so stupid not shutting it off immediately back then.

“Mom?” came suddenly a questioning voice. Maddie raised her head towards her boy, the lack of swirling green made the lab almost dark.

“Sorry, sweetie, I- I really need to get used to it. So, uh- if the portal is off, there wouldn’t be any ghost issues?” she wondered, the answer was a soft chuckle.

“No, unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that.” her son explained. “But I guess, it can keep them away for a while, but for example for Cujo… well, he could slip out even if it is closed.” Maddie’s brows raised up, he continued, reading by her expression. “He is a ghost dog, harmless, mostly.” her eyes widened, by the last note, the boy waved in the air. “I mean, mostly, as a little puppy, mom.” well, that didn’t calm her down, but- after all, what she could do.

Maddie stood up from the chair and walked towards the stairs, but then she turned back to her baby who was now, floating thoughtfully next to the portal in his ghost-form. She had to admit, even if they were scientists studying ghosts, they would have never ever thought they would once actually meet with spectral beings and not even imagining that their town would turn out the middle of paranormal occurrences, and- and not even conceiving that their son would turn out half-ghost by their-

Maddie let out a shaky breath that grabbed the boy’s attention, making him fly next to her, examining her worried. “Mom, are you sure, you’re okay?” she couldn’t tell it or put it into words, but then seemingly she didn’t need to, namely suddenly he wrapped his arms around her. “I’m sorry, I know how hard it can be for you, but I- I don’t blame you, okay? I’m okay like that. And if- if I once had to do this again, giving up being Phantom or living a normal life, I still would choose this, no matter what.”

Her hands started to tremble, but then she squeezed her boy, realising that partly, he had been hiding this part of his life – or afterlife – because he felt it would upset them, blaming themselves for it, creating the portal and… then it clogged together. The portal. Now, it all became clear. Not only her son turned half-ghost but-

“This Wisconsin Ghost…” she started, recalling the ghost who had been helping her, patching her boy, keeping him alive and things – god, how many breakdowns she had had in one day…

Her son released her, suddenly, facing her. “You mean Plasmius?” Maddie nodded, yes, after all, only her husband called the spectre ‘the Wisconsin Ghost’, and in real, they hadn’t ever given a chance to ghosts to introduce themselves... They shot first and asked questions never, especially if that was about- about… Phantom. She buried those disturbing thoughts rather right now, in the back of her mind, only focusing on the current issue.

The boy ran his hand through his white hair. “Yeah, I should definitely thank him, saving my life…” he whispered, and then, his lips curled into a half-smile. “Gee, actually, I hadn’t even thought, he would help me, but-“ his expression fell into an unreadable one. “After all, he was right, if things turned bad, he would be the only person to understand me…” he pursued his lips to that note. Maddie was sure that note meant something to him, something deep, but she didn’t push it, just as he forced himself to leave that thought behind, turning to her suddenly. “Sorry, what you wanted to ask about Plasmius?”

Maddie had to think, what she wanted to ask, but then, it reappeared in her mind. “It’s Vlad Masters, isn’t it?” she voiced, her son’s mouth opened and closed a few times, putting together what she was saying.

“I- I didn’t- I don’t suppose to-“ he stuttered. “We- we have a pact not telling- well, not telling- I-“

Maddie put a hand on his shoulder, giving her a look, tilting her head. “You didn’t tell it. I figured this out myself.” she calmed her, and indeed it seemed his ghostly body released the sudden tense. “It was the Proto-Portal, right?” he didn’t need to give a nod, she knew it. Now, she started to understand the man too, not everything, but slowly, the things began to clear up. Especially the expression that had been readable on the ghost-man’s face as he had spotted the injured boy, and Maddie had asked for help. That had been fear, horror, if she had hurt the ghost-boy, because Vlad was aware of who her son was. The Wisconsin Ghost that had once attacked them, the man who had a clear obsession over getting her, had been worried over the other part-ghost, because- because even if they were each other enemies, they still shared the same fate, bonding over their state.

Maddie gave a quick glimpse towards the now shut-off portal, she wasn’t sure when she would be capable of stepping over it, but then she turned to her boy, making up a convincing smile. “Pizza?”

Her half-ghost son smiled back at her. “Pizza sounds good, I’m starving.” he said, phasing excitedly through the door of the lab. Maddie stared back at the cursed invention, but then, followed her boy, concentrating on preparing lunch instead and somehow making a promise to herself to never ever create another portal. She couldn’t even tell if she was once able to survive the guilt over this, or either the previous one.

[ssa-lesbian]

this is how i will love you, even as the world goes on its wicked way (1/1)

word count: 2.97k

The fever comes two days after landing in Paris.

-> read on AO3

(content / trigger warning: fever, vomiting, curse words, implied suicide ideation.)

—

Emily Prentiss does not get sick. She feels her throat close up and drinks some hot water before driving in for work. Her nose is clogged and she barks out a laugh at Morgan’s pathetic joke and pokes Reid in the side when he stammers at the innuendo. There’s a pounding in her temples and she closes her eyes for a moment before standing at the precinct and telling officers their unsub is a sociopath and they needed to be aware of those whose smiles were too wide and eyes too charming.

JJ asks her if she’s okay after flinching at the bright sunlight, and Emily flashes her her signature smirk, and even though JJ’s eyes are still filled with concern, she drops it, and they continue their stroll through the Musee d’Orsay because she knows JJ loves old paintings and the Louvre is too busy and crowded for one last walk with someone she must forget. And even if the Metro ride there is loud and shaky and fluorescent lights blinding, her head spinning is worth the way JJ’s eyes glitter in dim light, hand still clasped tightly in Emily’s as she gazes at the massive wall-size paintings.

On the fourth day, Emily collapses.

She tries to make a joke out of it, but her throat has closed up and she’s breathing hot air and this bedroom floor is as grimy as a dog’s ass (dog’s ass?), and the only sound she can make is an undignified grunt.

“Oh my God— oh my God, Em.”

There’s something wet sliding down her face. Is she crying? Or is that sweat? She can’t feel anything and her eyes are burning. She lets out a groan.

Someone takes her shoulder and rolls her over, and Emily’s head lolls to the side, the only thing keeping her up the strong, calloused hands of JJ, her pretty face blurring in and out of Emily’s vision. Her other hand brushes against her forehead.

“Em, you’re burning up,” she hears, and in one smooth move, JJ picks her up and back into bed.

“Unh,” Emily says.

“I know, I know,” is the reply, and JJ rearranges the sheets so that only the thin bedsheet is covering her instead of the thick duvet she sleeps in. “Let me get you a cloth, you’re gonna be just fine.”

“Unh,” Emily protests, because her skin is burning up and she’s blinking back hot tears and her head hurts so much and the only thing that would make it all better would be to see JJ and her soft, pink lips.

It feels like a lifetime when JJ returns, which is impossible because the bathroom is right next to Emily’s bedroom (in her old apartment it was down the hall, and Emily considered it a major design flaw but not one worth buying another home for), but JJ returns, and she comes back with her honey-voiced murmurs and a cool cloth laid across her forehead.

“You’ll be fine, Emily,” she says. “You’re so strong.”

Emily doesn’t tell her that the cloth has long dried up because if she does, JJ will leave her again.

The day passes by with Emily floating in and out of consciousness, head pounding every time she opens her eyes, and the only things she can recall are JJ’s hushed murmurs as she talks about getting better and being okay and the way JJ’s thumb traces gentle circles over her knuckles, fingers still intertwined, curled up in the armchair on Emily’s bedside. JJ orders takeout with what little French she retained from her high school years, exhaling sharply every time she pronounces an unnecessary consonant, and when the doorbell rings and JJ stands to answer, Emily grabs her hand.

“Unh,” she says with as much emotion as possible, and JJ’s eyebrows knit together.

“I’ll be right back, I promise,” she says, and she squeezes Emily’s hand, but she doesn’t let go.

You only came back after I died, Emily tries to say.

“Unh,” comes out.

In the end, Emily is too tired to hold JJ back, and as her hand falls limply to the bed and she watches JJ slip out her bedroom, she curses her body for betraying her.

French Chinese takeout is similar to American Chinese takeout, Emily notes: oily, savory, and mouth-watering. JJ doesn’t let her eat the stir-fry (apparently it’s bad for her stomach) and passes her small amounts of fluffy jasmine rice and wet bak-choy, but Emily can only barely hold down the pitiful foods JJ passes her.

JJ gets Emily a pitcher (an entire pitcher) of water on her nightstand for the night and promises that she’ll be there if Emily needs anything and Emily just needs to yell, and Emily lets out a thankful grunt. Closing her eyes, Emily drifts off to the blood roaring in her head, mouth hanging open slightly to breathe properly. 

Emily wakes up to a burning sensation on her chest and in her stomach and in her eyes, and fuck it, she is the burning sensation, and she tries to call for JJ.

“Jayje,” she says, words slurring, and even though she tried to say “JJ”, it works for now.

The way JJ appears in her door frame is like some God-given miracle, and even through her blurred vision, Emily can never forget those blue eyes.

“Em, what’s wrong?”

She crosses the room in quick strides and leans over Emily, and when her gold curls fall over Emily’s face and her nightshirt hangs lower than any work attire would require, her heart skips a beat.

“God, you’re burning,” JJ says, and if Emily weren’t so delirious, she would say JJ sounds almost worried, but JJ is never worried, pretty, perfect, media liaison JJ is never worried, the way she holds her chin up and the way her eyes always meet the other person’s.

“Don’t leave me,” Emily says, and JJ’s hand cups Emily’s cheek, shaking slightly from the heat radiating off of her.

“I need to get you some water,” comes as a whisper, and she disappears despite Emily’s groan.

When she comes back, the bedsheets are spread haphazardly around the bed from Emily’s weak attempts at kicking them off, and balancing the small tub of water and towels on her right hand and hip, JJ plucks off the bedsheets with ease, and Emily relaxes as JJ settles into her seat.

"You’re going to be fine, Em,” she says, draping another towel over Emily’s forehead before wetting another one. “We just need the fever to break.”

"I haven’t felt this hot since I got stabbed,” Emily says, and she lets out a croaking laugh at her own joke.

There’s a flickering smile on JJ’s face, and Emily continues.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve been dead before, remember? This fever ain’t shit.”

JJ replaces the cloth on Emily’s forehead and stays quiet.

“Why aren’t you saying anything? Your voice is so pretty. I could listen to it all day.”

“You’re gonna have to listen to me for the next few days, Em,” is the murmured reply, but everything is too hot now.

"My stomach hurts. Jayje, Jayje, my stomach–”

There’s a burning sensation as the chair leg pieces her, and she screams.

“Jayje, Jayje— it hurts, it hurts, I’m sorry—”

And Emily can’t do anything except cry when JJ unbuttons her nightshirt and places a wet cloth on her stomach, chest heaving as she gasps for breath.

"Jayje, it burns, please, I can’t—”

 “You’ll be okay, Em, it’ll be okay,” JJ says, draping another cloth over her chest and taking off Emily’s nightshirt. “It’ll be okay, everything will be okay.”

But still her stomach and chest burn, and maybe in a different world Emily would be ashamed of herself, with how pathetic and weak she is, crying and sobbing and begging, in front of JJ, of all people.

But if it means JJ’s hands will trace over her bare chest and her hair will tickle Emily’s cheek, she will take it.

—

 It doesn’t get better.

The fifth day Emily spends throwing up, except she’s too weak to get out of bed and so JJ brings a trash can to Emily’s bedside so at her convenience, she can simply roll around and spit up whatever the fuck is still in her stomach.

And her head still fucking hurts. JJ touches her hand, and Emily recoils.

“Leave me alone,” she spits, and her mouth feels like sandpaper. “Leave me alone.”

“Em—”

“Leave me alone!” she shouts, except she doubles over and retches into the trash can, dry-heaving at this point because all of last night’s vegetables and rice are gone and Emily’s going to rip out her entire digestive tract.

And also because this is pathetic. Former CIA and Interpol spy, BAU profiler, lying half naked in a bed in Paris, supposedly dead, drenched in sweat and her own spit, recently branded and staked, succumbing to a fever. A fever. If Emily had it her way, she would rather hurl herself out the window than to have JJ see her like this.

JJ retreats to the corner of the bedroom and blinks back tears. Emily is too busy coughing into the trash can to notice.

—

“Why can’t you give me any pills?”

It comes as a croak, and wordlessly, JJ pours Emily another cup of water and passes it to her. She takes it shakily and sips, knowing that inevitably, it will come back up and into the bin. JJ is silent watching Emily, curled up in her armchair, and her eyes are unreadable.

“When Doyle stabbed you,” she says quietly, “he ripped part of your stomach.”

“He ripped more than my stomach,” Emily comments drily, and JJ’s eyes flash with something Emily cannot quite understand.

“They stitched it back up, but the doctor said something about how you shouldn’t take any Tylenol and similar medicine until it completely healed.”

“Why Tylenol?”

“Because— because—” JJ huffs. “I don’t know, I’m not a chemist. I guess it’s something to do with how it affects stomach lining.”

“I bet Reid would know,” Emily says, and there’s a pang in her heart as she imagines the young doctor. “I didn’t get to say goodbye.”

Almost instinctively, JJ’s hand reaches out, but just before touching Emily’s, she freezes. Emily frowns, blinks.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

JJ brings her hand back.

“You wanted me to leave you alone.”

“I did?”

A pause, and Emily’s heart twists at the look on JJ’s face.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t mean it.”

“I know,” is JJ’s immediate response. “You were sick.”

This time, Emily reaches out for her, and JJ takes her hand immediately, fingers interlacing and squeezing tightly. JJ’s eyes glitter in the dim moonlight, and Emily wonders how much longer she has with her.

“When are you going home?” she asks her.

JJ is wearing Emily’s old Yale sweatshirt, she realizes. A muted, old navy color, the letters flaking off, and her hair looks disheveled, as though she hadn’t brushed it in days. There are bags under her bright eyes, not unlike the bags she had when she first had Henry and still insisted on coming in for work, and Emily feels a pang of guilt.

“I’m sorry, Jayje,” she says.

“It’s not your fault,” JJ says quietly. “Let me get you some water.”

—

 Emily begins burning up again that night. All the water JJ coaxed into her earlier comes back up, and JJ still tirelessly drapes wet towels over her and removes the dry ones.

“I’m going to die,” Emily groans.

“You’ll be fine,” JJ repeats, squeezing a wet cloth down Emily’s face. The droplets stop the pain momentarily, but once they touch her skin, they evaporate immediately, temporary relief gone. “You’ll be fine.”

“I love you,” Emily says. “I never got to tell you that. My eyes hurt.”

“Close your eyes, Em.” JJ keeps trailing water down her face.

“I want to see you. Every time I see your eyes, I know it’s going to be okay. I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Em. Close your eyes.”

“It’s really hot. Jayje, it hurts.”

JJ replaces the towel on her stomach, and she flinches at the sudden cold.

“Jayje, it hurts.”

“I know, baby, I know.”

“I like it when you call me baby,” Emily says, eyes hot and vision blurry, and she can’t see the way JJ stiffens and squeezes her eyes shut.

“Go to sleep, Em. It’ll be okay.”

“Please don’t leave me.”

“I won’t.”

The last thing Emily registers is a singular wet drop on her face, just above her eye, and bleakly, she wonders why that one droplet was more hot than cold.

—

Emily’s hand is cold.

“Jayje?”

But it comes out as a grunt because her throat has closed back up and the pounding has returned, and she lets out another grunt as her hand flexes. Something takes hold of her and squeezes, and Emily grunts.

“Unh,” she says. I need you. I need to feel you. I love you.  

“I’m here, baby.”

The cloth on her head is replaced, but the burning persists. She’s stopped sweating now, thankfully, it’s just her head.

“Unh,” Emily says.

“I know, baby, I know.”

JJ used to smell like vanilla. Emily’s nose is clogged up right now, but she’ll bet ten thousand staked stomachs that she still smells like vanilla, with just a hint of cinnamon. She remembers asking JJ about it once; her shampoo was vanilla, she said, but she can’t imagine where the cinnamon came from.

“Unh,” Emily repeats, and she tugs on her hand.

“It’ll be okay, baby, I’m right here,” she hears, and Emily tugs her hand harder.

“Unh,” she emphasizes, and she brings their hands to the bed.

A pause. Emily’s vision is blurred and spotty, but she imagines the way JJ’s eyebrows scrunch together when thinking.

“You want me in bed with you?”

“Unh,” Emily confirms, and she squeezes her hand again.

A rustling of clothes, and JJ squeezes her hand gently before dropping, and Emily notes the soft footsteps as JJ pads around to the other side of the bed (JJ has the lightest footsteps, Emily’s tried making hers softer but she can’t manage it). The bed creaks as JJ settles in, and suddenly there’s an arm wrapping around Emily’s waist.

“Come here, baby,” JJ murmurs, and Emily curls into her warm body immediately, burying herself into the old sweatshirt and her soft curls. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

The pulsing in her head ebbs away as JJ’s nimble fingers thread through her tangled hair, and Emily drifts off to an uneasy sleep.

—

It’s a choked sob that pulls Emily halfway out of sleep, eyes flying open and trying to pinpoint the cause of the noise through her blurred vision. Another sob, and it’s coming from behind her.

“I’m so sorry. This isn’t how it was supposed to turn out.”

The voice breaks off at the end, and blearily, Emily wonders who it is.

“I love you so, so much, I don’t think you’ll ever know how much I love you.”

Everything is so heavy. The words float in and out of Emily’s head, and there’s a ringing in her ears. She makes out a shaky inhale before something; Emily has to strain to make out the words.

“I thought— I thought we could do it, I thought we could— but then Will came and Henry and— and I didn’t— Em, I’m so sorry.”

A choked sob, and Emily feels tears drip onto her neck.

“You don’t deserve this. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

Emily tries to say something, say anything, but all that comes out is a grunt and a jerk of her body, and the arms around her tighten, kisses pressed into her hair over and over as circles are rubbed onto Emily’s skin.

“Sh, sh, it’s okay baby, it’s okay.”

Another kiss pressed into the crown of Emily’s head, except this one seems desperate and raw and she can feel someone linger there for a moment longer before burying their face in the nape of Emily’s neck.

“It’s going to be okay. It’s going to be okay. God, I’m so sorry.”

—

When Emily opens her eyes, she’s greeted with JJ perched on the armchair next to her bed and diligently studying a magazine, and she can smell coffee-

She can smell coffee.

“I can smell,” Emily says abruptly, and to her delight, she can      speak    .

JJ’s head jerks up, and her lips curl up in her signature soft smile, eyes twinkling. “You’re awake.”

“Yup,” Emily answers, and tentatively, she swings her legs out of bed, a grin forming on her face as her feet plant on the carpeted ground easily. “And better.”

“Oh, thank God,” JJ says, and when Emily glances up, she’s met with a looser smile, more tired. “I thought—”

With her recovered vision, Emily can now make out the dark circles under her eyes, and she flinches. Her body still aches, but that must be nothing compared to what hell she put JJ through, and JJ, of all people—

“I’m sorry,” Emily says. “Was I that bad?”

A pause, and JJ’s smile drops and her eyebrows furrow together. Emily stills, insides twisting because did I miss something?  

“You don’t remember?” JJ asks quietly.

“Uh, I— I don’t think so. It’s all very hot. And blurry.”

Emily is a profiler, she is a seasoned profiler who has worked in the elite department of the BAU for several years, but she can only make out the way JJ’s eyes widen slightly and the way her mouth drops for a moment before they’re instantly masked, covered by a smile that seems almost relieved.

“Jayje?”

“Don’t worry about it,” JJ says, reaching out to take Emily’s hand. “Nothing happened worth remembering.”

[sapphoslibrary]

All The Time In The World

Music sounds lightly from Sirius’s room, some indie rock band he likes. Listening to records calms Sirius down, Remus knows, helps keep him present. It helps Remus, too, but music has always been far more important to Sirius.  

Remus pads softly into Sirius’s room, swinging the door open carefully and peering in. James is sitting on the edge of the bed, the record player beside him, talking softly to Sirius, who’s leaning against the headboard.

Remus swallows heavily, stepping inside. He closes the door behind him, reaching back to lock it without taking his eyes off Sirius. 

Even from across the room, Remus can tell Sirius looks a wreck. Even after healing magic and calming draughts, it’s still bad enough that Sirius is crying. Remus doesn’t think he’s ever seen Sirius cry. 

“Padfoot…” Remus mutters, crossing the room swiftly. His fingers twitch, the desire to hold Sirius too strong. 

Sirius looks up, grey eyes flashing with emotion. “Re,” he breathes, pulling himself up with a few soft sounds. 

Remus sits between him and James, fully taking in Sirius’s appearance now. He’s wearing an oversized hoodie— one of James’s— the hood up and sleeves pulled down over his hands. The parts of his face that aren’t obscured by the hoodie are bruised, flakes of blood staining pale skin.

God, Remus wants to kill the people who did this.

Instead of getting angry, though, Remus reaches out, silently asking to hug Sirius. “Please,” Sirius whispers. Shame flashes over his cheeks at how much that sounds like he’s begging. But he needs it. 

Remus carefully pulls him into his arms, one hand sliding over his back and the other behind his head. 

“Remus, Remus, Remus…” Sirius mutters. He never thought he’d get to say that name again, let alone be held by him. 

Remus presses a light kiss to the side of Sirius’s neck. “I’m here. Not goin’ anywhere, it‘s okay,” he assures against Sirius’s shoulder. 

Sirius is crying into Remus’s shirt. Remus hates it, hates that those pieces of shit could reduce Sirius to this. “They’re not gonna hurt you anymore, ever. You know that, right?” 

Letting out a clogged breath, Sirius nods. “Yeah, I know,” he pulls out of the hug, wiping his eyes with his sleeve. “I’m sorry I’m so weak. I’m just fucking tired, that’s why I’m crying,” he murmurs. 

That, or the torture, Remus thinks. He doesn’t say it out loud though; that would not be the right thing to do.

Instead, he takes Sirius’s hands in his own, running his thumbs back and forth over his knuckles. 

“Do you wanna talk about it? I know your mind never does you any favors when you’re upset, maybe you’ll feel better if you put it into words?” Remus asks gently, carefully, not making it sound like a demand. 

Sirius shakes his head, letting out a thin breath through his nose. “I dunno. What is there to talk about? We already knew they were a bunch of pricks,” he says quietly. The insult comes out naturally, but Remus can’t miss the heaps of emotion coming through on the words, big and heavy enough to crush them both alive. 

“That’s true,” Remus replies lightly, carefully running his nails over Sirius’s back, the touch just barely there. “I wish they weren’t, though.” 

Sirius smirks a bit. “Yeah, well. I guess that’s just what happens when you’re inbred. Fucks with your head and all,” he jokes, but Remus knows there’s truth behind the words. 

“You’re not wrong. Scientifically speaking.” Remus continues rubbing Sirius’s back, carefully and lightly— but he accidentally presses in on a particularly tender spot, and Sirius keens. “Shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t—“

“It’s okay,” Sirius hisses, cutting him off. “Just… fuck. Everything hurts, I can’t even think past it,” he forces out, pressing his head against Remus’s shoulder as if trying to crush the pain out of him. 

“I know, love. Do you want me to stop touching? Will that make it better?” Remus offers, moving his hands down. 

Sirius shakes his head, then nods. “It would make it better, but I— I need you to keep holding me. I’ll go insane otherwise. Please stay?” He pleads, and he hates how pathetic he sounds. 

Remus wraps his arms around Sirius again, pulling him close so their chests are flush against one another. He tangles his fingers into those soft, raven locks and pulls Sirius’s head down against his collarbone, kissing the crown of his head softly. Remus can feel Sirius’s body trembling against him. 

“I’ll stay.” You don’t have to ask again, I’m not going anywhere as long as you want me here. It’s okay. I’ll keep you safe. The words go unspoken, but ring heavily in the air around them. Less is more, for a pain-addled mind. “Do you need anything?”

Sirius shakes his head, somehow pressing himself closer to Remus. “No, just… hold me. I thought I’d never get this again, and I… just that thought was worse than the, than everything else,” he whispers brokenly, cut clean open by the stress and the pain and fear of the last couple days. 

He’s shattered, inside and out, reduced to nothing more than an empty vessel only capable of feeling pain.

Remus shushes him gently, trailing his fingers along Sirius’s spine, back and forth from the base of his neck to his waist. “I’m here now, okay? You never have to be scared of that again. I’m never leaving your side,” he promises gently, his lips pressed to Sirius’s hair. 

Sirius sighs, his breaths fluttering with emotion as he takes in his Remus’s loving words. How can someone so kind can love someone so broken, someone with evil pumping through his blood, someone who’s hurt the people he loves for his own personal gain? How can he love someone who’s so useless his own family disowned him? How can he want to be with someone with more bad qualities than good? 

A sharp, sudden sob tears out of Sirius, as his mind is overtaken by the harsh words only his brain can come up with. 

“I’m s-sorry, Re,” he chokes out against Remus’s shoulder, suddenly overwhelmed by sobs that wrack his body and take over every rational thought.

“Shh, you’re okay. There’s nothing to be sorry for, Pads,” Remus assures gently, running his fingers through Sirius’s tangled black curls. 

Sirius shakes his head, moving back to look Remus in the eyes for the first time. Those beautiful, golden-brown eyes look back at him, holding so much emotion and love. “I know. My mind is just a mess,” he whispers. 

Remus pulls him close again. “That’s okay. We have all the time in the world to work through that. You’re not in this alone, Pads,” he reassures softly. 

“All the time in the world…” Sirius mutters under his breath. He shivers, pressing himself harder against Remus’s warmth. 

“Yeah. I’ve got you. I love you,” Remus whispers against Sirius’s neck. 

Sirius lets out a shuddering breath, letting his eyes flutter closed. “I love you, too.”

Remus holds Sirius close, reveling in the admission of love that isn’t anything new but, as it sometimes does, feels like a hidden confession offered while Sirius hears the raging maelstrom of disdain and disgust outside, pounding on the door but unable to break through. He’s got so much love in his heart, and Remus is lucky to be on the receiving end of it every single day.

[wingedquill]

starlight and seasalt, chapter 1

@geraltwhumpweek

Title: Starlight and Seasalt

Ships: Geralt/Jaskier

Prompt: Day 6, Monster

Medium: Netflix

Warnings: Chronic pain for this chapter. For the whole fic, mutilation and manipulation of a child.

Word count: 2642

Summary: Ever since the trials, Geralt's legs have hurt. An ache that never quite leaves him, an ache that flares into a blistering pain on bad days. Ever since the trials, the smell of saltwater has made Geralt want to scream, and sob, and go back home .Ever since the trials, Geralt has felt wrong in a way he can't explain.  (Geralt wasn't quite human, before the trials. He's just been made to forget that.)

Author’s note: This is chapter one of the mer!geralt fic that I’ll be posting over on my AO3. Enjoy!

Geralt can’t really remember a time in his life that he wasn’t in pain. He must have been free of it once, before the trials, when he was still a child playing knights with his mother. But those memories are distant, faded as an old dream, replaced by the crush of his real life and a persistent throbbing in his legs.

Other witchers don’t feel the same kind of pain. He asks Eskel about it, only to be met with a confused and sympathetic smile. He asks Vesemir about it, only to be met with a shuddering sigh and a shaken head.

“Probably a side-effect of the extra mutations,” he says. “I—I’m sorry, Geralt, we can try giving you some herbs for the pain?”

The herbs never really work. The sharp, stabbing pain in his legs accompanies him all through his training, and will continue to accompany him for years yet. Some days it fades down to a dull throb, but other days it feels like he’s on fire, like someone has jabbed a thousand needles into his kneecaps.

He learns to ignore it. He has to. If he dwells on it, if he falters and winces every time it flares up, it could very easily be the end of him. Just one lucky shot from a monster would be enough. Just one second.

***

When he becomes a witcher, his Path meanders closer and closer to the ocean. He’s always wanted to see it after all, has heard plenty of older witchers talk about its endless horizons and glimmering waves and soft, warm beaches. His heart tugs when he hears those stories, an ache building and burning in his chest. A yearning.

And now that he’s free and directionless, he figures he might as well head there. So he takes contracts as he heads towards the sea, easy monsters for a young witcher, ghouls and drowners and the odd wraith. Maybe his first big fight will be against a kraken of some sort, that would be interesting.

He could slay some giant ship-eater, earn a big sack of coin, and travel down the coast. Charter a boat and make his way to the islands. Do whatever he wants.

He nudges his horse into a gallop as soon as the sharp scent of salt fills the air, excitement mounting in his chest as he flies up a hill and towards the faint sound of crashing waves. It sounds like soft thunder rolling through the air after a summer storm. It sounds like destiny.

The hill reaches its peak and he sees the ocean.

It spreads out and out and out in all directions, a wide green blanket broken only by tiny bursts of white seafoam. Gulls scream in the sky overhead, wheeling down towards the water and snatching up fish from the surface. Wind whips against Geralt’s face, peeling his hair away from his sweaty neck.

It’s beautiful. It’s awe-inspiring, it’s everything the older witchers said it would be, and—

And his heart hurts. It aches like someone he loves has died, like something important has been taken from him, like a childhood dream has crumbled into ash. A sob breaks out of his throat and he claps a hand over his mouth. Witchers don’t show their emotions. They can’t show their emotions. Remember that.

But there are no humans around to judge him so he lets himself slide from Roach’s back, hitting the ground with a yelp as his legs flare with pain. He staggers over to a scraggly, twisting tree growing out of the sandy soil and slumps down against it, breathing heavy. Tears burn in his eyes, clog up his nose. It hurts to breathe. It hurts to be.

Why is he so upset—he doesn’t—he doesn’t understand—

He feels like he’s missing something, something important, something that would explain why he’s crying like a child at the mere sight of the ocean. But as soon as he has that thought, as soon as he tries to grab on to it and think, it slips out of his mind, leaving him confused and shuddering as the sobs roll over him like waves.

Deep breaths. Deep breaths in and out. Control yourself.

He picks himself up and stumbles back over to Roach, each step feeling like he’s treading on shattered glass. He doesn’t let himself turn to look at the ocean again, no matter how much it tugs at him. Just swings Roach’s head back around and heads inland again. Riding away from the ache.

***

He doesn’t come back to the sea for another seventy years.

***

He tells Jaskier about the pain a few years into their friendship and a few months into their relationship, when he wakes up one morning and can’t move his legs. Every little shift sends a wave of fire up his body, and he has to bite into the pillow to stop himself from screaming.

“Geralt?” Jaskier asks, stirring beside him. Even the faint movement of the mattress has  Geralt biting down harder. Jaskier’s voice is thick with sleep but rapidly clearing, worry threading through his words. “Geralt, hey, what’s wrong? ‘S the kikimora bite acting up?”

He shakes his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

“Legs,” he groans.

“Your legs are hurt?” Jaskier says, and the worry is bleeding through his voice now, infecting every part of his being.

“Mmhmm,” he says, and his lungs are getting tighter and tighter, seizing with the pain.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Jaskier gasps and he’s up with a flash, yanking back the covers from Geralt’s bare legs. He shivers as the air hits his skin. It feels wrong in a way he can’t articulate.

“Did the kikimora land on you funny?” he asks, running his hands down Geralt’s legs as he feels for contusions, broken bones, misaligned tendons. Geralt shudders at the feeling of his too-warm, too rough fingers, burying his head further in the pillow. Normally Jaskier’s touch is soothing in situations like this, but now it just compounds the burning.

“Stop,” he grunts, and Jaskier’s snatches his fingers back instantly.

“Not the kikimora,” he manages to say, dragging the air through his aching lungs. “Just—legs get like this sometimes.”

Jaskier makes a soft sympathetic sound.

“What can I do to help then?” he asks. “Potion, herbs, anything?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Doesn’t work. Just keep the blankets off. Pressure makes it worse.”

“Okay. Alright” The bed shifts as Jaskier crawls back up and settles next to Geralt’s head. His fingers find their way into Geralt’s hair, soft and hesitant, gently stroking over the crown of his head.

“Is this alright?” Jaskier asks and, loathe though Geralt is to admit it, the external stimuli does drag his mind away from the pain, if only a little.

“Mmhmm.”

“Good. Just—focus on me and try and go back to sleep, if you can.”

“M’kay.” Gods, he sounds like a child.

Jaskier starts humming under his breath and Geralt focuses all his attention on him, on the sound of the melody, on the gentle, consistent strokes running through his hair. The pain still burns through him but his legs feel like distant, unimportant parts of himself.

Lovolulu, genevoga.

“Rest, Geralt,” Jaskier murmurs. “I’ve got you.”

***

Jaskier is always ready to help him after that, to take his mind off the pain with gentle words and touches, to let Geralt lean on his shoulders sometimes, when they’re walking back into town after particularly difficult hunts. He even stops protesting when Geralt doesn’t let him take turns on Roach, seemingly understanding that Geralt’s insistence on riding her isn’t born from possessiveness.

Geralt is grateful to him, in an aching, nameless way. No one in his life has taken his pain seriously. Even Vesemir gave up on helping him, when the herbs didn’t work. He was left to stumble through it alone, to gnash his teeth together and keep walking when his knees were full of needles, to sob silently into pillows in shitty inns when the pain kept him from sleeping.

“My sister had a bad arm, growing up,” Jaskier tells Geralt once, as they sit quietly together in an inn, eating their fill after a contract. The pain is building in Geralt’s calves, cramping his muscles and making his skin feel like tightened leather. “Twisted it wrong in a fall and it never quite worked the same again. She always said warm water helped. Didn’t make the pain go away entirely, but it lessened it, somewhat. Loosened up her muscles a bit. Do you think—?”

“I’m willing to try,” Geralt says with a shrug. He’s willing to try practically anything.

They finish their meal and Jaskier slips out of the room, heading downstairs to order a bath. Geralt hobbles over to the bed and sinks into it, staring up at the ceiling and feeling, for a reason that he can’t put his finger on, that it’s wrong somehow. That he shouldn’t be here.

He shakes the feeling away. Too much time camping recently, if he thinks being indoors is wrong.

Jaskier comes in with a few servants, lugging a tub and several buckets of hot water, and Geralt sits up and does his best to look like his legs aren’t on fire. Based on the concerned looks Jaskier keeps shooting him, he doesn’t think he’s succeeding.

The tub is filled and the servants thanked in a matter of minutes, and then Jaskier is offering him an arm.

“Come on,” he says, his brow pinched. “Lean on my shoulder, there you go, dear heart.”

Geralt leans against him and breathes. The air is hot and dry and wrong.They stumble over to the tub, and each step feels like a mile.

“You’re doing so well,” Jaskier says, brushing his fingers over Geralt’s arm. “So good.”

The praise would send a bolt of heat rushing through him in any other context, but right now Jaskier just sounds worried, and the pain building and rolling through him makes it difficult to think of other things.

“Sit down, yeah on the edge of the tub, just like that.”

Jaskier’s hands flutter over him, tugging off Geralt’s shirt, boots. When he starts working at Geralt’s pants, Geralt turns his head away, biting his lip to stop himself from cursing. The feeling of the fabric moving and scraping against him sends jolts of lightning racing up his spine.

“Just a moment, darling,” Jaskier says, pressing a kiss to Geralt’s jaw as he works. “Just a moment, can you lift your hips for me?”

Geralt lifts his hips. Stars explode behind his eyes.

Jaskier pulls his trousers and smalls down, and then rests a hand against Geralt’s heaving back.

“Into the tub now, that’s it, there you go.”

Jaskier guides him down, settles him in the warm water. Geralt closes his eyes. For a moment, the pain recedes, pulling back like a retreating wave. Gods, Jaskier is a genius.

And then.

Like a tidal wave.

The pain slams back into him, worse than he’s ever felt in his life. His legs are on fire, blistering and burning and surely they must be dissolving, had the servants put something in the water? Some kind of potion to melt away his flesh? Surely that’s the only explanation for the agony.

He screams.

Jaskier’s hands are on him, and his voice is in his ear, high and strained, but Geralt can’t pick out the individual words. He doesn’t—he doesn’t speak—

“La mevoga lu!” he hollers, thrashing frantically in the water. “La mevoga lu, la—la zebevoga!”

There are hands on him, hoisting and grabbing and twisting, tearing him in half, tugging his tail apart.

Lovolu looks frantically down at where they’re tugging at him and sees smooth skin and feet and—

He screams again.

***

Everything is floating around him. He’s drifting on his back in a calm bay, watching the stars, flicking his fins back and forth to keep him afloat. This is his first time seeing the surface, and he can hardly breathe for how beautiful the sky is.

***

“Geralt?”

Geralt’s head pounds like he’s been chugging Cat all night, and he buries his head deeper into the pillow, letting out a groan that sounds pathetic even to himself.

“Geralt, love, please wake up.”

Jaskier. His voice is all raspy and watery, like he’s been crying for a long, long time. Geralt’s eyes flick open immediately, and his hands press down on the mattress, trying to heave himself into a seated position. What happened? What’s wrong with Jaskier?

His arms tremble and give out immediately, sending him crashing back down into the mattress. A jolt of pain shoots through him, from his fingers to his toes, and he gasps, trying to curl in on himself.

What’s wrong with him?

“Don’t try to move,” Jaskier says, and he’s still crying, Geralt can tell from the hitch in his voice. He ignores Jaskier’s order to roll onto his side, twisting his neck so that he can see him. He looks dreadful, all red eyes and dark circles, hair sticking up in a dozen different directions.

“Hey,” he croaks. Gods, his throat is as dry as a desert and as prickly as a thornbush.

“Hey,” Jaskier replies with a watery laugh. He reaches down and runs his fingers through Geralt’s hair, smoothing it back ever-so-gently. “You gave me quite a scare.”

“What happened?”

“What’s the last thing you remember?”

“Hmm we were. Eating. Dinner, right? After that contract for the ghouls?”

Jaskier’s fingers spasm against his skin, but he doesn’t pause in his stroking. A purr rumbles in Geralt’s chest, and a smile cracks over Jaskier’s face when he hears it.

“Yes, we were,” he says. “But then—your legs were flaring up, do you remember that?”

“A bit. Were just a bit achy.”

“Just—” Jaskier rubs at his face. “Right. It—it got worse. Quite a bit worse, you couldn’t really walk all that well. So I suggested putting you in a bath, do you remember that?”

Geralt shakes his head.

“Okay. That’s—that’s probably for the best, you—you started seizing, almost as soon as you were in the water. Or—that’s what it looked like at least, you were thrashing around a lot. And screaming.”

That would certainly explain the pain in his throat. But it doesn’t explain why he doesn’t remember a lick of it. Unease creeps over his neck. He doesn’t like the idea of losing time like that.

Jaskier bites his lip.

“You were shouting something,” he says. “In—do you speak another language, Geralt?”

“Bit of Nilfgaardian,” he mumbles, testing out his arms again. This time they hold, and he carefully levers himself into a seated position. “For when I need to take contracts down south.”

But why the fuck would he be screaming in Nilfgaardian?”

“Right, yeah, that makes sense. But um—you weren’t speaking Nilfgaardian. Or Common. Or Elder. I don’t know what it was, but it definitely wasn’t any of those.”

The unease swells into dread.

“I was speaking a language I don’t even know?”

Jaskier nods. He reaches down and takes Geralt’s hand. Geralt squeezes back, as tight as he can with his still trembly muscles.

“I—I’d like to bring you to a mage,” Jaskier says. “See if we can figure out what’s going on, okay? With your memory and—and maybe with your pain as well. Alright?”

He’s never visited a mage, in all these years. Not after being told by the mages at Kaer Morhen that there was nothing that they could do for him.

But speaking an unknown language…that scares him. Losing time scares him.

Scaring Jaskier scares him.

“Alright,” he says. He brings Jaskier’s hand up to his lips, brushing a kiss across the skin. “Alright. We’ll go to a mage.”

[jupitermelichios]

Ficlet: Orphans

Written in response to one of @amusewithaview Unusual Inheritance Prompts: “you died and left me your children, even though they’re only a few years younger than me”

Crossposted to AO3

“And another thing!” Jason yelled, getting right up in Dick’s face, so it’s impossible to ignore just how physically imposing he is, even by the standards of their family. “You need to keep your nose the fuck out of my business! Just because he’s dead doesn’t make you my fucking dad!”

“I know!” Dick hadn’t meant to yell, but sometimes Jason makes it impossible for him to keep his cool. There’s no one like little brothers for getting under your skin, even if he and Jason have never quite been family the way the others are. There’s a lot of things Dick regrets, but none of them more than the fact that he’d allowed his issues with Bruce to push him and Jay apart when Jay was just a kid desperately looking for any family he could get. “God, Jay, I know, okay? You think I don’t?!”

He slumps back to lean against the rough brick of the wall behind them, and fuck everything about this but most especially the fact that Jason had wanted to do it in public. They’re not even on a rooftop, anyone could walk past and hear them, hear Jay airing all the families dirty laundry. “You think I wanted to be the head of the family?! I’m not even Batman this time, and still somehow I’ve ended up having to be the one keeping this fucking family from imploding and it’s hard! You want to know why Bruce did such a bad job most of the time? It’s because getting you lot to actually talk about anything is like herding cats! The last time all six of us were in one room was the funeral!”

“Hate to break it to you, Dickie bird, but we’re not exactly the Ricardos here! Playing happy families isn’t what we do!”

“You think I don’t know that?! I’ve been there for half the fights you’ve started with Dami, remember? I just…” He sighs, all the anger vanishing, leaving him tired and sad. “When Bruce was alive, there was always something to bring us together, even if it was just for Arkham breakouts. Now he’s gone… I worry that we’re just going to go our separate ways, and I don’t want that. We might be a fucked up family, but we are still a family, and I don’t want to loose that. And not just for myself. Wearing the cowl is hell, and Cass deserves to have a family to support her. Dami deserves to grow up with us as his siblings, not as strangers. And you, and Duke, and Tim, you all need us, even if you don’t want to admit it. And I’m the oldest, so it’s my job to try and hold everything together, and it’s…” He’s not surprised to feel the tears start. “It’s fucking killing me, Jay. Being the old who has to hold us together. Being the one who has to keep his cool, even though you all make me want to scream sometimes.

“I… I lost him too, you know? He was my best friend, he was my dad, I loved him even when I wanted to strangle him, and he’s gone and everyone expects me to hold it together even when the rest of you are pulling me in five different directions at once and I just…”

He covers his face and lets himself cry, in great heaving sobs that shake his whole body, clog his throat with tears until he can barely breath.

He starts when he feels hands on his shoulders, but he doesn't resist when Jay pulls him into an embrace and just holds him. He hugs like Bruce, quiet strength and palpable emotional discomfort, and after a moment Dick hugs him back and hides his tears in Jason’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” Jay says, quietly. “I didn’t mean… None of us meant to make things hard on you. We’re just messed up. Even I… Even I am. He was a bastard, but he was my dad too.”

“I know. God Jay, of course I know, I know better than anyone, that’s why I want you with me. That’s why the others need you.”

“They don’t.”

“They do.” He pulls back, just enough that he can look Jay in the eye, make sure he’s hearing what Dick is saying. “Tim doesn’t know how to grieve, and Cass is figuring out how to wear the cowl, and Duke keeps thinking he’s not one of us just because he’s the newest, and Damian is fifteen and he just lost his dad! They need their big brothers, and I need you. I can’t do this by myself and I can’t ask Alfred to do it, not when he’s just buried the man who was in son in all but name. I need you with me, for them... and for me. I don’t want to be anyone’s dad, but someone’s got to be! And you’re the only one I can just… I don’t have to be the grown-up with you, because you’re a whole-ass adult, I can be…”

“A boy who’s lost his dad,” Jason says quietly.

Dick sighs. “Yeah. You’d think it would get easier with time, but this… I don’t think he’s coming back this time.”

Jason nods. “Me either. I didn’t think it would hurt this much.”

“He was your parent.”

“Yeah well, I’ve had a few of those.”

“Me too. Doesn’t make it any easier.”

“No. It doesn’t.”

“I’m not asking you to, I don’t know, forgive Bruce for all the stuff you two fought about, or magically stop finding Dami annoying. I love him, I love him so much, but he can be the most obnoxious person on the planet when he wants to be. But he’s also a kid who’s grieving, and he needs you.”

“He needs us,” Jason says, and Dick sighs with relief.

“Yeah. He really really does.”

“Jesus.” Jason lets out something that’s not quite a laugh, not quite a sob. “I can’t believe Bruce died and left us his fucking orphan collection.”

[fangirlshrewt97]

Greatest Disappointment You Know

Author(s): Fangirlshrewt97

Fandom: One Day at a Time

Pairing: None

Characters: Elena Alvarez, Penelope Alvarez, Victor Alvarez

Rating: General

Warnings: Self-hate and homophobic thoughts

Additional Tags: Whumptober2019, Abandonment issues, self-esteem issues, self-hatred, homophobic thoughts, mother-daughter relationship, hurt/comfort, angst, supportive parent, tears, crying

Whumptober 2019 Prompt: Abandoned

Summary: When Penelope hears her daughter crying at night and goes to comfort her, she is shocked to find just how much Victor abandoning her on her quinceañera hurt Elena.

Link to A03: archiveofourown.org/works/20923868

                                                  ------------------------------

 Penelope was heading to bed hen she heard a faint sound coming from he daughter’s room. Concerned, she walked to the door and put her head against it, trying to hear better. The noise was still faint, but was that… was Elena crying?

Worry increasing, Penelope knocked softly on the door, not wanting to startle her daughter. “Elena, sweetie, are you ok?”

Abruptly, the noise choked off, and Penelope heard some scuffling on the other side of the door before Elena replied “Yeah mom, I’m fine.”

Penelope wasn’t naive enough to believe her daughter. “Can I come in real quick?”

“No! I’m fine really, just go to bed!” Elena said, voice tinged with the slightest hint of panic. The worry in Penelope’s stomach just grew larger, what could have her daughter feeling so scared.

“Please Elena, open the door for me?” she asked, keeping her voice low.

“Mom….”

“I just want to kiss you goodnight. Please?”

Penelope stepped back when she heard some more scuffling and the deadbolt unlocking. She gasped when the door opened to show her daughter hunched over, wiping her nose on one sleeve of her sweater. Approaching her as she would a scared animal, Penelope gently placed her hand on Elena’s cheek, lifting her face up. “Ay, nena…”

Elena’s face was splotchy and red, eyelids puffy with tear-marks stark on her face even in the dim hallway light. Elena bit her lip as fresh tears welled up in her eyes, and she sniffled before tucking herself tightly into her mother’s arms. Penelope automatically wound her free hand over her waist, holding her daughter close as she moved the other hand from Elena’s cheek to the back of her head.

Neither knew how long they stood in the doorway before Penelope gently nudged Elena to move backwards until they were both sitting on her bed. Penelope grabbed tissues from the box on Elena’s desk, wiping the tears from her daughter’s face, her own showing her concern freely. Elena took one tissue and blew her nose, trying to catch her breath and blinking rapidly to make the tears stop. Penelope only pulled away when Elena seemed to get things under control again.

“Elena, what happened?” Penelope asked, anxiety barely hidden.

“I’m sorry mami.” Elena sobbed, too lost in her head, anxiety clogging her throat.

“What are you sorry for? There’s nothing to be sorry for! Why are you crying?”

“I’m-I-I’m just…” Elena started before crying again. Penelope pulled her against herself, bringing them both to lean against Elena’s bed’s headboard.

“Breathe Elena.”

“I’m sorry I disappointed you.” Elena whispered, voice so low Penelope barely caught the words. But the words sent a shock of fear and anger through her as she tightened her grip on Elena.

“Disappointed? What are you talking about Elena? You have done nothing like that!”

“I did though…” Elena said, voice so full of conviction and sorrow.

“Really what is that?”

“I’m just…I wish I was straight mami, I really do. I tried pretending so much but I couldn’t do it, and I’m so sorry.” Elena said before dissolving into tears again. Penelope meanwhile was shell-shocked. Those were not words she ever thought she would hear from her daughter. And certainly not ones she thought were the slightest bit true. What on earth had made Elena think it was?

“Elena, hija, look at me, please.” Penelope pleaded, needing her daughter to hear her next words carefully. When Elena sat up slightly, Penelope curved her hands over her daughter’s cheeks, bringing her close to kiss her forehead, then her cheeks, before resting her forehead against Elena’s. “You are the most incredible daughter I could ever ask for Elena. You are so smart, so beautiful, so stubborn, but your heart is always in the right place. You are so angry, but the world is unfair and you should be angry. You do what is right and you stand by your principles, god Elena, I don’t know what I did to deserve you but I promise you, never, not for even a second, have I ever thought you should be anything but true to yourself. Because yes, sometimes you are so stubborn you don’t hear what I’m telling you. Or so focused on the big things you miss the little things. But you never go wrong Elena, not when it matters. And you being gay, that isn’t a bad thing querida. Ay nena, eres tan perfecta, I don’t care if you like girls or guys, or anyone else. What I care is that whoever you choose to give your heart to realizes what a gift they have been given, and appreciate it. Because you are so amazing, and you inspire me to be better every single day.” By the end of her mini-speech, both mother and daughter were crying, clinging to each other.

“You’re not disappointed in me?”

“Not for a second.”

“...Ok.”

“Do you believe me?” Penelope asked, stroking her daughter’s hair. Elena shrugged.

“Elena, why would you think I would be disappointed in you? What even brought this on in the first place?”

“It’s stupid.”

“Not if it is making you cry so much.” Penelope said, resting her cheek on top of Elena’s head.

Elena continued to trace figures into her jacket before sniffling and pulling away from the embrace to get up and pick something from under her pillow. Only the desk lamp was on, but when Elena gave the paper to Penelope, it was enough to show it was actually a photo. Penelope nearly started to cry again when she realized it was a photo from Elena’s eight birthday party, back before the divorce when they had all been together, even if not entirely happy. Her mother was holding baby Alex, while her father had his arm around her waist. Penelope was not in the picture, having been the one taking the photograph. And center stage, was Victor holding Elena close in front of the birthday cake.

“Elena…”

“He abandoned me mami. He just left me there during the quinceañera, and I don’t think he will ever accept me. If I had been straight he wouldn’t have left me. Now he hates me.” God, Victor had broken her heart so many times in so many ways, and she had been so angry but Penelope had never felt this much rage towards the man as she did now. How dare he break their little girl’s heart like this? How was Penelope supposed to protect her from the world when she couldn’t even protect her from her dad.

Tugging Elena back to her chest, Penelope just held her daughter tight, unsure of how to respond to her, but also not willing to tell her a lie that everything would work out.

“Elena, I want to tell you that you just need to give him some time, that he will come around, but you are too smart for me to insult you like that. What I can say is that I really hope your papi realizes his mistake and comes and apologizes. But you need to know Elena, you have done nothing wrong. If you had pretended to be straight to keep us happy, you would have died a little everyday from the shame and the lies. I am your mother Elena, and thinking of you doing that to make me happy makes me so sick to my stomach. You deserve the world. And you deserve to love who you want, and be loved by someone who realizes what a treasure you are. Because you are a treasure. You are so priceless to me, and it breaks my heart that I can’t protect you from the world, that the world is so ugly, and so cruel. But know that I will always, always love you. And so will your brother and grandmother.”

Elena sniffled quietly before snuggling closer, “I love you.”

Penelope chuckled softly, bringing a hand up to card her fingers through her daughter’s hair. “I love you so much Elena, I don’t have the words to tell you how much.”

The two stayed like that for a long time, both lost in their own thoughts. When Penelope started feeling Elena grow looser with sleep, she carefully extracted herself from her daughter to tuck her to bed. She had just finished and turned to leave when Elena suddenly grabbed her hand.

“Elena?”

“Can you please with me tonight?” came the soft request from her daughter, voice still so scared as if she thought her mother would push her away.

Swallowing her heartbreak, Penelope smiled and nodded slightly. “Move over then.”

Removing her own sweater and putting it on Elena’s chair, Penelope slid into her daughter’s bed and gathered her close. She started humming an old Cuban lullaby she used to sing Elena as a child, rubbing her back gently. Within moments, Elena’s breaths lulled to the even breaths indicating her daughter was finally asleep.

It was a long time before Penelope succumbed to sleep, her thoughts racing as she felt a chain being pulled around her heart, doing it’s best to squeeze the life out of her. All she wanted was for her children to be happy. Why couldn’t the world give them that much? Why couldn’t Victor?

Her last thought before she drifted off echoed through her brain though. Come what may, she would be damned before she let the world break her children.

[commonshawn]

Not Okay

Warnings: THAT THIS IS HORRIBLE. In my opinion. Hopefully there is angst and there are slight mentions of abuse

Word Count: 2.0K

Inspired by: @rulerofnocountry SM Summer Playlist Challenge w/ OKAY by Julia Michaels and LANY

“Are you okay?” She said from across the table. You just stared at the white coffee mug that was untouched by your lips; it was ordered almost 20 minutes ago. The coffee shop/book store was teaming with customers as the deep brown wood floors echoed the sounds of their shoes and green bookshelves and walls creaked as the books were removed and replaced. The rustic table you sat at stood in silence, there to only to support your coffee mug and arms but it felt like it was holding your entire body up. “Hey, y/n, are you okay?” your friend asked again and not getting any information, she coughed to make you look up at her.

“Yeah, why would you ask?” The sudden change in your actions puzzled your friend,

“because you were just staring off into your mug and not answering me. “Are you sure you are okay? A breakup isn’t-” you interrupted her,

“I am okay as I can be.. given the circumstances”

She slumped into her chair, “So, not at all then?”

“Not even close” lifting the mug to your lips, you took a swig of your coffee and decided to not drink anymore of it went cold. You stared at the table again admiring the unchanging woodgrain until a droplet of water fell onto the surface, causing it to shine. You didn’t realize you were shedding any tears until you quickly pushed them away. Damn it, you thought. Clearing your throat and sitting up, you took a deep breath and formed a slight smile to your friend causing her to sigh, not knowing what to say. Seeing you filled with sadness and loss, it was new for her since you always closed yourself off, and that was one of the problems that caused the breakup. Another problem? Your friend doesn’t even know why you two broke up because you won’t tell her without feeling like a burden. So, on that note, you asked her if you two could leave so she nodded and both of you left your mugs on the table and a small tip underneath a cup.

Once you both reached outside your friend asked, “how do you do that?”

Furrowing your eyebrows, you looked over and asked, “do what?”

“Don’t play dumb y/n.”

“I’m not! I am serious” this came out with a bit of frustration.

“I meant, how can you just change like that?” you noticed your friend had to jog a bit to catch up to you and you did pause to breathe and clear out any frustration.

“I guess... loosing so many people at a young age taught me too.”

“Yeah, but listen-” she stopped dead in front of you as people huffed from you both stopping in the middle of the sidewalk. “- this isn’t death. Both of you are still alive.”

Pushing past her you continued walking, “death of a relationship and the death of a person kind of feels the same way to me...” you said as you walked home, waving gently goodbye to your best friend who said she would call later, just in case. If she realized that the death of a person meant crying yourself to sleep every night, she may have not let you go home alone. But she didn’t, because you’ve never told anyone about that either.

-----------------------------------

Your eyes gently opened to the dimmed darkness surrounding you. Your face was half buried into your elbow and a half into your navy blue sheets and pillowcase. Your arms were under your pillow to support your head and your cheeks were dry with your eyes tired from crying again. The street lights were the only thing to light your room currently through the rain-stained windows and half-open blinds. It was about midnight when you suddenly woke up, pretty sure something had fallen off your wall, hitting your desk. Rubbing your eyes, you pushed yourself and heavy body off the bed, swinging your legs off the edge of the mattress. Looking over to your right, your laptop was paused on a song on Spotify, OKAY by Julia Michaels and LANY, so you decided to hit play and put it on loop, just loud enough to not hear your phone drop on the floor from getting lost in the bedsheets at night when you fell asleep with it in your hand. As the music played, you investigated what fell, you discovered that it was a picture that was hanging on your wall. Picking up the picture, it read on the back “Toronto ‘19″ and the other side held the image of you and Shawn all bundled up outside in a winter storm. “Everything is a cemetery if you dig deep enough,” you said as you sniffled, no longer holding back the tears. You fell to your knees, tears dropping onto the photo, “why the hell did I mess everything up?? What is wrong with me?” Your sobs clogged your nose and ears so you couldn’t hear someone say hello on the phone that dropped earlier. “You haven’t called me Shawn-” now you were talking to yourself, repeating the words of the lyrics into the thin air, and to the unresponsive picture. “you haven’t called me so I fill my days with stupid shit to keep me busy. I go to a coffee shop to please my friend then I go right back to sleep just to see your face. Instead of you, I’m ending my days with whiskey and If I go insane I’ve got myself to blame” that last part wasn’t the lyrics but it felt better than blaming him. You paused and leaned over to turn the music down and whispered to yourself, “I kind of knew this would hurt a little too much” and then you pulled your knees into your chest as you couldn’t hold the heartbreak no longer and fell to the floor in a disheveled heap with a flood of uncontrollable tears.

-----------------------------------

BANG! BANG! BANG! There he was again, against the door, pounding on the door and yelling as you were crying. “Are you fucking kidding me right now y/n? Open the DAMN DOOR.” His voice kept raising and you were huddled in your room, curled up to make yourself as small as you can. “You are pathetic! You are just worthless, defective, and selfish! I can’t believe I dealt with you for this long.” He kept pounding on the door, yelling to unlock it because you knew he just wanted your body and be done with you again. That's what made you barricade the door to stop him from coming in. Ever since you and Shawn broke up, this dream, in particular, kept reoccurring and was more aggressive each time. Thankfully you were also lucid dreaming and you knew you could try to change the outcomes until the intruder broke in. the intruder was Shawn which was strange because this dream mocked a memory that Shawn had no idea existed. “Shawn, what are you-” it's like he couldn’t hear you as he stormed over to you. Anger flaring up in his irises that darken to a deep brown that was almost black and grabbed your upper arms with force pushed you against the wall. That's when you woke up for a second time that night.

-----------------------------------

There was banging on the door and shouting which is what pushed you out of your dream. Before you could get up, the doorknob fumbled and unlocked. Shawn rushed in, turning on the living room light to get to your room. “y/n?! y/n, where are you?!” You thought you were still dreaming as you heard Shawn rummage through your apartment in half darkness. You tried to speak but your throat was so scratchy and rough from dehydration and your eyes felt like sandpaper. Instead of speaking, you slowly got up but fell back onto the ground with a loud thud from your legs still asleep and waves of pins and needles crashing through your legs. “y/n” Shawn said more quietly when he rushed in your room and collapsed to the ground to help you sit up. You looked around and then back at Shawn, slowly lifting your hand to his face to touch it, “I’m here, don’t worry” that's when you heard his voice echo through his phone.

You furrowed your eyebrows and let go of Shawn, “Are you’” your voice was raspy and cracked “-are you recording this?” Your voice now echoed through too. He shook his head no, looking around to find your phone under your bed. He ended the call you had going with him, apparently. “I didn’t mean to call-”

“Oh, you-” pausing and letting his hopes lower, he changed his phrasing “-I figured you didn’t. Are you okay?” he touched your cheek to help you steady your gaze on him.

“I’m okay. It was just a bad dream” you lied through your teeth.

“I know you're not” he pulled you into his chest and you tried to cry into his shoulder but nothing came out, he wasn’t use to you crying because you always rock solid when it came to your emotions so this was new for him but he didn’t mind. “I heard everything. Okay by Julia Michaels and LANY, you talking to yourself which now I assume was to that-” he pointed to the picture next to the spot where you laid on the ground.

Interrupting him, you said “I push people away when all I really want is someone to hug me and tell me it's okay. I don’t know how to deal with these emotions besides being along, and that's what I know best. I’m sorry, I’m pathetic and selfish and’”

“Stop, please, where is this coming from?”

“Where?” This angered you.

“I’ve felt like this for 3 months. Am I the only one keeping track of the days that go by?”

“You broke it off” he let go of you and stood up, shouting, “you don’t open up to anyone, hell, your best friend doesn’t even know you have any emotions besides happy and you don't even tell your boyfriend how you feel. How am I supposed to love someone who I can’t tell loves me back?” he started to pace angrily in your room.

“You? You what?” He fisted his hands and walked over to an empty space on the wall and hit it a couple of times with so much force, you thought he was going to break the wall itself.

“I love you but I am worried that you don’t feel the same. Of course, I’ve been counting the days since you’ve been gone. It hurts every second of the day, every single god damn day y/n.” Tears began to fall from his eyes and his chin trembled so you got up to get almost eye level. “Yes, you are selfish because you didn’t dare share your feelings with someone who wants nothing but to help you, to protect you, and care for you but you are making that impossible for me.” His voice lowered to a whisper as you came closer to him, connecting your foreheads together. Both of you should be mad at each other but this was the closets you have ever become in the months you were dating and ironically enough, you were dating at the moment. “I know you think it’s best to shut the world out when grief, despair and anything negative gets thrown at you but it’s-”

“ I know.” both of you were whispering now. “I’m sorry for everything. for that phone call, for not opening up, and for not letting the love of my life know that I love them. I am just scared that he didn’t love me and that I wouldn’t know what love was, even when I loved someone.” Shawn was going to say something but he decided to change the song from Okay to One by Ed Sheeran and let it play while both of you stood there in the darkness.

[alwayssunnyprompts]

Can you write a fic, or short story, or oneshot, or anything like that about a sick scenario? Like, Dennis being sick and Mac taking care of him? Or the other way around. Sick or anything with like vulnerability? (Also the way you describe sounds in your work is great I love it a lot so maybe stuff like that?) if you don't want to that's totally okay I understand. Thank you! xo

Thank you so much! This is one of my favorite asks I’ve gotten and I loved writing it! Set while Mac and Dennis are still living together, maybe around season 5. Enjoy some very sick Mac and very caring Dennis!

Dennis glances at the clock for the third time in half an hour. Mac should have been back 15 minutes ago.

Not that he’s counting.  

Outside is the worst blizzard that’s hit Phillyin a while. There’s almost a foot on the ground already, double what there’d been a couple hours earlier when he’d sent Mac to buy movie night provisions. 

Mac finally trudges home at 8:30 pm, bursting in with a groan, shivering and covered in melting snow. He tosses the grocery bags haphazardly onto the kitchen counter and plops down on the couch next to Dennis. He’s breathing heavily, his head resting on the back of the couch andhis eyes shut. Dennis can see the redness of windburn on the tip of his nose and his cheeks. 

“Hey, bud,” Dennis says cautiously. 

“Bro, that place was insane. I forgot people got nuts when the weather gets bad. Everybody was running around like it’s the end of the world. Some shelves were just totally empty. Ugh, it was a mess,” he coughs a little, “come on, let’s just watch some movies." 

Dennis smiles, clapping Mac on the shoulder. 

"Sure, pal." 

Four hours later, they’re still going strong. Well, Dennis is. Mac’s spent the last 10 minutes nodding off, forcing himself awake. They’re finishing up Alien vs. Predator when he decides that he’s done for the night. 

"Dennis, I’m exhausted. I need to go to sleep, bro.”

“C'mon, man. What kind of lame excuse is that? Just one more!” Dennis rolls his eyes. 

“I’m serious, Dennis. I feel weird. My joints are super stiff and I can’t breathe very good. I think I might be coming down with something." 

"Well, then stay the hell away from me, dude. I’m not letting you get me sick. One sneeze and you’re on your own. Understand?” Does he really mean that? Probably not. However, the idea of getting sick is not only time-consuming and disgusting, it’s uncomfortable and stressful and he wants nothing to do with it. 

He looks back at Mac, who sways a little, seeming unfazed by Dennis’s remarks. 

“I–I have to go lay down,” he mutters,“I’ll see you later, Den." 

He starts to walk to his room and loses his balance, leaning on the arm of the couch for support. Dennis is at his side ina second, all previous thoughts of abandonment and quarantine forgotten. He rests a hand on the small of Mac’s back. 

"Hey, you good?" 

Mac looks pale, but more alert. 

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry, dude. I must have tripped." 

Dennis doesn’t have to look at the empty living room to know he didn’t trip on a damn thing. 

"Okay. Well, how about I help you so youdon’t trip again. How does that sound?”

A blush colors Mac’s cheeks and he nods, leaning into Dennis’s side. He grabs around Mac’s waist and leads him to the bed. 

“Do you want to change?” He’s still fully clothed, winter jacket and all.

 He looks down at himself, considering the outfit. 

“Yeah, I probably should, huh?" 

Dennis sighs, and grabs Mac some pajamas from his dresser. He grabs his robe too, partially because he might get cold, but also because he likes seeing Mac wear it. 

"Here. Do you need…help?”

Mac grabs the clothes from his hands.

“No, dude! I can do it myself." 

Dennis can hear the congestion in his chest, and see his legs quivering under the pressure of standing. He rolls his eyes. 

"Okay, fine, asshole. I’ll be right here if you need me, though." 

Watch Mac struggle to the bathroom is as hilarious as it is pathetic. He finally makes it, swinging the door almost-shut behind him. Dennis hears him breathing heavily, and grunting as he takes off his layers of clothes. A full 20 minutes pass before Mac emerges, sweaty and exhausted. He drops his street clothes in a rumpled pile on the floor and collapses onto the bed. 

"Ughh, Dennis, I think I’m dying.” He groans, rolling over to sprawl out. Dennis can tell he’s getting worse. His nose sounds clogged and gross, and his chest is making crackling noises if hetakes too deep of a breath. He groans, burying his face in a pillow. 

“Dennis?" 

"What is it?”

“I think I might get a migraine. I feel that pressure you asked me to watch out for.”

Dennis feels a pang of anxiety. Ever since Mac had crashed Dee’s car trying to fake his and Charlie’s deaths, he’d been getting debilitating migraines. They weren’t frequent, but a few times a year he’d be totally out of commission. The rest of the gang didn’t know about it. He’d been doing so well, too—it had been more than six months since his last one. Dennis doesn’t think they have any medicine left in the apartment. 

“Okay, we’ll deal with this,” he liftsMac’s quilt and motions for him to get under, “come on, you should get as comfortable as you can.”

Mac scoots slowly under the covers, grabbing one of his pillows and holding it against his chest. 

“Dennis, what are we gonna do? I’ve never had the flu and a migraine at the same time. How does that even happen? Jesus Christ, this is bad, dude.” He grips the pillow tighter. 

“Hey,” Dennis lays down on his side, so he’s face-to-face with Mac. He reaches over and ruffles his hair gently, “we can deal with this. It’ll be okay. We’ve done this before. Right?”

Mac nods. “Yeah." 

"Do you want the hot or cold pack?" 

"Not yet.”

“Alright. Try and get some sleep, okay?You’ll need it. I’m gonna go look for some meds and food for when you wake up. Call me if you need anything." 

Mac nods.

"Okay…thanks Dennis.”

Dennis leaves the door open just a crack, enough that he’ll be able to hear if something happens or Mac yells for him. 

Aside from his own meds, their cabinets are virtually empty. They have a few cough drops, some ice packs, Band-Aids, Mac’s hot pack, but not a single painkiller to speak of. Dennis drags a hand over his face. He thought they were better than this. At the very least Mac’s overprotective nature should mean there’s at least a Tylenol or two somewherein the house. But he’s not seeing anything. He glances out the window, the piles of snow illuminated by the street lights. There must be a couple feet at least, and it’s still coming down. The roads are covered now too. Neither of them are getting out of the house anytime soon. 

He goes to the kitchen and pours a glass of water, and searches the pantry. He takes out some tea bags, honey, and a few cans of soup (the shitty chicken noodle that Mac loves so much) that they keep on hand for situations like this. He sets it on the counter and goes to lay on the couch. He lets his eyes close for a little while.

When he opens them again, his mouth feels like cotton and his back is aching.

“Jesus,” he mutters, stretching.

The clock in the kitchen reads 3:45. He’d slept longer than he’d planned to. He stands up and gets a glass of water, and then shuffles over to check on Mac, peeking into his room silently.

Mac is curled in the fetal position. He’s shivering, his hands resting limp on the blankets in front of him. Dennis sits down on the edge of the bed as quietly as he can, reaching over to brush sweaty strands of hair from his face. The darkness under his eyes looks reddish and bruised, and he’s burning up. Dennis’s fingers brush against his forehead and he shudders at the touch, unconsciously moving closer. He whimpers softly, shifting with discomfort.

“Mac?” Dennis tests the waters. He really doesn’t want to have to wake him up, but if something else is wrong, he needs to know. “Mac?”

Mac moans, his eyelids fluttering as he looks up at Dennis as best he can. His eyes are dazed as hell.  

“Den?” He sounds absolutely awful. His voice is rough and quiet, like even talking takes a tremendous amount of energy. Guilt settles like a stone in Dennis’s chest.

“Hey, asshole,” he whispers affectionately, trying to push past his discomfort and worry to smile reassuringly, “how are you feeling?" 

He keeps his hand gently stroking Mac’s hair, pausing for a few seconds to rest it against his forehead again, and his cheek, feeling the heat radiating off his skin. Mac still looks zoned, taking time to process the answer. A weird expression is spreading across his face. But, to Dennis’ surprise, he simply sniffs in response. At first, he thinks it’s just because of the virus, then he takes a quick breath in, sniffling again. In a few seconds, he’s gasping and sniffling and… goddamnit. Tears start to fall, dropping over where Dennis is still cupping his face. 

"Ah, shit,” Dennis says under his breath, moving to brush the tears away as they fall, “shh, no… hey, it’s okay, sweetheart. I’m here. Tell me what’s wrong." 

The words slip out so naturally that he doesn’t realize what he’s saying until he’s said it. If Mac hears the term of endearment he shows no sign of it. His breath hitches and gives way to a wet sob and he brings his hands up to cover his face. The shaking returns. He presses his body against Dennis, his head putting pressure on Dennis’ thigh. The sobbing alone is broken and pathetic, but on top of it, his lungs sound like shit, mucus-filled and wheezing with every breath. 

Despite himself, Dennis finds his own throat tightening and his eyes misting over at the strangled, congested sounds. Mac doesn’t cry often, and when he does it’s never this random and uncontrolled. It’s usually soft and stifled after a nightmare, or a few tears escaping if it’s been a particularly hard day for them. But this is different. 

Dennis can see angry red blotches forming on Mac’s cheeks as he rubs at his eyes violently, his breathing starting to sound erratic. Dennis swallows his welling emotions. 

"Mac,” he takes his face in both hands, “look at me." 

Mac rubs at his eyes one last time before lowering his hands. Tears are still flowing steadily, and Dennis can see that tiny blood vessels have burst under his right eye. The rest of his face is pinched and pale as he continues crying. 

"Is it your head? Or something else?”

Mac nods. 

“Both?”

Another nod, quicker this time. 

“Okay. Come here.” He opens his arms, gesturing. Mac slowly crawls onto his lap, burying his face in Dennis’s shirt. He’s hot as a goddamn space heater and he’s heavy as shit. Dennis can feel his legs aching under the weight of a full-grown man lying on top of him, but he sure as hell isn’t going to say anything about it. 

He can feel Mac blinking against the crook of his neck, his breath hot and fast against Dennis’ collarbone. He wishes they had something he could give him. Even just ibuprofen or some shit that did enough to dull the pain that he could calm down and get a couple hours of uninterrupted sleep. 

He runs a hand up and down Mac’s back, pausing togently rub the nape his neck and then reaching with both to stroke his temples. Mac immediately recoils from the touch. 

“It hurts,” he chokes out. 

"Mac, don’t be–” he pauses, takes a deep breath, “I know. But, it’ll make your head feel better, I promise. If it doesn’t, I’ll stop right away. Okay?" 

"Okay.”

He pushes himself into a better position and places his hands back on Mac’s temples, massaging so lightly he’s sure that it isn’t helping anything. Mac gasps at the pressure, his eyes starting to well up again. He works with a little more purpose, and Mac closes his eyes, tries to breathe around the gunk in his lungs. His chest is heaving with exertion.

“Dennis, do you hate me?” His voice is so quiet. 

“Where did that come from? Wh–Mac, that’s…” he sighs, “that’s ridiculous. Of course I don’t hate you.”

He knows it’s just the pain and the fever talking, but it’s more than that. There’s genuine sadness behind the delirium. His heart pounds as he holds Mac’s head with the gentleness he’s reserved only for him, wishing he could transplant his feelings directly into Mac so that he’d be able to understand. He presses his cheek against the top of his head. 

After a few minutes, Mac sags against him. Dennis carefully lifts his hands and pulls him closer, holding him as his eyelids droop. He murmurs something unintelligible, head nodding against his chest. 

“What’d you say, buddy?” He asks softly.

“I love you,” his words slur together like he’s drunk. 

Dennis’s heart swells, and he feels a hot blush color cheeks. He chuckles.

“Of course you do. Close your eyes try to go back to sleep. I’ll be right here." 

[sweetbtsboys]

Tiny Dancer (BTS Jimin Centric/Yoonmin Fic)

warning: this fic has descriptive and violent mentions of vomit

Once upon a time, a tiny dancer, named Park Jimin, was perplexed. He felt the hard, white floor press up against his back as his chest painfully rose and fell with each labored breath. The foundation of the room was pounding with the volume of ‘Not Today’ as the boys poured their soul into their new dance. The music video for ‘Spring Day’ was to be dropped in a couple days, and they were so behind schedule. It was almost one in the morning, and the group had gone over their dance countless times, making more mistakes as their bodies grew more exhausted.

 “Yah, we need to go back to the dorm. Everyone’s tired, Hobi.” Commented Jin as he leaned against the wall, breathing heavily.

 “Yeah, okay.” Hoseok replied. Silently everyone began to gather their things, their bodies too tired for words. The silence continued as they walked the block and a half back to their apartment.

 Jimin was perplexed. His head had an indescribable fog and a heavy feeling to it, and his nose was slightly clogged, making his voice nasally. Everything hurt, but he was too worn-out to care. Sleep will fix it, he said to himself. He’ll be better in the morning.

 By the time the boys got through the doors to their home, Jimin was gasping for breath. The other boys hurried to other things, some sprinted to grab the shower before another, while others just flung themselves into bed. The only person that stayed behind was Hobi.

 “Are you okay, Jiminie?” Asked Hoseok, placing his hand on Jimin’s shoulder while peering into his hazy eyes. Jimin just nodded, his breath not coming back quick enough to answer.

 “Alright, let’s get you to bed.” Said Hoseok as he started leading him to the room they shared with Taehyung. Once Jimin reached his bed he plopped down onto his mattress with all his weight, sighing with relief at finally reaching his sanctuary. Taehyung’s head was buried in Hobi’s bed (he did love the smell of his bed after all) until he heard the labored breathing of Jimin. He lifted his head up and looked at Jimin with worry, saying, “What’s wrong?”

 “I just don’t feel well.” Jimin replied with a hoarse voice, falling back onto his bed.

 “You don’t?” Taehyung questioned with worry as he made his way into Jimin’s bed and snuggled into his side. Jimin just shook his head and flung his arm over his eyes to shield from the burning light.

 “Should we tell Rap-mon hyung?” Tae asked Hoseok. Hobi thought for a moment, before answering, “Let’s wait and see how he feels in the morning.”

 With a nod Taehyung got himself and Jimin under the covers and all tucked away for a nights rest. Hobi went around their room turning off the lights, then went over to his two dongsaengs and kissed their foreheads.

 “Goodnight you two, sleep well.”

 “You too, hyung.” Tae replied and Jimin croaked. The night went on with a couple of congested coughs, but other than that everything was quite tranquil and quiet. Before Jimin knew it he was being lightly shaken awake by Hoseok.

 “Jiminie… wake up.” Hobi quietly cooed. Jimin groaned and rolled in his hyung’s direction, scrunching his eyes at the morning light.

 “How do you feel?” Hoseok questioned.

 “Bad.” Jimin squeaked out before going into a fit of mucousy coughs. Hoseok pouted and began to rub his back.

 “I’ll tell Rap-mon. You just rest here, okay?”

 Jimin nodded and retreated under the covers again to quickly fall back into sleep. Hobi closed the door quietly and found Namjoon ruffling through shoes in the hallway with Jungkook.

 “Hyung.” Hoseok said, grabbing his attention.

 “What’s up?” Namjoon replied.

 “Jimin was feeling sick last night, so I put him to bed, but he seems even worse now.” Hobi said sadly.

 “Should I call a doctor?” Namjoon asked, as Jungkook looked up worriedly from his shoe pile.

 “He should probably see one at some point, yea.”

Namjoon nodded, putting his shoes down and heading to Jimin’s room. He slowly opened the door and peered inside. Taehyung was sitting on the edge of Jimin’s bed, running his fingers through his friend’s hair. Once Tae heard Namjoon in the room he turned and said, “I think he has a fever.”

 Namjoon sighed and walked over to Jimin’s tiny, curled up body and placed his large hand over his forehead. With another sigh he said, “Okay, go to practice with everyone else, Taehyungie. I’ll have Suga-hyung or Jin-hyung stay with him.”

 Tae nodded solemnly and left to get some food before practice. Namjoon saw Yoongi at the end of the hall, making his way to the bathroom.

 “Hyung!” Namjoon proclaimed, making his way towards Suga.

 “Hey, Jimin’s really sick. Could you stay with him today? I’m going to try to make a doctors appointment for him, but I don’t know if they can get him in today.”

 Suga processed the new information before simply replying, “Okay.”

 Yoongi threw on a hoodie before trotting over to the sunshine line’s room, quietly knocking on the door before entering. Jimin was nothing but a fluffy bumble of blankets and pillows, creating a large heap on top of his small bed, some blankets spilling over the sides. Yoongi sat down on the edge of his bed and saw the younger’s flushed cheeks and sweaty forehead; his eyes shut with remnants of pain in his expression.

 “Jimin?” Yoongi softly spoke. Jimin hummed with a crackly voice and peered up at his hyung. Once he fully grasped the presence of the older he sat up and gave a weak smile in Suga’s direction, to which he lovingly returned.

“You need anything right now?” Suga questioned.

 “Maybe some tea?” Jimin asked before his voice cracked and he was secum to a fit of  coughing. Each hack shook his whole body and he covered his mouth with his sleeve. Suga's eyebrows raised before he began to pat Jimin's back in a feeble attempt to help him. After what seemed like hours poor Jimin was done with his fit. He began massaging his throat; looking even more pained than before.

 "That cough really doesn't sound good. Are you okay, Minie?"

 The younger only nodded, not even attempting to smile with all the pain his body was tolerating. With a quick text to Namjoon to get the poor boy some cough medicine, Yoongi made his way into the kitchen to make some tea.

 The water was coming to a screeching boil when Yoongi heard urgent, thumping footsteps headed towards the bathroom. He turned the knob on the stove to a stop and quickly went in the direction he perceived Jimin to have run too.

 Halfway down the hall, Suga heard the choking spit of vomit force it's way out of Jimin's mouth and into the toilet. The violent gag and splash of his stomach bile dropping into the toilet made Suga's heart break. Jimin, his cute and lovely dongsaeng, didn't deserve this pain.

 Suga pushed through the bathroom door to find Jimin violently shaking on his knees as he gripped the toilet seat with white knuckles. He began to sob and gasp for air as he felt the next surge of stomach acid.

 Yoongi was by his side in a heartbeat, rubbing his back and gently shushing the younger.

 "Hey, don't cry. I know throwing up sucks but it'll make you feel better in the end." Yoongi attemped at consoling Jimin, his heart beating with worry faster than he'd ever admit.

 Soon the second wave of nausea hit full force as Jimin began to choke on more vomit as it worked it's way up his throat. Yoongi tried to block out the noise and Jimin's crying as he stared intently at the floor, willing this moment to go away for the other. Within time, Jimin's hands left the toilet, and he fell against Suga, breathing heavily. They stayed like that for a couple of moments, until Suga whispered, "I'm so sorry, Jiminie. I know it hurts. How about I take your temperature and get you some water?"

 Jimin nodded against the older's shoulder and shakily pulled himself into a standing position, swaying and using Yoongi to balance himself. Yoongi placed his hands on the younger's hips and peered into his eyes, red and glazed over with sickness. Jimin rested his head on Suga's shoulder until the dizziness faded.

 "You okay?" Suga spoke quietly. Jimin nodded, and let the older lead him back into his stuffy room. He plopped down onto his bed with a sigh, and once he got comfortable (after much difficulty) Yoongi tucked him in. The mattress lightly bended as he sat down my Jimin's shoulder, and began running his hands through his soft hair, studying his face.

 This was one of the moments Yoongi wished he could sing. He wasn't bad, sure, but he wasn't good enough to be soothing. His voice was slightly raspy and deep, rattling in his throat in his attempts. If only he could sing with a smooth and soft tone. That'll be the day he'll have the confidence to sing Jimin to sleep, just as he wishes he could in this very moment.

 Soon, Jimin was deep in comfortable sleep. His chest rising and falling with each tired sigh. Yoongi stayed on the cold floor next to his bed. At some point in his sleep, however, the younger began to cough and choke. Quickly he sat up in bed and hunched over, startling Yoongi into alertness. He rubbed the sick boy's back until his fit was seemingly over saying, "Hey, you're alright."

 "I'm going to finish making our tea." Yoongi stated, leaving once he was sure Jimin was okay.

 Within time, the tea pot screamed as the water inside it had come to a boil. Yoongi grabbed a mug, dipped the lemon tea bag into it, added some water, then squirted some honey into the mixture. This time there was no hurried footsteps to the bathroom as he walked down the hall. Yoongi placed the hot mug on the floor besides Jimin’s bed, and opened his phone to send the other members a quick recap on how Jimin was doing in their group chat. Almost immediately he got very worried messages from both Taehyung and Seokjin, to which he replied in the most calm way possible as to not worry either of them even more.

 Putting his phone in the pocket of his sweatpants, Yoongi ruffled Jimin’s soft bangs until his eyes cracked open and he struggled to sit up. Yoongi placed his hands under the younger’s arms and pulled him up until he was comfortable and upright, and handed him his tea.

 With a cute eye-smile, Jimin said, “Thank you, hyung. I’m sorry I’m causing so much trouble.”

 Yoongi scoffed and replied, “You’re no trouble at all, Jiminie. Just try to feel better, yeah?”

 The younger smiled, feeling warm affection for his older hyung, and sipped his tea with joy. Jimin cleared his throat, and scooted over on the bed, patting the sheets next to him for Yoongi to sit down. One they were both situated on the bed, Jimin rested his head on the older’s shoulder, his small fingers wrapped around his warm mug of tea. Yoongi smiled and looked at his hands resting in his lap. He really does love his dongsaengs, especially his little Jiminie (but that’s a secret).

tell me if you want part 2!!! requests are open!!!!

[imwastingmylifeinhere]

Magnus Chase and the Obligatory Hogwarts AU Ch5

On ao3

For all intents and purposes, let’s just assume a metamorphmagus that has changed themselves into the opposite sex can still reproduce. I dunno whether that would actually work, but I’m a fanfic writer, not a magical biologist. My science-y readers, I welcome you to look into the science of it because I suck.

On that note, I don’t know much about Muslim holidays (other than Ramadan, even then just the bare basics)  so please let me know more. I’m curious.

Thanks again to @tearfulmelody for editing this! Anyway, on with the feels!

They ended up missing dinner.

His friends kept hugging him once Magnus had stopped crying, eyes puffy and red and wet tear tracks staining his cheeks. They stayed there, in a tight bundle of limbs, as Magnus sniffed back his stuffed nose. Alex was saying again that she would beat up anyone who hurt him and Mallory with Halfborn were quick to agree with her. Sam simply held onto him and T.J kept saying bad jokes and random stuff in order to make him laugh.

They ended up eating dinner in an empty classroom since there was no one else in the Hall of the Slain. Magnus stayed there as T.J and Mallory went to get them food from the kitchens. Halfborn and Alex were talking about seemingly unimportant things- like who would win in the next Quidditch match or something stupid a kid they know did in one of their classes- but Magnus knew they were doing it to make him feel better. 

He knew they wanted to know what had happened to make him break down like that, he could see it in the slightly awkward way they held themselves. And honestly, if he were in their place, he would want to know too. But they didn't ask him or push him to tell them. They acted like everything was normal, and, even thought Magnus knew that wasn't the case, it was nice to pretend for a bit.

 Sam kept sitting close to him, occasionally rubbing his back until Mallory and T.J came back with their food. They ate in the empty classroom, sitting cross-legged on top of the desks. It was just good food and jokes between friends until they were almost finished and Magnus started talking.

 "My mum died in a fire."

 He told them everything, all that had happened during the summer. His mum, her death, and the weeks he spent in the streets. He didn't go into as much detail about the fire as he had with Sam. He couldn't go through that again.

 They listened to him quietly. Magnus didn't know how they reacted, what emotions crossed their faces, because he refused to look up at them. He stared at the remnants of dinner on his plate, at his shoes and at the floor, but never at his friends. It was almost as if he was talking to himself, voicing all of the things he had avoided since that summer night. It was difficult and it hurt, but… it was cathartic.

 He talked and talked until he had nothing more to say, until he was going off on tangents about things that happened to him in the streets and people he met. His mouth opened and closed and words came out, but Magnus didn’t know what he was saying. He talked just for the sake of talking until his words didn’t make sense even to his own ears.

 But everything he said somehow reminded him of his mum. Of how all the random stories from the streets he told his friends would have never happened if it wasn’t for that night.

 Magnus had avoided talking, thinking, about his mum for months. He hoped that if he didn’t it could disappear, like a kid hiding his dirty bed sheets so he could pretend he never wet the bed.

 But now he did think about it and he did talk about it. And doing that, after so much time avoiding those memories, was too much. All the time he tried to hide from what had happened, all the tears he refused to let fall, were crashing down on him now and the tears started dripping down in the middle of Magnus’ sentence.

 “Oh, and there was that man I met sometime in July that always had a beer in hand and-and he went to visit his mother in the gr-graveyard and-and-" Magnus' eyes were blurring and before he knew the tears had overflown and run down his cheeks in big, fat drops. "And I-I don't even kn-know where my mum is buried. D-Did she even get a funeral? Wh-who was there? Was-was-“

 His hands came up to wipe away his tears. His sleeves were stained with tears and snot and he was hiccupping too much to form any coherent words. His nose was clogging up again and his face felt hot. His whole body shook with every hiccup.

 “Wh-what s-son d-doesn’t visit his m-mum’s g-grave?”

 Then a hand was on his shoulder just as another hiccup rippled through his body. Magnus looked up with teary eyes to see Sam, now much closer to him. Her brows were scrunched together in worry and pain shone in her eyes as if she was feeling Magnus’ heartbreak. Or, maybe, reliving her own.

 “It’s alright, Magnus,” she said in a soothing, quiet voice.

 Magnus hiccupped again. “N-no, it-it’s not.”

 Sam reached out and wiped a tear from Magnus’ eyes. “I know,” she said softly. “And that’s fine. It’s okay to be hurt, it’s alright to cry and feel horrible.”

 A sob racked through Magnus’ body and he pulled his eyes from Sam. His heart hurt like someone was squeezing it in their fist, his stomach felt like it was a second away from emptying all its contents on the ground. His eyes were running, his nose was clogged up and he was crying too hard to breathe properly. He was a mess and, as Sam said, he felt horrible.

 He wanted this to stop. He wanted to stop crying. Stop hurting.

 “It took me months to get the courage to visit my mum’s grave,” Sam went on. “No one expects you to just move on from this. It’s not something you just move on from. It’s alright to cry. You have to. Keeping it in doesn’t do you any good.”

 He wanted to go through his fourth year in Hogwarts without worrying about what he’d do once the year was over. Worrying about what he’d do now that his mum wasn’t waiting for him at home.

 “I know this saying this might not help, it didn’t when I was going through this, but we’re here for you. All of us.”

 “She’s right,” T.J said. “We’re all here for you if you need a shoulder to cry on.”

 “Yeah, you can blow your nose in my shirt if you want to,” Halfborn agreed.

 “That would actually be an improvement,” Mallory said.  Magnus let out a pathetic little choked laugh.

 Alex didn’t say anything. She just held onto Magnus’ hand, with a determined yet conflicted expression, like she wanted to help but didn’t know how.

 They stayed around him in a close-knit circle as Magnus cried and sobbed and wheezed, until his tears run out, until his body jerked from raspy hiccups and pitiful whines.

 Magnus wanted his mum. Ungrateful as it might sound, he wanted her to hug him and tell him it was alright instead of his friends.

 But he wasn’t going to get that and he was starting to accept that.

~~~~~

 Magnus felt odd the next few days. He acted normally, he talked to his friends normally and he went to his classes normally. But when previously he was carrying his mother's death around with him like a rock in his pocket, constantly conscious of it and weighing him down, now his friends were there to share some of the weight when it became too much.

 It was still there, though. He could still feel the weight of it, sometimes lighter, sometimes heavier, but it was still there. But it didn’t feel like a boulder anymore, it didn’t threaten to take him down with it if he took one wrong step. Having that burden lighten after all this time felt odd, but… good. Really good.

 Magnus was sitting at breakfast, munching on his cereal as his friends talked about their plans for the Christmas holidays. It had been a weird topic for his friends to talk about, especially now that they knew what had happened to his mother. Even as the holiday approached and everyone was high with excitement, they still wouldn’t go anywhere near the topic.

 Magnus appreciated that they didn’t want to hurt him, he really did, but he didn’t want them to treat him as if he were made of glass either. He kept bringing up the topic on his own and they soon understood he had no problem hearing about their family plans.

 Sure, Magnus could say he was fine as much as he wanted now, but he knew it’d be a much different topic once the day finally came. He didn't know what he'd feel like then or how he'd react, but it wasn't worth depriving his friends of the holiday's excitement. He wanted to hear them gush about what they were going to do over Christmas, he liked seeing them happy. It made him feel good. (It was moments like this he realised why he was sorted into Hufflepuff.)

 “We’re going to visit my grandparents in Ireland at Christmas!” Mallory said excitedly. Her accent always became stronger whenever she was emotional over something and the piece of toast she had spread marmalade on was forgotten on her plate. She made wide, energetic gestures with her hands that didn’t really mean anything and the marmalade covered knife was still in her hand, dripping strawberry flavoured drops on the table. Magnus pitied the house elves that would have to clean that later.

 “The whole family will be there too!” she went on. “I haven’t seen them in forever! And aunt Aslin gave birth earlier this year so I’m going to meet my new cousin!”

 Magnus had been to Mallory’s house once for her birthday and her whole family was there too. Magnus wasn’t sure how she kept track of all those aunts, uncles and cousins. Both her parents had lots of siblings and they were all family oriented, which meant there were dozens of Keens in the UK that sported Mallory’s crazy hair and freckles. It was surprising how she was the only wizard among her brothers and sisters, though. Then again, magical genes were tricky.

 “Are you going to get your cousins presents when we go to Hogsmeade again?” Sam asked.

 “Yeah, but luckily for my wallet, the just want candy. Though I don’t know where I’ll fit so many chocolate frogs.”

 Magnus could picture dozens of chocolate frogs running amok in Mallory’s house as the whole family tried to catch them. It was a hilariously crazy image and it made him smile into his spoon.

 “I’m going to Norway to see my grandparents and we’ll spend some time on the mountain too," Halfborn said. "My brother is coming back from university so we'll probably go skiing too."

 “Be careful not to be eaten by a bear,” T.J joked.

 “Yeah, the poor thing would get food poisoning,” Mallory agreed with a smirk.

 “Oh, har har,” Halfborn said and threw an apple at Mallory. The girl caught the fruit in her hands and threw it back. Magnus remembered something about throwing an apple at a girl being a marriage proposal in Ancient Greece but thought better not bring that up for fear of injury by fruit.

 “Anyway, what are you doing at Christmas, T.J?” Magnus asked, partly because he wanted to stop Mallory and Halfborn’s flirting and partly because he was curious.

 “My grandparents and my uncle and aunt are coming to visit us for Christmas,” he said happily. T.J’s mother had moved to the UK when she was a student in university and had ended up staying even after she finished her studies. Law school was where she had met T.J’s father, another lawyer-to-be. They got married after being in a relationship for some years, but unfortunately, he had been killed soon after T.J was born by a relative of a man he had put in jail.

 “My uncle and aunt said they have a surprise for me, so I’m really excited to see what it is,” T.J went on. “Are you doing something during Christmas, Alex?”

 “Nah, not really,” Alex said, her cheek propped on her palm as she played around with the food on her plate. “I’m just staying here.”

 Magnus perked up. “Wait, you’re staying here too?”

 Alex nodded. “Yeah. I heard Hogwarts is nice during Christmas.”

 Magnus nodded. “I haven’t actually stayed here before during the holidays, but I’ve heard it’s nice too,” he said, ignoring the fact that there was obviously more to her staying than that. He was just happy he would have company.

 “Are you doing something during the holidays, Sam?” Alex asked. “I mean, it’s two weeks of no school, you must be looking forward to something.”

 A shit-eating grin spread across Magnus’ face. “Yeah, Sam, are you looking forward to seeing someone?”

 Sam’s cheeks reddened and she looked down at her plate. The others slowly realised what Magnus was talking about and smiled mischievously. 

 “Yes, is there someone you want to see?” Mallory asked, propping her head on her hand to look at Sam over the table and wiggle her eyebrows.

 Sam refused to look up at them.

 "Anyone at all?" Halfborn went on.

 Sam blushed harder.

 Alex looked at Sam, flustered and refusing to meet anyone’s eye, and then at her friends, grinning like Cheshire Cat. “Okay, is there something I’m missing here? Who are you talking about?”

 “Welllll,” Mallory almost sang.

 “That would be,” T.J continued in the same sing-song voice.

 “Amir!” Magnus finished. Just as they expected, Sam’s blush reached new heights the moment his name was uttered.

 “Who’s that?” Alex asked, still confused. What was going on?

 “Sam’s betrothed,” Halfborn said. He said ‘betrothed’ the same way a kid in elementary school would say ‘you like her’ right before he started singing kissing on a tree.

 Alex looked at Sam, who had buried her red face in her hands, with wide eyes. “You’re betrothed?”

 Sam nodded. “Yes.”

 “And in love,” Mallory added, matching Halfborn’s teasing tone. “Our little Sam here has been in love with Amir since she was twelve.”

 Alex was still looking at Sam with surprise. Magnus didn’t know what was funnier, Sam being flustered or Alex being completely dumbfounded.

 “Excuse me?” Alex finally said. “My sister is engaged and I never heard about it before now?”

 Magnus would have laughed at Alex’s over the top reaction if it wasn’t for one little word she said.

 “Sister?” They all asked together, in perfect unison, like they were in some bad sit-com.

 Alex finally seemed to realise what she had said. "Oops. That slipped."

 “What do you mean ‘sister’?” Halfborn asked.

 Alex scratched her head awkwardly. “Um, well, you see…”

 Sam sighed. “This is why I said we should wait until the right moment to tell them.”

 “It slipped, okay?” Alex said. “What did you expect? I was surprised! How come you never told be you’re engaged?”

 “Betrothed,” Sam corrected. “And I didn’t tell you because I was sure you’d tease me. I was putting it off for as long as possible.”

 “Okay, you’re not wrong there, I will tease you,” Alex admitted. “But still! Why didn’t I learn about my future brother in law?”

 “Okay, wait a minute,” T.J interrupted. “Can we go back to the whole thing about you two being sisters?”

 “Yeah, what happened?” Mallory asked. “When did you find out?”

 “Remember that letter Loki sent?” Sam said. She always referred to her father by his name. She refused to acknowledge their relation. “It was addressed to his daughters. Plural. He’s mentioned having other children so I talked to Alex, since she’s also a metamorphmagus.”

 “Turns out Loki is the shitty father of both of us,” Alex continued. “Although he’s technically my mother.”

 “Say what now?” Halfborn asked. Magnus would have laughed at his confused expression if he wasn’t in a similar state himself.

 “Our father is metamorphmagus like us and he can change his whole body to look like a woman,” Sam explained matter-of-factly, like she was answering a question in class.

 “When he had me, he, or rather she, was a woman,” Alex completed.

 “So a metamorphmagus can still reproduce even when they have changed to a different sex?” T.J asked. Magnus could see his Ravenclaw brain’s cogs turn around and spin as he tried to make sense of the new information.

 Alex shrugged. “Apparently.”

 It was then that the bell rang and the table 19 gang got up to go to their respective lessons. Magnus was just about to exit the Hall of the Slain when Sam walked by him and slipped a note in his hand. Before Magnus could ask her what that was about, she had disappeared among the crowd of students.

 ~~~~~~

 Magnus was standing in front of Professor Blitzen's office, one hand raised and ready to knock on the door. His fist floated just a millimetre away from the wood in hesitation. Magnus thought about it again. He could always come back and talk to Professor Blitzen tomorrow, he might be busy right now.

 But no, he had already put this off long enough. Today was the day all students that wouldn’t spend Christmas at Hogwarts went home and the castle was uncharacteristically quiet. Magnus got Sam's note about talking to Professor Blitzen almost two weeks ago and he had been procrastinating ever since then.

 When Sam slipped the note into his palm, Magnus had looked at it curiously as soon as he had sat down. On it, in Sam’s neat handwriting were the words “If you need a place to stay, you can go to Professor Blitzen. He can help you.”

 Magnus hadn’t gotten the chance to ask Sam what that had been about privately for a few days. Even when he did, she hadn’t been much help, just said that he could help him find a stable place to stay in summer.

 With a deep breath, he knocked on the door. He had put this off long enough. Time to get it over with.

 Once Magnus heard the muffled “Come in” from behind the door, he opened it and walked in. Professor Blitzen was sitting crouched over a book – a sketchbook, Magnus noticed as he walked closer- with a pencil in hand. Professor's offices in Hogwarts were fairly spacious, but with all the mannequins and cloth spread around in the room, it felt cluttered. Not in a bad way, weirdly. In a warm, used and familiar way, the same way you’re familiar with the clutter of your messy bedroom.

 “What can I help you with?” Professor Blitzen asked. A large insignia of Hufflepuff was pinned to his tie, the symbol of his status as the Hufflepuff Head of House. How he made a gold, yellow and black pin look fashionable, Magnus didn’t know.

 “Um, Sam said you could help me with, uh… something,” Magnus mumbled as he sat awkwardly on one of the chairs in front of the Professor’s desk.

 "Sure. I'll be glad to help if I can," the teacher said as he put aside the design he had been working on. “What’s troubling you?”

 “It’s, umm…” Magnus trailed off. The floor sure seemed interesting today. It had a nice grey color.  “Sam said you could help me find a place to stay in summer when I won’t be able to stay at Hogwarts.”

 Professor Blitzen’s face fell when Magnus talked, as if he realised exactly what this was about.  Which he did.

 “I see,” he said calmly. “Did Samirah explain to you how I can help?”

 Magnus shook his head. “Not really. She just said you could help.”

 The professor nodded thoughtfully. “Well, I assume you don't know this, but Professor Hearthstone and I run a small organisation that aims to provide shelter for Hogwarts students who can't go back home during the summer for one reason or the other."

 “How come I had never heard of that?” Magnus asked confused.

 “It’s still pretty new. Hearthstone and I are still trying to get word around so students who need our help will hear about it.”

 Magnus’ lips formed a small ‘oh’ as he nodded. “So… can you help me?”

 He felt a bit awkward asking like this. Yes, for all intents and purposes, their Head of House were meant to be their mother or father for as long as they were at Hogwarts. Magnus may have gone to Professor Blitzen for help multiple times, but still�� asking him for a place to stay like this felt awkward. Especially since simply asking told Professor Blitzen that something was wrong with his home. (Could there be something wrong with his home if he didn’t have one anymore?)

 “Of course,” the short teacher said and handed Magnus a piece of paper and an envelope from a drawer. “Please fill in your information on the paper. We need to keep the Ministry informed about children under our care.”

 Magnus looked down at the paper. It was pretty standard stuff; name, age, gender (there were more than two options, Magnus noted). But among all of that was also the question of why he couldn’t stay at his home.

 Because I don’t have one anymore, Magnus thought instinctively, even though he had been trying not to have negative thoughts like that lately. Because my dad has been dead for years and now my mum is dead too.

 His gloomy thoughts must have reflected on his face, because Professor Blitzen spoke. “The paper is mostly formalities. The people at the Ministry are thankfully very understanding, so it’s okay if you’re very general about it. And you don’t have to tell me or Hearthstone unless you feel comfortable. Alright?”

 Magnus nodded. “Okay,” he said quietly.

 ~~~~~

 With most of the students at their homes, the castle was quiet. Almost eerily so, in fact. Magnus had just been so used to having hundreds of kids milling around Hogwarts hall that seeing the place suddenly so empty felt wrong, like something straight out of a horror movie.

 Still, horror movies generally came with a great thrill to them and having the whole castle to themselves, able to explore every nook and cranny to their heart's content, was amazing. It was exciting and mystical and, well, magical. Magnus and Alex spent most of Christmas break walking aimlessly around the castle’s corridors and exploring rooms and passages they had no idea existed before.

 Like, they had a music room! Why did they have a music room? They didn’t even learn music at Hogwarts!

 Alex was great company during the holidays and they had lots of fun together. It had been weird at first, since they had grown used to hanging around with all of their friends during the year, but spending Christmas holidays together reminded Magnus of how well they had hit it off in the Hogwarts Express.

 They were currently outside, near the great lake, bundled up in so many layers it was a wonder they could move. Alex had burst into Magnus’ room that morning (teachers were much more relaxed about students staying in their own dorms now) and had demanded Magnus wake up because it was snowing outside. Any protest Magnus might have had about being woken up so suddenly were completely forgotten as he jumped out of bed and got dressed as fast as the Flash so they could go outside.

 It was amazing. Yes, Magnus had seen white Hogwarts before, but there was something about seeing all that fluffy snow covering the castle grounds, without any students around, that was simply extraordinary. It was so beautiful and peaceful and-

 “Catch me if you can!”

 And Magnus just got hit by a snowball.

 “Oh, I’ll get you for that!” he yelled after Alex as he gathered up some snow.

 “You’ll have to catch me first!”

 Magnus ran after the green haired boy -Alex was a boy today- as he made a snowball in his hands. Magnus had taken part in a lot of snowball fights and if Alex thought he was going to beat him that easily he had another thing coming.

 …or maybe not.

 Turns out Alex is a sneaky little shit (Slytherin. Go figure) and beating him at a snowball fight was more difficult than it seemed. He was fast and agile, even in the deep snow, and his nimble fingers made balls really fast. Magnus had soon found himself with snow in his hair and face and fingers numb from the cold.

 That’s not to say he hadn’t gotten in a few, a lot, actually, good hits. At one point he had managed to sneak up on Alex and shove a lump of snow down Alex’s shirt. It might have gotten him a snowball in the face, but it was worth it. He had also managed to hit Alex right on the head, which had left the other boy disoriented long enough to get in another few hits.

 Then came the realisation that they were wizards and could use magic. Soon, dozens of snowballs were suspended in the air with Wingardium Leviosa and they were staring each other down, like they were going to have an epic movie-finale battle.

 “You can still back down, you know,” Alex said with a cocky smirk. He was holding a snowball in hand, even though he already held several others in the air with magic. Magnus guessed he did it to look cool.

 “Yeah, you wish,” Magnus said equally as cocky. “Bring it on.”

 “You asked for it.”

 Snowballs started flying. It was chaotic, adrenaline inducing, exciting. It was way too over the top, but they were both smiling wide, cheeks red by the cold.

 In the end, after a great battle, Magnus and Alex lay breathless on the snow. Their clothes were soaked through and they knew they should probably go inside now, but they were too tired.

 “That,” Magnus panted, “was awesome.”

 “Yeah. I’ve never seen someone who can keep up with Durmstrang’s snowball fighting techniques.”

 “What can I say, I’m a natural.”

 Beside him, Alex giggled and sighed content. “This is nice,” he said and something about his voice sounded so happy and at peace that it made Magnus smile just hearing it.

 And it was nice. The weather, the sky. It was nice. It was simple but… it made him happy.

 “Yeah. It is.”

 There was a moment of silence before Alex spoke again. “I heard you talked to Professor Blitzen about staying somewhere this summer.”

 Magnus could only nod at that. “Yeah.”

 “I know that the circumstances that led to you having to stay there aren’t the best, and it might be a bit selfish of me to say, but I’m glad we’ll be able to spend the summer together.”

 Magnus turned his head to look at Alex. “You’ll stay there too?” he asked, even though he had no idea where ‘there’ was. He knew that Professor Blitzen and Hearthstone would provide him with shelter, like they did with a lot of other kids, but he didn’t know how.

 “Yeah. I can’t exactly go back to my house,” he said nonchalantly. "I don't want to either, though." He stood up and offered a hand to Magnus. He took it. "I'm having much more fun now than I ever had before."

 Magnus wondered about that. About why Alex didn’t like talking about his family and why he couldn’t go back home. Why he always talked about the time before Hogwarts like it was so bad.

 But Alex didn’t give him the chance to think about it any longer.

 “Now, come on,” he said. “We better go back inside or we’ll get sick. And I’m not being stuck at Hogwarts with your sick arse.”

And with that, we conclude our first (well, fourth) year at Hogwarts! Starting next chapter, Magnus and the gang are fifth years!

See ya next school year!

[freespierit]

I finally bothered to finish the fanfic I was writing for Merel from The Belgariad so HERE IT IS in all its unedited glory because I am LAZY. 

Dub-con warnings because canon. 

A black capped chickadee warbled on a frost dusted branch outside the window, it’s cheerful wintry song a stark contrast to the mournful expression of the blonde woman occupying the bedroom.

“It isn’t as bad as all that, Merel,” Her dark-haired companion gently placed one pale hand on the blonde’s shoulder, green eyes brimming with sympathy that belied her optimistic words.

“Isn’t it?” Merel lifted one hand to touch her friend’s fingers briefly, then dropped it into her lap, where it joined its partner in wringing slim fingers with unconcealed distress. “He asks daily, Liana! Daily! I tire of turning him away!”

Liana glanced uncomfortably towards the window. “He’s the cousin of King Anheg…” She suggested carefully, and Merel scowled.

“Do you think me unaware? If he were the king himself still I would tell him no.”

Liana twitched her skirts with her free hand, furrowing her brows doubtfully. “Perhaps if he had land…”

“I would rather be landless than saddled with a husband I care nothing about,” Merel proclaimed, twisting her slender neck so that she could glare up at Liana. “You’ve known me from girlhood and this is what you think of me!”

Liana shrugged, removing her hand and scrutinizing the emerald ring glimmering on one finger. “Marrying nobility has advantages.”

“And my father would hardly be thrilled with a low-born match,” Merel agreed, shoulders sagging in a sigh. “But Barak is hardly low-born. He simply lacks any title or land. And he also lacks my love,” She concluded firmly, “And that’s what’s most important.”

Merel adjusted the furs on her shoulder as she swept through the narrow streets of Val Alorn. Fur-lined boots sank into the snow, and the hem of her dress was wet from the piles of snow that clogged the streets. Even the burly Cherek snow-sweepers could hardly keep up with the snowfall of a winter that lasted more than its fair share of months.

A group of little girls darted past, pelting one another with snowballs. One of the snowballs smacked against her arm, losing form as it fell into the snow along the road. The youngest of the girls began to cry, then, and Merel gave the group a gentle smile.

“There, there. No harm done, is there? It’s only a bit of snow.”

One of the older girls grabbed the younger by the arm, tugging her along. “We’re sorry, Mistress!” She apologized, bobbing her head quickly.

Merel waved away the apology. “Oh, off with you! Snow’s for snowball fights, everyone in Val Alorn knows that.”

Several of the girls giggled nervously, but after Merel had passed them by she could hear the sounds of furious snowballing.

She smiled and exchanged greetings with a few of the snow-sweepers, and with any resident not too involved in their own affairs to acknowledge her. When she saw a woman struggling to open her door, burdened as she was with baskets from the market, an infant, and two small boys, Merel strode over to offer help. The woman gave her a tired smile and a sincere, weary thanks.

After she had left the woman and children behind she smiled to herself, glancing up at the snow clouds hovering above the high stone towers of Val Alorn. Although snow halted industry and agriculture to some extent, it was such a natural part of home that she couldn’t help but love it. She began to hum an old Cherek tune to herself, resisting the urge to skip down the streets; snow may have been an integral part of Cherek, but it also made for treacherous streets if one wasn’t careful.

A bulky shadow passed over her, and she jerked her head back towards the street so that she could greet her fellow citizen. But the smile froze on her lips as she recognized the man she had the misfortune of sharing a street with.

“Ah, Merel!” A giant, red-bearded man beamed at her.

“Barak,” She returned his greeting stiffly.

“This is fortuitous! Do you perhaps have a moment to spare?”

Merel shook her head mutely, unable to come up with a suitable lie on the spot. She’d been so enjoying this walk home, but now all those pleasant feelings fled only to be replaced by heavy dread.

Barak’s face fell. “Not even a little moment?” He wheedled. “It won’t take long at all!”

Finally Merel found her voice. “I...I really must return home, Barak. You know how my father gets when I’m late.”

“I could walk you home and explain.”

Merel wondered how he managed not to notice the pained expression she wore whenever he forced his company upon her. Or perhaps, she reflected darkly, he simply didn’t care. “I really couldn’t ask such a thing,” She said firmly, and purposefully strode forward. As she passed her muscles tensed, half afraid he would physically restrain her.

Instead he chose to follow her.

“It’s just a small matter, Merel. I thought perhaps you could accompany me to the dedicating of Grinneg’s ship next week.”

“Oh, no, I can’t!” She answered quickly, increasing her pace despite the dangers the ice possessed. “Perhaps you could ask Alladora! She’d never say no!”

“Ah, but it could only be you, Merel,” Barak argued, picking up his own stride in order to keep pace with her.

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to go alone.”

Barak continued to follow her, undeterred. “Lady Liana said you were free that day.”

Merel curled her fingers into the palms of her hands in frustrating. “Liana hasn’t any idea what my schedule is like!” She snapped. “I told you no, and that’s my final answer!”

He begged and pleaded the whole way to her home, so that she was forced to slam the door in his face. Once she was safely in her own room she flung herself onto her bed. A long furred tabby cat uncurled itself and rubbed against her face.

“Oh, Stripes. I wish he’d just leave me alone!” She complained, burying her face in the soft fur. Stripes purred sympathetically, which helped drain the tension from Merel’s shoulders. She sighed, then eventually discarded her snow covered garments in favor of a nightgown. “Perhaps he’ll be busy tomorrow and I won’t have to see him.”

But she knew that was never true.

“Your mother and I have already agreed to the arrangement.”

Merel pressed her lips together, staring at her father in stony silence.

“It is a good match, Merel,” He peered down an impressive nose at his daughter. “He has land, power, connections to the king.”

Merel tilted her head upward a fraction of an inch.

“And he’s desperate to marry you,” Her father continued. “These opportunities don’t present themselves often. Your mother and I had expected the reverse of this situation.”

Merel drew her brows together. “I do not love him and do not wish to marry him,” she announced quietly. She had never been shy about her lack of interest, and yet everyone around her seemed to have entirely missed this.

“And who would you marry in his stead?” Her father raised an eyebrow at her in challenge.

“There is nobody,” She admitted.

Her father nodded once. “Then it is settled. You shall marry Earl Barak.”

“Is it not exciting?” Liana tittered as she pinned Merel’s hair into an elaborate pile of braids. “Marrying an Earl!”

She sighed wistfully, allowing several strands of golden locks to fall across Merel’s shoulders as she stared into the distance. “Do you suppose an Earl would marry me?”

“You could switch places with me,” Merel responded mirthlessly.

“Oh, but it is you he loves!” Liana reminded her, carefully brushing the stray hairs back into place. “And it’s so romantic, that he asked and asked until you said yes.”

Merel grimaced; Liana failed to notice.

“You look lovely!” The dark-haired woman continued, touching her friend’s shoulders lightly in order to turn her about in admiration. “Barak won’t be able to resist.”

“Wonderful,” Merel muttered under her breath.

A knock sounded against the heavy wooden door, announcing that it was time for the wedding party to take their places. Liana swiftly pressed a kiss against Merel’s cheek, whispering, “Lucky!” before disappearing out the door.

Merel made her way towards the aisle with a sense of utter numbness. The trepidation she had felt in the weeks leading up the wedding had slowly worn down all her emotions until there was nothingness.

She wished the rest of her could wear down into nothingness as well.

Instead she found herself marching between rows upon rows of spectators, people gathered together to celebrate her doom. She stopped beside Barak, standing stiffly. Somehow she was able to repeat the expected vows with no crack in her voice, and when Barak went in to kiss her she stood still without crying.

The celebration, such as it was, largely involved the guests and her groom becoming extremely drunk. Nobody seemed to notice that she didn’t smile at all.

“Congratulations! Isn’t love young so wonderful?” Grey-haired matrons sighed in her direction.

She cast her eyes towards the ground in response. “Perhaps it is.”

She was eventually able to extricate herself from the celebrations in order to sob desperately in the washroom. But there was no hiding from her future; her now husband insisted on the bedroom as soon as the guests had all departed.

Slowly Barak realized that she didn’t love him.

She wondered sourly how it had taken him such a long time. Dutiful she would be, but loving never. How could she love a man who had forced her into marriage with him?

The aches and pains of pregnancy did nothing to sweeten her towards him, and she was glad enough that during labor at least everyone fully expected her to berate him for her pregnancy. She was even more glad that caring for Gundred gave her an excuse to remain away from him for much of the time, using exhaustion from the baby as a convenient excuse.

Gundred was followed by Terzie, another daughter born of Barak’s insistence and Merel’s strict adherence to marital duties. Barak complained that she was frigid in love making; she pointed out that the fulfillment of her duties did not include enthusiasm.

“Surely my husband would not wish me to lie?” She asked pointedly.

He began to spend more and more time away from his estate, choosing to very nearly live at King Anheg’s courts.

She was relieved.

More than half the court blamed her for the state of their marriage; Barak was charming and well-liked, particularly among the men. But so long as he stayed out of her hair and allowed her the raising of their daughters and the running of their household she didn’t care.

At times he would return home,and then he would rail at her.

“You’re being unfair! What have I done to deserve your cold treatment?” He asked. And then he would sigh, “Even if you do not love me, it is heartless of you to keep our daughters from me.”

“You are welcome to remain home whenever you wish, my Lord,” Merel responded coolly. “I do not decide where you choose to spend your time.”

The changes began imperceptibly. Hair grown a bit shaggier, temper grown a bit more aggressive. They already sparred so much that it was difficult to pinpoint exactly where the changes began, but slowly they built up.

Barak tried to keep the changes secret, but eventually a maid informed her in terror that she had heard it prophesied that the Earl of Trellheim would become a monster.

“Is  it true, my Lord?” She asked one evening after the girls had gone to bed. He had requested her presence in their bedroom, and she found this the perfect opportunity to turn the tables on him.

His face matched his beard and he stammered out an incoherent response.

“I simply feel that your wife should know such things. How am I expected to carry out my duties of caring for my husband if you keep secrets from me?”

“It is true,” He mumbled at his hands, and she felt a twinge of satisfaction.

Her husband was truly becoming on the outside the monster he was on the inside, and eventually everyone else would see it.

“I am so glad you told me,” She smirked, smoothing her golden hair against her shoulder.

Finally, life was beginning to look up.