#cancer bullshit tag.

[irishais]

Hello, friends! I have, per friends' request, created a GoFundMe for my Stupid Cancer Bills. At this point, I am just desperately trying to keep my head above water!

Venmo/cashapp are @irishais, and here's my PayPal.me if that's preferred.

If people could reblog and share this, that would be deeply appreciated.

[iliveinprocrasti-nationn]

in radiology ✌️ day 1/3 of treatment shit. official radioactive quarantine (and potential spiderman transformation) start day 3

[melancholicscoundrel]

Super fucking duperrrr that the lump I got checked out 4 years ago has grown so much that I can’t even ignore it anymore. And the lump that got cut out last year was on my other boob. I was fortunate enough to have it close enough to my nipple that the incision was made around the areola but this older lump?? Not even close to my nip. I’m gonna have a huge obvious scar right there on the side of my other tit can you believe???? Nip scar on one tit, side scar on other tit. I have a body.

[mental-illness-bingo]

Surely an otherwise fictional Russian researcher and technically legally a doctor by space (and thereby military chain of command) rules trying to save the world from cancer and radiation poisoning via murder will solve this issue.

Being a system is so weird like my mummy and daddy didn't like me so now I'm sans the skeleton

[vyzz-undercover]

the voices have made this happen

[cato/f!ambassador]

(1) (2) (3) (4) (5)

(5,900ish words) (OUUGHHHHH)

CONTENT WARNINGS:

•slight dubcon

•hints of size kink [obligatory]

•vaginal fingering

•oral [f receiving]

•mild possessive behaviour

•the consequences of ignoring important medical devices

•mentions of (hypothetical) torture

•tumblrs recurringly cancerous formatting

———————————————————————————————————

im back on my bullshit after having to do overnights so as payment to the dark gods of whoring and degeneracy i humbly offer this taglist of sweet darling who've indulged my insanity: @the-raven-lady, @gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan, @bispecsual, @lemon-russ, @kit-williams, @passionofthesith, @egrets-not-regrets, @moodymisty, @sinistermojo, @justeverythingnothingelse, @pluvio-tea, @thevoidscreams, @beckyninja, @yestheantichrist!!! if you wanna be tagged (or not) in the next let me know!!! also it may take me longer to do a part four to this namely because ive got more wageslaving ahead of me soon but alas i'll definitely have rowboat girlyman catch em. also maybe give cato some top. myehehehehe,,, AND THANK YOU FOR READING AS USUAL ILY ALL!!! :3

———————————————————————————————————

Cato is just about leaving.

After having spent the better part of an hour discussing the predicted destruction pathway of a hive-fleet on the system's rim with his Father; it sends his balls into his throat when you nearly run into him in the chamber's huge archway.

It only takes a fraction of a second to catalogue your presence.

You're wearing the same utilitarian blue robe as you had been last week again.

Last week, when he'd been pounding you insensible on a lounge in the library—Cato promptly quashes the insidious memory, smothering down any sort of reaction. But there is a change in comparison to the dizzying reminder: there's a new addition to the reoccurring outfit.

You've brought a navy, high-collared turtleneck into the mix, layered below your lapels.

So, the efforts of his mouth hadn't gone unheeded, then.

Throne, if he's not smug, he's got no bloody clue what he is.

Cato steps aside and turns to allow you entrance first before his exit.

"Commander Sicarius," you lilt with a soft voice and a small downward tip of your chin, all while holding his gaze.

He's transfixed periodically at the honeyed sort of warmth in your eyes.

Despite himself, he lingers and greets you with a slow, "Lady Ambassador."

The left side of his mouth twitches upward in a half-aborted smirk that he quickly tries to mask as a stern, frown-nod combination.

You break the staring match and Cato's confident he's salvaged his slip-up without detection.

Or not—because oh, fuck—if he doesn't feel the burning focus of a Primarch's eyes boring a hole into the side of his head like a brand.

It only lasts an instant, but the second is an eternity to him.

Of course, you're oblivious to this subtle exchange—and promptly trot past him to his Father's vast desk.

"My Lord Primarch," you say with a curt little bow; and then Guilliman's attention is solely on you, his favourite little pet project. "I read the data-drives you instructed from the preceding article logging. I've arranged them back to the most recent mark counts."

You're looking for an empty spot to lay them on his table, but with all the meticulously arranged stacks, it's none too easy to find one.

"Perfect," the Primarch breaths, "Just on the side there is fine, don't worry."

Obligingly, you lay them atop a small mountain of paperwork.

"Do you need anything else of me, my Lord?" You chirp brightly, the tone of your voice so very painfully sweet—Cato is nearly overwhelmed fighting a pitched battle against the urge to run over, pick you up and shake you around suddenly.

Guilliman chuckles, waving one massive hand about vaguely, "You've done more than enough for me today, why don't we leave it at that for now, hm? Go on."

"Of course; thank you, and have a good evening, my Lord," You say, bow once more, and turn on your heel from the Primarch, and—and smile at Cato as you walk back towards the exit. That's—that's the first time you've smiled at him. His twin hearts lurch, slamming forward against the inside of his fused chest cavity. It's perfect abominable. You rotten temptress, he's—he's going to rectify that audacity later. Or now, if you're... possibly heading the same direction he is. Which is whatever direction you're going, purely by chance.

It's merely coincidence, he swears.

He's certainly not planning on hounding after you like a dog tailing a bitch in heat.

He's certainly not going to drag you into a side room the second he's sure no-one with a credible opinion's around.

He's certainly not going to indulge in anything heretical, like bending you bare over his knee for daring to taunt him.

Cato makes as if to fall in step behind you as you pass the threshold before him, but is quickly halted by his Father's curt, "I do not believe you have been dismissed, Cato."

He's never been subjected to such sinking dread quite so nonchalantly.

"Approach."

Cato complies stuffily, sparing a glance at your figure disappearing down the corridor before acquiescing. He's practically dragging his ceramite boots across the intricate rugs as he nears the Primarch's seated but colossal form.

Guilliman isn't looking at him, having had returned to notating a miscellaneous form.

The scritch-scratch of his gene-sire's preferred, yet archaic method of manually writing on the parchment is like someone grating a plate with a fork to his ears right now.

"You've gotten over your petty grievances regarding the Ambassador at last, I take it?" Guilliman asks, without looking up.

It is not Cato's duty to like or dislike. Nor is it to be biased without reason—his opinions are to be intellectual, not emotional. His duty is to assess, analyse and provide feedback, so that his Primarch can take it into account when making rulings and decisions.

Cato swallows around the proverbial hunk of drywall lodged in his throat and answers, "She has proven herself... useful, yes, sire."

Guilliman finally meets his eyes but says nothing for a short while. There's dark bags under his Primarch's eyes, and the deep, stern crease permanently between his dark blonde brows is a slight bit harsher, but the only thing Cato can parse out of the expression's intent is a vague sense of knowing. Because, insofar, he's thought himself quite adept at reading his Primarch; and rather well versed in deciphering the intricacies of his moods.

And right now, he feels like he's being read like an open manuscript.

The daunting prospect Cato's caught sinks it's teeth in his gullet. It's impossible, he's not left any room for suspicion, he's covered his tracks—there's no logical reason why he should be getting raked with such a look.

His gene-sire isn't a psyker nor omniscient, just impossibly intelligent—and so absurdly good at the mathematics of plotting and planning that it only appears superficially as if he is all-seeing. He can't possibly know what Cato has been doing—or rather, who he's been doing.

"It's about time," his Father hums abruptly, suddenly disinterested. "Now you're dismissed."

Cato nods, turns on his boot heel, and nigh bolts marches out the room. His proverbial tail definitely not between his legs.

The hall outside Guilliman's apartments is a central domed area that functions as a meeting area, where people go to one of six looming hallways. It's the bottom of a series of levels; and above, three echelons encircled by arcades and balustrades, framed on the exterior by engaged columns.

But the structure itself is immense and ancient, even by Imperial standards. One of the few still-original, unaltered parts of the great Gloriana-class warship's innards. It is doused in long swathes of red carpet and great standards of Magcraggian note, alongside glorious, heroic frescoes depicting Legiones Astartes in their thousands, crusading across the heavens with the Emperor their head.

Cato keeps his head down as he passes them, uneasy with guilt. Feeling as if their lenses are following him—intent on venturing into the lower layers to brood.

Several Astartes are hovering about amongst the personnel and serfs. The baselines look up at him in awe, and his Brothers nod in respect, but he pays them all no mind.

The furthest corridor beckons him, and so he goes; down the complex system of broad walks with high, barrel vault ceilings, mazing through the vessel's higher clearance reaches like arteries through a body.

Cato is seething, and self-admittedly itching to take a howler of a swing at the next thing that speaks to him.

He cuts down the southern channel and sees one of his subordinate Victrix Guard lingering in the middle of a groin vault intersection.

The younger Astartes is about to continue straight, yet he pauses.

Brother Marcellus meets Cato's eyes for a second, clearly notes his Commander's absolutely stinking mood from a hundred meters off; nods, swallows, takes a step backward—and changes direction to go left rather than pass him.

Cato's too pissed to even linger on the strangeness of the action.

Still, he doesn't rightly blame him.

Cato strides on, back straight, chin up—the red shawl pinned beneath his pauldrons swirling behind him.

His thoughts are eating at him the whole while.

He's sure his Primarch is just trying to innocently divine his sudden change of mind regarding you. There's no way his Father's aware of why. And yet, guilt is a big black wolf nipping at his ankles, making him hasten; and unease clouds about his heart. He's mortified, for lack of a better word.

The full implications of the situation are too enormous to be faced all at once; so he picks the smallest, most banal facet he can think of.

That being, you.

You, who he'll never see again if his Primarch finds out.

You, who's practically damned him without knowing it.

You, who he's now valiantly trying not to imagine in a hundred different circumstances where he gets away with it all. Each one more heretical than the last—it's like it was before he'd managed a hand on you: his body giving in to suffocating delusions, sleepless in his cot; lapping at whatever scant, lust-soaked morsels his mind offers up.

One of his favourites remains you scantily clad beneath a moonlit night sky, on the parapet of his ancestral fortress on the coastal edge of Perusia.

He likes to fantasise you like it there.

He suspects you would.

He knows just about all there is to know about you on paper, and wonders if you know much of Talassar. Or if you've read about Castra Tanagra. He assumes Guilliman would share the tale of that famed old battle with you as a part of your readings.

Each impossible reverie is a new shiny nail in his coffin, or dreadnaut—it depends where and how he dies, and if there's anything scrape up of him when he eventually goes down in a blaze of glory and duty, and honour.

If his Primarch catches him, there's going to be none of that.

He'll be struck from living record, like Titus had been. Cato would be lucky to get a little plaque in the deepest pits of the Fortress of Hera. Reduced to a whispered memory of his achievements passed solemnly between Captains, followed up with words of disappointment. Of waste. Until his memory dies with them and his deeds fade into obscurity, lost to any new brothers.

The fate that awaits you would somehow be worse. Cato was always going to die in war, as was his right—but you—you were not fashioned for such things. Yes, Guilliman enjoys you, but that fact won't save you. Just like it won't save Cato for all his usefulness. You'd be tried as a heretic, as a source of corruption upon the Legiones, and you'd be made to suffer; because torture ever comes before execution. You're so very soft weak in so very many ways. Your life lived in a gilded cage, without pain nor discomfort that extends further than grating professional grievances—he doesn't want to imagine the sound of you screaming, but he does.

He cannot stand the thought.

The sudden urge to barricade you in his chambers for permanent safe keeping is all-consuming.

It's suddenly all he can think about.

He has to find you.

The amount of serfs passing and parting to allow his passage thin out to nothing.

Even from the sterile confines of one of the many winding hallways, Cato abruptly swears he can hear the echoed rush of sandals—your sandals—reverberating off the floor.

He hadn't notice you following behind immediately because, damn it, he's spiralling thinking.

He chances a confrontation, and rounds about-face.

You stand there in the middle of the empty hallway like you've got a bolter aimed at you, frozen.

"Come here," he says, clipped.

You do not.

"Come here."

Again, no compliance.

"Do you pride yourself on being a idiot?" His voice is scathing now, taking a heavy step into your space and being met by you staying stock stiff, still. "Do you have any idea what that stunt of yours earlier might incur?"

"What?" You blink, finally animating. "I didn't do anything—"

"You know what you did," he hisses, accusatory. "You're hollow between the ears, but you're not blind."

Lips pursing tightly in mental deliberation, you make a fey noise of annoyance as a little frown graces your features, apparently not deigning to offer a comment back.

"Do you not understand that... this," he gesticulates between you both and his voice falls to a whisper. "This... is not common allowance?"

"It's not?"

Are you being intentionally dense at this point, or is it just second nature?

Cato raises a hand to knead the crease between his brows, "No."

"That explains a lot, actually," you say, seemingly without any real comprehension on the gravity of the matter. "I couldn't find any notes or references on it."

He's genuinely stunned, "Is that what you were doing when—"

"When I was rudely interrupted," you cut in, the comment is nigh a spat insult.

Cato isn't sure what to say to that sudden display of spine, and grumbles.

He surmises the optimal action is complete disregard.

Therefore, he has no problem turning on the heel of his sabatons and starting his pace on again.

"So... this isn't normal by Astartes standards?"

He's taken aback at your abrupt want for conversation after all that. Namely because it's atypical. You never attempted small talk with him. You never do anything but scurry off when he's accosted you for you flagrant overstepping—wait.

He feels as if the paradigm between you both has shifted again since the last time for some reason. More than last time, actually. More than you just simply having the audacity to backtalk him.

It's like some symptom of a deeper sickness rising to the surface.

It makes him unreasonably curious suspicious.

He wants to see just how much ground you'll give, so he plays along and answers, "Not as far as I am aware, no."

You hum, and immediately are at it again, posturing, "Surely you have heard of cases of it happening?"

"I have not," Cato says, and you hum in consideration.

You're satisfied at that information for a brief while, but then he remembers you cannot shut your mouth for more than five minutes, and purses his lips. He's already tiring of your incessant questioning.

"But you'd done it before?"

And that's just great.

You've expertly found an exposed nerve.

More kindling on the bonfire of him having an aneurysm before the cycle's end.

Cato can feel the hint of pressure behind his eyes as he begins increasing his walking speed. "I don't think that is a relevant question."

You haste to stay in step, "It definitely is."

"You ought to learn a civil fucking tongue when you're addressing me, woman," he bites out, nose crinkling into a sneer.

Unperturbed by his short-tempered comment, another thoughtful little 'hmm' slips out of you.

"So, to conclude... you were as inexperienced as I was at the start, and all those gloating insults back then were just projection?" You suddenly blurt out at rather impressive speed, like a politician possessed—before finishing with, "Sorry, 'all those gloating insults back then were just projection,' Commander Sicarius."

Cato grits his teeth and feels his eye twitch.

He stops, turns to look over his pauldron, and stares bloody murder.

He can't even imagine the idiocy in your brain that gave you the imprimatur to say that aloud.

But Throne, the sly little glint in your pretty eyes suddenly has his face thudding with heat.

Then you smile at him for the second time ever.

Cato bites back the urge to ogle you dumbly, and actually feels himself thicken in his body-glove in real time, because oh, fuck—his hind brain practically pelts him across the jaw with the mental pict of that sweet mouth lathing up the side of his cock.

Mentally unseated for a moment, his brows furrow; and he quickly turns away, applying himself entirely to the task of trudging down the stagings.

The silence is a breath of fresh air.

Even if he can still hear your laboured breathing a few steps back him from him. You're straining to keep up with his pace, and it's an excellent punishment for you. His heavy sabatons clank-clank-clank on the steel decking, and your little shoes practically pitter-patter in contrast. It's a syncopated rhythm that he's absentmindedly trying to match—and when he lingers for a step he manages to even the beat out.

He hangs a left, and scales the wide stairs to the open intersection platform above two at a time; trying not to snort amusedly at the little groan you let out as you hurry up them behind him, heaving.

Cato realises abruptly that you're actually, really, seriously following him—and pretending you're not.

He makes a right at the top and then waits for you to fall in step.

And, pointedly, he then turns and doubles back around.

You stand there stupefied for a moment, before grumbling softly and continuing down the thoroughfare without him.

If his observation skills hold any weight, he heads straight into the nearest open room and waits for you to follow.

He doesn't activate the locking mechanism on the other side on purpose when he strides in, and lets the sliding door close behind him.

This particular room is forgettable in its ubiquitousness, though unusual. He has no idea of it's actual intended purpose. It's fitted with screens and database terminals as if it's for debriefing purposes, but he has no real way of confirming. What he can catalogue is that there's wraparound surfaces littered with candles. A few strips of harsh lighting and scant furniture—a tallish counter and a few long benches. They're thankfully Astartes sized.

Which means he can sit down and pray for you to walk right into the metaphorical snare he's just laid.

Not a minute later, the door's sliding mechanism triggers and you scurry through—only to promptly go stiff.

You stare at him like a rat he's just found by lifting a crate.

The mechanism shuts automatically behind you and it apparently spooks you enough to jump a little.

"You're disgustingly predictable," he harrumphs, unimpressed.

A flush rises to your face as you scowl, "You're disgustingly predictable," you shoot back, echoing his words.

Of course, that audacity of yours leads to a short stalemate.

He huffs out a sigh as he concedes out of sheer frustration and says, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one."

You blink dumbly at him, "...what?"

"It's my locking code," he growls, and Throne, you must be acting stupid just to grate him; because there's no way your brain is so smooth as to not connect the dots. "It's for the door, moron."

A soft 'ohh' leaves you as you turn and step aside to the key pad fixed into the frame.

"Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," he's agonisingly forced to say once again.

"Three-nine-five-eight-eight-two-seven-one..." you mumble to yourself.

Cato hears an angry beep and suddenly wants to smash his head into a wall repeatedly.

Grinding his molars, he snarls, "Three-seven-five-eight-eight-two-nine-one," and then adds, "If I have to repeat that one more time, I'm going to throw you out of the nearest airlock."

And it seems the threat of violence works wonders, because you don't bungle the input this time.

Cato sighs, exasperated, and leans back against the lip of the table behind the bench.

He ought to start carrying around a correctional stun rod. Just for whenever you annoy him. If it's good enough for a Neophyte to suffer, it's good enough for you, he supposes.

Or it'll send you into a seizing fit.

He's not to sure of the maximum voltage a baseline can take without their singular, puny little heart giving out.

One disciplinary option scratched out, then.

But he can think of many, many more to make a model Ambassador out of you. The wonders of carefully applied violence are plentiful. A little roughing up never hurts, or at least, not for long. And fuck, do you need some lessons on proper manners. He could have you smacked into shape like a show pony in no time—even if it'd be more like teaching a grox to trot lateral movements. Then again, he also believes if he stuck a frag far enough up a Carnifex's ass, he could probably get it to play Regicide.

And then pointedly, he starts thinking about your ass.

Cato is so utterly lost on the tangent of hypotheticals that he's flabbergasted when a small mouth lands on his own.

He hadn't even been paying attention.

He hadn't even noticed you'd neared.

It feels like the breath has been knocked out him at the sheer unexpectedness of it.

The kiss is hasty, your eyes scrunched shut and cheeks flushed, scowling with focus.

All the while, his mind reels because Throne, the contact of his lips to yours doesn't really feel particularly profound aside from how soft your skin is—but the intention of it is the real reward.

Cato's genuinely infuriated when you pull away.

You blink owlishly at him, giving him a cautious look like you're trying to gauge his reaction.

There are a thousand things he wants to ask, to say, but the foremost among them is but one.

"Again," he huffs, lessening the distance between you just enough to invite you back.

And he thinks that perhaps he’s abusing his station over you, but when you tentatively find a hold on his gorget to steady yourself to give him another kiss—those thoughts are all but erased from his mind. It's a curious weight off his shoulders to have you initiate and to show you want him in return, especially since it's as new to you as it is for him.

Nonetheless, he can't even imagine finding a reason to stop you, so he starts blindly mouthing; trying to coordinate around the fact he's so much larger than you.

The angle is difficult, but he's willing to follow your lead. Your body is even more fragile when he's in full armour. The risk of actually hurting you is realer than ever, but he can't help the desire to wrap an gauntlet around your waist and pull you closer to him. Thankfully, you let him when he urges you to, trembling hands flitting across his chestplate like you're unsure of what, exactly, you should be holding—and he catches the tiny line between your brows smoothing out as you risk a peek. Only for you to yelp, nervously wrenching yourself back in flustered surprise upon meeting his unwavering stare.

It's as if you expected something else.

He senses he's made a mistake of some kind.

Then he remembers from the motion-picts he's not supposed to keep glaring at you when kissing.

Regardless, he studies your face, memorising the lingering want still clearly there like his life depends on it.

He pulls you in and kisses you again, just because he can, this time brief and chaste. And then he goes for a third, fourth—fifth, each time slightly longer, until finally he rears back; and when he does you push up on your toes just a little, trying to chase him, but lose the nerve; although to Cato the reason for your faltering is, frankly, irrelevant. Because just like him, you lack the practical capacity to really know what next step you should take. Still, you look down at his armour, as if there's a latch to pull that magically undoes all his wargear.

He knows he's not going to get himself out of his armour in any reasonable way or amount of time.

There's no way he's getting the satisfaction of having you on him right now—but he still wants to keep you near.

He thinks he hears you ask for something, but he's too distracted to catch it in time.

"What?" Cato scowls, "What do you want now?"

It's clear you've been struck by your own embarrassment, strung up somewhere between shy and wanton, "I.. uh..."

"Spit it out," he rumbles.

You wince, hesitant as you mumble, "You, uh... i-in me."

Cato's brain skids to a halt. And it's the gall of that request alone that has him sweeping you up off the ground and spinning you around to sit in his lap.

It's obvious you're overwhelmed at being held to the formidably larger size of himself in full-plate. But as usual, you're yet to actively complain. Using his vambrace as a leg-bar to scoop under your thighs, he folds you in his grasp—your knees pressed to your chest as you're tucked back against his pauldron and chestplate.

The angle forces the hems of your robe aside, and he can see the underside curve of your ass; along with the plump mound of your vulva under the white of your small-clothes.

Cato's suddenly offended by their existence. You didn't wear any last time, so why now? The irritation of there being one more thing between you and him is enough justification to yank at them, tearing them loose—before throwing them aside.

You grumble sourly, which he chooses to ignore.

The palm of his gauntlet smooths across your hip, and you make a small huff as you shiver, goose-bumps suddenly covering your exposed flesh.

Cato lets the pads graze closer and closer to your sex, content to watch you impatiently glare at his armoured fingers from between the gap of your thighs.

With little preamble, he's stuffing his middle in. You're already so wet it's practically a cake-walk. Your cunt swallows down each articulating segment of his armoured finger down to the knuckle. The fact he's going to have to personally scrub your slick out from between the joints, instead of a lowly serf, is infinitely worth the shrill whine he receives as tribute.

"Would that my wargear had a zipper," he breathes, and fuck, he grins behind the obscurity of his gorget at the mournful mewl that remark earns. "I'd have you on your knees sucking for all the cunted trouble you've caused me."

You're making a warp-awful attempt at keeping yourself together, high-strung as you evidently are. Little more than a minute of him pumping his finger in and out of you has you red-faced and panting. All it takes to get those heavy breaths of yours to change into proper whines is his large thumb-pad adjusting to rest on your clit, applying pressure. You jerk, reflexively trying to buck into every motion. Fighting and failing to withhold the stuffy little moans escaping you—trying to stave off the inevitable by scrambling at the thigh plating of his power armour with one hand and tugging at his couter with the other.

Some part of Cato wants to stop solely out of spite for you being so grating earlier, or some other stupid mercurial justification of his; but instead, he simply continues, letting you squirm on his fingers.

And squirm you do.

It's clear to him the tide of it all is becoming too much for you to resist. Your sandal'd feet kick out where he's got your legs secured, joining in on the struggling as it begins anew when his thumb starts circling. It's a good sign, so he adds his pointer into you to bolster the stretch, curling in; before letting his fingers fan out inside you, stretching rather than stabbing. Your hips try to stutter forward in time with the quick thrusting of his digits, broken whimpers resonating off the room's walls. He promptly stuffs down to the knuckle and curls them again—and you all but bleat his surname as you're dragged into a fast and apparently exhausting orgasm. Just knowing he's you got you beat has his erection ache where it's trapped under the suiting and plating of his navel.

Cato can't feel you clenching through all the layers separating his skin from yours, but he knows from experience that you're seizing in fits internally—tight little cunt trying to milk a load out of an Astartes cock that should've been stuffed in you.

Just to allow himself one last bit of smugness, he scissors his fingers; giving a final swirl for good measure.

The shivered sob is worth every possible future disciplinary action he'll receive.

He pulls his gauntlet away slowly, and the wet shlick of it leaving you is almost amusingly alike pulling a blade from sinew. It's a degenerate comparison, he knows, but it's true.

Nonetheless, he splays out his hand and swallows dryly, eyeing the sticky, clear liquid webbing out and thinning between each ridge of his gauntlet'd digits.

Suddenly focused entirely on the fluid on his fingers, he pulls his vambrace barring under your knees up away. Now limp, and without the support, you slide off his lap and onto the floor in a slow slump.

"Nn-ngh," You groan weakly, face-down, legs still juddering a little.

Seeing as you're preoccupied, Cato doesn't even dignify the concept of hesitation, and promptly jams his fingers in his mouth—lathing the aftermath of your orgasm from them. And Throne, the taste of your hormones make him groan. He's absolutely stunned, unsure of how to act. He's so fucking stupid, why didn't he do this earlier? He's practically drugged by the omophagic aftereffect—getting off on your second hand bliss. Some sort of fey feedback loop in his brain catalysing his next decision solely on instinct.

He clambers to the floor and gets to his knees guards, securing a mitt on your bared thigh to roll you onto your back.

Apparently boneless with afterglow, you're easy to manhandle.

You barely have the strength to do much more than crane your head up at him and whine as he arranges your thighs apart, settling on his front between them with a warp-awful clank; before lifting your legs up to rest onto either lip of his gorget.

You try to scud back on your ass suddenly, but are quickly halted when he holds you fast by the hip.

He raises a confused brow.

"I-Isn't—" you start, still gathering the scraps of your brain together so soon post-orgasm, "Isn't y-your saliva acid?"

Cato suddenly wants to cuff you on the ear, "Who the hell told you that?"

"M-Master Calgar," you mumble.

Oh, of course, the gossiping hen.

He's going to have words with the Lord Defender of Greater Ultramar the next time they meet—words like 'for fuck sakes, stop scaring the woman he's trying to eat out with talk of Betcher's gland, Marneus,' come to mind, but then Cato realises that doesn't sound like he's not fucking you, so he quickly settles on: 'stop dignifying the Ambassador's hundred-and-one insane questions.'

"Not Ultramarines," Cato manages not to snarl, "It's a vestigial organ in most of us."

Your voice is shaky as you parrot, "Most of us?"

"Yes," He grunts, and promptly buries his face in your cunt.

The disproportion in size is painfully apparent when he realises his whole damned tongue is able to drag a stripe up the entire splay of you with minimal effort.

The pitched gasp he wins out of you is pure sin, and he's on the brink of swooning; but then you're running your trap again.

"Please, d-don't tell me you're one that can spit acid—" you manage to warble, seemingly still stuck on the topic.

Cato sighs as he's forced to pull away from your vulva, "I think you're forgetting I had my tongue on your tonsils in the library."

"Th-that's different," you stammer. "That's not as sensitive."

A long, unimpressed deadpan paints itself on his face.

"So," he starts with a bated hiss, "And let me be perfectly clear in this—you believe your vagina is more susceptible to burns than your mouth?"

Your face transforms into a strange mix of embarrassed and angry.

"I didn't say that—"

"Yes, you did," Cato grumbles.

"Did not," you huff.

"You—you just fucking did," he snaps, frustrated enough that he can feel one of the veins at his temple bulge. "The implication is obvious, you insufferable little whore."

You snort, but stay silent.

The argument appears, for all intents and purposes, to be finished.

"Did not," you say abruptly once more, pouting.

Cato's eyes roll back in his skull as he grits his teeth.

"Throne of Terra, if you don't drop the subject, acid in your cunt will be the least of your worries," he all but snarls, and that apparently quietens you enough that he can get back to lapping at you—the flat of his tongue running over your clit and earning a jolt.

He wraps his lips around the pink little nub and sucks. And that's all it apparently takes to make up for his amateur career in the practice.

You siphon down a sharp breath and let out a garbled cry, hips canting forward into his mouth—to which he obligingly stuffs his tongue into your slick entrance.

There's a satisfaction well beyond simple pleasure that swamps him at the way your thighs shake either side of his head. His own breath is hot about him, stuffy and dizzying; and the skin pressed against his cheeks is warm and smooth.

You're panting when he goes back to lapping over your clit, perching yourself up on a bent elbow and reaching out a hand.

Your fingers card through the messed brown hair atop his head. And he stiffens without realising—but he realises something: like this, the touch is ecstasy—pure, golden ecstasy. Every bit of higher thought in his head evaporates when you stroke him again.

A long, rumbling subvocal moan tears from him.

The infrasound vibration makes you buck weakly into his mouth again, teary eyed afore him as he adjusts his grip on you and crawls closer.

He's suddenly acutely aware that in this new, much more prone position, he's able to grind his body armour into his groin guard pressed on the floor. And as soon as the action bears results—namely a scorching burr of pleasure racing up his spine—he's deadset on rutting against the ground like a slavering beast.

He's frotting himself at a pace so rabid it'd be cruel to subject your cunt to. It's brutal, and the harsh scraping sound of plasteel on steel only further proves that. It's just frantic lust—he's desperate.

It's complete insanity how close to finishing he is so quickly.

Not as close as you, though.

He can feel how your legs jump with each pass of his tongue; and then you're unraveling in front of his very eyes.

"I-I can't—I can't, S-Sicarius, I-I—" You ramble, dazed, trying to get away as he works you right through it, sobbing and oversensitive while he's rutting himself closer and closer to his own end.

It all comes to a head when your fingers dig into his hair, tugging—and his brain is overrun with static. A drawn out groan scathes from his maw as any sense of rhythm scatters like light through a prism. For a fraction of a second, the pleasure is serene.

Then it's abject agony, he feels—he feels like Roboute Guilliman himself has just taken a running start and kicked him in the balls.

"F-Fuck–ing—gh—" he chokes, vision swimming, straining against the tide of the torment. His back arches up, and he curls inward on himself; white-hot pain clocking his nervous system into overdrive. Every muscle in his abdomen is doused in acid. He's tolerated being shot, stabbed, burnt without so much as blinking—but this is an entirely new and entirely different sort of wound. It's like he's pissing promethium. It's—it's the catheter, he realises. He'd forgotten about the bloody catheter jammed up his cock.

Through the searing ordeal, he manages to force his armour's facilities to finally abide his impulses and dose him with a pain dampener.

And then everything's fine.

He opens eyes he wasn't aware he'd closed and finds your face has suddenly gotten far closer to his.

"S-Sicarius?" You stammer, and there's an honest panic in your voice. "Sicarius, p-please, please—a-are you okay?"

He realises he's on his back, and you're sitting beside him, half draped on his chestplate, frantically trying to figure out what's wrong with him to no avail.

You've leaned in so close he can feel your rushed breathing.

"I'm fine," Cato groans, and you sputter out a sigh.

"I-I don't know what happened, I-I—" you're still wildly confused and raving, and he inhales deeply; only to be greeted by the sour animal stink of fear practically dripping from you.

Cato rolls his tongue around inside his mouth and cringes knowingly at the foaming side-effect of the chem he'd self-administered, the acrid taste mixed with your slick is certainly not an ideal cocktail.

The sincerity of concern behind your reaction is baffling. He's not made of glass, for fuck sakes—and he's a bit pissy about the fact you'd actually fallen victim to the idea of him suffering some grievous injury so easily. But he supposes where there's a will of baseline overreaction, there's a way.

"You're acting like a child, woman. Pull yourself together," he sighs hoarsely, hoping the comment jars you out of your hysteria—or at the very least scares you off.

It does exactly neither, and you sidle in closer and rest your cheek on his jaw.

It’s an action so overwhelmingly horribly affectionate that it would’ve been a crime to not press into it with a lean of his head. Or, at least, that's the half-assed justification he tells himself.

Because he's loving enduring your attention, not seeking it; and therefore only humouring you when he lifts a hand and settles the wide splay of it on your flank as a comfort.

He shouldn't be, but he is.

[veryace-ficrecs]

House/Wilson Fic Recs

This list will include all ratings and tags, so read at your own discretion! :)

criteria by PaintedVanilla - Rated T

“I don’t think they know that we’re married.”

The Private Life of Gregory House by superangsty - Rated T

"You guys really don't get it, do you?" "Get what?" "It's almost insulting, really." Or, five times the team missed the point completely, and one time where they figured it out

Bending You(r logic) by scribespirare - Rated T

Assflash, newshole, we were married the whole goddamn time.

The Line of Thought by tevinterimperium - Rated T

Cameron, Foreman, and Chase keep on trying to get into the little details of House's love life. House doesn't like that one bit.

Touch Therapy by Nomad (nomadicwriter) - Rated T

It's not that House needs the human contact. It's just that when you're sharing an apartment, these things happen sometimes.

Brain Damage by fourteencandles (thingsbaker) - Rated M

"You jerk," Wilson sighed when House walked in and set a mug on Wilson's desk. Wilson was stretched out on his own couch. The nausea had ebbed slightly during the morning, but then he'd tried to eat a little oatmeal, and now it seemed in danger of flowing again. "It's tea," House said. Wilson glanced up at him, and House looked away. "From Cameron." "Yes, God forbid I think you care," Wilson said.

no need to worry (making up your mind) by scribespirare - Rated T

House makes the mistake of telling his mother he can't join her for Christmas because of his new boyfriend. Somehow, this becomes Wilson's problem.

An Essay On Stupidity by DumpsterBeagle - Rated T

House starts to wear his wedding ring, after almost a year, to screw with his team. Cameron, Chase, and Foreman are more confused than they've probably ever been.

only fools rush in by bittereternity - Rated T

so take my hand, and take my whole life too. Or, the one in which Wilson realizes he's in love. It kind of throws him off-kilter.

The Crystal Closet by VictoriaAGrey - Rated M

Wilson starts acting oddly towards House and House wants to know why. When he gets his answer, it makes matters infinitely more complicated.

mutualism by PaintedVanilla - Rated G

When Wilson walks into her office with House’s name on his lips, he’s either there to tell her he’s back on his bullshit with yet another patient, he’s mad at him for reasons outside the hospital, or he’s simply perplexed by his husband.

Things That Go Bump by peg22 - Rated E

Wilson has nightmares. House gets a headache. Everyone tries to diagnose just what's going on between them. This story is set in Season 2, before House got shot, before the first ducklings left us, before Amber, before House/Cuddy . . . those halcyon days where House and Wilson were just . . . House and Wilson. Wilson is sleeping on House's sofa, after moving out from cancer patient, Grace. "Wilson just shook his head and limped back into the kitchen. He unloaded a sack of fresh produce. Good produce. Endives and garlic and tomatoes and asparagus. He moved on to the next sack. Beef. Good beef. Brisket and rump roast and ribeyes . . . he was halfway through the third sack of spices and imported cheeses, whistling and daydreaming about braised salmon with fresh asparagus when it hit him. He was being seduced. Through groceries. By groceries. By House through groceries. And he was falling for it. Hard. Lox, stock pot, and basil."

let it slip by zlicxn - Rated T

“Would you put money on it, Foreman?” Chase asks, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at both of them, “Come on. Fifty bucks each, bit of holiday fun.” Foreman leans back in his chair, crossing his arms, “Why are you so eager to make this a bet? Spend too much on Christmas presents?”

Chase’s mouth twitches, “Can’t a guy just want to have a friendly wager with his colleagues?”

After a slip on some ice lands House in the hospital with a concussion he accidentally reveals to his fellows that he was planning to propose to someone, but doesn't say to who. That's up to them to figure out.

Everything by merchantivory - Rated G

House may combust if he doesn't find a way to control his love for Wilson. Then he finds Morse code. - Tap. Tap-tap-tap. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap-tap-tap. or, I love you.

Interlude by merchantivory - Rated G

5 times House kissed Wilson + 1 time Wilson kissed House

Fresh Feeling by Justkeeptrekkin - Rated M

House is tricked into going on a team-building trip with his colleagues. He does far more bonding with Wilson than anyone else.

at the rind by ShanaStoryteller - Not Rated

Wilson keeps having nightmares about House dying. They feel more like memories.

less obvious causes by captainharkness - Rated T

“You’re also still not wearing the lab coat.” “Take it up with the wife,” he drawls, eyes flitting to Wilson, who flushes red. Cuddy raises a single eyebrow at him. Wilson clears his throat, “I have it on good advice that your wife did the washing up last night. She says it’s your turn to do the laundry.” - Alternatively: House and Wilson have been together for years. They just haven't gotten around to telling most people. Told through a series of standalone chapters.

[3liza]

the main thing the general public does not understand about cryogenics (beyond it being a scam when done commercially) is that you can't freeze a dead person and then somehow the freezing process makes them resurrectable later. you have to freeze someone while they're still alive. cryogenics "works" in the sense that we can freeze and revitalize living animals somewhat successfully, but when you freeze a dead one it will still be dead with you thaw it out. like many public superstitions i think people understand this if you remind them that "freezing Disney's head" doesn't make any sense, they'll be like "oh of course" but the level 1, casual awareness of cryogenics as a thing is firmly on the "if we freeze dead people they will be alive later" level. the people who get suckered into buying cryogenics storage have been sold a bunch of bullshit about how curing death itself will be part of the package deal though, usually when they're already experiencing cognitive decline

it's kind of like how the pop culture understanding of time travel also assumes the time machine is a teleporter

the current way cryogenics operates in practice is equivalent to saving your game on 0 health and soft locking yourself. in 100 years they will (hypothetically because no they won't) look at the tag on your pickled head and go "oh this one died of death, still no cure for that, oh well" and charge another year to your estate.

if you really want a chance of "being reborn in the future" you're going to have to voluntarily walk into the freezer the minute you're diagnosed with stage 1 cancer and even then it's probably going to be too late

[irishais]

hey, y'all, i'm dealing with what my oncologist is fairly confident calling stage 1 endometrial cancer. i haven't had my surgery yet, and there are already bills coming in from the multiple procedures i've already had to deal with, so if you feel slightly compelled to pad my shoestring budget for this nightmare: cashapp/venmo are @irishais, kofi is here.

[redjennies]

i do not want to get to know new people. I want someone who I already know has such similar damage to mine in a way that feels like destiny and can make me laugh and fuck me stupid.

me: *has a scheduled date on Saturday with a total cutie*.

also me, an insane person: *runs into an ex on a Tuesday night and we have a small but heartfelt moment* BUT DADDY I LOVE HIM.

[sgiandubh]

Me pareció extraño que ellos (sí, ellos, por supuesto) no simplemente optaran por duplicar su apuesta por Barbie Fitness. Para bien o para mal, ya estaba algo establecido. ¿Qué crees que les llevó a cambiar de rumbo?

Dear Bizarre Anon,

Como siempre, primero la traducción y luego - mi respuesta.

' I thought it was bizarre that they (yes, of course, 'they') didn't just choose to double down on Fitness Barbie. For what it's worth, that was already a fixture. What do you think made them change their mind?'

I have many conflicting thoughts and yes, even feelings about all this, Anon, at the moment. I think it was a botched plan from the very start. Must have picked her from Raya, she was cheaply available (a quick buck for a quick side job, for her) and he did not vet her at all.

Why not double down on the other woman? Too loud, too orange, too brash are things that immediately come to mind. I think she sealed her fate with that Scottish week-end, when she had to share her son's vomit with the entire world. And overexpose a child, in the process. Probably also some things we might never be privy to - so, no use to look for answers in the Room of Nothing.

My answer to your second question will be very short: Park Anon. Panic. The problem was that this pap walk was picked up by People, a media outlet read by many in Hollywood, including agents, directors, producers, etc. A Big Problem, indeed.

For the moment, he turned off tags. I don't think you will see that girl ever again, Anon - and I do think this is a sure sign.

My questions are perhaps simpler:

How many IG followers will he lose in the foreseeable future?

How will this impact OL's broadcast ratings for Seasons 7-B and 8?

How will this impact Sassenach Spirits' sales short and middle-term?

How will this impact his business relationship with Southern Glaziers and the like?

How will this impact MPC's subscription trends and financials?

How will this impact his CSR relationship with NGOs, such as WWF, Blood Cancer UK, etc?

How will this impact a personal brand that can now be legitimately described as unreliable and borderline schizophrenic? And I mean it in a very logical way, as the impossible reconciliation between manwhoring and philanthropy.

From my watchpoint, I couldn't care less about any other rationale. These are the real questions he will have to face soon enough. All the rest is bullshit and sentiment. And we are now forced to talk business, not sentiment. For as far as sentiments are concerned, my answer will never change: they will find a way, even if in the process they might hurt each other. True love is never easy.

[ficnation]

Chapter 6

Series: The Cockroach

Pairings: Negan Smith x Female! Reader; Lucille Smith x Female! Reader; Negan Smith x Lucille Smith

Word count: 2,5k+

Warnings: usual twd themes, cancer mentions and treatment, nightmares, panic attack

If you're not on the taglist but would like to be tagged, let me know!

Main Masterlist || "The Cockroach" Masterlist

PREVIOUS CHAPTER || NEXT CHAPTER

It had been days. Maybe longer. Time didn’t feel real anymore.

Your bruises were still ugly, your ribs still sore, but at least you could move without wanting to vomit. Progress. Physically, at least. Mentally? Different story. Sleep was a joke, and when it did come, it wasn’t relief—it was Murphy. His voice, his face, his name sitting heavy in your throat like a swallowed scream.

You shouldn’t have left him. You needed him. Murphy was your anchor, your world, and no matter what you felt for Lucille, no matter what this place meant for you now—you would not leave him behind.

The dim glow of the basement faded, replaced by warm sunlight pooling through white sheets.

Murphy’s smile. Bright, boyish, untouched by the weight of the world. He lay beside you, half-hidden beneath the covers, his messy hair a dark halo against the pillow. His blue eyes sparkled as he nudged your side, his body warm and solid against yours.

“You ever think about just staying like this forever?” His voice was hushed, like speaking too loud would shatter the moment.

You smirked, rolling onto your side to face him. “You’d get bored.”

“Nah,” he grinned wider, reaching out to push a strand of hair from your face. “Not with you.”

The sheets filtered the morning light, turning everything soft and hazy. It felt safe here, hidden away from all the bullshit. Just you and him.

You laughed, shaking your head. “You’re such an idiot.”

Murphy leaned in closer, nose brushing against yours. “Yeah, but I’m your idiot.”

You wanted to freeze time. Keep him here. Keep him safe. Keep him yours.

But the memory fractured—ripped away like torn fabric.

The dim basement light returned, washing the world in cold, sickly yellow.

The silence was unbearable tonight.

You sat at the kitchen table, thumb picking at a loose thread on your sleeve, knee bouncing. Across from you, Lucille sipped weak tea, her expression unreadable. The sound of the chemotherapy bag dripping into her IV filled the space between you. Or maybe that sound was just in your head.

Her gaze flicked toward you. She noticed. The restless energy, the way your fingers twitched like they wanted to wrap around something solid—like they needed something to fight.

“You should get some sleep,” she said gently.

You let out a sharp exhale, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’ll pencil that in right after my mental breakdown.” It came out sharper than you intended, but you didn’t bother softening it.

Lucille exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh, not quite a laugh. Her lips twitched, like she wanted to smile but wouldn’t.

“You’re restless.”

“Gee, what gave it away? You should be a detective,” you deadpanned.

She didn’t react to the sarcasm. Just waited. That was the worst part. Not pushing. Not demanding. Just giving you space to step forward or step back.

You rubbed a hand over your face, fingers pressing into your temples as you let out a slow breath. The words weren’t ready to leave you yet. But Lucille was patient. And patience was the one thing that always broke you.

“I left him.” The confession was barely above a whisper, pried from between clenched teeth.

Lucille didn’t ask who. Maybe she already knew. Maybe she just knew you.

Who else could it be? You had no boyfriend. No casual flings. Just you and Murphy. A relationship so tangled, so blurred at the edges that defining it was impossible. It was a whole thing.

A hollow laugh slipped from your throat. Sharp. Bitter. Fractured.

“Very dramatic. Blood, yelling—a real ‘go, save yourself’ moment. Would’ve been a hit in theaters.” You tried to make it sound like a joke, but your voice shook at the edges.

Lucille’s expression softened. “And now you can’t stop thinking about him.”

“Huh. You are perceptive,” you mocked, but it lacked any real heat.

She gave you a look. The kind that made you feel like a petulant child. The kind that Murphy used to give you when you got too stubborn for your own good.

You scoffed, crossing your arms.

“I should’ve fought harder.” The words fell out, raw and jagged. “I should’ve—I don’t know. I should’ve done something.”

You swallowed hard, but the lump in your throat didn’t budge.

“And now he’s out there, and I’m here. Sitting on my ass like some goddamn—”

You cut yourself off, but the damage was done. The tears gathered, hot and stinging, burning at the corners of your eyes. You blinked rapidly, looking away, pretending they weren’t there.

Lucille leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. Drip. Drip.

“You don’t have to hold it in.” Her voice was soft, but firm.

You let out a tight, bitter laugh. Shook your head.

“No, I can’t.”

She frowned, but before she could argue, you pushed forward, voice quieter now. Raw.

“Because if I start, I won’t be able to stop. And if I can’t stop… then I can’t save him.”

Silence.

Lucille didn’t tell you it was okay. She didn’t feed you empty reassurances. She just let you sit in it. Let you breathe through it.

The clock ticked. Your pulse slowed. The tears didn’t fall, but they were there—a storm behind your ribs, waiting for permission to break.

Lucille nodded once. Decisive. Certain.

“Then we’ll figure it out.”

And just like that, the conversation was over. No pity. No sugarcoated comfort. Just a plan.

You nodded back, exhaling.

The storm didn’t break tonight.

You headed upstairs, looking for something to do—anything to make the weight in your chest disappear. Anything that would silence Murphy’s voice, the echo of his last words still gnawing at the edges of your mind.

You didn’t have anything against his voice, but you sure as hell didn’t want to hear that moment replaying over and over again.

“Go.” The unsaid ‘save yourself’.

Like hell you could.

You pushed the thought down and stepped onto the porch, where you found Negan, slouched in a chair, smoking. He was back from wherever the hell he disappeared to, looking like he was trying way too hard to be unbothered.

You weren’t stupid.

He was doing it again—pretending. Acting like Lucille’s condition wasn’t sitting on his chest like a goddamn anvil. Acting like the slow creep of death in the next room wasn’t tearing him apart the same way it was tearing you apart.

But it was always there.

The sickly pale color of her skin. The wigs she insisted on wearing every day. The dark circles under her eyes, beautiful even as they dimmed.

Negan could pretend all he wanted—but you saw it. And he saw that you saw it.

Without a word, you sat down next to him, carefully keeping some distance between you. Close enough to share the moment, far enough that you wouldn’t have to acknowledge it.

“Share?” you asked, holding out your hand for the cigarette before he could even think about telling you no.

Negan sighed, side-eyeing you before handing it over. He didn’t protest, but you could tell by the way he rubbed a hand over his face that he wanted to.

And in true Negan fashion, he didn’t offer comfort—just commentary.

“You look like a kicked puppy. That a new aesthetic choice, or are we just leanin’ into the whole ‘existential crisis’ thing?”

You took a drag from the cigarette, exhaled slow, hoping it would settle you. It didn’t.

“Can you just shut up for once? Or is that too hard of a job for you?”

Negan let out a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head.

“You’re the one who chose to come out here, sit next to me, take my damn cigarette—and now I need to shut up?” His voice curled with annoyance, every word growing sharper. “I think the fuck not.”

Your grip tightened around the cigarette, the burn of it grounding you.

“Jesus Christ, Negan.” You turned toward him, eyes narrowed. “I don't know how Lucille puts up with you.”

“Oh, I’m sorry—am I not grieving properly for you?” His smirk was mocking, but his voice was cutting. “You wanna teach me how it’s done? Maybe I should sit in a dark corner and mope until I implode—that more your speed?”

Your jaw clenched.

“You are so goddamn exhausting.”

“And you are so goddamn predictable.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You think I don’t see what you’re doin’? The whole tortured, guilt-ridden, it-shoulda-been-me act?”

Your breath hitched, but you refused to react.

“News flash—you can sit here and hate yourself all you want, but it ain’t gonna bring your boy back.”

The world stopped.

You went still.

The cigarette slipped between your fingers, hitting the porch floor with a faint sizzle.

Negan’s eyes flashed when he realized he hit something real.

“Ah. There it is.” He exhaled, shaking his head. “That’s what this is about, huh? Poor little girl lost her best buddy, and now she don’t know what the fuck to do with herself.”

That was it.

Before you could think—before you could stop yourself—your hand lashed out.

Crack.

The sound of skin meeting skin cut through the night.

Negan’s head snapped to the side, jaw tight, the ghost of your slap burning red against his cheek.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

Your hand trembled, but your face remained stone cold.

Negan slowly turned back to you, jaw flexing. His tongue ran over his teeth, and for the first time, he didn’t have a smartass response.

You saw the moment he decided not to react. The way he swallowed down the anger, the fight, the instinct to throw another verbal punch.

Instead, he let out a slow, low chuckle.

“That all you got?” His voice was hoarse, full of something you couldn’t place.

You ground your teeth together so hard it hurt.

Your fists clenched at your sides, nails digging into your palms, the weight of his words pressing against your ribs like a vice.

You turned and walked away.

Your boots thudded against the wooden floorboards, each step carrying the raw, burning rage he’d just set loose.

Negan stayed where he was, watching you disappear into the house.

Neither of you said another word.

But the fight?

It wasn’t over.

The night crept in, slow and heavy, wrapping itself around you like a too-tight rope.

You tossed and turned on your makeshift bed, your body restless, your mind refusing to shut the hell up. It wasn’t about the discomfort—Lucille had done her best, piling blankets and pillows together until it almost felt like a real bed. Almost.

Hell, it was probably better than that shitty excuse for a mattress you had in your apartment.

But comfort had nothing to do with it.

It was the rage—boiling under your skin like molten iron, filling your chest, coiling tight around your ribs. It was the fear, cold and sharp, creeping up your spine, raising goosebumps along your arms. It was the guilt, thick and suffocating, curling around your throat like a noose.

And it was all so insufferable.

A well-deserved torture for leaving Murphy behind.

But eventually, your body betrayed you, exhaustion dragging you under despite the demons still clawing at your mind.

And it was worse.

“Oh, there you are! Missing me already?”

The voice—his voice—snapped your head up so fast, you almost stumbled.

Murphy stood a few feet away, arms crossed, a shit-eating grin pulling at his lips. His blue eyes were bright and joyful.

Just him.

Standing there like nothing had happened.

Your breath hitched, something sharp lodging itself in your throat.

“Murph…?”

The relief came so fast it almost hurt. You wanted to run to him, throw your arms around his shoulders, bury your face in his hoodie and just breathe him in.

He’d press his lips to your forehead, over and over again, like he always did after being apart too long. It was his ritual. His way of saying he missed you.

And every single time, you’d scrunch your nose and shove at his chest, muttering, “Eww, Murphy, you’re slobbering all over me.”

But the truth?

You never wanted him to stop.

You wanted him to do it now.

You took a step forward, a laugh bubbling up past the knot in your throat. “Miss you? That’s rich coming from you—don’t tell me you were crying in your sleep, Murph.”

Murphy gasped dramatically, hand to chest. “Me? Crying? You wound me, honey.”

You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling.

You felt warm. Safe.

For the first time in days, your ribs didn’t ache, your chest didn’t feel hollow.

It was just Murphy—his voice, his presence, alive and real.

“You really thought I wouldn’t find you?” He smirked, head tilting. “C’mon, honeypie, have a little faith.”

You let out a soft scoff, shaking your head. He always said that. Always.

And yet…

Something was wrong.

Your stomach twisted. The warmth started to fade.

The light around you dimmed.

Murphy’s smile twitched—just barely—but you saw it.

His body stiffened, the playful glint in his eyes flickering, dimming into something else. Something… unnatural.

His expression slackened.

His hands trembled.

“Murph?” Your voice wavered.

His mouth parted, lips forming a word—your name? No. Not quite.

And then—

His eyes clouded. His skin paled.

And his voice dropped into something hollow.

“You left me.”

Your entire body seized.

Murphy lurched forward, his face twisting, his mouth gaping open, rotting teeth, dark veins spreading down his neck—

No. No. No.

His arms snapped out toward you, fingers curling like claws—

“You left me.”

You ran.

You turned, bolted in the opposite direction, but your feet wouldn’t move fast enough.

His breath rasped behind you, wet, guttural, wrong.

“You left me.”

And then—

Darkness.

You woke up gasping.

A jagged, shuddering inhale that burned your lungs, your chest tight and constricted. Your body shook, fingers curling into the blanket like it was the only thing keeping you from falling apart.

Panic. Raw and suffocating.

Your throat was tight, your pulse hammering against your ribs, against your skull, against every nerve ending in your fucking body.

Your vision swam.

The walls closed in.

You weren’t in Alexandria. You were back there.

You were back in the moment you ran.

“You left me.”

A sob punched out of you before you could stop it, your hands flying to your mouth, fingers digging into your skin as you rocked forward, trying to breathe, trying to push it down, trying to stop the shaking.

But you couldn’t.

You couldn’t make it stop.

And then—

A voice.

“Sweetheart?”

Lucille.

Your head snapped up, wild-eyed, chest still heaving, vision still blurred.

Lucille was crouched in front of you, voice soft, gaze steady.

Not hovering. Not coddling. Just waiting.

You squeezed your eyes shut, exhaling shakily, grounding yourself in the sound of her breathing.

In. Out. Steady.

Slowly—painfully slowly—your pulse began to even out.

Lucille didn’t ask.

She just nodded. Then she stood.

“Come on.” She offered her hand. “I’ll make you some tea.”

And just like that, the world came back.

It didn’t make the weight in your chest disappear.

It didn’t change anything.

But for now—just for a moment—it was enough.

@whiskeypowder @hopefulatrocity @witheringblooddemon @humanmistakes @yttricuz @twdeadlysins @donttelltheelff @spidergirla5 @sexyseabass @sweetpotatospock @witchygagirl @tuttifuckinfruttifriday @theoraekenslover @thatlebronchick @acezeyez @timeladyrikaofgallifrey @splaterparty0-0 @the-dixon-effect

[peachyafterhours]

Operation Chow Down

Logan | Worst Wolverine (Deadpool Movies)/Wade Wilson

Tags- alternate universe, genderbent (I hate those words cause to me they aren't like,, girls, they're just poolverine and also lesbians... But I digress), ns/fw, eating out, they both use she/her

Summary- literally just Wade riding Logan's face and Logan being in love with her lmao

Logan had been a soldier for almost her entire life. 200 years of taking orders and executing them with the best of her abilities. Training, day in and day out to be the best of the best. Completing missions and tasks with ease. And yet there was one task she had never been more dedicated to...

She focused on the task at hand. Licking slowly up and down Wilson's folds. Holding on to her textured, taught thighs as Wade rode her face within an inch of her life. Nothing on but a pair of mismatched hello kitty socks. Meanwhile Logan still had on her white tank top and ratty old blue jeans she got from Walmart 30 years ago.

They were in their own bed, in their own apartment. Thank. God. Logan couldn't imagine fucking on that creaky old pull out couch at Al's place anymore. She was grateful for the bed even as Wade ran her fucking mouth, as if Logan didn't have her tongue in her hole as deep as it could go and her clit grinding on Logan's arched nose.

"Fuck Logi bear, you were- fucking made for this weren't you... Ah shit-" Wade's hips stuttered as Logan moaned and licked up her folds. "My beautiful sweet pookie shnookie- Ah fucking fuck!" Never in Logan's life had she been this turned on by praise or pet names or any of that bullshit. Not just the dirty talk but someone telling her that she belonged. That she mattered. That she was loved... And God did she love Wade; just as Wade loved her.

Of course she didn't say this. There would be time for that later. She just kept focusing on giving Wade the best damn orgasm of her life. Logan could tell she was getting close by the way she shook, her legs tiring from holding up her body weight while simultaneously being pleasured by Logan's mouth.

She slowly brought her tongue out of her pussy, shivering as they both let out deep moans. Logan looked up to Wade's face, and God if she doesn't get more beautiful every time the older woman sees her. The cancer and experiment had taken away her hair and lashes, unlike Logan who was covered head to toe in thick brown hair from her cropped locs to her armpits and chest. The differences between them made her love the merc even more, especially in moments like these... Chest to heaving chest and skin to skin.

Wilson's big brown eyes were now boring into her whispering, "Logan... Please-" but before she could finish Logan was on her clit in a millisecond. Licking and sucking, going as fast as she could.

"Fucking hell- shit! Lo- AH FUCK-" she trailed off into a series of high-pitched moans as Logan licked her through her orgasm, groaning at the extra wetness she felt coating her lips and tongue. As Wade came down from the high (and her face) Logan helped her lay on mattress, guiding her head towards the pillow.

"You okay, princess?" Logan asked, worried that she had done too much.

"Okay?! I'm fucking fantastic. Don't worry your pretty little dommy mommy head about it."

Logan just rolled her eyes as she got into position to be cuddled. She always preferred being little spoon. Though she would never say that out loud, both she and Wade knew this to be true.

After a few minutes of shuffling, Wade slung and arm and leg around her from behind. As Logan started to drift to sleep with nothing but sounds of quiet mingled breaths, she heard her partner whisper.

"I love you..."

She smiled softly.

"I love you too."

[disaster-j]

You wanna "reach across the divide" that you created maybe first acknowledge your own people's violently homophobic actions and the constant harassment me and my friends have been through

I don't need your excuses for why an actor doing xyz made it okay for y'all to attack the queer men in this fandom for liking a gay man on TV or send me and my friends hate or attack people just minding their own business by accusing them of faking cancer or bombarding our tags and inboxes with surprise CSA material

You wanna reach across show your face and own up to your own bullshit first before calling strangers and celebs out

[klausinamarink]

Easy Promises

rating: T | cw: cancer, mentioned child abuse | tags: pre-relationship, Steve has good parents, childhood friends, reunion, Theodore is Eddie’s full name agenda | wc: 956

written for @steddieholidaydrabbles | Dec 14: Angst with happy ending

When Steve was eleven, he was told that he was going to die. Naturally, he burst into tears. His mother immediately pulled him to her chest, shushing him gently while his father yelled at their doctor.

“He’s just a child!”

“It’s important for your son to know that leukemia isn’t possible to survive-”

“Bullshit!”

Steve cried harder in his mother’s arms, even after they left the office.

Back home, his mother knelt down, looked Steve in the eye, and said, “You are going to live, baby. You are still going to grow up to be a smart, healthy man. You will fight that cancer and live.”

It was easy to make a promise. It was harder to follow through it.

After the urgent move to Indianapolis, Steve’s days fell into a blur of check-ups, medicine, throwing up, and exhaustion. He spent more days at the hospital than at his new school. He wasn’t sure which place was worse. The clinical words and smells with thin blankets and more sick children like him or the classrooms where apologetic teachers gave him too many lavish gifts while the other kids avoided him.

But there was one boy who declared himself as Steve’s buddy. Steve thought he would hate Theodore Munson, but he didn’t. Theodore (“Just Teddy! My full name makes me feel like I’m Roosevelt.”) never stared at Steve or asked about his leukemia or poked at his thin arms. Instead, Teddy always asked how his day went and listened to every word, even if it was a foggy repetition of hospital visits. If Steve said he was tired, Teddy never announced it to their teachers and just silently offered some cookies or juice under their desks. During recess and lunch, Teddy sat next to him and spoke excitedly about the new comics or movies Steve never had the chance to check himself.

It was always nice listening to Teddy talk. Way better than a doctor reading his statistics aloud like it was an eulogy.

When the chemotherapy inevitably snuck into his schedule, Steve cried and begged everyone to keep his hair. He was already The Kid With Cancer. He didn’t want his hair shaved off.

Nobody listened to him.

A couple days later, Steve wore a Reds cap. He refused to wear the knitted wool hat his Nana had made for him like he was five again. That would just push his classmates into bullying him for real.

He came to school late, not wanting to join the student crowd. He stopped when he saw Teddy sitting on the steps, his shaven head in his arms.

For a second, Steve thought that Teddy somehow knew and wanted to shave his hair in solidarity. And then Teddy looked up and he saw a nasty black eye. They stared at each other for a long time until both of their eyes welled up in tears.

“Your hair’s gone.” Teddy said wetly after they ran into each other for a hug.

“So ‘s yours.” Steve sniffs, daring himself to pat the buzzed scalp.

“My dad got mad last night.”

Teddy told him about his dad enough that his muffled words made Steve tighten his grip. “At least you’re not dying.”

Teddy barked out a wet laugh, “Just don’t leave me first.”

It was an easy promise to accept. Except it was already broken when Teddy never showed at school the next day. And then Steve was alone again.

—

I’m in remission. I still have a future. I’m going to live. Steve repeated that mantra to himself in his car, staring from afar at the ominous entrance of Hawkins High.

It had been a good year and a half since the doctors finally gave the good news. Steve was always a crier, but he’d only stared up at the ceiling in silent disbelief while his parents wept joyfully. The news never really hit him until two months later, when he touched an inch of new hair in the bathroom, and then sobbed and thanked God for letting him live.

Even if that little what if it comes back lingered in the back of his mind.

Now, he was thrown back to Hawkins, which included starting his sophomore year in person.

But old habits still stayed. Steve kept seated in his car and watched the other students walk inside while they laughed with healthy smiles. Even after the bell rang, he stayed. After a good five minutes, Steve’s courage returned and he stepped out.

He only took three steps when a van suddenly appeared, scaring the shit out of him with a blaring honk. Steve jumped back and flipped the driver off. “Watch it, asshole!” He stomped away, his mood broken further by the van’s door opening. Great, now he’s gonna be in a shouting match in front of the school-

“Steve?”

He froze. Turned around slowly.

Teddy, all dressed in some dark clothes with long hair. Teddy, who stared back at him with wide eyes. Teddy, Teddy, Teddy-

Steve wasn’t sure who ran towards the other first, but it was Steve who hugged the tightest and cried first.

“Holy shit,” Teddy laughed wetly in his ear, “Your hair-” He leaned away so his hands were placed on both sides of Steve’s head. They felt warm and oddly right. “You look so much healthier…”

Steve just smiled, a little blush in his cheeks as he said, “I got better.” He watched as the realization dropped on Teddy in real time. Then he was pulled into a more tighter and fiercer hug, already feeling a wet patch on his shoulder.

There were definitely lots of things they needed to catch up on. But Steve’s more contempt in sharing his warmth with his friend.

[definitelynotaminion]

Rated "R" - Part 4

First 7k here (my blog) or on ao3 here | Skip ahead to the end of my WIP doc/see all updates on patreon (full 11k doc) | The tag i'm using for this fic on tumblr (chronological order)

-

His breath picks up, exactly like a little bird trying to keep his respiration even without the cheat of tactical breathing patterns. Giving Jason his-- fuck, his honesty here, not trying to hide behind the training!

“God, I was a little asshole.” Jason says fondly. “Leaning over you, nudging you, teasing just to get a reaction.”

“It was terrfying.” Tim says, lips pursed but audibly fighting a smile. “I was worried you’d find out that I knew. Or that I was so far from home.”

“Instead you showed me a shit picture of the sky—you totally took that right before I landed on the balcony, you little shit—and stuttered through your planned lies and let me talk you into sneaking out to the corner ice cream shop.”

It’s fuzzy around the edges, just another night as Robin before the end, but Jason remembers how easy it was to coax startled laughter and wide-eyes out of the boy, how impressed he’d been when Tim shimmied down the fire escape so easily for his ‘first time’.

“It was the best of night of my life.” Tim says quietly. Not quite wistful, but something… a treasure, here, pressed into Jason’s hands.

Jason had swung the young boy back to the landing, felt his shock and joy even as he was so quiet, not whooping or screaming—Jason wasn’t suppsoed to use the grapple with civilians outside of emergencies, but aside from the stuttering and awe he hadn’t managed to get strong reactions out of Tim.

He'd wanted to.

“I’d have recognized you.” Jason announces. His head thumps back on the pillow. “At the next gala.”

A sharp inhale.

“You… that was only two weeks before Garzonas.”

“And three weeks before I fucking bit it, I gotcha.” Jason blows out air heavily. “I don’t remember the dates, but that was April. Earth Day had already happened, so…The next one would have been, what, the Belmonts’ charity ball?”

Tim disagrees with a little noise of dissent.

“Sophia Starr held a big event in May to raise money for cancer research.” He reminds. “Her aunt died from brain cancer the year before.”

“Better that than fundraising for shitty outreach programs that ended up embezzled, or tax write offs, or fucking—early movie showings.” Jason had almost forgotten the contempt in his heart for all the different reasons Gotham’s elite got together to spend their hoardes of money.

“Mm.” Tim quietly agrees. “You weren’t there.”

Jason squeezes his eyes closed, thinking about where he was instead—and what he would have given up to be there, once the trap sprung. 

Shit. He needs a distraction. Galas and balls, little birds dancing around each other.

“If I had been?” Jason tips his chin up, eyes still closed. “What was your plan, hmm? I’d have recognized you.”

A shaky inhale as his reward. Jason grins again.

“Do you think you’d have come, even if your parents weren’t in town? Tim Drake, almost old enough to be chauferred there, to apologize with a smile for his parents’ absense. Schmooze a little on their behalf.”

“I first did that to get close to… well.” Tim lets the words trail off, lets Jason pick up what had really been going on at the time. “It was closer to the end of summer by the time I realized someone had to step in.”

“Let’s not go there,” Jason decides, letting his eyes open, see the lines in the ceiling. “We’re painting a different picture, here, Tim. C’mon.”

“Yeah?” Something soft in that tone, almost breathless. Jason gets more comfortable.

“Mm.” Jason prompts. “The mysterious boy at the gala. I’m… on edge. Fed up with Bruce’s bullshit. I’d latch onto that kind of distraction.”

“Latch onto… me.” Tim blinks hard.

“You were a mystery, baby bird. I was a detective.” Jason clicks his tongue. “Besides, those parties were miserable. You would have been fun.”

[choco-cherry-chunk]

It is time!

Modern BBC Ghosts AU a la Cherry (i.e., with mpreg bullshit) - Part 6 (Final Part)

Part 6

“I beg your pardon?”

James had pondered an endless series of possibilities related to how he’d been feeling of late. After his minor heart issue, one would think he’d be more vigilant about his health. But denial could be addictive and it was only when Anthony had ordered him to visit a physician that he actually began to reflect. He wasn’t one for frantic symptom-googling, but he did wonder. His father had passed from stomach cancer; could it run in the family? What if he had some strange parasite from consuming the products of Mary and Annie’s gardening, a remnant of God knew what method of compost? Maybe it was just stress, as he’s been insisting to his husband it was, and he was just reaching a point in his life where he couldn’t operate as the well-oiled machine he so frequently saw himself as? Every option was equally anxiety-inducing.

He’d insisted to Havers that he could handle the appointment on his own. After all, it was one of the few days off the man had, and James didn’t want him to spend it in a doctor’s office. He had only agreed when James insisted he needed to carry out a few errands for his most immediate bridal clients, and that it would be easier to complete said tasks on his own. As he departed that morning, Havers held him at the door and pressed a kiss to his lips. When he pulled back, James’ gaze remained on the scar tissue about his left eye, the lightning bolt remains of shrapnel that nearly took him away. He did love those marks, those signals of his Major’s survival.

“Keep me informed. Call if you need me.”

Good Lord, did he need him now. James’ mind had chugged along all day, all the while he was confirming appropriate bouquet designs with his florist, visiting a barn venue to check on lighting repair progress, driving through traffic, sitting in a waiting room, completing endless forms, having his blood drawn, getting poked and prodded by someone who seemed barely old enough to attend university – let alone have graduated—

But now… now, his mind was at a screeching halt, the machine that ran his life hitting the brakes so hard that the wheels were off the track, flying over itself, hitting the ground hard enough to set the coal alight. Because what the devil did she mean—

“You’re pregnant. Congratulations!” She – her tag read Dr. Judy Egan, which seemed a name far older than she was – repeated the news with the same tone of delight, as if she’d given James a present she wanted him to open. “Now, we can see about getting a more concrete idea of how far along you are, if you can provide us with some more information.”

It felt as though he was hearing everything from underwater, and James had to resist the urge to go at his ears. He answered his questions as best he could, desperate to get his mind back on track. No, he did not have any children, nor had he been pregnant before. He’d been hospitalized the decade before for a minor heart attack, and was taking medication as a result. Yes, he did smoke – mainly pipe tobacco – and was inclined to the occasional glass of bourbon at the end of the day. No, there was nothing in his familial history to look for in this context. As for the other side of the family—

The other side. Because there was another side, another person to consider in all this. The gears of his brain began to spin faster and faster, kicking up dirt and rocks while still so off track. Havers. He had to tell Havers. This wasn’t just some intensive, enormous corkscrew in James’ life, but one that would impact—

He didn’t remember leaving the office. One moment, he was uncomfortably aware of the tissue paper beneath him crinkling and folding in a terribly distracting way. The next, he was sitting in his and Havers’ car, white-knuckling the steering wheel and refusing to look at the mess of papers dropped in the passenger seat. Scripts for vitamins, reminders of appointments, documents to be completed with his husbands, regardless of desired outcome.

He and Havers had never actually discussed children. It was never something that came up. Perhaps it was a result of their upbringings, the belief that men such as themselves were never to become fathers being what pushed them from considering such a possibility. Maybe it was their own experiences in the Service, the memories of what they’d learned and seen that kept them from wanting to raise something innocent in a world that allowed such atrocities. Or were those just James’ reasons? Yes, Havers never broached the subject with him, but what if that was just another example of the man’s kindness? In their early years, Anthony never forced him to come out, to outright admit to his feelings. Even when James had been ready to force himself to do so, Anthony had been kind enough to assure him it wasn’t necessary, to kiss away the panic trembling his lips, to so gently guide him through the ways he could physically show his love where words were difficult. And that had essentially been their way for years. Their love defined in paperwork, private intimacy, disguised efforts. Love was rarely stated outright, but always always implied.

“I will miss you, Havers.”

“Now, you know I’m more inclined to the likes of Cole Porter, but I did manage to find tickets to Carmen for July. I know you have been looking for a chance to see it performed live.”

“Do let me know when you’ve arrived. I worry when you aren’t here.”

“I still don’t understand how you could prefer Patrick’s methods to mine. If you must have your tea such a way, I will make it, but don’t hesitate to ask how to properly brew a pot when you’ve learned the error of your ways.”

“Anthony, I’m not sure what I would do without you.”

But what if that wasn’t enough? What if, after all these years, Havers had wanted things different, had only allowed things to be as they were, let things pass by undiscussed because that was the way James was? What if this… this thing was what drove the final nail into the proverbial coffin of their marriage—

The sound that drew him from his thoughts was somewhere between a crunch and a shatter. Scrambling to park, James got out and moved to the front of the car, sighing over what he found. One of Fanny’s massive flower pots was shattered beneath part of his bumper. He really had been too preoccupied; it was a miracle he’d made it back to Button House in one piece. Or was it considered two pieces?

He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. Instead, he carefully collected what he could and hid the evidence behind the rose bushes. He could toss the evidence away when it was dark and he had proper gardening equipment. Once the task was complete, James’ eyes scanned the front of the house, confirming that no one had been a witness to his act. Eventually, his gaze remained on the familiar blue curtains, ones Havers had purchased when they moved in, feeling it appropriate to have something more easy to open and close above their kitchen sink. The fabric didn’t even twitch.

Button House was dead quiet when James entered. No arguments between Julian and Fanny in the library, no singing from Kitty’s flat, no sounds of Mary or Annie’s cooking progress in the kitchen. James stilled in the entrance, listening hard for any indication of other tenants. Nothing. He should have expected as much; it was the middle of the week and early afternoon. Then again, perhaps some part of him was seeking such a distraction. A reason to not go home and face this inevitability. His stomach sank all the more. When had he ever not wanted to return to his home?

Each door that led into each flat did much to hint towards who could be found behind it. Alison and Mike’s often featured some kind of seasonal décor, and items they (or Mia) had dropped usually dotted their path. Pat had hung a decorative “Gone Campin’” sign he’d procured from a charity shop, and the wall showed evidence of different hiking trips, if the dirt stains were anything to go by. The apartment shared by James and Anthony was spic and span, down to the freshly repainted wood grain and straightened entrance mat that read a simple “welcome” – no novelty décor, thank you very much. However, James hated how unwelcome he felt in that moment.

Their flat was just as it had been when he left hours ago, when nothing had been different. Evidence of their previous evening was gone. Havers had insisted they settle in for a quiet night, lounging on their sofa and watching The Pirates of Penzance (James should have known Anthony was worried by his willingness to watch that again). The throw blankets were folded away, the coffee table clear. The room smelled of freshly washed linen and in the kitchen, quiet music and water running could be heard.

Steps needed to be followed. If one thing could be kept steady, it was routine. James willed himself to follow it. Remove shoes, place on rack. Place wallet on side table, hang keys on key hook, hang jacket on coat rack. Take step, take step, don’t narrate each individual step in your mind—

Anthony didn’t immediately turn around when James entered. Not that the man minded. Perhaps it was the romantic in him, but James did like looking over his husband at all angles. The slender slope from his neck to his shoulders. The toned nature of his arms. The spot where his hair was just starting to thin – not that he would ever tell him, mind. Just that he liked to brush his thumb over it when they—

“You’d better hope Fanny doesn’t see what you’ve done to her geraniums.”

James instinctively stiffened when Havers turned, pausing to dry his hands on a tea towel. The water was off and the music continued to drift from his phone. That soft, easy smile Anthony was so often inclined to was already in place when he looked to James, but it quickly dropped away when he noted his appearance. “What did Dr. Boone say?”

Always so to the point. Yet another thing James loved about Havers. “He wasn’t in.” Perhaps that had been one triumph of the day. His usual physician had been out on holiday, so he didn’t have to be given this news by the man who was still inclined to calling Havers his “companion” whenever the subject arose. “I was met with Dr. Egan. Girl seemed barely older than your niece.” He stepped further into the kitchen, hands raised in an effort to force the tension from his body.

Anthony moved closer, accepting the invitation and resting his hands on James’ upper arms. “I hope you were patient with her.”

“I’m always patient.”

No comment was made, but both of them knew what it would have been if it was. After a brief squeeze, Havers moved toward the oven and turned a dial. “I assume you haven’t eaten. I’ve kept a plate warm for you.”

“Anthony—”

“I know your stomach’s been upset, but you need to try. Tell me everything the doctor said, but I doubt fasting was brought up.” Slipping on some oven mitts, he carefully removed a tray housing two plates from the oven and rested them on the stove. “It’s nothing heavy, just chicken, rice, and carrots. I didn’t even spice anything.”

James opened his mouth, prepared to insist that it wasn’t necessary, that perhaps they wait to talk about his visit until he wasn’t sure when, only for the scent of the chicken to cross the kitchen and very well sock him in the stomach. Gagging, he walked hurriedly down the hall to their bedroom and managed to fall in front of their toilet before he heaved. The strain on his stomach was only matched by the shock of pain in his knee where he hit the tile, though the shame of getting sick so abruptly was a close second. Good Lord, wasn’t the point of having a child to be to ensure it got enough nutrients while it was inside the body!?

Havers’ hand came to rest between his shoulders, James didn’t have it in him to resist his touch, to tell him to leave as he had in the past. He hated being in such a state, let alone being seen in it. Only when he felt his stomach had been truly emptied did he pull away, sitting back against the bath to catch his breath. Silently, Anthony flushed the toilet, still poised across from him. He didn’t speak, but his eyes… James knew he wasn’t simply pleaded, wishing to know the truth. He was worried, scared. He feared what was happening and James was the reason he was frightened. He’d done this to him before and now he was repeating that affair.

“Dr. Egan seems convinced that…” James swallowed, pressing his fingers to his temple as he struggled to explain, “That it’s not a disease. Or virus.”

“So she knows what it isn’t,” Havers offered cautiously, “Does she know what it is?”

“A… a baby, apparently.”

The bathroom was silent, save for the distant creaking of pipes that was commonly heard in the space. James slowly let his hand drop to his mouth, resting over his mustache and lips, afraid he would once more be sick just from saying the words. He felt something touch his knee and looked up. Anthony had moved closer, one hand holding his knee – mindfully his uninjured one – the other reaching to him.

“Oh, James…”

The pair embraced one another. James tucked his face to Havers’ neck and inhaled deeply; he was shocked that his aftershave didn’t turn his stomach, when so little was needed to set him off. Perhaps It knew something he didn’t… When they pulled apart, both were thankful not to see any wetness in each other’s eyes.

“How do you feel?”

“Still a bit nauseous, if—”

A hint of a chuckle escaped Anthony and he shook his head. “Not physically. How do you feel about being pregnant?”

There was that beloved pragmatism again. James sighed, sliding from his hold but still making a point to ensure their hands were intertwined.

“I don’t know.” He wanted an answer, wanted more than anything to have a solid inclination of what he did or didn’t want. But so much of his view of this was tied to Anthony. Before, it had been the military. If he’d been given this news when he was enlisted, he knew exactly what he’d have felt. But now, he couldn’t see himself moving toward any outcome if he was to do so alone.

“Alright. I don’t imagine you must make a choice right away,” He assured, eyes falling to James’ torso – was there something there to see already? “We can consider how things would—”

“How do you feel?”

He knew Anthony disliked being interrupted, but James couldn’t help himself. He had to know. Such decisions typically fell to the pregnant individual’s shoulders, he was aware, but he wasn’t inclined to have the final say without his husband’s input. “I want to know what you think.”

“Well, it’s—”

“I know it would be my choice, one way or the other. But I don’t believe we’ve so much as changed the oil in the car without a discussion.” James swallowed, trying not to grimace at the acid in his throat, “And you know I tend to value your opinion above anyone’s, perhaps even my own.”

“James—”

“And I won’t have you trying to tell me it’s all up to me. Because I’m not a father and have never seen myself as one, but I am certain I could be if you were too. But this is not something I would ever seek on my own and if you were against it—”

Lips silenced him. James instinctively closed his mouth, not wishing for Havers to smell the bile. When he pulled away, Anthony lifted a hand to James’ face, brushing his thumb along his cheek.

“I believe you would be a wonderful father.”

He was not even allowed an opportunity to argue.

“You’re passionate. Protective. You care so deeply and never want people to be unhappy. Yes, you’re stern and authoritative, often in times you shouldn’t be, but you’ve come far in your patience. I see how you are with Mia and no matter how you spin it, you’re essentially a father to Kitty. I don’t want any of your concerns about this to be tied to your abilities. Because you are more than qualified, darling.”

James pursed his lips, efforts to maintain a “stiff upper lip” beginning to crack. “I’m sure you’re aware that you are too.” Because if anyone was, it was Havers. Attentive, loving, kind. He did so much to reel James in, keep him from alienating others with his intensity while also never making him feel ashamed. He was so accommodating, cool in the face of uncertainty where James would so often fluster about. He was the kind of person who smiled at the children who stared at his scars, who happily baby-talked to Mia, who listened to endless stories from Alison or Mike about their child’s ability to stand-but-not-really. Was it so wrong to believe that the main reason James had the ability to be a father was because Havers was who he was?

“I am.” Anthony’s smile widened a touch. He wasn’t going to pretend he didn’t know what he was capable of.

“So we’re not concerned with qualifications.”

“No.”

James stared at his knee, where their hands were still interlocked. He could feel Havers’ gold band, pressed against his finger. They’d both been inclined to wear their rings on their left hands, ever sticklers for whatever they deemed traditional. He remembered proposing to the man, how scared he’d been even after more than a decade. They were both out of the service, both preparing to enter the civilian life they’d been apart from for years. Anthony had secured employment out in the country, doing the books for a history of war museum and archive. James… had no plan. He’d been taking orders for so long that facing a future in which he was not constantly at attention seemed inconceivable. But moving into a world he was unfamiliar with didn’t frighten James so much as the possibility of doing so without Anthony by his side. He wasn’t stupid enough to believe what they’d had was just some torrid fling, but some part of him knew steps needed to be taken, commitments made. So James showed up unannounced one evening at Havers’ door, ring box in hand, and with the same words on his lips that he found himself thinking on their bathroom floor:

“I want this life with you.”

Havers’ smile grew wider still, the act contagious as James allowed his own, hesitant grin. Laughter bubbled up between them, the sound seeming to echo in the enclosed room, and before either could consider the schematics, they were holding one another close as they kissed. Relief, joy, panic, excitement, worry, love – so, so, so much love, all of it threatened to flood their flat before they pulled apart and Anthony took James’ hands properly to help him up.

“You need to see about brushing your teeth. I’ll make you something else, but you’re definitely going to eat something. And you’re going to tell me how the appointment went.” Once they were both upright and Havers had squeezed James’ hands once more, he stepped out to let his husband ready himself.

Smiling after him, James absently let his hands drop, one to his side and the other just over his middle. A plan of action. He could certainly handle that.