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saturnine-saturneight · 3 months ago

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Teeth

Dear Mr. Caradoc,

this is me emailing you so you have this in writing, just like you asked me to. I'm nervous to leave a paper trail, for obvious reasons, but I also trust that you aren't going to use this against me. On the other hand, I am grimly excited. Like this, nobody will be able to say that I didn't ask for help before it was too late, least of all you.

Which brings me to my point: please, for the love of God, help me. I've tried everything by now, dentists, doctors, family, friends, nobody can help me. They are all itching to send me to a therapist, or better yet a closed institution, and as fast as possible too. But I am telling you right now, if you call the police on me for a wellness check and I am locked away, my blood is on your hands.

With that out of the way: Here is what you didn't want to hear from me the other day at the coffee machine, properly and in writing.

It all started early one morning. I usually wake up around five these days, but I remember it being even earlier that day, I think around 3am or 4am. Did you know that we feel pain stronger at night than during the day? I looked it up. It peaks exactly at 3am. But even without looking that up, I could've told you, because the pain I felt that morning was something I'm never going to forget.

Have you ever gotten a root canal, Mr. Caradoc?

I did, two years ago. It was my lower molar, the first on the right side. I can still see the filling, I think, when I pull my lips back—well, I could, anyways. My dentist did a pretty good job all around, not just with the actual procedure, but also in explaining to me how it works. When a tooth is infected or inflamed down to the pulp, the very inside underneath enamel and dentin, what they will do is, they will bore a hole in the respective decaying tooth, and then hollow it out completely, removing everything within it that's alive, and then fill it with something dead and inert, with rubber and cement. And although it is a dead man walking from then on, surrounding tissue is able to keep such a tooth alive, as my dentist told me, almost indefinitely. He did an excellent job hollowing me out, but it was a bad day to find out that I don't properly respond to the anesthetic he used.

It was that same pain that I felt again that morning, at 3 or 4 in the pain hour, and that was what I was looking for in the mirror as I was standing there in the dim grey light and pulling my mouth open with a finger. A sign that my root canal had to be redone.

But what I saw instead was, and I know how difficult this is to believe: a tiny, tiny dark door, hollow, maybe more of an archway, smaller than the pin of a needle, carved right into the enamel of my tooth.

The first thing I did was of course to call my mom up in a panic. She had to spend twenty minutes calming me down before I'd stopped crying for long enough to take a picture of it, and then when I did and sent it to her, I could immediately hear the pity in her voice. She told me that it was a very normal thing to have nightmares like this during pregnancy, and that she had gone through the exact same thing when she was pregnant with me. I have to admit that I got very angry at her for it. I know what a nightmare is, I am not a child. I was wide awake. People all around me have taken on this patronizing air towards me ever since I've started showing, as if carrying a baby somehow negates everything I have accomplished and everything I am, and has turned me into some fragile stupid thing.

I hung up on her. I'm not proud of it. We haven't been on the best of terms anyways, and I'm sure this didn't make it better.

Four hours later, I stood on my dentist's doormat, practically banging at the door to be let in. I was overjoyed when he opened my mouth to inspect the molar and immediately agreed to give me a filling, but it only struck me why he'd told me to take the day off as I was inspecting the molar in the rear view mirror of my car, and all he had done was to fill in the archway, leaving the intricate carvings around it alone. And they were intricate now: It was as if somebody was miming pillars around the hole in my tooth. I stormed back into his office in distress, and found myself set up with a blanket and some hot tea in the waiting room as one of the dentist's assistants patted my knee, instead of just filling the damn structure in.

I went home. What else was I supposed to do?

The next day, the pillars had been carved.

It went on like this. First there came windows, rows upon rows of them, with ledges and flourishes. Then, the next tooth showed a hole. Then the next. Archways started to grow steps to lead up to them. Windows became larger, more opulent. And the pain—I never saw the actual carving happen, not even once, but I felt it. I felt every single chip, every last line in them.

I saw dentist after dentist, convinced family to look into my mouth, friends, acquaintances, coworkers, even my boss, but there was always that same goddamned look of pity. The woman is going crazy, their faces seemed to scream, as they even stopped being able to see holes at all. But I am not crazy. This is not phantom pain. I know what is happening to me, and I need it to stop. I am being made a home for something, and I want it out.

My parents have asked me to move back in with them. I will be packing my bags next week, but I'm afraid that they aren't planning to help me with the pregnancy. If my suspicions are true, these bags will be on the floor of a mental hospital very soon.

I am asking you for your help because you have always been on my side, even back when I was fighting for accommodations for my morning sickness. I don't know who else is left to ask. I also don't know what I expect you to do about this anymore, but I need it to be something.

My jaw has started hurting.

Please.

Yours,

Kalinka Czajkowska

If you liked this, don't miss the continuation in the next chapter of Particle Decay! Ms. Czajkowska isn't going down without a fight.

Particle Decay taglist:

@gioiaalbanoart @noblebs @wyked-ao3

@cowboybrunch @writingrosesonneptune @marlowethelibrarian @cometkov

#warnings for: forced institutionalisation / dentists / tooth horror / body horror #heres my spooktober story :)#project: particle decay

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eshtaresht · 3 months ago

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soooooo @coffee-without-anesthetics what are we feelin towards RS Puppis?? apart from insatiable lust

#why haven't i seen this picture earlieeeeeerrrrrr

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the-queen-and-the-king · 26 days ago

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A little piece of paradise - 3

Summary: Aaron and Emily has fallen asleep together after a very hot night. Now, the sun has risen and it's time for Aaron to go back to work. What will the day after?

Characters: Aaron Hotchner and Emily Prentiss (and a little bit of Dave too. :D)

Contents: the story follows Minimal loss, so Emily is in bad shape. So mention of bruises and every consequences of Cyrus blows. Mention of rape also. Aaron feels guilty, so it's a bit angsty too. And there is also some smutty parts: masturbation, dirty talk, couch sex, protected sex. NSFW/Minors DNI

PS: I always had this hc that Aaron comes from a jewish family (but he's not a believer himself), it'll be mention in this text only.

This text will be an AU with a sudden canon-divergence. I wrote it when I was rewatching the show, so many chapters will be directly related to some episodes of season 4. There will be 28 chapters.

PS : English is not my mother language so they are necessarily mistakes. Sorry about that.

___

Read on AO3 / lire sur AO3

___

The next morning, the couple slept peacefully, Emily in Aaron's arms. They'd made love again after eating and then fallen asleep like lumps, anesthetized by the flood of endorphins coursing through their veins. Enveloped in each other's warmth, the lovers slumbered in a gentle torpor, forgetting that the rest of the world still existed.

“Aaron.”

His companion's voice reached his eardrums with difficulty. He felt she was incredibly far away when he felt her body coiled against his. The scent of her hair and skin gradually rose to his nostrils, and the heavy weight of her breast in the palm of his hand became more and more present as he awoke from his unconsciousness.

“Aaron, wake up.”

He had to summon all his strength to open his eyelids with one eye. He didn't want to leave this tender dream with the woman he loved. But he smiled as soon as her face appeared in his field of vision. She smiled at him too, with a hint of embarrassment he belatedly identified.

“Hello,” he greeted her in a pasty voice.

“It's going to be nine o'clock,” she replied with a straight face.

Spurred on by what she had just told him, he rose abruptly in bed, shouting:

“What?”

He looked at his watch without waiting for her answer and saw that she was telling the truth. He swore, pushed back the blanket, and leapt from the mattress, his brain racing with a cloud of incoherent thoughts. The list of everything he should have done when he woke up was upside down. He grabbed a jacket, shirt, pants, and tie without really looking, then headed for the door. He retraced his steps to retrieve socks, boxer shorts and a white T-shirt, and headed back towards the exit. With his hand on the doorknob, he realized that someone had been watching him all along and walked back to kiss Emily.

“Slam the door on your way out, that'll be enough,” he said as he walked away.

“Have a nice day.”

“You too.”

He left the bedroom and hurried into the bathroom. He did a bit of grooming, gave up shaving, got dressed, realizing that the tie didn't go with the rest, found his shoes in the hallway, jumped in, and gathered everything he needed to get to Quantico. He didn't have time for breakfast, so he'd have his coffee up there. Once behind the wheel, he noted that his hair was a mess and tried to arrange it as best he could so as not to give his team too many clues as to the content of his evening. They'd have lots of questions about his lateness, so it was best to avoid giving them any more evidence that he'd had a restless night.

Since he'd been director of the BAU, this was the first time he'd been late. Even as a couple with Haley, he had never failed to set his alarm clock as he had done the day before. It also had to be said that it had totally slipped his mind. During their entire dinner, he'd thought of only one thing: sleeping with her again. And given how enthusiastically she'd followed him into the bedroom afterwards, it had been obvious that she too had been overcome by this desire to merge with him. And so they united together, gently, unhurriedly, savoring every inch of each other's bodies. He didn't know whether his long abstinence had played a part in his appreciation of the moment, but all the sensations that had passed through him had been far stronger than anything he'd ever felt before. The orgasm that had gripped him at the end of this torrid ballet had made him lose all notion of time and space for several seconds. Thinking about it made him want to do it all over again.

He tried to banish all memories of the last twenty-four hours from his mind as he pulled into the parking lot of the FBI training center. Then he passed through the security gates, ignoring the puzzled gaze of the doorman – who was surely surprised to see him pass so late – and headed for the elevators. The climb up to the sixth floor seemed to take forever, and at every stop he feared he'd run into someone who knew him, or worse, Strauss herself. The section chief may not have been a profiler, but she could sniff out dirty tricks a mile away, and if she saw him arriving at this hour, no doubt she'd give him a hard time.

That said, the members of the BAU would surely not be outdone either, their gossip antennae always erect in search of a new scoop. And taking into account how little they knew about his private life; they were doubly curious whenever they spotted an anomaly in his behavior. And given the way they looked at him as he crossed the bullpen and greeted them, he wasn't surprised to see Dave barge into his office when he'd only just put his butt in his chair. His computer wasn't on yet. His mentor had a sneer at the corner of his lips that displeased him greatly.

“Wake-up call?” he asked with a raised eyebrow that spoke volumes.

“Once every ten years, am I allowed?” he grumbled, entering his session password.

“I didn't know that had ever happened to you.”

Aaron rolled his eyes and sighed, annoyed. He had a feeling it was going to be a long day, and that his men would spend the next eight hours questioning the reasons for this change in protocol.

“I fell asleep like a log and forgot to set the alarm clock.”

“Really?”

“Why else would I be late?”

Afterall, that was the truth. Sort of. He was only passing over in silence why all this had happened.

“Judith told us that Emily came by last night to go to your office,” Rossi revealed, his smile widening.

He was as happy as a clam to plant that banderilla in his back, the unit manager mused, refraining from glaring at him. The agent in question was the agency's management controller, and her favorite sport was collecting and peddling all the building's gossip. There's no doubt that if this had been an Olympic discipline, she would have won the gold medal hands down. He'd already tried several times to get her to work for the Secret Service, but for some reason they'd always turned him down. In his opinion, they were missing a nugget: her ability to gather the most intimate information about her colleagues was beyond comprehension. She'd been out of place when he and Emily had left Quantico the day before, but she'd obviously still been there when the profiler had walked into his den.

“… Yes, it's true,” he confirmed, unable to deny this detail. “She… she needed to talk about what had happened at the ranch. She left afterwards.”

“She’s not there today.”

“I told her to take a few days,” he said, controlling the tone of his voice. “She's been beaten up; she has the right to rest.”

The mocking expression on the face of the BAU co-founder instantly disappeared. He hadn't planned to remind him of the events of the previous few days – which had been difficult for everyone – but it gave him a respite. To regain control of the conversation, he continued:

“Did Strauss say something?”

“No, nothing at all,” Dave reassured him.

“Good. Anything else?”

“No, no.”

“Okay. Back to work then.”

The eldest member of the team nodded and left the office. The tenant waited another minute and then let out a long sigh. His muscles relaxed immediately. He didn't know how long this excuse would last, but he was going to have to use this interval to polish up his story and, above all, to do his job as well as possible. He had two hundred and thirty-eight e-mails in his inbox.

When noon struck – and Penelope pulled him away from his keyboard to go to the cafeteria – he hadn't processed a quarter of it. It also had to be said that he had trouble concentrating on what he was reading. The letters would blend, forming meaningless words, or they would refuse to register in his immediate memory, and, by the end of the sentence, he was unable to analyze its meaning. His mind was elsewhere. He had stayed in his apartment, where he had left his lover, and he kept recalling the details of their tête-à-tête. Memories flooded back in total disorder, alternating between fragments of conversation, that suspended moment in the car or snapshots of her body undulating beneath his. He was haunted by her dark eyes on him, by her fruity perfume titillating his olfactory cells, by her moist heat closing around his sex and by her voice chanting his name as she approached orgasm.

He realized it was time to leave when JJ knocked on his door to tell him she was going home. He wished her a pleasant evening, then looked at his computer screen. He still had one hundred and forty-five e-mails to process. He hesitated to open the next one, thinking to himself that his head wasn't in it at all. With his usual efficiency gone, he gave up the game and switched off his PC. He climbed back into his vehicle, his skull still stuffed with indecent thoughts. He glanced at his cell phone before starting off. There was no message from Emily. A realization that made his heart ache. He had hoped she would propose spending the night together again, but that didn't seem to be on the agenda. He dabbled with this suggestion himself, then remembered that she was injured and must need to rest more than ever. He pondered the idea of sending her a message to make sure she was all right, before deciding he'd do it when he got home, sitting quietly on his couch.

He took to the road and drove without really paying attention to his surroundings. Miraculously, he arrived not far from his apartment building without causing the slightest accident and parked in the residents' parking lot. He stopped by the mailboxes to pick up the day's and previous day's mail, discarded the advertisements in the garbage can provided, and walked up the corridor to his door, which was almost at the end. He turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open and was about to switch on the light when he realized it was already on. He also saw that someone was sitting on his sofa.

“Emily?”

“Surprise!” she exclaimed, raising her arms to the sky.

She was wearing the same clothes as the day before. Disoriented, he stammered:

“Wh…? You had the right to go out, you know?”

“Aren't you happy to see me?” she bounced, eyebrows furrowed.

“Yes. A lot. But… why?”

She smiled, stood up and joined him in a few strides before wrapping her arms around his neck to kiss him tenderly.

“That’s, why.”

A delighted smile stretched his lips, and he dropped what he had in his hand to the ground to seize her face and place his mouth on hers. Their tongues intertwined and she pressed herself against his body.

“You know what?” he continued when they stopped to breathe.

“What?”

“I thought about you.”

“When?”

“All day long.”

“Well, you know what?”

“What?”

“Me too.”

The same expression, a mixture of delight and amusement, lit up their faces and their lips met again for a spirited ballet. Slowly, his hands moved from her chin to her sides, thighs, and buttocks. For her part, Emily removed his jacket without him really noticing, and was now tugging at the flaps of his shirt to extract it from his pants. Pressed against this body he so desired, he began to get hard.

“Bedroom?” he questioned, his heart pounding against his ribs.

“Bedroom,” she nodded, her cheeks turning red.

Hand in hand, they hurried to the room they were interested in and, without closing the door behind them, finished undressing – or almost, since his companion kept her blouse on, as she had the day before. A detail that didn't detract from the erotic tension around them. The young woman lay across the bed and ostentatiously stroked herself under his eyes, legs spread. His penis harder than ever, he equipped himself with a condom and lay on top of her quickly.

He almost came as he felt Emily's intimate walls envelop him again, but gritted his teeth and concentrated on giving her as much pleasure as he had the day before. He began his back-and-forth, opening his eyes only to make sure he wasn't hurting her and to kiss her where he could. She arched her back under his onslaught, her breath coming in short gasps, her fingers gripping his shoulders. She whimpered, bit her lower lip, encouraged him, moaned again and, with an exhalation, confessed how good it felt. As on previous occasions, he followed her instructions as best he could, thinking of something other than the burning sensations that threatened to overwhelm him, and pushed with all the energy he was capable of.

She vibrated beneath him in a mute exclamation, and he surrendered. Flames shot up his back at breakneck speed and he felt himself go for a brief moment. He had the reflex not to fall on her, however, and collapsed beside her, out of breath. They quietly returned to their normal breathing rhythm, intermittently exchanging sparkling glances and satisfied smiles. Then he straightened up to get rid of his worn-out condom before leaning on his elbow to turn towards her. His lover was even more beautiful than he remembered.

He was, however, curious about the last part of her anatomy, which he didn't know. So, he began to unbutton her blouse. He was immediately stopped by Emily's hands.

“No, don’t do that.”

“Just a glance?”

“No. It… it's really not a pretty sight.”

He deduced that she must have noticed the extent of the damage earlier in the day and that her bruises had probably spread. He could already see those on her thighs, which were a dark purple, almost black. Cyrus didn’t pull any punches.

“Can I touch it?” he offered instead.

“Yes.”

Very gently, he ran his fingers under the fabric. He perceived the indentation of her navel, the fine down of her skin, the relief of her ribcage and realized that she wasn't wearing a bra. He gave her a questioning look, and she returned him a mischievous smile. With his fingertips, he caressed one of her breasts. She closed her eyes and let out a sigh of relief. He couldn't go much further without pulling up her blouse, so resigned himself to going back down the sides. Emily flinched at once.

“I'm sorry,” he apologized, taking his hand back.

“No, it's... it's a little more sensitive on the ribs,” she said, brushing his cheek.

She might have wanted him to go on, but this sudden jolt had taken him back several days earlier to that interminable torture session he'd had no choice but to listen to helplessly.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s nothing. It will pass,” she assured him, smiling.

Other memories resurfaced from the depths of his memory, assailing him with images he would rather not have experienced. A vise suddenly closed around his guts.

“No, I'm... I'm sorry for everything I put you through. It… it’s a tough job. It… it’s dangerous.”

“Hey, I volunteered, Aaron,” she retorted, sitting up in turn. “I'm the one who wanted to come to the BAU.”

“Yes, but… I wish I could protect you better.”

Emily hadn't been the only one to suffer since her arrival in the unit. All his agents, even Penelope who was far from the field, had had their share of painful moments. When they hadn't been tortured, they'd been close to death, had been wounded to the point of scarring, or had engraved in their memories scenes and words that would come back to haunt them at night. He'd never wanted any of this and was sorry to see another indelible mark being etched on them.

“We know. We noticed your mama bear side,” she pointed out, mockingly.

He raised his eyes to the sky, sighing. When JJ was pregnant, he discovered that his team called him "Mom" when his back was turned. Garcia had later tried to get him to understand that it didn't in any way call his manhood into question and that it was perfectly affectionate, but he still hadn't got used to it.

“Hey, it's okay,” she insisted, brushing his arm. “It’s a good thing. Not many bosses worry so much about their employees.”

She smiled, caressed his face, and asked him for a kiss. Anguish still wavered beneath his skin, but he conceded her this attention. He couldn't stop his brain from imagining what might have happened far from his sight, far from his ears, and an icy fear nauseated him.

“What?” she asked, worried in turn.

“He… he didn’t…?”

“What?”

He couldn't express what was on his mind. Yet he must have uttered the word countless times since leaving law school but felt that all that could come out of his mouth at this moment were the digested remains of his lunch.

“Say it,” Emily ordered, her hand still on his cheek.

She was right. He had to formulate his thoughts to get rid of them. She understood exactly what he meant, there was no doubt about it, but talking would exorcise his fear. However, it took him several breaths in a row to manage to gather all his strength and murmur:

“He didn't... rape you?”

“No,” she replied immediately, shaking her head. “He only hit me.”

An immense sense of relief seized him. He couldn't bear to hear that she'd been subjected to such a thing.

“Anyway, you've heard it all, haven't you?”

“He could have taken you to a place where we didn't have a microphone.”

“He didn't rape me,” she repeated, trying to fix her gaze in his. “Everything is fine. Do you really think I would have wanted to do what we did right after I was sexually abused?”

“Some people react by countering evil with evil,” he said, recalling his victim psychology classes. “To reassure themselves that it's not always like that.”

“Yes, but it’s not the case here.”

Despite her calm tone, he was unable to look up at her. He felt so guilty about what she'd been through that he feared he'd read anger in her dark irises.

“Aaron. Look at me.”

He obeyed with a few hesitations. He saw nothing but gentleness in those scrutinizing pupils.

“Kiss me.”

He complied again and pressed his lips to hers. They kissed for a few seconds, then she said again:

“I’m fine.”

No sooner had this assertion been uttered than a sonorous gurgle rose from Emily's belly. Surprised, Aaron looked in that direction and back at her, one eyebrow raised.

“Is it me or you’re hungry?”

She burst out laughing, a bit embarrassed. This impromptu reaction from her stomach at least had the merit of completely lightening the mood.

“I'd point out that there's not much in your cupboards.”

Not being very good behind the stove and never inviting anyone to his home, it was true that he limited his weekly purchases to the strict minimum, buying more household products than victuals. So, yes, there was nothing to nibble at home. And this made him realize that:

“Wh…? But why didn't you say so earlier?” he exclaimed as he sat down on the mattress, his muscles tense with the realization of what this implied. “You haven't eaten in twenty-four hours, and you don't say anything. You must be starving!”

“Aaron! Aaron, calm down,” she also sat down, grabbing his wrists so that he would pay attention to her words. “It hasn't even been twenty-four hours, first of all, and secondly, I wanted you first.”

She kissed him and his shoulders fell back. A rumble was heard again.

“But it's true that I'm hungry.”

“Let's order then.”

They kissed, dressed more or less decently and returned to the living room. He placed their dinner order while Emily picked up his keys and purse from the floor, placing the former on the dresser and the latter on the coffee table. He thanked her with a wink while waiting for someone to pick up on the other end of the line, and she settled back on the sofa. He came back to her after hanging up and a question suddenly popped into his head.

“What did you do all day?”

“I’ve been reading.”

He turned his attention to his bookcase, next to the front door, and noticed the thick books he had amassed during his studies, neatly lined up next to each other, and those, above, whose covers were as diverse as the topics covered in their pages. Then he looked back at Emily with a smirk.

“You read the books Spencer bought me?”

Her cheeks immediately flushed. These books, in fact, had been given to him by the youngest member of the team when he moved in. Unsure of what subject would interest him, he had picked a multitude of fields, all of them very interesting. The concern, however, was that:

“No, because they’re pretty tough. Even the preface has to be read with a dictionary,” he revealed, as he himself had not gone beyond the first chapter of the tome devoted to genetics.

Emily giggled, unmasked.

“Fine. I watched TV and slept.”

“Ah. That was what I was thinking,” he commented with an ear-to-ear grin.

“Call me stupid,” she grumbled, crossing her arms over her chest.

“Given the number of languages you can speak, I won't allow myself.”

He spoke only English, whereas she spoke at least five different languages, which for him was an intellectual feat he didn't feel capable of. In fact, no, he didn't think for a moment that she was less intelligent than he was. He simply knew that these books were too advanced for the vast majority of the population.

He smiled, sat down beside her and they kissed tenderly. The deliveryman arrived shortly afterwards, and they ate dinner while chatting about trivial matters. It had been ages since he'd spent an evening like this, conversing with someone he loved as much as they seemed to love him. They regularly renewed contact with each other, either by caressing or kissing. He appreciated the gentle warmth he felt throughout the meal. Dismayed by the brutal way his marriage had ended and hurt by Haley's actions and words, he'd lost all desire to get back together with anyone. He hadn't even paid attention to the signals his body had sent him about how he felt about Emily. Not until the last few weeks anyway, even if they'd only really understood them three days earlier. He now realized how much he had missed the closeness of a loved one.

As their desserts waited to be eaten, her neighbor placed her plate and cutlery on the coffee table and stepped over his thighs to sit on it. Then she kissed him, long and intensely. Aaron took the message and held her close to him. She'd only put her panties back on when he'd put on his T-shirt, shorts, and pants. He caressed her breasts through her blouse and felt her nipples rise under his fingers. She undulated against his pelvis, rubbing against his hardening member. His hands drifted down to her panties and reached under the lace to grasp her buttocks. She bit her lower lip, smiled, and grabbed the bottom of his T-shirt to pull it off. His companion's mouth then landed on different parts of his torso, electrifying the sensory cells in his skin. He was hard again.

“Emily,” he managed to say, his breath already coming in gasps.

“Hm?”

“Let’s go in the bedroom.”

“Why?” she responded, kissing his neck. “We can do it on the couch.”

“Yes. But the condoms are in the bedroom.”

He had no problem with getting laid anywhere but in bed, he just didn't want to put them in unnecessary danger. Emily straightened up and sighed before resting her forearms on his shoulders.

“You know what? We're going to go and get ourselves both tested to get rid of this.”

“But…”

He wasn't keen on becoming a father for the second time either. His partner grasped this on the spot.

“I take the pill, Aaron, and I'm very careful not to forget it. Believe me. No surprise pregnancy in sight.”

“O… okay,” he added, taken aback by her firm tone.

He hadn't expected her to be so eager on this point. In his opinion, men were so reluctant to protect themselves, leaving all contraception management to their spouses without worrying about the consequences, that he thought she would have appreciated his attention. But he was obviously wrong.

“What? Don't you want to feel everything for real and come inside me?”

His sex immediately straightened at this eventuality, straining the seams of his pants.

“Yes.”

“Good, because I want to feel you inside me too,” she continued with a toothy grin.

Then she leaned toward him and whispered in his ear:

“And, above all, I want to feel you come inside me again and again.”

HIs heart raced in his chest. He was so hard it hurt.

“… Okay. Either we go to the bedroom now, or you go back and forth to get what we need.”

A victorious smile played on Emily's lips.

“Don’t move.”

She kissed him and leapt off the floor to run to the bedroom and the bedside table where the box of condoms lay. Aaron, his thoughts muddled, only had the presence of mind to remove his pants and underwear, just in time for his lover to equip him. She tossed her panties away, impaled herself on him and rolled her pelvis. They made love energetically, suppressing neither moans nor groans, and came in unison, breathless but happy.

___

I hope you have enjoyed the ride! :D

___

First chapter >> https://www.tumblr.com/the-queen-and-the-king/771016298484334592/a-little-piece-of-paradise-1?source=share

Next >> https://www.tumblr.com/the-queen-and-the-king/772918826585227264/summary-aaron-and-emily-have-decided-to-test?source=share

#hotchniss #criminal minds #aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner x emily prentiss #emily prentiss #criminal minds fanfiction #hotchniss fanfiction #hotch #smut #angst #david rossi

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mukuberry · 3 months ago

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@coffee-without-anesthetics OI. MORE SONGS

youtube

ATASHI - SYUDOU

LIKE-LOVE CLIMAXITIS (DONGDANG COVER) - KOYORI

TELL ME YOU HAVEN'T HEARD ATLEAST ONE OF THESE. PLEASE

#songberry #Youtube

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iwaoiness · 9 months ago

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Where's the good in goodbye

His mother gently pinches his cheeks once more, makes him promise for the thirtieth time that he will take care of himself and beat up any racist he encounters, and hugs him tightly before finally letting go and joining his husband, who continues to keep his sunglasses on in an attempt to disguise his tear-reddened eyes. They tell him they're going for coffee and Hajime nods.

Iwaizumi hastily brushes away the tears from his cheeks, gathering his resolve before turning to confront Oikawa. His eyes remain fixed on the ground, his brow furrowed, his lips drawn into a trembling line, and his nose tinged with red. Hajime smiles, a bitter mixture of sadness and love, because he has not yet boarded the plane and already misses him so much that it hurts where his heart dwells.

"What a crybaby" He says, his voice too hoarse and too low to get the mocking effect he wanted.

But it's enough for Oikawa to glare at him, his chocolate eyes wrapped in a crystalline coating on the verge of shattering.

"You're one to talk, Cryjime."

Iwaizumi laughs, stretching his arms out towards the love of his life.

"Come here, Tooru" And all it takes is those three words to make Oikawa collapses into sobs before hugging Hajime, who also holds him close, as if he wanted to rebuild him, as if he wanted to cage Oikawa inside him so as never to lose it.

They feel that something is torn inside them, that their hearts are now not beating, but stabbing. Not only Tooru is saying goodbye to Hajime, Hajime is also saying goodbye to Tooru because in ten days, when Iwaizumi starts his classes at UCI, Oikawa will be on his way to San Juan, and there won't be time or enough money yet to be able to travel. And this is what hurts them the most because it is the first time they're separated without knowing when they will be able to see each other again, whether it will be weeks, months or even years from now. Despite leaving Japan because there is not enough room for so much ambition, they are still children. Children on the other side of the world, in a foreign land, where culture is alien and language a barrier to be broken. Where they will have to learn by themselves to anesthetize loneliness and nostalgia in order to continue walking without feeling so much pain.

"Don't forget to do the house tour" Tooru whispers, the voice raspy and wet, as his hand strokes the hair at the nape of Iwaizumi's neck. Iwaizumi chuckles softly, his fingertips tracing soothing patterns along Oikawa's back, as he knows he likes.

"I won't."

"And call me once you arrive."

“Okay”

"And make sure to take good care of the lucky charm Takeru and I made you."

"Mmh" Hajime hums, sinking his face deeper into Oikawa's shoulder, taking a deep breath of his soft perfume, straining to remember it until they meet again.

"And you suck at doing laundry.” Oikawa continues, nestling deeper into the hug, sniffling through his nose before running the back of his hand across his cheeks. “I know you'll put white and coloured clothes together, so I stuffed colour catcher wipes in your suitcase."

"Are you my mom now?" teases Hajime, his smile growing wider as he feels Tooru's laughter reverberate against his chest.

"You wish, Iwa-chan"

They don't know how long they're still there, hugging and talking. Neither still able to look each other in the eye without feeling the urge to tear up the tickets and make the stay a little longer.

But the mechanical voice over the public address system alerting the passengers of the flight to Los Angeles, reminds that time is running against them.

Hajime holds onto Tooru a little tighter before reluctantly pulling away, though his hands remain linked around Oikawa's waist. They search each other's gaze, tattoo the colours of their eyes in their memory for fear that they will fade until they meet again, and then, Oikawa cradles Hajime's face between his hands, caresses his wet cheeks with his thumbs and they both close their eyes before kissing.

It's soft, it involves everything they can't express by speaking and it makes it seem like saying goodbye is less difficult.

"I have to go now" Hajime murmurs against his lips before kissing him once more.

"I know" Tooru whispers back, stealing yet another kiss.

They had hardly slept the previous night, etching their presence onto each other's skin, kissing until their lips hurt, transforming words into unbreakable promises. They had gazed at each other, committing even the smallest mole to memory, smiling and embracing as if tomorrow would never arrive.

"Wait, I have one last thing for you" Hajime interrupts, stepping away to retrieve his backpack, which he had left nearby, leaning against one of the pillars alongside the rest of his luggage. He crouches down in front of it, unzips the large pocket, and retrieves his favourite cap—the one adorned with the embroidered Godzilla figure next to the kanjis. With one swift shake, he unfolds it before standing upright and returning to Oikawa. Iwaizumi smiles at his confused expression before placing the cap over his hair. "Give it back to me when we meet again, Trashykawa."

Tooru blinks, reaching up to touch the cap before mirroring Iwaizumi's smile and nodding.

There's one last hug, a take good care of yourself, eat well and don't overdo like the idiot you are and an I love you too, Iwa-chan. Then Hajime's parents return. Tooru joins them, slipping an arm around Iwaizumi's mother, who reciprocates by wrapping her arm around his waist, while exchanging smiles with Iwaizumi's father, who offers encouraging pats on the back. They watches as Hajime swings his backpack behind his shoulders and hoists up his large suitcase, before turning to face them one last time.

There are no more words.

They wave goodbye, and as Hajime bows respectfully to his parents, tears well up in their eyes once more. Oikawa blinks rapidly, determined not to succumb to tears again. With that, he resumes walking towards the first security checkpoint, alone and without looking back.

The three of them linger in silence amidst the bustling Narita International Airport. Hajime's father noisily blows his nose with his sixth handkerchief of the day and his wife takes a deep breath.

"It seems like only yesterday when I first held him in my arms" She murmurs, her voice still tinged with moisture, yet softened with the tenderness only a mother can have.

Oikawa gives his second mother a gentle squeeze, tilting his head over her.

"Hajime will be fine. Even though he's a brute, he's responsible and strong."

"I know" She smiles warmly, patting his hand gently. "And I know you'll be fine in Argentina too, but saying goodbye to him and you will still hurt so much."

And Tooru understands that feeling so well. After all, he has just bid farewell to his soul.

...

i think i didnt wrote about iwaoi saying goodbye at the airport until now omg, hope u enjoyed it!!

u can find this and me on my ao3 🌻

🍉

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oboetemasuka · 1 year ago

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"Dai dai dai"... or "mon amour"

On the YMMV TVTropes page, someone added an entry about the French translation of "I Love You". So I checked it out. Cool. Then I forgot.

Then @coffee-without-anesthetics made a post on the French translation of "All-Knowing and All-Agony", and I remembered.

First chorus: "Mon amour, parce que je t'aime je t'aime Mon amour, c'est parce que je t'aime"

Afterwards: "Mon amOuR, parce que je t'aime je T'aime Mon amOuR, parce que je T'aime"

So, the capital letters... MORT. Mort. Death.

#milgram #mahiru shiina #milgram screenshots #ask to tag

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syncopein3d · 1 month ago

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Broken World II: Bait

Part 1: Changed

CW for this entire story: non-lethal but serious injuries, personal betrayal, angst, medical restraint, drugging.

The Ripper buried their fingertips in their chest and pulled. The world tore apart through the center of them, and now they were falling forward into the Other Place, completely immersed in the snarl of unreal colors and spinning incomprehensible shapes. There was no sound here. Anything metal would come out of a portal as an explosion of shrapnel. And any other creature brought through one of the tears would come out unconscious, the brain protectively shutting off awareness rather than deal with this unreality. But now the Ripper fell through this hell without the searing agony that it had brought before, and when it reached in front of it to tear again, it landed on its feet with only the jarring of impact, nothing worse.

They looked around. They were on the roof of the parking structure at SeaTac. Asphalt sprawled in all directions under the gray clouds, not one star showing. There weren’t many vehicles up here. There were always night flights, but the airport was busiest in the morning. Maybe taking a cab to the outside of the federal prison wasn’t glamorous, but it would do – and that would give the anesthetic time to wear all the way off, too.

With a view of the prison exterior, and a glimpse of its vehicle fleet for future identification purposes, then they had the rest of their night to map out routes between the prison and the Tacoma Courthouse in Union Station. They wouldn’t do it on Military Road, too close to the prison. 705 or I-5 was out because the vehicle would be moving too fast. The transport should be getting off the highway, diagonally across A Street, and then onto South 13th street around 9:45 if there wasn’t an accident slowing down traffic on the 5. It wouldn’t cause a real problem for Ripper if there was. It’d just be more boring waiting around.

Then it’d just wait for them to stop at a stop light somewhere on 13th – ideally near A close to the big parking lots, in case of accidents. Then if the van turned off unexpectedly, it would have line-of-sight on a lot of other rooftops and could get to it fast through the city. The Ripper popped around roofs along the length of 13th and around it, testing this and making sure it had spots picked out. It tore into an empty floor in the building at the corner of Broadway and 13th that was for lease, too.

There was a coffee shop on the bottom floor and several stories of office space up above, so if it decided to dump anyone alive there, they’d be able to get someone to let them out. It wasn’t averse to killing people if it had to, but getting Robert out of federal custody didn’t fall into the “have to” category, and so far, its rap sheet didn’t include any dead LEs. It wasn’t that it hadn’t been tempted. It was that you got a lot more priority attention if you did that.

Before Doctor Hale’s specially developed carnite solution and that twenty-something hours that they had lost in the clinic, this whole process would have left it exhausted and coughing up blood. Now it was down five million in carnite for the fee and another million’s worth that had been used for the infusion itself, and it didn’t hurt one damn bit. It was a little out of breath, that was all.

That wasn’t quite all. Something else had changed. It had always been afraid that it could get stuck in the Other Place and just dissolve, lose itself, forget what it was and become part of that instead. Maybe there had been other metahumans before it that had. It wasn’t that unusual for the same powerset to arise multiple times in different ways. Either way, it always felt like it was holding itself together by sheer force of this-is-me-I’m-still-me while it was Otherwhere.

Now it didn’t feel like it might fall apart in the Other Place. It felt almost MORE real there, more intact. But tearing itself back out again, that was harder than it remembered. The real world felt brittle and colorless for long seconds after. It was like when it had been a little kid and Mom took all three of them to McDonald’s, and Ripper spent that few glorious minutes crawling through the plastic tubes and flailing in the slightly smelly ball crawl, and then they had to come out and go get back in Mom’s shitty gray car and go home.

They had plenty of time to think about that as they waited. 1145 Broadway had four weird little balcony-parapet type areas, ugly and blank, but easy to pop on and off of for Ripper’s purposes. One of them faced the corner of Broadway and 13th. They could just see the turnoff from A Street, so if the prison van took a different direction, hopefully they’d see it.

They stood leaning their elbows on the railing as they waited, anonymous in their gray hoodie and black N95 mask if anyone had even noticed them up here. There was no reason to loiter at street level looking arrestable when they could loiter at roof level and not be looked at in general. They heard the first shift at the coffee shop come in far below at around 5:30, the morning was that quiet. Coffee was tempting, but getting it here was a stupid idea. They tore their way into an unobtrusive spot among the lots and lots of HVAC levels of a casino and went into the Starbucks at Caesar’s Palace instead.

They could afford to buy coffee pretty much anywhere they wanted now, so tourist prices weren’t really inconvenient. They’d stolen around five kilos or almost a billion dollars’ worth of carnite in the course of the heist where they’d met Robert. They so far had given 30 grams of it to Doctor Hale and sold another 500 grams to various interested parties for various negotiable assets. They had a lot of coffin stashes, and they’d needed all of them. If they’d gotten all of it in $100 bills (they had a few stacks of thousands, but those were out of print and harder to get) it would’ve weighed over a ton. It was less than that in a combination of bills, diamonds, Visa gift cards, and a weightless but volatile mixture of cryptocurrencies they were gradually selling off to funnel money into a bank account that was legally in Macau. They had a smaller one in the USA under the same fake identity so they could build some credit history for it.

You couldn’t just pay cash for everything forever. It got inconvenient and it looked suspicious. They were even paying taxes now. One of the things they could afford was a shady accountant Doctor Hale knew. He’d told them they should give their profession as Specialty Mover and start an LLC. They didn’t really like seeing a first name – last name on things, but at least he hadn’t argued against them choosing an androgynous one.

They were back on their balcony corner with a venti oatmilk iced Brazil Nut Bliss by 9:00 a.m. That meant they had to pop into the building to take a leak later, dumping their trash in the bathroom garbage, but that only took a couple minutes and by 9:25 they were back at their post. Google said traffic was worse than usual because of an unspecified slowdown on I-705. At least waiting was easier when their joints didn’t hurt. They did some stretches just because they could.

The trickle of traffic picked up as the morning went on, tapering only slightly after the rush. It was a busy area. That wasn’t great, but it couldn’t be helped. It was almost 10 by the time the Ripper spotted a van the right shape and color, a dark blue diesel Sprinter with the red door badge that would indicate a metahuman transport to other agencies.

It couldn’t see through the tinted windows, and anyway it was probably going to be pretty crowded inside. It had a different plan for that. It waited until the van was idling at the stop light at Broadway and 13th and tore itself down to the corner, startling a man with a briefcase. He walked quickly away down the sidewalk as the Ripper reached out toward the van in the lane nearest it.

It tore a long, flat hole directly under the frame and snapped it shut again before the vehicle could drop all the way through. The tear closing cut off the explosion of metal from the hubcaps, dispersing them randomly into the Other Place. The Ripper couldn’t make tears it wasn’t touching, and a bigger one was harder, but while it was a strain in the same way as lifting something heavy it didn’t actually hurt.

Now a van with no wheels was sitting flat on the asphalt, rocking slightly. A car behind it tore around it and peeled off into the intersection as the light changed, honking.

The Ripper dealt with the area of the back door locks in a similar way, and then immediately threw itself flat about a half-second before a shotgun went off over its head. The doors blasted open. It grabbed at the ankle of the uniformed and armored man in front of it and then tore the world open one-handed.

The two of them dropped onto the industrial carpet of the empty office floor. The officer slumped, passed out as everyone passed out coming through the Other Place. Ripper caught the gun as he dropped it, flicked the safety back on, and then set it carefully beside him as it rummaged him hurriedly for keys. There was a big ring of them. Fantastic. It ran to look out the window down at the intersection. Two more armored men were out the back of the van with what looked like assault rifles except for the fat yellow cylinder attached to the end of each barrel.

Anti-Meta Weapons. It wasn’t a surprise they’d be armed with AMWs while transporting a metahuman, but Ripper wasn’t keen to be disintegrated by a C-Beam any more than it wanted to get shot with bullets. Maybe they’d try and shoot to wound, but you could never bet on that with cops.

Good thing that was easy to deal with. It reached into itself and tore a hole in the air that opened directly behind one of them, then yanked him backwards through the Other Place and closed the tear as he dropped. This one made a stupid noise, like “fwuh.”

From the window, it saw the other one whirl toward where the first one had been. Tear #2 was behind that one. Boom, three men down on the carpet. More horns were honking down there, and the driver had probably already called for backup, but reinforcements would need a couple of minutes to get there from the courthouse.

Now they’d have to actually take a risk and look inside. Ripper tore back into the street between the curb and the van, ignoring more honking, and poked its head around the doorframe. There didn’t seem to be anybody else in the back, the driver still on the other side of the armored grate up front. A big steel hand truck squatted there in the shadowy interior. It was strapped to attachment points in the floor, and strapped to the hand truck was Bloodless.

It hadn’t seen Robert since he left the house in Seattle where they’d been squatting for that couple of days last year. A registered hero team had been experimenting on him with their stash of carnite. Ripper had never known where they got it or why they were so eager to fuck around with Robert with it, but they had lost both experimental victim and carnite in one fell swoop and then the dumb bastard had almost died of pneumonia before his powers came back. It was hard to say if he looked better now than he had the day he’d left. He had some kind of plexiglass mask strapped to his face, his black hair was shaved almost as short as Ripper’s, and his lighter brown complexion seemed paler than normal. Every other inch of his body was covered in orange jumpsuit, white straightjacket, and iron chains.

“Mmfn?” his voice was muffled; something inside the mask was sticking into his mouth, gagging him. He rolled his head slightly, putting half his face in the light from the street outside, and now Ripper could see that his pupil was a tiny pinpoint – yes, there was a tube coming out of the straightjacket on one side of the neck attached to an IV. They’d drugged him to transport him.

“You must’ve been uncooperative,” Ripper said, crouching under the low ceiling as it came to look at the IV. Then it grabbed the end and yanked. It pulled out of Robert and straightjacket with a little resistance, flinging a spray of blood and yellow-white fluid around it. He made another urgent noise as Ripper started trying keys in the padlock that held the chains to the attachment point on Robert’s right. It assumed this was a complaint about the pain until he just kept going. “Shut up, I’m working on it!”

“Mmf. Mmmf!!!” The second set of chains rattled onto the floor of the ruined van.

“Damn it, Bloodless.” It grabbed him as he half-fell off the hand-truck, yanking the mask off his face. It wasn’t gentle.

“Issa trap,” he slurred, about a half-second before the rapid thwip-thwip-thwip of darts. Ripper realized too late that they were deploying from launchers in the ceiling. It had already been hit three times, pinpoints of agony in its shoulders and side. Some hit the floor, and at least three or four hit Robert, because now he was on top of it and shielding it with his body. Shit. It knew that exalted feeling creeping into its head: more ceretol.

“Metal?” it asked. It was hard to get the words out. Everything felt so very nice and it could feel the drug trying to spin it away.

“Yeah, the damn straightjacket fasten – fasteners – fuck.” Rapid footsteps were approaching from somewhere, more than one set of booted feet.

“Freeze!”

Robert’s weight lifted away and there was a sound of heavy fabric ripping, and then a deafening array of gunshots and the hiss of C-Beams. Lying on its back, the Ripper saw three glowing red lines drawn from outside through Robert’s chest and all the way to the back wall. The light was there and gone in a second, puffs of shredded fabric drifting down. Robert vanished from its view as the world started to shrink to a pinpoint. Ripper couldn’t really move. It didn’t really want to. Someone was fumbling around nearby, bumping into its left side as they rustled fabric.

“Ripper. Ripper! You have to do it now!”

“I said FREEZE, dirtbag. You want to get disintegrated?” snarled someone from outside.

Robert seemed upset about it. Well, it knew what he wanted. It gestured weakly at its own chest and tore the world open.

The two of them fell downward and backwards together. The Ripper’s head thumped into a soft carpet, and then it lost its grip and the tear snapped shut just as a number of gun barrels started to lean down from above.

Robert was out now, lying splayed half-across the Ripper’s body. That was okay. It could hear little creaks and plinks as his body rejected bullets and they rolled out onto the floor. He was breathing. He would be back, and now it could stop worrying and let the ceretol lift it away into a spiral of glitter and silence.

Part III: Hurts

#cometverse #oc ripper #oc bloodless #syncopein3d future reference #whump #whumpblr #superhero whump #used as bait #supervillain whump #whump loss of consciousness #loss of consciousness whump

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