#a stubborn clog

[doctordrain]

Comprehensive Sewer & Drain Services.

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[emergencyplumbingil]

A Heartfelt Thanksgiving Message from Emergency Plumbing

As the season of gratitude rolls in, all of us at Emergency Plumbing would like to take a moment to express our heartfelt thanks to the wonderful communities we serve. Trusted by families and businesses across the North Shore and Northwest Suburbs — including Glenview, Northbrook, Highland Park, Arlington Heights, and Buffalo Grove — we’re proud to be your go-to plumbing team.

At Emergency Plumbing, we believe Thanksgiving isn’t just about turkey and traditions; it’s about community, connection, and peace of mind. That’s why we’re here for you, 24/7, to answer your calls and provide the trusted plumbing solutions you need. Whether it’s fixing a stubborn clog, repairing broken pipes, or installing new fixtures, our licensed, local, and loyal professionals are ready to ensure your home stays safe and comfortable this holiday season. We are grateful to be part of your lives and homes, offering great prices with guaranteed quality.

Your trust in us to solve your plumbing problems means everything, and we’re committed to delivering exceptional service every time. From emergency repairs to routine maintenance, we’re here to provide you with the peace of mind you deserve. This Thanksgiving, we also want to thank you for your continued support and for sharing your positive experiences with neighbors and friends. Word of mouth and glowing recommendations fuel our mission to serve with excellence, and we are honored to be part of such vibrant local communities.

As you gather with loved ones to celebrate this special holiday, know that Emergency Plumbing is just a call away, ready to ensure your celebrations go smoothly — with no plumbing hiccups to interrupt the fun. From our family to yours, we wish you a warm, joyous, and trouble-free Thanksgiving!

With gratitude,

The Emergency Plumbing Team Trusted. Local. Always here for you.

[bestusaplumbingservice]

Navigating Plumbing Emergencies: A Comprehensive Guide to USA Plumbing Service Solutions

When unexpected plumbing issues strike, it can be a stressful experience for any homeowner. Leaky pipes, clogged drains, or malfunctioning water heaters can disrupt daily routines and lead to potential damage if not addressed promptly. In such crucial moments, having a reliable USA Plumbing Service at your disposal becomes paramount.

The USA Plumbing Service industry has evolved to meet the diverse needs of homeowners across the country. These professional services are equipped to handle a wide range of plumbing emergencies efficiently and effectively. Let's explore the comprehensive solutions they offer in times of crisis.

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3. **Comprehensive Repairs:** The term "emergency" implies the need for immediate and effective solutions. USA Plumbing Service professionals are well-equipped to handle a variety of repairs, from sealing leaks and replacing damaged pipes to unclogging stubborn drains. Their comprehensive approach addresses not only the visible symptoms but also the underlying issues, preventing future complications.

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5. **Transparent Communication:** A reliable USA Plumbing Service understands the importance of clear communication with homeowners. From explaining the nature of the problem to detailing the proposed solutions and associated costs, transparency is a hallmark of their service. This ensures that homeowners are well-informed and can make decisions based on a complete understanding of the situation.

In conclusion, when plumbing emergencies arise, enlisting the help of a reputable USA Plumbing Service is a wise decision. Their prompt response, expert diagnosis, comprehensive repairs, state-of-the-art equipment, and transparent communication make them invaluable partners in resolving plumbing issues swiftly and effectively. By having a reliable USA Plumbing Service on standby, homeowners can navigate emergencies with confidence, knowing that skilled professionals are ready to provide the necessary solutions.

[ourhees]

SATURN ── LHS

PREC𝓲S ｡｡ 𝗆𝗈𝗆𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖺𝗍 𝗆𝖺𝖽𝖾 𝗒𝗈𝗎 𝗋𝖾𝖺𝗅𝗂𝗓𝖾 𝗁𝖾𝖾𝗌𝖾𝗎𝗇𝗀 𝗂𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗈𝗇𝖾

이희승 ／⠀ female reader ── fluff + non idol au ｡｡ ⠀ happy birthday to the loml 🎀 my seungie i love you and i adore you forever. . . . more

THAT TIME WHEN he stayed up late with you when you were sick

it was early october and the weather was starting to get cold. you shivered under your blanket, your nose running and your hair a mess, a state you didn’t want heeseung seeing you in. instead of pushing you away, he came over, holding medicines and all your favorite snacks.

“i know you need me princess..” he sat beside you on the bed, wrapping his arms around you.

“what if you get sick to?” you sniffled, attempting inhaling his scent through your clogged nose.

“it’s okay.. as long as i’m with you, that’s all that matters to me.”

it was during those moments, when he looked after you even when you felt your worst, that you realized heeseung’s love was all pure. heeseung didn’t just show up on your good days, but the days you felt vulnerable, and unwell.

THAT TIME WHEN he surprised you with a bunch of hand written love letters

it was your first valentine’s day with heeseung, you were super unsure of what to get him. all those store bought gifts didn’t have as much love as a homemade gift. you made him your infamous homemade chocolate chip cookies and crocheted him a new sweater.

as you finished taking the cookies out of the oven, you heard a slight knock at your front door. you hurried over and opened the door, seeing a basket of letters resting perfectly on the porch.

“100 reasons why i love you..” you read the basket, smiling softly as you reached to grab it.

you went back inside, reading each letter individually. tears flew through your eyes as you read the letters. heeseung’s love was stronger than anything, he always make it clear.

THAT TIME WHEN you had your first fight

a small argument broke out between you and heeseung, it wasn’t anything big, but something that could’ve easily been forgotten. you stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, both of you too stubborn to back down.

“i don’t even know why it matters this much to you.” you muttered under your breath, a sharp edge to your voice. it stung more than intended.

heeseung’s face faltered for a second, hurt in his eyes, but instead of responding out of anger, he paused. from past relationships, you expected him to walk out and not say anything, but he did the opposite.

“i don’t wanna fight with you, i never do. come here and let’s make this right.” he holds his arms out for you, without even thinking you ran into his arms. heeseung wasn’t focused on winning this fight, he just wanted to make things right between the two of you. his touch was comfort, something you needed in that very moment.

THAT TIME WHEN he came to your rescue when you least expected it

it was a stormy afternoon and you had forgotten your umbrella on the kitchen counter. one moment it was sunny, the next it was pouring ran. your clothing was soaked and your hair was wet, you shivered as you continued to walk.

suddenly a car pulls up beside you, the window rolling down. “get in, princess.” he calls out, opening the passenger door for you. you quickly walk over to his car, closing the door behind you.

“you came…” you looked at him, almost as if he was some sort of hero.

“of course i came. you weren’t answering your phone, i figured something wasn’t right.” heeseung smiled, grabbing one of his hoodies from the backseat. “put this one..i’ll drive you home okay?”

THAT TIME WHEN he comforted you when you were nervous

it was your first big job interview, you sat in your car anxious and scared. your palms were sweaty, your breathing was faster than usual. you spent weeks preparing, even having a little bit of heeseung’s help.

your phone buzzed, signaling a call. it was heeseung, without even thinking you answered it. “hello?” you answered, hearing heeseung’s voice suddenly calmed you down.

“hey princess.. don’t stress it okay? you’re gonna do great and they’d be extremely lucky to have someone like you on their team. i love you okay?”

“i love you too, thank you for helping me prepare for this day.” you smiled. you were lucky, heeseung knew how much this job meant to you, and he didn’t want you to stress yourself out about it. you went into the job interview and handled it perfectly, just like heeseung had prayed for.

💌 : happy birthday to my heeseung :( ugh he makes me so proud i love him so much. i adore him so badly. lets meet soon my beloved (i hope) >_<

[paddedlittleparadise]

TW: forced regression, bodily waste, diaper use, non-con

Note that in this fantasy scenario, all individuals are adults over the age of 18!

–––

Why the crotch strap?

Oh, sweetie, it's really not that hard to understand! But I see the fear in your eyes – the fear that fogs your mind and clogs your rational faculties. Mommy gets it. Mommy knows how scary it is to see your new little brother getting broken in. Don't worry. Mommy will explain everything to you.

Never mind his moans. Never mind his squirming. Mommy put him in that straitjacket for a reason. He's safe now: safe from himself, from his silly attempts to escape, from everything that might disturb the process. See? He can tug and moan and writhe – like an adorable, pathetic little worm – but he's not going anywhere. Not so long as those straps are holding him tight in Mommy's inescapable hug.

The crotch strap, hmm? Aww, just look at it. It's so… wide, isn't it? Wide and strong, with stout buckles keeping it in place. It fits so well over your little brother's diaper, too. And with those pretty blue stripes running parallel with it… aww, it's genuinely beautiful!

It seems so tight? Are you sure about that, sweetie? Go on. Reach out and touch it. Run your trembling fingers over the plastic, the canvas, the lovely strong stitching… down to that cold steel buckle. Slip your fingers underneath, now. See? It's not quite so tight as you thought!

And why is that, sweetie? Why ever would Mommy leave that nice strong crotch strap loose, hmm?

Oh, I see your questioning eyes, blinking up fearfully. You don't know, do you? But don't worry. Mommy said she'd explain.

It's for a very good reason, sweetie. See, listen to your little brother, gulping and fighting in his bonds. He's struggling against himself now: against the lovely load of milk and juice Mommy pumped into him just now. Against the muscle relaxants that slowly are making it harder and harder for him to resist. Against the lovely, large fleet enema Mommy squirted deep into his bum… and that's already got him burning and aching to release.

That crotch strap is ready.

Because it will happen, sweetie. There's no way anyone can win such a fight. He'll lose: little by little, more and more, until at last he's lying there, shuddering as his bladder and bowels empty themselves over and over into his diaper. And with every addition, that diaper of his will swell: silently mushrooming out, straining against that strap, seeking for anywhere to expand and grow. With nowhere to go, sweetie… you know where it will expand, don't you?

Inward, of course. All around his cute little pee-pee. Tighter and closer, wet and mushy and ever so warm. That strap is there to tease him, to torment him, to force his mind to accept the truth: that he's Mommy's baby now, actively peeing and pooping his pants with no way to control himself. Sure, he'll keep writhing and wriggling like the stubborn fellow he is. But with every movement, that strap will tug. His pee-pee will sense it. And oh, you know what happens when little boys feel warm, wet, tight things around their pee-pees, don't you?

That's the second reason, sweetie. That crotch strap is there to tease him into arousal. Oh, he won't want to, of course. What self-respecting fellow wants to get hard from feeling his own pee and poo around him? But thanks to Mommy's crotch strap and his own submissive cravings, he will. He'll try to resist, of course – to struggle against his own dirty impulses. But with every movement, every motion, he'll feel his trapped little cock swelling, stiffening, aching… and being forced, deeper and tighter and more surely than ever, back down into the messy, squishy mass of his own soiled diaper. Still he'll fight it, and still he'll grow harder and harder… until at last, he'll be moaning and cumming, right into the humiliating mess of his smelly diaper.

That's why Mommy has the crotch strap, sweetie. Not to restrain his body, oh no. It's to destroy his pride, his sense of self… and in the end, his old erotic programming.

Aww, are you crying, sweetie? Whatever for? Are you trying to tell Mommy that you want a crotch strap, too?

She could arrange that, you know!

Image Credit: Baby-Doll.com

Be sure to check out my Ream Stories if you want to read more of my naughty fiction!

[timbrrwolfe]

The spotify algorithm is gonna be in shambles after I finish digging through all these covers of the same song looking for one that's the closest to the one I actually want, which is apparently not on spotify.

[wisteria-lodge]

"Smallclothes"

I just reblogged a very interesting thread about historical inaccuracy in A Song of Ice and Fire, but it was doing a whole big picture thing and I didn't want to clog it up with one very small detail that just really specifically bothers me.

It's his use of the term "smallclothes." Basically, in ASOIAF smallclothes = panties/knickers.

Daario found his breeches and pulled them on. He did not trouble himself with smallclothes.

Jon’s anger flared. “No, my lord, I mean to set them to sewing lacy smallclothes."

“... before Lord Snow wets his smallclothes.”

"he looked like he was going to shit his smallclothes"

So okay. 'smallclothes' or 'small-clothes' is a historical term (from the 1700s) that means... underlayer. Here's it being used by Charles Dickens:

“Will you run over, once again, what the boy said?” asks Mr. Tulkinghorn, putting his hands into the pockets of his rusty smallclothes and leaning quietly back in his chair."

The idea being that he's casual/doesn't care and isn't bothering to dress up for his guest. not that he's in his undies. Here is a illustration from Nicholas Nickleby of a suitor who has inappropriately "displayed his small-clothes"

I've heard "smallclothes" refer to things like pocket-handkerchiefs, and anecdotally it's sometimes used to refer to knickers in linguistically stubborn places like Yorkshire, but that just is not how the word was used historically.

so okay. fine. It's a fantasy story, he's just made up his own word that means "panties."

Except NO. They straight up did not wear panties in the middle ages and renaissance. Sometimes you got loose under-breeches with a split crotch BUT - in general that long white shirt/chemise just WAS your undergarment. Think of how much easier it is to manufacture! And clean! Boxer brief type things weren't a thing until the 1900s, and modern-ish woman's panties ("step-ins") weren't a thing until the 20s, because the hemlines stopped working with pantalettes and bloomers. There are no "lacy smallclothes" like there is lacy lingerie. That only makes sense if you have industrialized clothing manufacturing!

Honestly I would have thought GRRM would be all over this, like it's kinda sexy that it's just thigh-high stocking or leggings underneath those big dresses, right? But he hasn't done that. Instead he's just ported in a modern article of clothing and gave it an old-timey name. Just a little hint that he hasn't actually properly got his head around how these clothes were made and used, and that devalues them.

And it's escaped containment! It's canon in Dragon Age, and in fanfiction I'm seeing "smallclothes" or "smalls" used to describe the underwear in in Our Flag Means Death, the Lord of the Rings, the Witcher. Just have nothing! None of these people should be wearing panties!!!!

[chronically-ghosted]

iron and charcoal

rating: explicit 18+ pairing: pero tovar x f!reader word count: 6.9K summary: Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. But there would be no tomorrow. No future, no light of dawn – not without –  Her. He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come.  OR Pero falls hard for a princess and doesn’t know what to do with himself on your wedding night. warnings: angst, brief classism/xenophobia two very stubborn people, pero experiences one Human Emotion and cannot fully process it, arranged marriage, yearning, smut LIKE WOW, soft!pero that i broke my own heart with a/n: Thank you so much to @perotovar for this request: "congrats on your milestone, my love! so happy for you <33 i'm sending a little astrology 💫 + pero & #6 on the fluffy list OR #1 on the smutty list (whichever is speaking to you), because i wanna see your take on him 👀” – of course I chose the slutty one, just for you 😉 I’m actually pretty proud of this one - please consider reblogging if you like it too!

*the image in the header is for aesthetic purposes only and does not reflect the appearance of the reader*

🤍Masterlist 🤍Pero Tovar Masterlist

💜come see what else we've done to celebrate 1K followers

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

Sometimes before battle, the clatter inside Pero’s head goes silent. It listens. It waits. 

Other times, it roars. Memories of family, of dead amigos, of mujeres he fucked – they all buck and scratch for a chance to blaze across his mind like a dust storm kicked up by an unbroken mustang. 

He doesn’t know which one he prefers or which one will win out. They both have their uses, necessary states of mind to survive whatever is barreling towards him – an ax, a monster out of legend, some other drunken mercenary he intentionally pissed off. It’s an unconscious decision, yet one that has served him well so far. He wouldn’t be alive today if some deep, primal part of him knew what he needed to live through another battle. 

And yet, his own trunk knocking against his hips as he climbed the sickly ostentatious stone steps to the top of the parapet, the handles starting to pinch his fingers, the barest – nearly invisible – tremor in his knees, he cannot fathom, for the life of him, why that singular phrase from his abuela played in his head like water swirling around and around a cenote. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

His inner voice, taking on a myriad of forms, of sounds and voices, never quite standing still, the one companion he could always rely on. 

Maybe it was warning him. Dust yourself off, boy, you know exactly how this was going to end. 

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. 

But there would be no tomorrow. No future, no light of dawn – not without –

Her.

He’d never heal because tomorrow would never come.

He feels sweat escape from the nape of curls at his neck, his cheeks warm and chest hot. Two more flights, he can manage two more flights. 

His abuela also liked to tell him something else: if hell doesn’t get him, his pride certainly will. 

It’s certainly what got him into this ridiculous farce in the first place. Because he can’t alchemize whatever is in his gut into vocalized syllables, he instead has to climb a truly incalculable amount of stairs, while carrying a ragged, torn trunk that weighs as much as his armor. 

Because he can’t form the right words, any words, about what he carries lodged beneath his breastbone for her. What draws him up and up and up and up because it’s lighter than hope, makes him lighter than air, and yet it clogs him up, chokes him out all the same. His pride, his vanity, cuts through it, through her – enough to keep him tongueless and dry but not enough to offer this lightness in his chest to her, for her. He can’t take the light out of him or else he fears what he will truly become.

So, he walks, he goes around and around on unforgiving stone steps until finally there is a door. He thinks about waiting, to catch his breath, but he knows he will just as easily turn around and go back the way he came, trunk still heavy and knocking against his hips, and that pride will be the death of him. So he keeps going, opens the handle, and makes abrupt eye contact with the two guards outside her door. They seem uninterested and unamused in his sweaty, stilted breathing, but by his less-than-royal attire, they easily clock him as one of their own; a man who fights to make his way in the world. The one on the left nods jerkily at him. 

What they see him as, what he will always be, is nearly the reason he kicks that fucking trunk all the way back down. Instead, he nods back, shoulders rounded, eyes down. 

“The princesa - the princess - is requesting the last of her things, to be b-brought up from the stables –,” he clears his throat, “drop this off for her and –,”

“Can’t let you in. King’s orders.” The one on the right sees him as something else – a foreigner first and foremost, their similar stations in life irrelevant. His bright blue eyes rove over Pero’s dark skin, dark hair, jagged scar, distaste and disgust smearing his already ugly features. But he had been dealing with men like these all his life.

“Bueno, you can explain to the King himself why his daughter’s belongings were lost and disregarded. I hear she’s very fond of the Italian prints at the bottom of this . . .”

The guards glance at each other, calculating way above their paygrade. Pero jostles the trunk as if to show he is not above throwing it out the window. 

“Fine.” The second one snaps. “Drop it inside and come back immediately.”

He drops his head, a good little foreign boy. “Gracias, señor.” 

The heavy wooden door opens beneath the iron lock and the instant he is through, he bolts it behind him. Waits to see if the guards notice. They don’t. Perfectamente – all the time in the world. 

All in the time in the world – for what? 

To fail? Again?

He stows the trunk in front of the door, extra time, a few seconds maybe – as if she wouldn’t just tell him to get out the instant she laid eyes on him. Only time will tell. 

Out of the atrium, another door, this one set deep into the wall. A last line of defense. He knocks, once, then twice, then waits. El orgullo chokes him again but fuck it, he’s come this far. He knocks again, knocks something in his chest free and, with it, spill the words:

“Princesa? It’s me. I –,” it throttles him, “princesa, can you open the door?” 

Silence. His heart sits, buried in that trunk. Then –

“It’s unlocked, Pero.” 

His heart in his throat, he opens the door to presumably what will be your marriage bed. And yet, by the state of things, you could have been moving out of it. Trunks and bags stack high against the far wall – those fucking trunks he made such a scene over because the unnecessary weight would slow them all down remain untouched, arranged as they had been when they had been first brought in. He didn’t quite know what to make of that, his thumb absently pressing into the callus of his other hand as he glanced around. It is a beautiful room – tall windows, etched in scarlet drapes, to match the scarlet curtains around the bed. With gold thread and impossibly detailed paintings of the countryside, it is fit for a princess, a some-day queen. This is where someone with royal blood deserved to be, not in the back of a hot carriage for weeks on end, surrounded by dirty, loud, rough men. 

And yet, with your hair down, expansive gown from the ball tonight replaced with a simple cotton dress, you could not have been more out of place. Pero’s heart lurches briefly, moisture seeping from his mouth, as he realizes this is the same dress he bought you when the two of you had been accidentally separated by the caravan and your previous dress had been ruined in the mud. He had no idea you still kept it, much less wore it ever again. 

But if anyone asked him, you look more beautiful in this than any silk or velvet. 

Instead of unpacking, settling into your new home and eventual role as wife, you sit hunched over at the intricately carved mahogany desk, eagle feather quill scratching against parchment. You finish with a flourish and look over your shoulder at him, your eyes annoyingly unreadable. 

“Yes?”

A stupid brute some may call him, but he wasn’t entirely without awareness. Observation of your customs and what you considered inappropriate only encouraged him: if you really didn’t want him here, you would never have let him see you in this state.

But it’s hard to remember that under your icy stare. 

“Y-your things, Princesa. The last from the caravan.”

Your eyes slide over him, to the trunk in the shadows of the atrium. He can tell from a single glance that you know as well as he that trunk is not yours, that no one told him to come here with it, and yet he did it all the same. Something flashes over your eyes but it’s gone by the time you meet his gaze again. 

“Thank you. I am, as always, indebted to you.” 

He hates your words, but warmth spreads in his gut at the way you say it. That’s how it’s always been between you and him – saying one thing but meaning another. He’d never appreciated a sharp mind like yours until he realized you wield it as he wields a sharp sword. 

There are many things he’d never even dreamed of before he met you.

“Then, this means you’re leaving, I suppose.” You draw your sword against him. The metal flashes in your eyes as you stand, one hand against the curved tip of your chair. A bronze halo rims your outline, the fire behind you burning bright and hot. He knows if he touched your shoulder, your neck, your skin would be wonderfully warm. 

He wets his lips. “Si. Our contract with your father is done.” 

You drop his gaze, your lips tightening for a minute, your fingers running through the carvings of wood on the chair. “Even with William in his state? Would it not be better for him to stay and recover? The journey home is –,” you pause, as though someone had thrown a hand over your mouth, “– the journey back east is long.” 

All the longer without you.

“William, he is not an idle man. Two days of bedrest is often all he can take.” 

You grin, in spite of this thing circling you both. “Unless he finds the nun attending to him beautiful.

“He finds them all beautiful.” 

Your smile expands wide across your bright face when you find him smiling at you too. 

This – if this is to be his last memory of you (his heart wrenches at the thought) – this is the you he wants imprinted on his soul: smiling and glowing by firelight. 

But as quickly as it came, that grin that warms him down to his bones, fades. In an instant, your eyes grow soft, your mouth twisted, jaw tight.

“Where will you go?” you ask, in the quietest voice you’d ever addressed him with. 

It pains him, physically aches within him, to hear the distress in your voice. He hasn’t even thought about the next contract, the next royal cabrón who intends to yank him all across God’s green earth to perform a task he can’t be fucked to take on himself. How can he possibly answer you? Nowhere, without you. To rot in a dark hole in the ground? Off a cliff? What answer would provide you or him any sort of satisfaction?

“Wherever the coin goes,” he says and the words scrape his tongue like bile. That ache in his chest spiraling rapidly, deep into his gut – like a poisoned limb he cannot amputate – he does the same thing he always does when he’s hurt: he makes others hurt until they leave him alone. “You do not have to worry, princesa, your new husband will keep you in such comfort you will never wonder where the coin comes from.”

He must be a truly sick man, for the knife-sharp glare you throw at him only knots arousal around the base of his spine. It tugs on something attached directly to his groin which, in turn, yanks the next words out of his mouth.

“He looked especially happy with you in his arms on the dance floor tonight.”

The icy shards in your eyes go brittle and crack. His heart races; he’s overplayed his hand. 

“You watched me dance?”

“All guardsmen were required to –,”

You shake your head, eyes bright and searing through him. “No. It was only the King’s Knights there in attendance.” 

Your hand trailing off the edge of the chair, you take a step forward and he feels his weight shift back onto his heels. But he remains firm. 

Sana, sana.

“Pero, why did you come here tonight?”

“To return the last of your things, princesa. What else is there?”

You flinch, as if he had raised his voice to you. What else is there indeed?

“Not even to . . .  say goodbye? Sixteen weeks on the road is an awfully long time to be around someone, only for them to . . . leave so soon.”

He locks his knees to keep them from shaking. “Do you wish for me to tell you goodbye, princesa?” 

There’s something painfully sad about the way you smile at him. “I wish for whatever would make you happiest.” 

Anger roars within him, hungry and hot, like a burn from a white flame. Why can’t you just admit it? Why do you avoid it time and time again? He knows he hasn’t misread anything you’ve sent his way, so why? Why are you so vested in torturing him this way? 

“Coin makes me happy and, now that I have it, there’s nothing to keep me here.”

There, that hurts you too, just as he meant it.

“Then leave.” They could make ice fortresses out of the strength of your bone-cold stare. “If you have nothing else to say, then take your goddamn trunk and get out of my sight.” 

The flame scorches him, ripping him apart and in his anger, making him cruel.

He bows to you.

“I imagine you will be very happy with your new husband, ranita.”

The term slips from his lips before he can stop it, but his throat and cheeks blister so badly, he physically can’t open his mouth to correct his mistake. Instead, he turns and strides towards the door.

He thinks he hears a gasp from behind him, a sharp sound like breaking glass – small, tinkling, tragic. It spears him through his chest, pierces his heart. 

He gets to the door and pauses.

If you have nothing else to say . . .

Of course he has something to say – words in English and Spanish and broken dialects gathered like poisonous lichen all churning in the boiling cauldron of his mind, but nothing will suffice – nothing reflects or compares to the grief he is already feeling, the despair, the anguish that has settled into all the fleshy joints in his body. Not his pride, but this, saying goodbye to you, this is what actually will kill him.

Every word imaginable crawls up his throat and rages in his mouth, presses up against his teeth, begging for something, anything to be let out, to be free, to tell you that he cannot fucking live without you–

Nothing comes through, but one single word.

“Don’t.” 

The fire crackles in the silence, a wicked god pleased at the display of carnage.

“What did you say?”

A dull thud echoes from where he drops his forehead against the wood of the door, all anger flooding out of his system. Do you have any idea the power you hold over him? One request, one tremor in your voice and his knees all but buckle at your altar. 

Fuck it. 

He always thought he’d go out in a blaze of bloody glory, but he’d never expected to be so exposed, so flayed like this.

“Don’t,” he repeats, his throat as dry as sand. “Do not . . . marry him. Please.” 

The vision of your great warrior slumped against the door frame, his neck bent, shoulders curled up to his ears has your already pounding heart leaping forward into a gallop. He is defeated, laid low. You watch his guts all but pool out on your hearth. 

He looks about as hopeless and anguished as you feel. 

Your soldier, your man of iron and charcoal, goes blurry in your eyes.

“And what would you have me do, Pero?” Your plea is damp, malleable at the edges. You press your hand flat against your chest, near your throat, as if you could pull the grief lodged there with your fingers. “I have been engaged to this man before I was even born. How can I stop this?” 

“Fight.” The word snarls against his bare teeth. He turns, his eyes liquid ink, and suddenly he has you by the shoulders. His thumbs nervously skitter around the curve of your shoulder, gaze just as unsteady and unfocused as it wavers between your hands, your earlobe, your neck. "Where is my brave girl who fights for what she wants, hm? Fight – for me, please.”

Fight, he asks – but in spite of him or because of him?

You lay your hands on the silver shine of his breastplate, watch as they rise and fall with his steady flow of breath. How many nights had you woken up against that shine, in the crook of his arm for warmth, or protection? You didn’t cherish it at the time because you never knew when it would be your last. 

“Why won’t you fight, princesa?” His voice is low, strained, the groan of a wagon wheel before it breaks. You meet his gaze and the exposed look on his face, softening every line on his mouth and around his eyes, nearly sends you into hysterics. You swallow the tears, swallow the hook in your throat as your fingers curl around the clasps of his cape. 

"Because if I don't fight then I can't lose.” His fingers slip from your shoulders, to your elbows, to your waist. You inhale and the scents of warm leather, oil, and ash flood your mouth. The tip of your nose is inches from the scruff of beard against his cheek, the ruddy brown of his sun-drenched skin. He has curled you into him and this, you do not fight either. His massive palms map your back, against your skin, but without any urgency or control. “If I can’t lose, that means I don’t lose you. You'll just be . . . gone."

That last word is a lie. It hangs in the air like a sweltering humid rain and you both know you’re lying. He has you wrapped up in his arms, you didn’t stop him even for a second, and you are all too aware that it would take some great, insidious alchemy to ever truly tear him out of you. 

You stare at his silver collar, defiant against the waves you had managed to shackle down until this very moment: a wave of hopeless crashes into you, a wave of heartbreak, a wave of helpless that fills your eyes to the point of spilling with that very same salt water.

He touches your cheek delicately, fingers rough with callouses, and the floodgates break open with a sob. 

“Preciosa,” he rumbles softly against your hairline, “hush. You break my heart with your tears.” 

“Do not mock me, Tovar. Not now.” you sniff, trying to turn your face but his wide hands catch you around the cheeks.

“You are beyond mocking. I’d show you my heavy heart but I do not wish that weight on anyone.” The snag of his rough thumbs against your cheek draws your watery gaze to him. His mouth is a flat line, barred against whatever climbs his throat, but his eyes move like mercury across your nose, your eyelashes, the arch of your cheek. Your fingers wrap themselves around his wrists, a grounding agent against the waves that threaten to pull you under. 

“Pero, I –,”

“I have fought you, tooth and nail, for days without end. Every favor, every breath, you have forced them from me. I fight my own mind when I sleep at night. Sueños, always of the same woman.” He smears away the tears with his thumbs, gently, sweetly, before pressing his lips to your wet flesh by his knuckle. He inhales deeply, eyes closed, mouth hovering stationary above the skin of your cheek. “You fight me every step of the way . . . and I am so tired of fighting.” 

For all your struggling, for all your tearing and clawing and snarling against the blooming in your chest, nothing is as easy as it is to turn your head and press your lips to his. 

The brush of his bristled mustache against your upper lip. His warm, rough palms holding you steady. His lips soft and hot. You are overwhelmed by the scent of him.

There is nothing like, and nothing will ever be like, finally kissing Pero Tovar. 

All it takes is the movement of his hands from your cheeks to your lower back, the light trace of his tongue against your lips, and the yearning you’d been smothering for weeks now roars to life. His hands squeeze your hips and you can suddenly barely breathe. 

“Pero–,” the noise in the shape of his name that escapes you is near a whine, begging. He nips at your lips, hand firmly at the cup of your jaw, mouth now rough and insistent, and your fingers claw up his neck, wrapping themselves in his dark curls. You tug, nails scratching his scalp, and he groans into your mouth as if you’d just kneed him in the gut.

A thread-bare gasp of your name from his lips splits you from him, then his hand on your hip and the back of your neck pushing you backwards gives you enough air to breathe – to think.

"Your husband will know you're not a virgin,” Pero warns, breathing hard and fast, his eyes like black flints, “if we go on." 

You curl your fingers around his neck, dragging your mouth near his jaw, the soft skin at the edge of his ear.

"Then he will also know my heart is not his either.” You ask everything of him with this. His armor blocks his warm body from you – you want to sink inside his hard shell. “If you’ll have it.”

He is not himself, half-human with an inhuman want, with the snarl that leaves him. 

“Don’t make such promises, dulzura –,” A threat, a dog forced to expose its underbelly, fear radiating like the pain from a broken bone. Your fingers dig into the buckles of his cape, steadying you against a sudden terrible awareness that bloomed, purple-bruised. 

“Unless you don’t want –,” 

The desk rattles when your hips break against it, the force of his kiss enough to topple over your inkwell, spill rolls of parchment to the floor. The wood groans under your weight when he gathers the thick swell of your thighs in his hands, heaves you onto the flat surface, and spreads your knees around his waist. He is as hard as the iron on his chest. 

“Can you feel how much I want you?”

A frantic sigh of relief, a groan shared between two pairs of lips, seeking skin and warmth and other hungry places. 

He drags you onto his chest, your skirt bunched up around your hips, the rings of his armor digging into the soft flesh of your thighs, his mouth covering yours in wet pulls, and he stands up right, as though you weighed less than his sword. 

A stumble, and he spreads you out on the velvet covers of your marriage bed, his hands imprinting on your hips, your knees, the supple meat of your calves. The touch of him on your bare skin feels like the licks of flames, the smoke of arousal blurring your awareness and dragging your eyelids half-closed. On his heels at the edge of the bed, the flint shards of his eyes drift over the bones of your ankles, the bend of your knee, your heaving chest, hair in snarls around your neck and caught behind your back, and finally to your cunt, hidden by the folds of your dress. 

Velvet hums as you slide your ankles to the curve of your ass, widening your legs, parting your knees. His lips part open, dark want etching every line of his face. You feel the wet linen of your dress cling to your achy cunt. He swallows, unbuckling his cape one latch at a time, his eyes nowhere else. The metal clatters as it falls to the floor.

Piece by piece, the chinks in his armor fall away. Piece by piece, he is revealed to you. Your hands rise up, up your thighs to your knees, your thumbs rubbing soft circles. He watches, never tears his gaze away from your sticky hole, his nimble fingers working away the buckles and knots with practiced precision. You can see it in his eyes – memories of bedrolls by firelight, of such a deep painful, yearning ache, separated only by thin tarp, they are a physical weight beside you in this marriage bed. 

You see them because they’re there for you too. You see them because you've been here a dozen times, on your back, legs spread wide, your hands circling but never dipping, waiting. Wanting. For him. 

His bare chest is warm, the wings of his ribs expanding around short, half-drawn breaths, as he crawls up into your pliant mouth. The kisses are slow, like before, with a crackle of heat just beyond them, his hips slipping into the cradle of your thighs, the wet warmth of you separated by the thin linen of your dress. He sucks the tendon below your ear, a whine slipping out of your mouth, fingers spreading over the harsh planes of his back, and his cock bobs against your thigh. 

Pero is bare and warm and entirely yours. All man beneath the sweltering armor. 

“Amorcita,” he drips into your ear, kisses smeared against your collarbone, your mouth, your earlobe, “amorcita, amorcita . . . ranita, let me take you.” 

He starts to use teeth, a harder nip behind his kisses, when he dips down to your chest. A wide palm with stocky fingers grasps at your breast and it’s a startling sensation for you both. 

“Soft,” he moans before licking up under the supple curve of your breast, mouthing at what his tongue missed. He slips your erect nipple into his mouth and twists it between his teeth. “Sweet,” he murmurs with your nipple firmly between his lips. 

This is unlike anything you’ve felt before. You deliriously thank the gods that he hadn’t touched you like this on the road; you would have kept him, your own wild animal, in bed without rest for days on end.

Pero plucks just as aggressively at your other breast, the spit-wet nipple that preoccupied his mouth verging on purple and aching. He cups you from the outside this time, squeezing and massaging, ringing your nipple with his tongue until your back bows and you let out a whine that has his eyes flickering up to you, the scent of wounded prey filling his nostrils. 

That whine of pleasure elongates into a whimper: “please.”

“Tranquila, ranita.” His touch is softer around your bruised tits, but he keeps one hand bagging the weight of your breast while the other slips beneath your skirt.

The pads of his fingers brush your creamy cunt and with a yelp, you grab him by the wrist, your eyes open with a familiar emotion he draws out of you: rage.

“Pero Tovar, if you value your life you will take me under the covers and put your —,”

He chuckles, his cheek against yours, nose rimming the velvet hairs on the ridges of your ear. The vibrations liquify the tension in your bones, loosening your grip. Your eyes flutter, slick obviously running down his fingers. “Ranita, I don’t think you know how you want to end that sentence..”

His words roll like honey over the heat of your skin. It makes your skin tremble. Your grip tightens on his wrist and you roll your hips, your swollen clit finally relieved by the pressure of his palm. 

“Oh, oh, Pero—,” 

With a grunt, he shuffled closer, elbow by your shoulder and he cups your entire wet cunt in his hand, pushing the heel of his palm flatter against you. You cry out, a sparkling kind of pleasure radiating out from where his hand rests. You buck your hips faster, complete release flickering through your outstretched hand. 

“Can you come like this?” You nod, eyes squeezed shut as you barrel towards escape, and you feel him shudder next to you. You are intimately aware that he’s rubbing his cock on the crease of your hip bone but that only drags you faster towards the light. “Then come, ranita, come and I’ll fuck you.” 

The wet, curling heat growing between your legs descends, then in a bright snap, explodes across your body. 

“Fuck!” You tear open your eyes to find them damp, Pero’s massive hand cupping your cheek towards him, his stallion eyes dark as his fingers drag on the soaked material of your dress, your hips slowing. 

“Amorcita, breathe.” The words are torn from his chest, all cock-suredness gone from his frantic gaze. You gulp in air, the weight of his body over yours grounding and smothering you all at once. He pulls his hand away from you, rides it up your thigh to your waist, looking for something to hold onto. He strokes his thumb once against your overheated skin and you’re wriggling up out of your dress. 

“Help,” you hiss and his fingers nearly tear the fabric off you.

With a few undone buttons, you shiver out of your dress, the slick-drenched spots catching on your warm skin. He flings it behind him, near the fireplace. 

He takes you barely beneath the thick covers before you welcome him back to the heat of your open legs. 

But instead of reeling back and plunging his aching cock into you, he takes the time to kiss you. To praise you in all the ways he fears his mouth will end up short. He kisses you, grateful, reverent – wonderful to be swallowed by but also a distraction.

When he lifts your knees by his waist, your hips automatically tilt towards him and for the first time, you feel his red, sore cock between your tacky lips. The dual sensation nearly drags you over the rack of delectably delicious pleasure, as does his worn, broken groan in your ear. 

“More, please, don’t stop.” You cry against the bristles of his beard, his hand dropping between your sweat-slick bodies, finding yours already there to guide him. The press of him spreads you open, filling you one sinking notch at a time. The sensation of your pink, dripping walls moving to take more of him in has you arching up into his chest, nails dragging into his back. His dry lips stifle the moans escaping from your mouth. 

Pero takes both of your hands in his, dragging them above your head, his fingers locking your palms together as his hips roll forward. “Cálmate, amorcita, cálmate,” he murmurs between distracted presses of his mouth against your chin, your cheek, his breathing heavy and stunted. You writhe, pinned open by his hips and his hands, his cock filling you all too slowly and not fast enough. 

With the last few inches, you take him completely, your cunt throbbing, heart pounding, intoxicated by the sensation of being so maddeningly full. Pero drapes over you, his head tucked into your neck, forearms straining with the tension of gripping your hands tightly. 

“Santa madre . . .” He is not a warrior right now. He is but a man, cunt-drunk and heaving. 

His name is pushed out of the bottom of your lungs with the first swing of his hips. You cling to him, knees at his ribs, unwilling to let even an inch of space between your bodies. But this becomes increasingly difficult as his thrusts gain speed. His flushed lips stain a sticky line against your jaw, down to your throat, and he releases your hands, the oak of the bed creaking beneath the force of him drilling down into you, he props himself up on his palms, his shoulders bent and curled over you, biceps straining, hairline damp, eyelids fluttering. The scar on his cheek is flushed pink.

“Look, amorcita, look how well you take me.”

His words tear you from your nebulous high, the grit of them forcing your head down to the obscene squelch beneath the sheets. The thatch of rough curls over his groin is drenched in slick, his thick cock soaked to the point of shine as it drives into you again and again. The heavy draft of breath the sight steals from him, the tap of his cock against a place so deep you didn’t know your body possessed, draws the spooling bliss as tight as a wire. 

Your trembling thighs squeeze him tighter, that hot pressure rendering you speechless, except for the most pathetic whine. Please, Pero, please, you think, you mutter, you whisper, your body rocking damp against the sheets. 

With a sudden snarl, he takes the chunk of your hair at the base of your head flat in his fists and tugs. A shoot of bright pain sparks bliss down to your tight and bruised nipples, and you cry out again. 

“Stop fighting, puedo sentir cuanto la quieres. Let me have it.” It is the following word that splits you open like lighting carving apart a tree. “Please.”

The wail that you release is the rush of gooseflesh over your skin alchemized into audible sound. Heat radiates through you, sucking the air from your lungs, your vision going blurry, then black as you clamp your eyes shut against the rush, the final release, that curls you into his arms. His warm, flushed arms, shaking with strain. A final wobbly thrust or two and his elbows are buckling, sweat-drenched chest pressing into your own.

Distantly, you are aware of the warm, slick drip down your thighs, his cock pulsing the last drops into your cum-flecked cunt, and the dangers this sort of intimacy poses. You can’t gather enough breath, enough sense to settle the spinning room, to worry or even care. 

Your his, and he is yours. That is all that will ever matter. 

The crackle of wood burning is the only other sound than your ragged breaths, the silent roll of sweat from sticky hot skins into the bedsheets. The stone walls of the castle’s room entomb you together for a brief stretch of infinity.

Pero moves and you think he’s going to back out of you, but instead, he merely adjusts, his head fully on your chest, thick fingers clutching your bruised waist, the shift of his cock pushing more of his release out of your oversensitive cunt. But you’ll take overstimulation over his absence every time. You run your fingers through his damp curls and he hums. 

“I’m sorry,” he huffs into your humid skin. “I’m sorry I let my pride keep us apart for so long.” 

You grin lazily to the ceiling, your breath settling as affection takes its place in your chest. 

“You were not the only one blinded by vanity.” 

“But I’m not blind. Not anymore.” He lifts his head, eyes as dark as your spilled inkwell. “I am never letting you go.” 

You smile at him, fingers soft against the back of his neck. “I don’t plan on wandering away.” 

His oil-black gaze drops to your lips and he leans forward to take your mouth against his. Gentle, but with the promise of more. 

“Mi ranita,” he purrs to break the kiss. 

“You call me that all the time, Pero. What does it mean?”

At that, a nearly shy expression crosses his face. He shakes his head, shifting onto his elbows to lift off you. “I can’t tell you. It will ruin your good mood.” 

You gasp, offended, and you grab him by the ear and twist. He chuckles through a grimace. “You will tell me what that means, Pero Tovar, if you value your appendages.” 

“Órale, princesa, retract your claws and I will tell you.” 

You release your grip and settle against your pillow. Grinning bashfully, he kisses your neck briefly.

“Remember that I love you after I tell you this.” 

Your heart nearly stops, the absence of a steady beat nearly drawing tears to your eyes but you hold firm. You breathe deeply against the fluttering in your stomach and pin him with your glare. Of course, this is how he would profess his love to you – when he’s trying to get out of trouble. 

“Tell me, Tovar!”

He chuckles again and preemptively picks up your hands. He kisses the inside of your palms, settling himself between your thighs. 

“It means little frog.” Your mouth falls open in a gasp and you struggle to yank your hands back from him, hissing like a tea kettle, but he uses his weight to press down on you. He nips at your nose. “I call you that because when you’re upset with me, much like you are now, you puff up like a bullfrog, your cheeks like this–,”

He rounds his cheeks full of air, crossing his eyes, and you simply cannot take the slight anymore. You push roughly against his gut, the breath trapped in his mouth escaping in a hot puff, and you twist him onto his back. He lets you, of course, his bold, full laughter rendering him defenseless. His body shakes beneath you, his beautiful eyes squeezed shut, his mouth open wide as he laughs and laughs and laughs. You take him by the wrists and push his limp hands over his head, pinning him as he had you. You pinch his chin with your teeth, your messy cunt over his stomach, as his laughter subsides. 

“Have you had your fun yet?” 

“Barely,” he chuckles, turning his big nose against your cheek and inhaling. He hums.

“Is that all I am to you? A joke?”

Pero opens his eyes, sober as death rattle. He takes you in, not in a hungry, all-consuming way, but in a look that speaks of awe and rapture.

“You are everything to me.”

You sigh, releasing his hands and curling into his chest. He kisses the top of your head, your eyes on the roaring fire. His thumbs rub your shoulder blades, trace the lines of your spine.

“You’re so very lucky I love you too.” 

His wandering against the expanse of your back stills, just for a moment, before his fingers slide into your hair, around the nape of your neck, holding you to him with the intention of keeping you there forever.

“I know, ranita, I know.” 

He watches you sleep as the sky lightens beyond the tall windows on the opposite side of the bedroom. The dying fire traces your edges in gold, settling heat in the curve of your lips. 

His heart lurches with the wanting of you.

There’s more terrible things to come, he knows that. The plan the two of you concocted in the early morning hours will be dangerous, deadly even. But dying together instead of living apart would be much more tolerable, you told him earlier that night, your hand on his chest. 

He would kill if you asked. He would kill, even if you didn’t, to keep you safe and by his side. You’ve proven yourself capable of living a life away from this spectacular opulence, but it pains him to know he will never be able to give you anything nearly as lovely as the velvet dresses in the closet, the gold jewelry in your trunks. 

Instead, all he has to offer is himself. His strength, his hands, his heart. It’s his own fear that tells him that’s not enough, because you remind him again and again that’s more than you ever wanted. 

He traces the curve of your cheek with the hovering pad of his finger, brushing your hair away from your face. How he ended up so lucky with your love, he’ll never know, but he will spend the rest of his days proving that he’s earned it. 

You stir in your sleep, sensing him above you, and he hates to steal even a few minutes of blissful sleep from you, knowing the endless nights that are coming. When he steals you away from all that you’ve ever known. 

The sleepy grumble in your throat resembles his name as he curls around you, but your eyes remain gently closed. He pulls you against him, the air that leaves your mouth and sits between your chest and his something he covets with his whole heart. 

I love you and I’m disgustingly lucky and I love you. 

He is a man made of dust, serving men made of silver. He is a man of dust, loving a woman made of gold.

El orgullo? No, Abuela, his ranita will get him first, last, and every time.

+

Translations:

Sana sana culito de rana. Si no sana hoy, sanará mañana. - This rhyme is typically said to children when they have just hurt themselves. The parent (or grandparent) usually rubs the part that is sore and sings this little tune. Literally translates to: "heal, heal, little frog’s tail. If you don’t heal today, you will heal tomorrow."

el orgullo - pride

dulzura - sweetness, romantic connotation

amorcita - little love, romantic connotation

Tranquila - quiet, as in "be quiet" or "relax"

Cálmate - take it easy, or take it slow

puedo sentir cuanto la quieres - I can feel how much you want it/love it

Órale - okay, or an exclamation expressing approval or encouragement.

ranita - little frog, but you knew that already ;)

the rest are cognates (or familiar words) which you can probably guess the meaning of, but feel free to message me if you don't know!

[magiccath]

The Sniffles

tenth doctor x reader (ambiguous relationship)

Summary: In which you hide being sick from the Doctor

You stumbled into the TARDIS control room, very obviously sick, even if you refused to admit it. Companions didn’t get sick. Plus, you were still functional. Mostly. 

“I was thinking we could travel back in time today,” the Doctor said in his usually cheery voice, moving about the console with boundless energy, “Maybe Victorian England? Or the moon launch! Definitely the moon launch,” he grinned, turning to you for approval. 

You nodded and the Doctor didn’t need much more confirmation than that. He ran around the control room, piloting the ship in a chaotic manner. 

“It’s even more brilliant up close, I promise,” he rambled on, still running about the ship. “One of the greatest feats of humankind if you ask me.” 

You sniffled as quietly as possible, rubbing your nose on the back of your sleeve. The Doctor didn’t pay any mind to you, still rambling on about the moon. You wished your nose wasn’t so stuffy, you wished that you weren’t exhausted and sick.

“Very characteristic of you lot to see a rock in the sky and decide to venture to it. It’s like that guy who climbed Mount Everest, what was his name?” he frowned, momentarily pausing his chaotic movements. 

“George Mallory?” you ventured. The Doctor snapped loudly in your direction, a big grin plastered on his face. 

“That one! He wanted to climb Everest because-” 

“Because it’s there,” you said simultaneously, though in a significantly more congested voice than the Doctor. He referenced it a lot, usually as an example of humanity's stupidity. If the Doctor noticed your parroting, he didn’t show it. 

“That essentially sums up how humans feel about the moon. Great big, strange rock in the sky, you better go claim it.” 

You nodded along, your focus slowly slipping as he continued to talk. You were already so exhausted and you hadn’t even done much yet. Your head felt heavier than a bowling ball and your sinuses were clogged up beyond belief. At this point, you just wanted to crawl back into bed and never leave again. 

Sensing that you had stopped paying attention, the Doctor halted his emphatic rambling.“What’s wrong?” he asked, moving over to you and crossing his arms while frowning slightly. Usually you at least feigned interest in his ramblings.

“Nothing,” you lied, though it wasn’t very convincing. You didn’t have the energy to lie to the Doctor right now.

His frown deepened as he leaned closer to you, examining you like some alien gadget he couldn’t figure out. 

Without warning he reached his hand out, resting the back of his hand against your forehead. Mostly out of instinct, you pulled away from him with a frown. “Hey!” you snapped, swatting his hand away. 

“You’re burning up!” he retorted, his voice cross. 

“It’s warm in here.” 

“No, it’s not. You’re always complaining about it being cold,” he pointed out, challenging you to deny it. Unfortunately, he was entirely right. He kept the TARDIS much colder than you would prefer. You just stayed silent since you didn’t have anything to retaliate with. Unfortunately for your argument, your silence was punctuated with a sniffle followed by a suppressed cough.

“Come on, back to bed,” the Doctor sighed, tilting his head in the direction of your room. 

“I’m fine!” you argued again, which would have been much more convincing if it wasn’t accompanied by a series of sneezes. 

“Are you sure about that?” the Doctor huffed, looking at you condescendingly. 

“It’s just a little cold.” you sniffled slightly, fighting the urge to sneeze again. 

“Mhm, even if it is ‘just a little cold’ you need to get some rest,” he chastised, guiding you out of the control room. 

“I’m perfectly fine,” you repeated but didn’t protest as he guided you back to your room. 

“Sure you are,” the Doctor rolled his eyes behind your back. Stubborn as ever. 

He guided you through your door and into your bedroom, pulling back the covers for you and gesturing for you to get in bed.

“I’m going to go grab you medicine, if you move I’m going to be very upset,” he emphasized, tucking the blankets around you. You sniffled again and nodded your understanding. Frankly, you were too tired to keep fighting him on this. Maybe a little nap wouldn’t be a bad thing.

The Doctor left the room to grab some medicine and a warm cup of tea and honey. When he returned, you were still bundled up in the blankets, sniffling quietly. 

He handed you the medicine and a glass of water, watching as you took it. When you were done, he swapped the glass of water for the tea. 

“It will help you feel better, I promise,” he urged, wrapping your hands around the warm mug. The steam wafting from the cup was so enticing he didn’t have to ask you twice. You drank the tea happily, the warm liquid heating your body and clearing your sinuses and throat a bit. When you were done, the Doctor took the cup back from you. 

“Why would you hide something like this from me?” he said, his eyebrows knit together. He was genuinely concerned about you, and he would be lying if he said it didn’t hurt him a bit that you hadn’t felt safe enough to let him know you were sick. 

“I didn’t want to be a burden,” you whispered, frowning slightly. 

“You’re not a burden,” he responded, shaking his head without hesitation. 

“What about the moon landing?” 

“It will still be there when you are feeling better.” 

“And you?” 

“I’ll also be here,” he smiled warmly, rubbing the back of your hand with his thumb comfortingly. All of time and space could wait, right now all that mattered to him was getting his favorite companion feeling better. 

“Now, get some rest. Please,” he whispered, tucking the blankets around you again, ensuring you were safely bundled up in bed. When he was done, he gently kissed your forehead before getting up to leave. 

“Doctor?”

“Hm?” He hummed, his hand hovering over your door handle. 

“Will you stay with me?” you whispered. A grin took over the Doctor’s face. He slipped his shoes off quickly before practically leaping into your bed. He was always game for a good cuddle.

“I don’t wanna get you sick,” you argued as he snuggled in next to you, opening his arms as an invitation.

“Superior Time Lord immune system,” he shrugged, beckoning you into his arms. You obliged, wrapping your arms around his slender middle.

“Not everything Time Lord is superior,” you grumbled, burning your face in his chest. In response, he wrapped his arms tighter around you. “Except maybe the cuddles,” you murmured, nuzzling slightly against his chest. Blimey, he was a good cuddler. He chuckled and placed another gentle kiss on your head.

You sniffled again and sneezed against him before quickly apologizing. At this point, you were bound to get him sick too.

“Don’t worry about it,” he cooed, brushing his thumb against your cheek comfortingly. “It’s gonna take more than the sniffles to get rid of me,” he reassured. Getting sick from you was the least of his worries right now.

“Now, get some rest,” he whispered into your hair, resting his face on the top of your head. You didn’t protest this time, you were way too comfortable. Happy and safe in his arms you found yourself quickly drifting off to sleep. 

The Doctor was soon to follow, exhausted from all of your travels, though he would never admit it.

[astral-aromance]

Grandchildren

Imagine being Nerdanel, sure that your family is lost to you forever. You're completely alone. Even after over 6000 years, your bed still feels empty without your husband there. There's no noise in the kitchen where the brothers are fighting over the last apple, despite all of them knowing there's a whole apple tree right outside the window. No smoke coming from the smithy, no papers with blue prints and miracles scattered around. No dog hair clogging up the drain. No music at 3 am. Nothing.

But then, one day, this Elf shows up at your door. He's shorter than usual, and he looks older than you have ever seen an elf look. He says, "I'm your grandson," and suddenly, you are not completely alone anymore. Elrond is nice, you like him. The music room gets used again, even if only a little. It brings you joy.

A few decades go by, and a Raven brings you a summon from Mandos. You except Tyelpë is finally coming home to you, but instead, it's an elf you have NEVER met before. Tall, stoic, and dark-haired, Nolofinwëan in all ways, but his eyes are unmistakably those of your husband. Those of your eldest son. He is just as surprised to see you there, as is Anairë, but you work it out. Turns out Ereinion and Elrond always thought of one another as brothers, now they actually are. One morning, you go downstairs for tea, and you hear the King yell at the Lord about stealing his strawberries off his plate.

Elrond goes to the havens to meet his sons. Surprisingly, the Seagull carried a summon for you as well. Two identical faces greet you, and your heart stings with old grief. You turn to leave, but spot something unusual. Another Peredhil, shy and distancing himself from the others. He looks like Elrond in hair and build, but... Elrond didn't have any other children, did he? One of the twins tugs on his arm and tries to pull him into the crowd, and the newcomer scowls at him. His face turns bright red. Soon after, you find detailed descriptions of Finarfin's failure as a king when it comes to finances on your coffee table.

Tyelpë returns too, turns out he knew all of them, and they get along great. Maybe a little too well, because they start shutting you out. They stop talking when you walk into the room. They hastily hide documents beneath their robes when you pass them. You don't know what they're up to, but at least your house isn't silent anymore, and the forge burns again.

You realise that they are indeed of your house when it comes to stubborn determination when on a quiet Tuesday afternoon 8 Ravens show up to your house with summons, and none of the grandchildren seem surprised.

You are happy as you step out the front door toward Mandos, carrying a basket with 8 sets of robes, a blanket, cups, some bread, some cheese, and a very strong bottle of wine.

[papurgaatika]

Keep A Leftover Light Burning

Pairing: joel miller x Ceramicist! reader

MINORS DNI WITH MY WORKS PLEASE !!

A/N: howdy howdy and welcome all now this is a very special fic for @burntheedges for the @pedrostories secret santa event!! I hope you like it and find it as fun as i did. I think this isnt a trope that we see very often, but after a healthy dose of tiktoks (and watching the scene from ghost again) this came into being. As always thank you to my beloveeeeeeed @carlynkurin for beta reading, and peace and love on the planet earth from me, xoxo Remember that TLOU is created by a zionist so please look at the resources at the end of this fic and in my bio on ways to donate and educate yourself!! tags: Ceramicist reader, smut, porn with plot, oral (f! receiving), publicish sex, strangers to lovers, lots of wet clay, joels arms require their own tag Word count: 3.4k Summary: Sarah forces joel to go take a day to himself, pushing him in the direction of your pottery studio. Despite calling yourself professional and priding yourself on your morals, you can’t help but… fantasize about the man in front of you. 

Joel needs to take time for himself. He’s always on, always ready to go at the flip of a switch,  never taking time to sit and breathe. Everyone knows how hard he works, and despite what he says, Sarah knows that he needs to do something calming. Something that doesn’t involve carving wood or going to the shooting range with Tommy on the off chance that both of them are free for long enough. So being the perfect daughter that she is, she enrolls him in a ceramics workshop that she had gone to once. It was a small studio, tucked away next to the Palace Theatre in downtown Georgetown, soft and quaint in the suburbs, away from the hustle and bustle of the city. Sarah managed to get a hold of you over the phone and explain the situation, a smile threatening to creep onto your cheeks at the sheer amount of care she had for her father. You tell her not to worry about the price and that you would stay open for an extra hour next weekend just to get him in, a squeal on the other side is all the confirmation you need as you pencil it into your schedule. 

Sunday rolls around and Joel… Well, he was being Joel. Stubborn and groaning as Sarah essentially pushes him out the door to make the drive up IH-35, complaining about “I build things for a living,” and “it’ll be a waste of time.” but Sarah is hearing none of it and one look from her has Joel slipping on his boots. In any other circumstance, he would have praised her for holding her ground, but right now he just sighs and gets into his truck realizing just how much of his stubbornness had rubbed off on her. 

He ends up at the studio just before 5, the sun starting to dip under the horizon, casting beautiful pinks and oranges around the sky. He’s still bitching and moaning as he makes his way to the building, taking a deep breath as he steps inside. You barely even hear the jingle of the little bell above your door, too busy fighting with your sink: now clogged with clay from your last class with 3 kids under ten who didn't understand that when you told them not to dump clay inside the sink. You had meant it. “Fucking thing!” you groan, poking a paintbrush into the drain, hoping to get enough clay out of it so that it would run again. 

Joel stares at you, half confused and half amused with the scene in front of him; your hair a mess, your apron covered in clay and paint, hacking into your sink in ways that he knows won't do you any good. He clears his throat after watching you struggle for about 30 seconds, stifling a smirk when you jump and look back at him. “Need some help? I’m s’possed to have a class now- my daughter-” he shakes his head at the idea of sharing the whole story again “Did I get the wrong time?” 

You look absolutely mortified, dropping the paintbrush in the basin and giving the man in front of you a weak smile “No! No, I just got a little... occupied… you’re on time” You wipe your hands on the front of your apron, not even bothering to attempt to fix your hair, before walking over to greet him. Properly this time. “You must be Joel. Your daughter was very persuasive on the phone.” 

Joel’s smirk shifts into a full-blown smile at the mention of Sarah, the pride he has for the girl shining through. “Yeah, she’s a good one.” he praises. Despite his reluctance to listen to her advice, he knows just how good her heart is, and how much she cares about him. I “Ain't sure what she told ya, and to be honest she hasn't told me what I'm s’possed to be doing here either”

You can't help but smile at his words, the pure adoration for his daughter combined with the slight nervousness in his voice was endearing in ways you weren’t sure how to describe. “No worries, I promise it isn’t anything scary.” You glance around the studio. Outside, the sky had begun to darken, the soft lighting of the different lamps inside the building casting the both of you in a warm glow. The glaze on the ceramics you had on display was a wide assortment of colors: intricately painted motifs, bright splashes of colors, silly cartoons, almost anything you could think of. You pick up a faded apron and hand it to him, watching him stretch as he puts it on. A brief flicker of guilt passes through you as you ogle him, but then you see the way his biceps strain against the fabric of his shirt and the guilt gives way to something primitive. 

He turns back around and you look away with a cough, a slight warmth creeping up your cheeks when he raises his brows at you. “Right um-” you stumble over your words, more unrefined than you would have liked to be “Sorry, sorry. We’ll start with choosing what you’ll want to make. I always recommend something easy, like a bowl or a spoon rest..” you pick up a pencil cup that had been painted to look like a pencil and a spoon rest that was a simple blue color, to show him “I already have the clay prepped so we can get started straight on th-” 

Joel cuts you off as he glances around the studio, pointing at a lidded cookie jar “That one.” His words leave no room for argument but certainly bring questions up to the surface. “I'm gonna do that one.” You had been making ceramics for years, starting with air-dry clay in school, continuing to use the wheel throughout university, and eventually quitting your day job to start the studio. You knew the skill level it took to make a jar, the precision and technique to keep it balanced, and it just wasn’t a beginner project. 

“I'm sorry, the cookie jar?” You try not to let your voice betray your disbelief. It wasn't that you lacked faith in the man in front of you, you made sure to be confident in all of your clients, it was simply an issue of skill. “I don't know if that’s the one for you to start out with, it’s a little advanced-” 

But Joel was having none of it. If he was going to be forced to sit here and make something to “calm him down” then damn it it was going to be something that takes skill and effort. Something that he could bring home to Sarah and brag about slightly. Was it a little strange that he wanted to one-up his daughter and prove that he didn't need to be here? Maybe a little bit, but he didn't dwell on it. “Yes ma'am.” His voice is set in the decision. “I'm sure it can't be that bad, let me at it.” 

Never one to truly tell people no, you simply nod and get the prepared clay out. It was soft and slippery, staining your hands a taupe color as you brought it to the wheel, plopping it down on the wheel, and pressing down on the sides to make sure it stuck. “Alright, so with the jar..” you gesture for him to take a seat in front of the wheel, moving to stand behind him “It’ll be a little bit more involved than something simple, but you're in good hands I promise.” Your words are soft, and frankly, you were excited. You didn't throw fun projects with clients as much as you’d like to anymore, focusing more on teaching the basics, so this was honestly a welcomed surprise. “We’ll just start with getting the basic shape of it, you’ll take your hands like this, and we’ll work it up.” 

You sit on your stool behind him, usually, you’d be able to reach around and help with hand placement but good god was he broad. You adjust and readjust your position a few times, finding it oddly difficult to find the right mix between comfort and functionality, eventually ending up with your legs spread a little bit past their comfort level, so that you could lean over his shoulder and help him with the shaping. You squeeze some water onto his hands, moving them to cup the base of the clay and pop the wheel to life. His hands were big under your smaller ones, the roughness contrasting both the soft clay and your skin. You can't help but feel a twinge of something stirring inside you as you help him bring the clay up and down, your hands guiding his. Joel’s brows were knit together in concentration, both endearing and attractive as you watched him focus on the clay. The movements of his hands under yours were careful, almost hesitant, his eyes peeking back at you every so often for assurance. 

Once the clay was at an appropriate size you moved your hands off of his, the wheel slowing to a stop. You swear that you see his hands twitch to stay under yours, but your mind might be playing tricks on you. “Now call me unartistic but this ain't really lookin’ like a cookie jar yet.” Joel raises his brows, a slight hint of teasing hidden in his southern drawl, and you can’t help but snort at the comment.

“I will not call you unartistic, it isn't supposed to look like a jar yet.” You hum and wipe your hands on your apron “We’ll do the lid to it later, but you have to actually make it into a bowl first.” your thumbs gently press down onto the center of the clay to form a soft dent. The wheel starts back up again slowly and you start to open the center up a little bit. “Right so now you just gotta take your thumbs like I did and- perfect!” Joel manages to press his fingers slowly against the clay, working it open, and god you wished that was you more than anything at that moment. You press on the sponge, the water dripping down his hand and onto the clay, almost sensually. Your eyes are locked on the way his thumb dips into the clay, the way the clay comes up onto his skin. Your mouth is dry, and you cough as you stand up, needing to take a deep breath and try to compose yourself. 

“Everythin’ alright?” Joel's voice rings out from behind you as you move to take a drink of water, and you swear if his voice was just a tinge deeper, you would have choked right then and there. In the rush of getting up, your brain had ceased to realize that moving off the pedal would stop the wheel from turning.

You feel like an idiot. A stupid, hormonal, completely unprofessional idiot. You take a moment to scold yourself mentally before turning around to face him again. “Yeah, yes. Sorry I just realized how thirsty I was, I just needed water.” You move back to your stool behind him, halfway composed, and move to start the next step. If you'd been in front of him for one more second, you would have seen the knowing smile on his face. There was no denying the attraction between the two of you. Pressed up against each other, hands touching, dim light surrounding you both, it was inevitable. You move your hand to show him the right finger position “so you’ll want to take your middle and ring finger-” You press the two of yours inside of the bowl to give him an example and you swear he laughs a little bit. 

“Oh, believe me, darlin” his voice rings out, big fingers expertly finding their way into the exact position. “I know all about this one.” You watch his fingers glide up and down the inside of the bowl, your hand on top of his, steadying his wrist. You bite at your lip, fingers shaking slightly on top of his. Your chest was pressed against his back and you could feel your nipples hardening. You were annoyingly turned on. This wasn’t normal for you, this wasn't something you do, get the hots for a client, but here you were. And with the way Joel's fingers were methodically moving over yours, you were begging that he felt the same way. “Wouldn’t mind showin’ ya all I know about it.” The want in his voice makes you clench subconsciously, your breath faltering for a second. 

You hold your breath for a moment as if trying to make sure you hadn’t imagined his words in a haze of horniness, only to be broken out of that haze when he shifts and pushes his stool back, and turns around to face you. Both of your hands were covered in wet clay and your aprons were messy, neither of which stopped you from pressing your lips against his. You sigh against his mouth as your hand's fist in the fabric of his shirt, staining the fabric with readily drying clay. “I don't usually do this,” you murmur when you pull away for air, your lips swollen and red. 

Joel just grins at your words “S’alright, honey,” his lips find their way to your jaw and move down to your neck, his nose nudging at the fabric of your shirt. “Don't gotta explain anything to me.” His voice is like molasses, smooth and syrupy, keeping you stuck on his every word. You let him move you around, the small wooden stools were less than ideal for either of you. In the mess of standing up and finding a table to bend over your shirt comes off and he groans at the sight of you, his hands grabbing at your waist, staining your skin with water. “Good god… sight for sore eyes…” You can't help but flush slightly at his comment, feeling more exposed while you stare at his fully clothed figure.

 Joel picks up on it, his hands moving from your waist to his shirt and apron, a frustrated noise leaving his mouth when the knotted strings keep him from taking it off. “Let me,” you whisper, reaching around to undo the strings, the fabric of the apron sagging and then getting tossed to some other corner of the room. You stare at him. You couldn't not stare at him. At the hair covering his chest leading down to his belt, the soft yet strong features of his body, at his hand undoing his belt. Your own shorts had been removed, your hands moving to reach into his jeans until he stopped you, a pout and protest forming on your lips. 

Joel just shakes his head at you, picking you up and setting you on a relatively clean table, his body wedged between your legs. “My momma raised me to be a gentleman,” he hums against your skin, kissing the tops of your breasts, nudging your nipples with his nose before giving each of them their own kisses “I didn't take ya to dinner, at least let me get my fill yeah?” Your back fully arched into his mouth as his lips wrapped around one of your nipples, hands gripping the edge of the table so hard your knuckles were white. The feeling of his tongue flicking against the hardened bud had you moaning out in ways you had never imagined you would, and you swear you could feel him smirk even as he licked a stripe down the soft skin of your tummy. 

His knees crack as he settles between your legs and the sight of him is so sinful you can't help but moan softly. He raises his brows at you, a warm chuckle leaving his mouth at the sound, his lips pressing against the inside of one of your thighs “Look that good?” His voice is laced with a gentle mocking as he presses another kiss, a hair's breadth away from your aching cunt “think I got the better view though.” You don't even have the time, nor the brainpower, to reply before his lips press against you, a groan vibrating against your skin as he tastes you. “Sweetest fuckin’ pussy I’ve ever had… could get damn addicted.” 

Your lips are parted as his tongue swirls around your clit, your whines and moans spurring him on even further. “F-fuck joel-” you manage at some point, his broad shoulders keeping your thighs spread apart, despite how much they’d like to clamp around him. He was good at this and he knows that, moaning at the sound of his name on your lips, the words giving him a newfound energy. You feel his warm palms against your thighs keeping you spread open for him, and you almost whine when his tongue leaves your clit, only to cry out in ecstasy when his tongue prods at your pulsing hole. His nose is pressed up against your clit, giving you just the right amount of friction as he gathers your slick on his tongue, cycling between fucking it into you and laying it flat over your cunt. “Joel- joel oh fuck-” Your moans are frantic as he continues to send you closer and closer to that edge, his motions only getting faster as your hand fists in his hair. “Oh my god- fuck fuck fuuuuck-” your legs shake around his head, his hands keeping them apart as he works you through your orgasm, not stopping until you were spent and hazy, laying back on the table with shuddering breaths. 

Your eyes were pressed shut, chest rising and falling rapidly in the aftermath of your orgasm, only to peek open when you hear the clink of his belt. His mouth was covered in the sheen of your orgasm, a hungry look in his eyes as he spits into his hand and pulls his cock out. “Tasted like a damn dream,” he groans while he strokes himself. “Gonna remember this forever…” Your eyes are locked on the motions of his wrist, the steady pace, the pearly precum that was leaking from his tip. “Fuckin’ perfect… makin’ me feel like a damn teenager again.” You wait with bated breath as he continues to stroke himself, wiggling your hips in order to entice him. 

 “Joel,” your voice is soft, but so heavily full of need it was almost painful “Please… I want you.” If you were being honest, you thought that it would take more convincing, that you would have to ask more, but Joel was desperate, maybe more so than you were and so when he sinks his cock into your dripping cunt it was ecstasy for both of you. Your eyes fall shut again at the feel of him, the stretch so much but so good. “Oh my god…” you whine, pushing yourself onto him further, your breathing stuttering when one of his hands palms at your breast, the other one gripping your hip with so much strength you think it would leave a mark. 

“That’s it…” he groans, slipping into you all the way. “Fuckin’ perfect pussy, like she was made for me.” His words are punctuated with shallow thrusts that fill you up again and again. Your legs wrap around his waist, pulling him in closer to you. The feeling of his hips pressing against yours is something you would never be able to get out of your memory. 

You both lay there, bodies pressed against each other, his hips rocking into you slow and steadily, the dim lighting of the studio casting an ethereal glow over the scene. His hips move at a steady pace, keeping you full of him as the coarse hairs around him press against your clit with the right amount of friction. It doesn't take much time until he's panting on top of you, your lips pressed against each other's in a heated kiss as you feel him spill inside you. 

“That was…” you were breathless, his chest still against yours, the rhythm of your hearts syncing up. 

“Yeah…” He grins, pressing a kiss against your forehead gently. “I know I told ya I was a gentleman but, I really would like to see you again… of course no pressure if you don't want to or anything-” 

You cut him off with a small laugh before he can keep going, nudging your head against his. “I want to, Joel.” You smile gently at him “Plus, you didn't finish the jar.” You grin, looking in the direction of the unfinished work of art he had started. “And then I have to fire it, then glaze it, then fire it again, then… well you get the point, I think I’ll be seeing you quite a few more times, Joel.”

A/N: From the river to the sea, Palestine will be free

READ: This account stands with Palestine unequivocally, and so— I require everyone who interacts to educate themselves, and support/donate. READ THESE;  HELP HERE, BOYCOTT. Silence is complicity, do not scroll past this.

DO NOT BUY THE REMASTER, TLOU2, TLOU1, OR ANY GAME FROM NAUGHTY DOG! neil druckmann (the creator) is a zionist.

PLEASE READ THIS. AND REBLOG THIS. 

Thank you for reading, and free Palestine

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[laangdonn]

not anymore

summary: the aftermath of glenn and abraham leaves carl and y/n’s relationship in shambles.

pairing: carl grimes x female reader

a/n: first carl grimes post yayy, i love him so much and in my mind he lives on.

*read part 2 here*

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

the house was quiet minus the occasional sniffle from carl and i. he was sat with his head in his hands on the leather sofa, his fingers lightly gripping his brown curls. i watched him carefully through blurry vision from behind the kitchen counter, supporting myself with my hands on the cold marble.

it was dark, the moon and a single saucer light in the kitchen shining as light.

it was so fucking quiet but my head had never been louder.

“so what are you saying?” i whispered, carefully watching my words.

he lifted his eyes for a moment until he brought his head back into his palms. he refused eye contact. “i don’t know what i’m saying.”

“you don’t love me anymore?” every word i spoke sent my stomach falling into my feet.

he didn’t answer. i didn’t know if that made it better or worse.

“jesus, carl, answer me-“

“i still love you,” he finally responded, his hand rubbing his face in stress. “of course i still love you.”

“then what’s wrong?” i pressed, a sudden urgency filling my veins. “why are we even having this conversation? why did you come home and suddenly act as if we’ve been fighting for weeks-“

“cause we have been, y/n!” his voice picked up now, throwing his hands in the air and standing up. he still hadn’t looked at me. “we have been fighting for weeks! we cant even look at each other without fighting! ever since glenn-“

“stop.” i cut him off, feeling my chest clench. “this wasn’t them, it wasn’t.”

but it was, and i knew it. the aftermath of glenn and abraham put a strain on the whole group, especially me and carl. we came home that morning, stumbling out of the RV and hadn’t been the same since. every time i looked at carl, all i saw were the tears streaming down his face and the reflection of glenn’s bloody skull in his eyes. i saw the black line drawn on carl’s left arm, and the axe raised in the air.

i looked at carl and i saw death.

i knew he felt the same.

“that day…” he started, taking a breath. “that day i had no other wish but to die. to keep you safe if that’s what it took. i couldn’t protect you from him and i don’t know if i can even try. i put you in danger by loving you.”

i shuddered a breath as the tears began to

clog my throat.

“that’s why i can’t love you, y/n. not anymore.”

“you act like that’s a choice you can make.” i choked out, a feeling of anger pushing forward. anger at the way he thought he could fool anyone who knew him.

“i can try.”

“BULLSHIT!” i snapped, slamming my hand against the cold counter and feeling it sting.

he buried his face in his hands and i could see his shoulders shaking. i felt my heart break then, knowing i wouldn’t be able to change his mind.

a sob broke its way through my throat, wet and rough, and i instantly regretted it because carl looked straight at my eyes and i felt myself sink deeper into the ground.

“don’t do this, carl…” i whispered, looking into his crystal blue eyes, a raging ocean encased in this beautiful human who i’d have to let go. i shook my head at him slowly.

“i’m going to get you killed,”

“then let me be killed knowing you loved me! isn’t that the best we can do?!”

“the best i can do is keep you alive.” he countered strongly. his voice was no longer broken or shaken, but determined.

i realized in that moment nothing could be done to change his mind, it had already been made up. carl was stubborn, too stubborn for his own good and he’d never be swayed by anyone, even me.

no words were spoken between us as we stared at the floor, drowning in the absence of each other. all i wanted in that moment was to touch him, to feel him under my skin and prove to me that he’s still real and he’s still here after everything that had happened. but he was taking that away from me and ripping my heart out along with it.

he inhaled a sharp breath, rubbing his hand on his face once more before he said, “it’d be best if you went to carol’s tonight.”

i swallowed harshly, nodding. at least he was right about one thing.

too tired to argue further, i walked past him and to the front door. he kept his head bowed, not looking at me. i could sense the tension as i barely grazed his shoulder, walking so fast i barely registered the soft material of his flannel on my skin. i paused in front of the door, gripping the handle and hoping he’d call out my name and beg me to stay.

but he didn’t. and i turned around to see his eyes were still trained on the floor, back turned. i felt the cold air envelop me and i slammed the door shut, reverberating and practically shaking the house. i sucked in a breath and pushed forward to the blue house a few doors down.

i knocked wearily, feeling my knees begin to wobble as the effects of what had just transpired hit me. suddenly i was a mess on the porch, breathing erratically as i tried to process what just happened. but, when i saw carols face when she opened the door, concerned at my state of being, i lost it.

she carried me into the house and let me sob my way through the story. she held me while i cried and laid me down once i had fallen asleep in her grasp, eyes crusted shut with tried tears, cheeks red, and lips swollen.

i dreamt that night of glenn.

———

in the morning i woke to the smell of toast and eggs. my stomach growled harshly and i realized i hadn’t eaten since yesterday afternoon.

i gripped the banister on my way downstairs, being created with carol’s sympathetic smile. i sat down on the island counter as she pushed a plate of breakfast in front of me.

“i’m leaving for hilltop today.” i announced suddenly. her back was turned to me but i could sense the blank stare that must’ve washed over her. the sizzle of the pan of eggs on the stove top was the only sound heard for a moment.

then, she continued tussling the eggs in the pan, continuing on as if i hadn’t said anything. “it’s dangerous.”

“maggie needs me.” i answered simply.

“she’d feel much better if you stayed here. safe, with rick.”

i took a small bite of my toast, “she knows i can take care of myself. i should’ve gone with her and sasha right after…” i let my voice drift on, knowing i didn’t have to be specific. “i need to do this for her. for me. i cant stay here, carol, i can’t. not anymore.”

carol turned around at that, pouring her own eggs onto a plate. “well, i’m not going to stop you.” she said, taking a bite, “but i don’t think you should go alone.”

“i don’t need a babysitter,” i mumbled, beginning to lose my appetite. “im going by myself and that’s final.”

———

i opened the front door to the grimes’ home we shared cautiously. i anticipated to see carl in the front room with judith, as he always was, but to my surprise it was rick instead.

he was sat on the couch while judith babbled and played on the floor. his eyes were tired and lost, his face sunken with grief. he turned to look at me walking in and gave me the same, sympathetic smile i had gotten from carol.

i stood awkwardly in front of the door, looking anywhere but his eyes.

“he told you didn’t he.” i mumbled, not even being able to bring myself to say his name.

“no,” his voice was rough as he spoke, “i heard him last night crying in his room, after you’d left. and i knew.”

i felt my heart clench and my nose begin to sting. i nodded slowly, knowing i wouldn’t be able to choke out words i so desperately wanted to say.

“im going to hilltop today. only carol knows. i came to grab my stuff.”

his eyebrows furrowed at me and once i saw the disapproving look i spoke fast.

“i can make it there.” i promised, “we need each other.”

rick knew exactly who i was referring to and suddenly the look of disapproval vanished from his face. he nodded at me slowly, accepting the fact that this battle would be one he lost in trying to keep me here. he turned to judith and i took that as my cue to head upstairs.

“carl is at the armory, but he should be back soon,” i heard rick say, “i suggest you leave before he gets back, for both of your sakes.”

i didn’t answer, only continued up the steps. i didn’t want to see carl because i knew if he begged me to stay i would. it hurts knowing i perhaps don’t have that same control over him.

pushing open his door and revealing his room, our room was harder than i had imagined. i wanted to be out quickly, without hassle. i went through drawers, grabbing my things, stuffing them into the two duffel bags i had underneath our bed.

my heart dropped when i heard the front door open and close. i hadn’t been quick enough.

“where is she?” i heard his voice from downstairs and it motivated me to work quicker.

i managed to close the zipper on the second duffle bag but when i turned to the door i almost fainted. carl stood there with his arms hanging limp at his side, a blank stare on his face as he watched me pack my life away.

we stood facing each other for a long time. i stressed another fight, perhaps a bigger blowout than the last, but i looked into his sad, tired eyes and realized there wouldn’t be any fighting between us.

“how did you know i was here,” i mumbled.

“i went to carol’s looking for you. she told me you were leaving for hilltop.” his face scrunched up in disgust at his own words, as if just the thought of me leaving left a sour taste in his mouth.

“i am.” i said, voice feeble in an attempt to remain confident.

he shook his head slowly as tears began to rise up in his eyes. “don’t, y/n.”

“why not?” i pushed, crossing my arms over my chest. “why wouldn’t i leave? what’s left for me here?”

he didn’t answer.

“you let me go last night.” i stabilized my voice a bit, straightening my back to make myself look stronger as i spoke the words. “you can let me go again.”

“is that what this is?” he questioned, “is this reckless stupidity to punish me for last night?”

i scoffed, rolling his eyes at his narcissism. “no,” i chuckled in disbelief.

“then why? because this is the first time i’ve heard about this from you. not once have you said you’ve wanted to go to hilltop.”

“why wouldn’t i go?” i asked rhetorically, “maggie’s there and i want to help her. i feel so… so useless here! like, nothing is going right in this godforsaken place and last night was the last thing i needed to set me off.”

his face suddenly paled, his eyes softening. words were stuck on the edge of his tongue and i could see in his expression he contemplated letting them spill over. “i wanted to talk about last night.”

i turned around at that, beginning to rustle with my bag to occupy my hands. to do something other than hear him talk. especially about last night.

“i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to hurt you, you have no idea how hard it was for me, letting you go like that.”

i scoffed again, “you don’t even have a clue how i feel, carl, so don’t even try to sympathize with me.”

“i-“

“save it.” i spat, anger beginning to rise up my veins at the idea that he was about to pity me. “nothing you can say, nothing you think you can do to make it okay won’t keep me from-“

a loud bang on the front door shook me from finishing my sentence, both our eyes widening as carl ran out of the room and to the stairs.

“anyone home?” a booming voice spoke. i knew that voice.

carl, eyes still wide, turned to me in shock. i stood frozen, my hand still clutching the strap of my duffel bag filled with things.

“aww, you are a cutie-pie aren’t you! where’s your mommy, huh?”

at that, my blood ran cold.

judith was downstairs, by herself, with him.

without another moment of hesitation, carl was booking it down the stairs. i closely followed; forgetting our fued and any other reason why i would be angry in the first place. judith came first.

when i got to the bottom of the stairs carl was already in a staring match with negan as he held judith in his burly arms. the sight almost made me vomit. if he was capable of all he did that night, what was stopping him from harming a baby?

“well would you look what we have here,” he smiled his wicked smile. “i remember you,” he said, pointing at me.

“give me the baby,” carl demanded, his eye narrow. i wouldn’t have wanted to be on the receiving end of his glare.

negan chuckled, “and why would i do that? she’s so precious, i don’t think i’ll ever let her go.”

i felt my eyes sting when he lifted her up higher, examining her small, angelic face with devil eyes.

“i’m not asking,” carl said confidently, his voice didn’t shake or tremble. surprisingly, he was calmer than me, and it was his sister. he kept his eyes trained on negan, never once allowing him to leave his hard gaze. “give her to me.”

negan looked between the two of us before letting out a large gasp, his eyes widening, “no fucking shit, pardon my french but, aren’t you two a little young…”

my cheeks flushed once i realized what he was implying. i slowly shook my head, staring at carl out of the corner of my eye. his eye narrowed further.

“that’s my sister.” he spat.

“this is rick’s baby girl?” negan bounced judith in his arms again, eliciting a small giggle from her. “wow! now it’s a grimes’ party!”

he eyed me up and down, “sweetheart,” he beckoned me to take the baby, and without question i stepped up, carefully taking her out of his grasp and into the safety of my arms. i let out a sigh of relief, smoothing her golden hair back.

i backed up to carl’s side again, keeping my arms strongly around judith’s small body. she twirled a strand of my brown hair around her stubby finger, giggling again.

ever so slightly, carl stepped in front of me, shielding judith and i from whatever this man could do.

“so, where’s rick?” negan asked as he began trodding around the room, picking up trinkets left in the house by the previous owners.

“not here,” carl answered stiffly. out of the corner of my eye, i saw his hand lightly graze over the top of his jeans. my heart pounded a little faster.

negan sighed disappointedly, “well, im gonna go look for him! in the meantime, a few of my men will be by here to collect half your shit for me to take! kapeesh?”

he walked over to me and patted judith’s back, getting sickenly close. i held my breath, attempting to shield my fear. “i’ll be back for you, sweetheart.”

a chill ran down my spine when judith giggled at the man’s words. it felt like i was holding that breath in all the way until the front door closed and i could breathe again.

suddenly, carl gripped my shoulders and forced me to face him. “take judith upstairs and stay there.”

boots crunching against gravel outside made my stomach drop, the sound getting closer as each second passed. i shook my head violently. “i’m not leaving you down here by yourself.”

“i’ll be fine, go upstairs. now!” he pushed me in the direction of the stairs, judith cooing. i suddenly felt the urge to tell him i loved him, to hold him and make sure he’s safe. i never wanted to leave his side.

i had barely made it up the stairs and out of sight by the time the men had opened the door and i heard carl already start with the spiteful comments. he’s gonna get himself killed.

i placed judith in her crib, cooing to her softly to make sure she was settled. i locked her door from the inside, stuffing the key in my back jean pocket and headed for the stairs. i peeked through the railings, watching carl argue with one of negan’s men while the other ransacked the kitchen.

“you said half!” carl growled, watching the men stuff cabinet after cabinet of food into a large bag.

“we’ll take as much as we want.” one of the men replied, his tone snark and condescending.

my eyes bulged when i saw carl turn around and raise his gun to the man in the kitchen. he cocked it, his finger edging the trigger. “put it back.”

at this, i ran downstairs to carl’s side, just in time for the man behind him to cock his gun, right at my head.

carl’s head turned, his face pale when he saw the cold metal pressed up against my head, and the man’s strong arm around my torso.

“put the gun down, kid.” the man with the gun to me demanded. carl didn’t budge.

“carl…” i whispered carefully, my heart thumping in my ears loud enough to the point where i could barely hear myself talk aloud. “put it down…”

he stood there for a moment, his hand holding the gun beginning to shake as his pupil turned into a devilish slit to the man threatening my life. after what felt like hours, he finally lowered the gun, and i let out a sigh of relief when the metal left my hair.

we watched in distraught as they picked apart every inch of our home. luckily, we were able to keep him from going upstairs, and they left without another word to either of us. as the front door slammed shut i was pulled harshly into carl’s arms, his whole body shaking in rage.

his grip was tight and constricting, as if the anger was flowing into the hug. i could barely get a breath out, and i felt him shakily let out a few of his own into my ear, his chin digging into the crevice between my neck and my shoulder.

i could feel his rage. it coursed through him like the blood in his veins. his brain pumped more thoughts of negan, his saviors, their wrath, and i felt him slip into his emotions.

“i love you,” he whispered, his voice harsh, embrace still solid.

a tear dropped onto the warm skin of my shoulder, and by then i knew, everything he had said to me last night was nothing but a mistake.

i nodded against him, “i know.”

———

the rest of the day he didn’t let go of me, refused to. we laid in bed and i realized he was still thinking of this mornings’ events.

rick had come back an hour after the saviors left and panicked, asking about judith and if we were okay. he saw carl practically in tears from anger on the couch and me coddling his fragile ego.

he told us to stay in the house the rest of the day, and he’d be back to salvage whatever food he could find for dinner after our kitchen became nothing but a hollow, empty shell.

laying on carl’s chest, i drew patterns onto the grey of his shirt. we laid in silence, comfortable yet uncomfortable silence, until he broke it.

“today,” he started, his voice low, “when he had his gun up to your head, i realized something.”

i lifted my head slightly to look at him, his eye trained on the wall in front of us.

“you were about to die without me saying i love you today.” he sucked in a sharp breath, “and- and i realized i couldn’t live with myself if that happened.”

he finally looked down to me, his eye glazed over, staring at my with a heartbreakingly beautiful gaze that told me everything i needed to know.

“carl-“

“if you still want to go to hilltop i wont stop you.” he continued, cutting me off, “but if they come there-“ his voice hitched, his chest tightening under me. “remember that even after what i said, i cant ever stop loving you, y/n.”

the tears that had been building in my eyes finally spilled over. i realized the extent of what we were all going through, what our reality is. that we don’t know if today is promised, more so than before we met the saviors. that humans are far more dangerous than any walker we’d ever come across.

we were all living on borrowed time, and at some point, we’d have to return it.

i buried my head in his warm chest and sobbed. sobbed for glenn, for abraham, for maggie, for judith, for me, for carl, for us together. i sobbed for what we’d never have again as far as it seemed.

safety.

“what are we gonna do,” the words tumbled out of my mouth deliriously, through snot and sobs.

he didn’t answer, but carl’s grip around me tightening, and the way his chest stuttered, answered for him when his throat had nothing to offer.

but then he spoke. low and menacing. he acquired a sort of vendetta he didn’t have the night prior. he wasn’t about to let me go for them. not anymore.

“we’re gonna make them pay.”

[ma1dita]

do we have any sick!trouble and luke taking care of everything for her??(including her hehe🤭) if not then i’d like to think she would probably try to push herself through the day making sure camp doesn’t get set on fire bc older sister core! + dionysus probably dgaf 🤷🏻‍♀️ and maybe only luke noticing that she’s breaking out in a cold sweat and her movements a little more sluggish than usual but shes stubborn af so she refuses to rest

🐥

also ur works are crushing me jo they’re soo good😭💗

🐥🐥🐥🐥🐥

luke castellan x dionysus!reader

a/n: no trouble tags fuck it we ball! no edits either lmfao fluff :) can be a standalone just know reader is camp mom and Luke calls her trouble/slight cabin 12 mentions but not important (partners in crime series if you wanna check it out)

wc: 860

Luke doesn’t think he’s ever seen you be quiet.

Your voice is synonymous with the harmony of Camp Half-Blood in all of its forms: early morning announcements over the loudspeaker that serve as a wake-up call for campers to be ready for cabin inspections, hollow outcries to keep certain deviants in line (the Stolls and your brothers are a deadly force to be reckoned with), comforting words like kisses for scraped knees for the little ones, down to the gentle blanket of your singing at lights out. Luke also just knows by now that you love to have the last word—gods forbid someone else beat you at something you’re good at. Words always come easy when it comes to you (abilities of sons of Hermes aside) he finds out—but he can’t think of what can convince you to go back to bed today, especially with a temperature of 100.7 F.

He’s been circling you like a hawk this whole morning, not chastising (because clogged sinuses and all you’d probably fight him to your last breath), but rather helping out where he can. He swiftly double-checks counselor assignments once your puffy eyes leave the page, steers you away from walking straight into the fires of the forge instead of the exit at the armory, and waves off any bystanders who dare to get caught in the crosshairs of your bullheadedness.

In times like these, Luke’s almost grateful to be his father’s son (still a hard no, but you get the point). Doing these tasks undetected and mostly through a sleight of hand is better than worrying you even if he’s already at his wit's end; you’re quick in your own right too, body and brain separated today yet working on autopilot through a foggy sick-riddled mind. He hates leaving you like this even for a moment despite your protests of being able to handle yourself, but the two of you are spread thin today with all the work to do.

Luke finds you later after his workshop with your head against the cool stone of the climbing wall. You sniff into your sleeve, a wet sound stifled by the worn-down orange uniform you all wear, though yours looks as exhausted as you are, eyes closed and motionless even with lava slowly trickling from the top.

“Trouble? Are you okay babe? Grover fell off the wall already, you should… restart the mechanism,” he mutters, a big hand clasping at the nape of your neck like someone grabbing a kitten by its scruff.

“He’ll be fine, he’s a big boy,” you mumble with your face still attached to the rocks. “I’ve seen him climb over the Ares table for the last donut at lunchtime, molten lava and boulders should be a piece of cake.”

“At least cake is less painful and more delicious,” the satyr groans, hairs singed down to his hooves. Luke sighs, helping Grover back onto his feet for a well-deserved break.

“Babe…If you don’t move, sooner or later the lava’s gonna smother you.”

He shakes your arm since the controls are wedged between your body and the wall but it’s as if your body is bolted to the floor. A dissonant noise crawls out of your throat, “Dunno, kinda sounds nice. Maybe it’ll clear my sinuses.”

“Maybe it’s time to admit you’re sick.”

Even if he can’t see your face he knows there’s a scowl carved across it, “M’not sick. Just some allergies. I don’t get sick, Lu. Being sick is for the weak!” Lava continues to slide down the wall like molasses, inching you closer to a fate of fire— and your boyfriend watches you try to welcome it with weary arms.

“If you’re not sick, then I’m the best singer at Camp Half-Blood,” Luke drones as he crosses his arms. He can hear Percy laugh from the sidelines at that, silenced quickly by a glare.

“Now that would really clear her sinuses—even better if he dresses up for Theatrics again,” the son of Poseidon sniggers until a stray boulder comes barrelling towards where he and Grover are sitting. Everything’s suddenly less funny.

“It was one time, Jackson, and I wasn’t…” Luke sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “Trouble was just mending a costume.”

“It’s okay Luke, not everyone can pull off a corset.”

“Grover, another word out of you man and I’ll make sure your legs are permanently hairless,” Luke grits, finally tired of the chit-chat and more focused on getting you to rest. In one quick movement, he sweeps you off your feet and over his shoulder while his other hand slams on the button to reset the gears of the climbing wall. A delayed reaction falters from your throat, something of a yelp and an exhale.

“Luke! Put me down!”

But he’s already off in the direction of Cabin 12 to get you settled under the covers for at least the rest of the day until you’re up and kicking again. Your protests are scratchy but loud as he takes you away from the two kids and it's as if everything is right in the world again.

“Remind me not to get a girlfriend that stubborn one day,” Percy mumbles, bumping shoulders with his best friend.

[impala-dreamer]

A Simple Kinda Man

Dean’s a pretty simple man. He likes the things he likes and you can rarely get him to change his mind about it. 

He loves classic rock. Epic guitar solos that pour from the speakers and carry you away. Deep, pulsing, intricate bass lines that rock you to your core. Drums that block everything out. Lyrics that paint a picture so clear you can see it with your eyes closed. He rarely voluntarily listens to any music made after 1984, but will tolerate it if you’re driving - those are the rules, after all. And good luck getting him to admit he wiped away a tear listening to that Taylor Swift song you blasted from your room the other night. It won’t happen. Ever.

Dean loves a home-cooked meal, especially if it ends with pie. He doesn’t hate cake, but he finds the frosting too obtrusively sweet. He likes apple pie because it’s warm and tart with just a hint of sweetness hiding behind the biting cinnamon. He likes a rich, flakey crust that you can only get by using real, full-fat butter. Low-fat and calorie-free are not words he is familiar with and actively avoids when roaming the aisles at the grocery store. If he’s gonna eat, he’s gonna enjoy it, cholesterol be damned. He’d happily take a greasy double bacon cheeseburger over even the fanciest offering at a steakhouse and prefers his fries shoestring and deep-fried-orange, thank you very much. He picks his whiskey based on dollar amount not years aged. He’ll eat pizza cold and right off the floor if he has to. He’s not picky, but he likes what he likes. 

He pretends not to care about looks, but he’s been known to mess with his hair in the mirror for way longer than necessary, and he’s once or twice been caught with whitening strips clogging up his mouth. He prefers comfort over fashion but he damned sure knows how to find a tee that’s just a little too tight in all the right places, a pair of jeans that hugs his ass just so. He’s well aware how that deep burgundy flannel shirt brings out the freckles on his cheek and the green of his irises. He’s no fool. He knows he’s handsome; knows when he grins just so his dimples could ignite a fire in a thousand hearts. 

He loves kids but he tries not to think about it too much. Sure, whenever a stroller passes, he sneaks a peek at the tyke inside and wonders what it would be like if your DNA and his got squished into a little human, but he lets it go. As he tells himself: “Mars ain’t the kinda place to raise a kid”, and neither is the Bunker or the life he leads. 

He finds comfort in small touches- fingers grazing over the backs of knuckles, hugs lingering a moment too long. He falls asleep now to the sound of your breath, the slowing, gentle rise and fall as you run around in dreamland beside him. The warmth you emit under the blankets is enough to sustain him through tomorrow and the next day, and he wonders how he survived all those years sleeping alone. 

He’ll never tell you that, though. 

He loves you deeply but he’ll never say the words. 

He’ll prove it to you in a thousand different ways. In tender kisses and dreamy smiles. In whispered secrets and unwavering trust. He’ll protect you with his last breath. Give up his very soul to make you happy. But don’t ask him to admit it. Don’t force him to say the words out loud. It’s too much for him to handle. He’s battled monsters since he was a child, saved the world more times than he can remember, but the idea that you might not love him back, say the words in return… It’s too much, too terrifying a thought for him to risk. So he’ll tell you in the little ways. The simple ways.

He’s rough but sweet. His hands are big but warm and gentle. He’s a killer. He’s a genius. He’s stubborn. He’s ridiculous. He’s unfunny. He’s adorable. He’s beautiful. He’s kind. He’s miraculous. He’s inspiring. He is a holy unnatural, amazingly flawed, perfectly damaged, horribly broken man.

He’s Dean Winchester. 

And you wouldn’t want him any other way. 

For @deanwinchesterswitch and all the true Dean Girls out there.