#counterpressure

[ohtobeleah]

Day Five: [Breathe For Me]

Summary: The love of Jake’s life is plagued with chronic migraines after an unfortunate work place accident. But when a migraine feels wrong? Does Jakes initial response cost him his most priceless wife?

Warnings: Reader Death. Mentions of brain Injury. Jake Seresin x F!reader. Overstimulation. Migraines

Word. Count: 1.1k

Whumptober Prompts Day Five: Overstimulation, migraines, “I can’t take this anymore.”

Author Note: Please make sure you read the warnings provided. Disclaimer: I do not condone nor endorse the actions that are written about during the month of October. These works of fiction are just that, fiction and should be treated as such. Thank you to @ailesswhumptober for this year's prompt list.

Whumptober Masterlist | Main Masterlist

When we’re hurt, our bodies send signals to form blood clots directly at the injury, to help stop any bleeding. It’s our body’s system of checks and balances. It’s a system that’s supposed to save our lives. Or so we hope.

“Jake–” It started as a headache, the throbbing pressure in your temples was only a warning of what was to come. Next, the little black dots in your vision appeared. Again, another warning of the storm that was right around the corner. No amount of pharmaceuticals or home remedies could help aid you in expelling the all-consuming migraine that was inevitably pending inside your mind.

The full body aches, the sinus pressure, the sensitivity to light. The nausea, head spins, and intense head pain which made it feel like your brain was about to explode from your ears, made you want to die.

“I can’t take this anymore,” You groaned out in pain as Jake pressed a warm damp washcloth to your forehead as you hugged your knees in the bath. He sat just behind you, offering you only the comfort you wanted when you needed it the most. “Somethings wrong.”

“Dr. Snowdon said this would be a complication from the surgery honey,” Jake cooed as he felt you shift in the water. He watched and shifted as you let your back fall against his chest as you sat between his legs. Warm, soapy water lapped at your stomach as you stretched out your legs. “I’m so sorry this is happening to you.”

There had been an accident at work, one that no one saw coming. That’s the very definition of an accident though, isn’t it? Something you don’t see coming. Something that wasn’t intentional. Something that couldn't have been avoided.

You worked admin in the office department at Miramar, a usually safe office environment that makes your situation all the more accidental. Three people lost their lives, two people were injured. You were one of the two who lived to tell the tale of the office fire from hell. The fire that broke out after the old ass printer blew itself up. The office fire that caused an explosion that sent you flying across the building. The office fire that caused you to crack your skull on the corner of the wall you flew into.

The office fire that nearly took the love of Jake Seresin’s life.

“It’s not your fault Jake–” You nearly sobbed as you tried to focus on his gentle touch, instead of the overbearing, all-consuming pain of your head trying to tear itself apart. “It just sucks this is how my life is now.”

Jake pressed the washcloth a little harder against your forehead, hoping if anything, a little counterpressure would help alongside the warmth of the cloth.

“I know it’s not my fault, honey–” Jake cooed as he worked his magic, helping to soothe your pounding head the best he could. “But it’s so hard seeing you like this.”

Sometimes our body’s signals get messed up. And our failsafe goes haywire. Instead of making clots, our body destroys them. And the thing that’s supposed to help us? Only hurts us more.

Which means we start to bleed. And everything shuts down.

“You’re the love of my life Y/n, I hate seeing you in so much pain.” You didn’t respond, you simply laid there in the warm embrace of your husband’s touch. Your guiding light in life, and in the next.

It stayed like this for a while longer, the comfortable silence filled the bathroom as Jake worked to try and bring you some sort of comfort through your pain. He’d been with you every step of the way, so he wasn’t about to leave you now. But what Jake wasn’t expecting was for you to leave him.

“How are you feeling, honey?” Jake asked softly as he dipped the washcloth back into the warm water. At first when you didn’t respond, Jake assumed that you were just sleeping. He thought perhaps you’d found a moment of solace between the throbbing aches. “Y/n?” But when you didn’t respond when he gently tried to wake you? Jake’s heartbeat began to race with pure, unedited panic. “Hey, baby? Come on now you gotta wake up for me.”

When we’re hurt, our bodies send signals to form blood clots directly at the injury, to help stop any bleeding. It’s our body’s system of checks and balances. It’s a system that’s supposed to save our lives. Or so we hope.

“No, no, no, no, no–don’t you dare do this to me!” the poet Octavio Paz once wrote, ‘The Mexican is familiar with death. Jokes about it. Caresses it. Sleeps with it. Celebrates it.’ Jake Seresin was about to relate to those who had walked alongside death and his many unfortunate souls.

“Y/n, Honey open your eyes!” Jake cried as he dragged your lifeless body from the tub. In Jake’s eyes, death wasn't something to be celebrated. It’s avoided at all costs. You couldn’t die on him like this. You weren’t ever supposed to die before him at all. You promised him that. “Come on baby don’t do this, you’re alright,” Jake pleaded as he tried to bring you back, his compressions were hard enough to break your ribs. “No, no, no–I need you here,” Jake didn’t know it at the moment, but it would haunt him for the rest of his life. You had died in his arms, you had told him something was wrong. It would soon come to light that it had been an aneurysm that took you too soon. A complication from your brain injury.

“Wake up honey, please don’t you dare do this to me,” When death comes, it’s clinical, almost routine. But still with all the practice that doctors and nurses alike have under their scrubs, even surgeons are surprised by death. For Jake, he’d known for many years his career could lead him to an early, untimely grave. But he never expected you to be the first to leave. “I need you,” It was a painful, all-consuming cry that escaped Jake as he realised his efforts were futile. He held you close as he cried and mourned your now soulless state. “Y/n, no–no don’t leave me, please–”

Every religion, every country, every culture, death means something different to all of us. We all have different ideas about how to honour the dead. Different ideas on how to greave. Different ways of moving on. Jake Seresin wasn’t an expert by any means, but now he had the unfortunate experience of losing the person he loved the most.

***~***~***~***~***~***~

[alkali1]

Belly Attendant 3: Delivery Pt 1

The next morning you awaken to Naia whimpering and moaning through a strong contraction, her womb quivering and rolling under your fingertips. Her contractions picked up in frequency and intensity over night, and you figure that sometime today she'll have to push out the overgrown centaur foal. "Oh god, my hips are so sore. Maybe I overdid it last night" Naia whines. "Your body was probably telling you to help loosen them up and get things moving." You respond, pressing your hands deep into her plush buttocks to provide soothing counterpressure to her strained pelvis.

You cuddle for hours, keeping her milked, fed, and pleasured, as the contractions slowly dilate her. You pay special attention to her sore pelvis, spending lots of time squeezing her fat birthing hips as she struggles with the pain of them opening up to pass the overdeveloped surrogate foal. With the help of her magical weightbearing harness, you ease her into whatever positions her body urges her to take. A semi-squat on the edge of the bed is perfect for burying your face between her plump thighs and making her gasp and moan in pleasure for an hour. Wiping off your face, you check her dilation again. "15 centimeters. But it still feels like you have a ways to go." Privately you wonder what the absolute maximum diameter is that she can possibly stretch to. Having to go beyond 10 is rare for her, only needed for the absolute largest of her surrogate children, and this foal is large enough to really push her limits.

After laboring all day, it's now early evening. When you sense her energy and willpower flagging you wipe the sweat from her brow and pepper her face with kisses, whispering loving reassurances to her. "Oh God, I feel like I'm about to hit transition." she moans. "Should we get you to the birth chamber?" you ask. "Ooh, not quite yet" she moans, grabbing your hand and pulling it towards her needy cunt. You finger her clit, feeling her thighs squeezing desperately around your arm, while kissing and worshiping her heaving, lopsided belly. She cums hard after only a few minutes, but her moans of pleasure are soon replaced by pain as she feels something deep and low inside her shift. "Get me to the birthing room, now. I need to walk to get this foal positioned right." You hold her arm and arm, helping her balance as she slowly waddles through the temple halls. Each contraction makes her stop and let loose guttural screams of discomfort and pain. She realizes that the baby is malpositioned, and the too-large head is jammed awkwardly against her back. You provide as much counterpressure as you can in the small of her back but it seems to do very little to help with the crushing pain.

"This is the worst back labor I've had since that stubborn half-giant a few years ago. It feels like my spine is going to pop out of alignment."

The contractions get stronger and closer together as her womb attempts to squeeze the awkwardly angled head through her painfully stretched cervix. She's barely able to waddle for 30 seconds between each one before instinctively dropping into a wide squat, clutching desperately at her poor hips while pushing furiously. Even with the harness it's difficult for you to heave her back upright. You finally make to to the chamber when her water bursts dramatically, soaking the tiled floor and your shoes. Without the cushioning bag of fluid the head is able to align well enough with her birth canal for her pushes to start to make progress.

You get her lying down on the room's mattress, on her side with one plump leg hiked up as far as she can, resting in a loop of fabric dangling from the ceiling. You push your arm into her darkly swollen pussy to check her, and feel a cervical lip impeding her progress. You gently, manually stretch her cervix during her pushes, feeling the cannonball-sized head bulging forward millimeters at a time.

Elves have the unique ability for their pelvic ligaments to stretch like rubber, a necessity for a race that carries babies for 36 to 40 months. After two hours of pushing, her hip bones have separated several inches, just barely enough for the foal's human head to start squeezing its way between.

"I can't stretch any more!" she whines, "It's so big!" "You're doing such a great job, honey. I know this is a big one but it's nothing you can't handle."

She pleads for you to help her into the ceiling harness: a device similar to her magical belly support belt. It allows birthing surrogates to be suspended semi-weightlessly with their body supported, to allow for a greater variety of birthing positions. You strap her in and hoist her up so she's lying on top of her belly, which still touches the ground. You help her pull her legs forward to open up her hips. Finally, her desperate, grunting pushes are starting to force the oversized head through her separated hips. Her pussy starts to get puffy and bulgy, a sliver of hair visible deep within her folds. "Oh god I can feel it, it's way too big!" Petting her belly and covering her in tender kisses, you reassure her that it isn't, that she's going to be able to do this. Privately, you're starting to have your doubts. The horse half is going to be wider than the head, will it get stuck in her straining, creaking pelvis? You quickly tap out a magic message to the temple abbot, letting her know that Naia is having a difficult birth, and to remain on standby to provide auxiliary support if needed.

You work soothing oil into her swollen pussy, magically infused to help her stretch beyond her natural capacity. Though it may help her stretch, it does almost nothing to help with the pain of being spread and stretched around a 70 pound centaur. You can tell the burning pain is unbearable for her. She lets out a high pitched shriek of "Noooooooo!" with the push that parts her tender lips around the beginnings of the massive crown.

"Oh my god it burns so bad! Please get me to the pool now!" she cries out. You move the harness over the room's hot-spring fed birthing pool, lowering her in and unstrapping her swollen body from the uncomfortably tight fabric. Kneeling down behind her, you run your finger around the tight rim of her cunt. She's stretched tighter than she has been in months, and the head is still not even at its widest point.

You start to worry that she could tear. With one hand, you brace her perineum, and with the other, you press down on her clit, reassuring her that she's not going to rip, that she just needs a little extra time to stretch. You help coach her through panting away the contractions, fighting the urge to push to let her body work at the pace it needs to. But no extra stretch is forthcoming, even as you hold the head in place for over half an hour. You painstakingly manipulate her achingly tight lips a millimeter at a time, gradually pulling them back around the hard surface of the head, easing it out of her without letting her tear. Finally, with a guttural shriek from Naia, it squirts forward on its own, finally fully crowned. But you both know that the hardest part is still to come: the horse body.

[pushingboi]

Listening to people monologue about their fantasies is super hot, whether or not im into it, tbh.

So anyway, all I want is life is my man on top of me, slowly and sensually rubbing his cock over my slit, telling me how pretty I look, gently stroking my midsection and telling me to think of how I'll look even prettier with a big full belly ripe and churning with his babies. As he finally thrusts his cock inside my slick, hot pussy, holding me tight and pinning me down with his weight, I want him to tell me how badly he wants to put his baby inside me. How much he can feel his cock aching to fill my womb till it's round and stretched with our baby inside. It would drive me wild to feel his cock between my legs as he fucks the same hole I'll be pushing his baby out of in nine months; the thought would push me over the edge, shuddering and contracting as I cum around his thrusting cock. Bucking my hips against him and wrapping my legs about his waist, I want to feel him sink as deep as he can as he cums with me, shouting in pleasure and shuddering as he releases his seed deep inside my womb.

I want to feel him gently and lovingly caress my belly, making note of when I start showing, to keep his hand there while we sleep in hopes of feeling the first quickening with me. I want him to kiss and stroke and spend time with my belly, talking to our baby, listening. I want to watch him appreciate the way my belly sits, the way it moves, the way it makes me waddle when the baby drops. I want him to tell me how hot it is to watch my body change - my tits growing big and milky to feed the baby, my hips widening to make room for its big head. I want him to finger my pussy and suck my milky tits.

I want him to flip me over and fuck me when I'm so big and pregnant that my belly hangs down and brushes against the bed. I want him to rub my belly and pound against my hips as he tells me how good my horny little pregnant pussy feels around his cock. How I'm just so so so big and swollen heavy and pregnant with his big fat baby all he wants to do is bury his cock in my fertile hole over and over and over.

Finally when I'm so flush and full I want to feel my body slowly unfold and dilate, as I labour in preparation to give birth. I want to feel my womb throb and squeeze, more than ready to deliver the life squirming deep inside me into the world.

Quivering with anticipation and suffering through the ever-deepening contractions, I'd endure hours of labour swaying in his arms. I'd lay with him in tranquil anticipation until my instincts overtake me, bearing down upon my churning womb. Through an hour of pushing I'd feel every inch of the head cram through my cervix and sink lower into my hips, so aware of the circumference of the head boring through my pussy. Push by push the head would grind down agonizingly into the taper of my pelvis with no sign of stopping, even as the intense pressure from my desperate, heaving pushing wedges it down through the narrowest section of bone, leaving me thrashing on the bed and wailing through the fervid intensity.

As the head rocks against my pelvis the pressure would finally split the amniotic sac, revealed by a meager trickle of water flowing down through my vulva, the rest of the fluid corked deep inside me still by the wide head and only serving to increase the enormous pressure. Slowly the tiniest glint of slick hair would begin to peek forth between my labia, retreating back inside my cunt at the end of the contraction.

One hand clutching my convulsing, swollen belly and the other gripping my man's hand, I'd lean into him as i bear down again. His other hand gently stimulating my clit and providing counterpressure, I'd spread my legs open wide and push, moaning as I feel the baby's head budge down through my quaking pussy, only to retreat once again as I catch my breath.

I want to feel that intensity of having my pussy stretched from the inside out as I grovel and strain to give birth to my baby into the waiting hands of the man who put it inside me. I want to push and push and push, feel that progress as I stretch around the head as I pump it down towards a full crown between my spread legs, only to slip back inside my belly the moment I pause for breath.

As I drive it down hard towards my opening, the head finally lodging past my pelvis and into my flushed and swelling slit, he'll cup my bulging, birthing cunt in his warm hand, his thumb held just below my engorged clit and his fingers gently counterpressing against the emerging head as I keep pushing, preventing the crown from coming too fast.

All that's left of my senses is to push push push. I clutch my still-pregnant belly instinctively; I have to birth this baby no matter what. The stretch of the head opening up my vulva is the most intense and stimulating experience I've ever had. Gradually, the head bulges out. Faster and faster the brim of my labia stretches thin to span the width of the head, growing tighter and tighter until finally the head erupts between my thighs, accompanied by a torrent of amniotic fluid spilling out. I shake and spasm and gasp, howling as the feeling sends me into a furious orgasm. The pressure from my climax is enough to shove free the shoulders, and the baby burgeons out from me up to the chest. I collapse, winded but tranquil in sated rapture, and my baby slides the rest of the way free into its father's waiting hands.

Tenderly he places it on my chest and I see my baby for the first time, flailing and howling with vigor and life, equally impassioned by the ordeal, and my heart swells to the brim with pride and fulfillment for my role in bringing this new life into the world.

[hush-writes-preg]

Another contraction seized her midsection as she was gazing out the vehicle window, but this one was immense. The pressure had grown nigh unbearable, and despite her best attempt she found herself sucking in a breath of air and bearing down.

The baby inched down into her birth canal at a steady speed, but the sensation of huge fullness in her pelvis was making her almost feel delirious.

Her hand rocketed to her crotch to check for a bulge, but only found the tiniest beginning of one. It didn't take long until she was pushing again, this time against her hand. She felt more secure holding the head in place like this, with enough counterpressure that she wouldn't get too close to crowning. She pushed and she pushed, she quietly huffed and stifled moans by biting onto the collar of her argyle vest.

She managed this a few more times, each time the pushing became more forceful, more desperate. The instinctual need to push was becoming less a suggestion and more a roaring, unignorable order. Her thoughts were clouded, the only cohesive thing forming in her mind was the need to get it out. She had to give birth. It wasn't something she could hold off on any longer. She needed to push. Her mind screamed and her womb clenched with ever-growing frequency.

The overnight bus station was so, so near. So close. She needed to wait.... maybe fifteen minutes. But god, the thought was daunting. Those fifteen minutes hung over her like a threatening tower. The urge to push came back with a vengeance and she had to think fast. It was either this, or give birth right now in a musty bus only quarter full with complete strangers. Fuck, fuck.

Her palm felt around her crowning hole until she found a good position. She pressed, tentatively at first, against the head. But she needed to get this done. With one agonizing motion, Natalie shoved the baby back up into her womb, letting out a silent horrified scream.

The pain was immense and foreign feeling. Her body rocketed against the unnatural motion, even her muscles were against the very idea of pushing the baby back inside. But this was an issue of mind over matter. Now, with her child buried deep back inside her womb, she would be able to last far longer.

Her vision was growing blurry by the time the bus creaked to a stop. Despite the pain, pressure, soaking skirt, and luggage she'd left inside the bus, she practically flew out of it. Bathroom, bathroom, she needed somewhere more private and she needed it now.

She spotted the women's changing rooms and showeds during her frantic scramble onto the station platform.

"Miss! You forgot your bags-"

She didn't have time to listen to the call of the bus driver. She was panting hard, sweat beading across her entire body. The baby's head was working with gravity now, pushing itself all the way into a crown without much effort.

Again, god, she had to hold it in. Slowly, ever so carefully, she pulled down her skirt and tried to shimmy out of it. Another contraction gripped her like a vice and her immediate instincts wailed at her to crouch down, to push. She grasped at the porcelain sink she was leaning against, her whole body trembling.

She had waited so long, too long in fact. If she went as fast as her body begged her to, she would no doubt tear, bleed, and maybe even harm her child. She knew better.

There was nothing more relieving and yet unsatisfactory about those tiny, breathy pushes she had to manage for a few minutes. She had to inch the head forward until she reached a stinging full crown again, and she couldn't continue until she allowed herself to stretch.

Breathe in, breathe out, but something primal in her yelled. She couldn't hold back anymore. With one momentous push, the head shot out of her gaping cunt, and along with it a spasm of orgasm came with it.

"Christ-" Natalie grasped, feeling her whole body ache and writhe under the pleasure, pain, and immense pressure. It was worse than before as the shoulders rotated to make an exit from her ripened hole.

She had to catch the baby; that thought was the first sane and coherent one she'd had in awhile. She panted, groaned, and maneuvered into a kneeling position. Her hands were still shaking, but she felt the baby's head against her cunt as she reached back there.

Her baby slipped out with a huge gush of fluid and she caught the slippery thing. She took a minute to recompose herself and stared into the mirror. Her baby squalled against her chest as she held it close.

Guess she better uh, go get those bags now...

[Part 2, End.] 🛸

Whew, I've gotta say, 🛸 Anon, you're welcome in my inbox anytime. You've got a gift with words. This was a true pleasure to read, and your descriptions were vivid. Like holy shit. 💖

[perfectly-imperfect-fic]

Art by @airska-art

Poor Junkrat is struggling through a contraction 😖

Luckily, Roadhog is there to offer some counterpressure

If you like, you can read the roadrat series this piece is based on, called Perfectly Imperfect

[play-now-my-lord]

instant tradition & social media outrage: disability pride month

tumblr is on fire about the concept of a disability pride month, and in typical fashion people are kind of entering "if you didn't know about this, how dare you" territory, insisting that july is only and has always been only Disability Pride Month, etc. as a queer disabled person, I am more than a little confused by the concept. Gay Pride did not originate as a celebration of being gay in a vacuum; its specific history was rooted in the practice of "outing" as a weapon used by straight (EDIT: this said 'cis' for the longest time, which also applies but isn't what the post is about) people in relationships, press, and court against gay people, especially gay men; it aimed to provide a counterpressure against the prevailing social pressure to closet. While it's arguable that there's an analogous pressure with many disabilities - I'm not actually arguing the paradigm is inappropriate - the analogy isn't ever really broached in any posts I've seen and many people promoting the DPM meme (even queer people!) are plainly a little ignorant of the history of gay pride & mostly familiar with its very, very recent history.

what I believe is actually happening is a cultural snowclone - the existence of queer pride in popular culture spurring people in a marginalized community to create a similar phenomenon, which has apparently been a runaway success...

...since 2021. Barring a few spikes so small they might as well be random noise, the association of "disability pride month" with July seems to be more recent than covid-19. There are plenty of searches for the term before that, but they lack the strong clustering in July one would expect from a well-established history of use. (In fact, the biggest clusters are wintertime and June before that - both periods where other affinity groups have, at least in this century, had well-established periods of collective celebration.)

This post is not really intended to criticize DPM as a concept, but more to promote wariness of instant traditions and the defensiveness people develop about them. This instance of a snowclone is from my perspective harmless at worst and actively good at best, but similar snowclones have been less benign - if I wake up in 2024 to everyone collectively agreeing X month is/always has been History Month for some group that isn't racially oppressed or Pride Month for some group that nobody considers shameful, I'm going to steal a cop's gun

[brainicusrotticus]

“So, that’s my shitty parents. What about yours?” Vace asked, taking a quick swig from their stolen bottle of liquor before passing it off. “They even make it to the wormhole? Get eaten by some xeno during the first raids? Fuck off to nowhere important?”

Solane took the bottle, watching the liquid inside. He suddenly felt exhausted, weight tugging at his bones as his eyes lifted skyward, taking in the starry expanse before them. Quietly, he offered, “...You’ve already met them.”

Before Vace could respond, he took a heavy drink from the alcohol, coughing on the burn in his throat. He took a second, and tried for a third before a metallic hand snatched his wrist. ��Fuckin’ greedy,” Vace growled, prying the bottle out of Solane’s grip. Sol glanced at him, seeing the tenseness in his shoulders, and laughed.

“Quit fuckin’ with me,” Vace muttered, taking another sip.

Solane sighed, gripping his knees tight to his chest. “...I’m not.” He could feel Vace’s eyes on him, but didn’t bother looking back. He didn’t look down, either, where he knew the fields of Geoponics would be visible from where they sat on the Heliopause.

“Geranium and… Fluorescent.”

“Oh fuck. The farm fugitives?” Vace asked incredulously.

Solane snorted, letting the laugh ease the tightness in his chest. “Yeah… Yeah. Those are the ones.”

“The fuck is that story?”

Vace’s inability to keep his mouth shut was a blessing, occasionally. Refreshing, at the very least. Everyone in the original colony knew who his parents were. Knew that, seemingly overnight, they went from being a close-knit, happy family unit to not speaking at all. They’d tracked every movement for a while, waiting to see who would be the first to break the silence, to finally bridge the gap. By the raid that destroyed the original colony, few still paid attention. Afterward? Well… There was too much else to do.

“A few weeks after my thirteenth, she sat me down first thing in the morning. Started going off about how she was watching me, and she didn’t like what she saw. About community, and needin’ to fit in. That it wasn’t some fucking holovid, this is real life, and I needed to get my shit together,” Solane stated, bitterness creeping into the words.

“Yeah? You not like the reality check?” Vace asked, and Solane could hear the derisiveness in his voice.

Solane waved a hand at the fields below them. “You know the Vertumna Carrtatos? Our staple food?” Vace nodded, opening his mouth to answer, but Sol didn’t give him the time. “I created that. I spent months in the xenobotany lab working on the math, on the DNA. Running simulations, and watching them fail, and tweaking them, and doing it again. Learning how to alter DNA. Not just theoretically, but how to actually do it. Because nothing else was working. Because my parents came home from the fields every fucking night, whispering back and forth like I couldn’t fucking hear them. About how our earth crops were failing, and we couldn’t domesticate native ones. About how our colony was going to slowly starve. Trying to figure out how much time they had to fix it before they had to tell Eudicot.”

He snatched the bottle from Vace, swirling what little remained before downing it all. “So I fixed it. I sacrificed time I could’ve used for school, or Sportsball, or making friends. I stopped going beyond the wall, stopped learning about what’s out there. So I could save them.” He stood up, wobbling for a moment as his feet settled into the slightly curved surface beneath him. Vace’s metal arm snaked around the back of his calf, around the inside of his knee to dig the fingers into the front of his lower thigh, stabilizing the doctor.

Solane drew his arm back, and hurled the bottle out towards the fields with a snarl. He tilted forward in the follow-through, but the counterpressure provided by Vace’s hand kept him from tumbling over. They both silently watched the glint of the starlight on the bottle as it dropped into darkness, before they heard the shattering of glass on dirt.

“...And a few days later, I turned thirteen.”

“Fuck,” Vace hissed under his breath, refusing to lax his bruising grip.

“I told her she had no fuckin’ clue what she was talking about. That if what I’d already done wasn’t good enough, then nothing I did ever would be. Then I shoved some shit in a bag and left. Haven’t… Haven’t talked to ‘er since,” Solane muttered, swaying gently side to side.

“Geranium tried, a couple times, but… He always said shit like she shouldn’t have said it so harshly, or we needed to talk it out, that she’s under a lot of pressure, or just trying to help me… But never once did he say she was wrong. Or sorry. Just kept trying to convince me with excuses covering her ass, until I stopped listening altogether.”

Solane shook his leg, easing Vace’s grip as he stumbled toward the overhang where they could climb down onto Command’s balcony. He hopped off, realizing a minute too late that he’d overestimated his ability to make a smooth landing, and lurched into the railing, lashing a white-knuckle grip on it as he steadied himself.

Vace’s footsteps approached the edge and a moment later, he dropped down beside Solane. The soldier seemed more steady on his feet. “We should get you back to your apartment,” he muttered, half-turning toward Solane and leaning just slightly into his space.

With a snort, Solane turned towards the stairs. “Walk me proper or stand there and look pretty, but don’t start that herding dog trick with me,” he cautioned as he took the first step down, clutching the railing as his feet shook.

Vace squeezed beside him on the staircase, wrapping his metallic arm around Solane’s waist at the same time his right arm slung the doctor’s own over his shoulders, letting Solane lean into his broader frame.

Walking down the steps took Solane’s full focus, but as they leveled out onto the dirt track, he murmured, “I think she’s been angry her whole life. Always had someone to fight. The adults who failed her, the world governments, the terrors of space… She was a soldier. But when we landed here, she wasn’t anymore, and… And I think maybe, she was still angry anyway. And she decided it was my fault.”

He realized Vace had stopped in front of the door to Dys’s quarters, and Solane wondered how long it had taken him to get that thought out. “It… It wasn’t fair,” he murmured into Vace’s shoulder.

He felt Vace’s words as he quietly murmured back, “It wasn’t.”

The door opened, and Solane beamed a smile at Dys, who seemed barely awake. The scout glanced at Sol’s face and his eyebrows narrowed before his accusatory eyes snapped to Vace, barely-hidden contempt in them. Vace muttered something, but Solane was too tired to hear it now, just swaying to the melody as his two friends conversed quietly, Dys’s posture easing at whatever Vace had to say.

Dys’s arm curled around him then, and Solane felt Vace’s leave. Glancing over his shoulder, he gave a soft smile to the soldier and whispered, “Goodnight, Vace.”

He wasn’t sure if the boy responded as the door shut quietly, and Dys guided Solane towards his bedroom. He was seated on the edge of his bed as Dys undid the laces of his boots just enough to slip them off. The dark-haired boy walked away for a moment and came back with a damp cloth.

“Let’s wipe off your cheeks, alright? Don’t want them crusting over while you sleep,” he said gently, smudging the cloth against Solane’s skin, tracing tear tracks.

“I was crying?” Solane asked, tiredness quickly beginning to sweep him away.

Dys looked up and gave one of his not-really-a-smile smiles. Solane felt a deep appreciation for those smiles in that moment. “I’m sure it was happy crying,” Dys whispered, helping Sol scooch up to the top of the bed.

“Yeah… Yeah, I think so too,” Solane murmured as the blanket covered him, and he drifted away.

[kindersurprisebacterium]

Sutures and Shootouts (Ghost/Reader)

Explicit sexual content and depictions of medical events, MDNI

CW: slow burn, gunshot wounds, stitches, ghost is afraid of needles, vaginal and anal fingering, vaginal sex, cunnilingus, reader is a medic

gender neutral AFAB reader

W/C: 6.3k

The propellers were deafening as we approached the drop ship. I grunted as I adjusted my grip on the backboard. Watching the medic in front of me for his cue, we pushed the board up the ramp and set it down on a gurney. I secured the belts into place as my partner began to reassess the patient. I glanced toward the ramp. Riley glanced around, his gun at his side as he pushed the button to activate the hydraulic doors. A loud bang sounded, Simon grunted, immediately grabbing at his shoulder. The doors shut soon after, dampening the noise of the propellers. 

“Ghost, let me see,” I said, taking a step forward.

“Patient is cyanotic. I need you to place an airway,” my partner said as he pushed medications into the patient's IV. He handed me a laryngoscope and an endotracheal tube. I quickly maneuvered the scope into the mouth of the patient, slipping past the uvula and down to the epiglottis. I pushed the scope into the small muscle to make way for the tube. I slowly slid the airway past the larynx and into the trachea. I taped the end of the airway in place and positioned a mask over the patient's face. 

“You’re on bag duty,” I said to my partner as I moved, letting him take over on ventilations. My gaze flicked across the room and landed on Ghost. He was sitting on one of the bench seats, slumped over. His eyes were narrowed and his furrowed brows could be seen even through his mask. His hand was clasped tightly over his shoulder. 

“Let me see,” I said as I approached him. He shook his head, looking away toward the doors. 

“I’m fine,” he grunted. I stepped closer, reaching out to push his gear off. “I said I’m fine,” He pulled away quickly. 

“I’ll get fired if I don’t check this out, and I’m not letting a stubborn asshole take my job,” I told him as I pulled his vest off. He winced, pulling away from me. I set the vest down next to him and reached for his hoodie. 

“‘S fine,” he grunted, tugging on his sleeve. He sharply inhaled through his teeth as he attempted to tug the fabric off of his injured arm. I stuck my hand out, placing it on top of his. I slipped my other hand underneath his shirt, holding his bicep still as I pushed his forearm out of the sleeve. He held his breath as I tugged the fabric over his head. My eyes trailed to his body, old scars littered his toned abdomen. Bringing my eyes up toward the bleeding, I gazed upon a jagged, linear laceration across his shoulder. The bullet had just grazed him, but still hit some surface-level veins. I pulled a four-by-four from my pocket, pulled open the pack, and placed the cloth over his shoulder. Taking a seat, I pressed firmly into the wound to control the bleeding. 

“It just grazed you. You’ll be good after a couple stitches.” I explained. I parted my fingers, watching for any blood stains through the gauze. Patches of dark red blood slowly sank into the fabric. I pulled out another gauze, ripped it open with my teeth, and placed it on top of the soiled one. 

“You feeling okay, Lieutenant?” I asked, holding his unaffected shoulder for counterpressure. 

“I’m fine,” he said shortly.

“You’re lucky it didn’t hit your other arm. I’d hate for your sleeve to get messed up,” I said with a smile as I looked up at Simon. His brown eyes flicked across my face, narrowing quickly, and then darting away. I felt my heartbeat quicken. My lips quivered as regret washed over me. I shouldn’t have said anything. In an attempt to get my mind off of the tension, I checked the gauze for any signs of bleeding through. The cloth was still a pristine white. Taking my hand off his unaffected shoulder, I pulled a roll of curlex from my pocket and began wrapping it around the dressings. I secured everything in place with a quick knot, knowing I’d be stitching him back up at the base. I stood up, returning to the apenic Patient to take another quick set of vitals.

The loud hum of the engines dimmed as the aircraft landed back at base. The hydraulics squealed as the doors opened. A flood of medical personnel ran toward the gurney, and in an instant, they were running toward the operating room. I glanced back at Simon as he stood. He picked up his vest from the bench seat and slung it over his good shoulder. 

“Let me stitch you up,” I said, crossing my arms over my chest “Please.”

He sighed and nodded, following behind me. I walked toward the medical bay. There was a mess of scrapped sterile packets and gauze. Peering in toward the equipment, I sighed, opting to use my office instead. I nodded my head toward the end of the hall. Riley merely huffed in response. We approached the door. My name was engraved into a bronze plaque on the exterior. I slid my key into the lock and pushed the door open, flicking on the lights with my free hand. I gestured toward the examination table, stepping aside to let Riley in. He dropped his vest on my desk and took a seat on the table. I grabbed a suture kit and a topical anesthetic from an overhead cabinet. I pulled the cap off of the needle as I approached the table. Turning the vial of anesthetic upside down, I slowly drew back a dose. I perched the needle between my fingers as I cleaned his shoulder with an alcohol pad. He winced, biting down on his mask. 

“You can take that off if you want,” I mumbled as I inserted the needle into his skin. His skin, what was visible at least, turned pale. His eyes glazed over. I slipped my fingers under his mask, pulling it off. I’d seen his face before. Sharp nose, the scars that marked his cheeks, and his defined jawline. Sweat began to drip down his forehead. I held the alcohol pad under his nose. His eyelids fluttered, brown eyes locking onto me. 

“You okay Lieutenant? You almost passed out on me.” I said as I withdrew the needle. The lid of my sharps bin clattered as I pushed the used needle through. 

“I’m not good with needles,” he huffed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. I pursed my lips, stifling a laugh. “What,” He Said, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Sorry I just think it’s a bit amusing,” I said with a smile as I sunk my suture needle into his arm. He turned to look at the injury, I quickly pushed his face away with my gloved hand. “Stop looking, I don’t want you to go out again,” I told him as I tied my first stitch. I sunk my needle into his skin, applying just enough tension to get the edges of the wound to close. He looked around my office, brown eyes squinting at the pictures tacked to my corkboard. I followed his gaze as I finished up the second stitch. His eyes were set on a picture of me and my cousin. 

“That your man?” He asked, pointing at the picture. 

“Cousin,” I said, catching his gaze as he glanced at me in his peripherals. “Him and my brother are the only ones I’ve got waiting for me at home,” I continued as I finished up a third. The edges of the wound were closing nicely. The tension wasn’t too tight on his pale skin. “What about you? Got anyone waiting on you?” I asked, piercing through his skin again. 

“Not really,” He Said softly, looking away at the wall. I clenched my jaw, knowing I’d overstepped once again. I secured the stitch in silence, opting to focus on my work instead of the man sitting before me. Peering up quickly through my lashes, I noticed him staring at me as I worked.  My gaze shot back down to my work. Heat rose in my cheeks as my now trembling fingers worked to put one last stitch in place. My fingers slipped as I attempted to secure the stitch. Sighing and grabbing the thread again, I tied it in place. I grabbed some sterile dressings and secured them over the wound with tape. 

“Um, you can come see me in five days or so. I’ll take them out for you.” I said as I took off my gloves. “Try not to move your arm a whole lot. I don’t want you to pop your stitches.”

Without another word he stood up, locking eyes with me one last time before leaving my office. As soon as the door shut, I turned around, sinking into my desk chair with a sigh. 

I had feelings for him, didn’t I?

-

“And can you push your feet against my hands,” I said to the soldier as I pushed my hands against the balls of his feet. He pushed back against my hands with significant force. I pulled back, tugging off my gloves and discarding them in the trash. 

“I’m not qualified to say what it is for sure, but your vitals and your examination results are normal,” I explained. “If anything gets worse, feel free to stop by and I’ll make sure that a physician can see you.”

The man stood up and left my office. I brought my focus back to my patient paperwork. A stack of unfinished patient care reports adorned my desk. I took a seat in front of the stacks of papers, sighing as I skimmed across the forms. 

“Ahem,” a deep voice said quietly, snapping me from my thoughts. I snapped my head toward the door, locking eyes with a familiar masked face. He was holding a dressing to his arm. The sleeve of his shirt bunched up around his shoulder. 

“Ghost, is everything okay?” I asked, standing up. His brown eyes flicked across the room, and then back to me. Tapping his fingers against his arm, he stepped forward, pulling back the gauze to reveal a broken stitch. 

“Got a bit rough while training some new recruits. Figured you can patch me back up,” he explained. I reached out, gently brushing my fingers against his bicep as I examined the stitches. One of the sutures in the middle of the wound had opened up. I nodded as I reached for a pair of vinyl gloves. With my other hand, I pushed him towards the table. 

“Sit down then. I’ll place another,” I told him as I reached for a kit. I brought the needle and thread over to the examination table, setting them on a tray with a soft thud. I pulled a vial of topical anesthetic from a drawer and drew it up into a needle. I stole glances at him as I cleaned the site with a prep pad. His brown eyes flicked up and down my face. I felt a noticeable heat rise to my cheeks as I injected the anesthetic into his skin. He squeezed his eyes shut, inhaling deeply as I pushed down on the plunger. I gently rubbed over the skin as I withdrew the needle. 

“You feeling okay?” I asked, squeezing his bicep lightly. He silently nodded with his eyes still closed. “Do you want to take the mask off? If you’re about to pass out I think it would be a good idea,” I added. With his unaffected arm, he reached up and pushed the mask up over his nose. His lips were parted and he was breathing heavily. I quickly placed another suture in place so I could shift my focus to his breathing. As I moved in closer I noticed his skin was growing pale and clammy. I grabbed one of the patient care reports and began using it to fan him off. I grabbed his wrist to quickly check for a pulse. It was elevated but strong against my fingers. Slowly his color began to return and the drops of sweat dripping down from his mask began to evaporate. I sighed, placing the now bloodied care report back on top of the pile. 

“Do you want some water?” I asked as I peeled my gloves off. 

“Yeah, sorry,” he mumbled. I turned away, approaching the mini fridge behind my desk. A wave of cool are hit my skin as I opened the door. I pulled out a bottle of water for Simon and a juice box for me. Leaning against my desk, I held out the bottle for him. He grabbed it with a small nod. 

“Just stay here for a bit until you’re ready to stand up,” I told him as I took a sip of my juice. He shifted his weight onto one of his hips and reached into his back pocket. He pulled out a small red package and held it out to me. I glanced down at the packet and back up to his face. In his hand was a pouch of Skittles. It wasn’t something you’d regularly come across on base, and it also happened to be my favorite candy. The corners of my lips curled up into a smile as I accepted his gift. 

“How did you know these were my favorites?” I asked, setting the candy down on my desk. 

“I asked your partner. I mean’ it to be a sort of apology gift,” he explained while taking a small sip of water. 

“Apology for what?” I asked, tapping my fingers against the mahogany wood of my desk. Simon looked away, pursing his lips, and then parting them to speak. 

“I felt like I might’ve been a little bit of an arse to you. You were only doin’ your job.” 

My eyes widened. I didn’t expect someone of his rank to be so thoughtful, even going out of his way to find out my favorite candy. Thinking back to the pushback he gave me on the ship, it was minimal, and most likely fueled by the heightened emotions at the time. I leaned forward, placing my hand on his wrist. 

“You’re the one who usually gives orders. I can imagine it felt a bit weird to take them, especially from someone like me.” I said with a smile. In comparison to patients of mine who have spat at me and hit me, snarky comments and mild resistance are something I’d take any day. 

“And what do you mean by that, dear?” He asked, taking another sip of water. My heart stopped at the name he'd given me. I looked away abruptly as I felt another wave of heat ignite in my cheeks. 

“I don’t know,” I sputtered out quickly, taking my hand off of his arm. He huffed with a smile as he took another sip from his drink. He sat up, sliding off of the table with a thud as his boots hit the linoleum. I rushed to his side, holding my hands out in case his steps grew unsteady. 

“Take it easy lieutenant, these tiles don’t need any more blood on them.” My fingers brushed against his back as I followed him to the door. He twisted the knob and pulled it open.

“You know, you blush like you're still in primary school, dear,” he said with a smirk as he left. My paces halted to a dead stop as I felt my knees grow weak. I watched as he turned down the hallway and then quickly shut the door. I fell back against the frame, sinking to the ground as I drowned in embarrassment.

Eventually, after gaining the strength to stand, I moved to my desk, examining the tower of paperwork in front of me. 

“Simon fuckin’ Riley,” I mumbled to myself as I shook my head. “You’ll be the death of me, won’t you.”

-

For the next few days, I made myself scarce, leaving the brunt of the cases to my partner, much to his chagrin. I made excuse after excuse. I was overloaded with paperwork. I was burnt out. Patients had specifically asked for him. One of our EMTs needed help studying for an upcoming assessment. A patient requested to be assessed in my office instead of the bay. No lie I told could stop the barrage of pounding on my door. I stood up from my desk and quickly scattered some instruments in an attempt to make myself busy. Pulling the door open I was met with my partner's reddened face. He dragged me by the wrist, pulling me toward the medical bay. The scene before me was hectic. Battered and bloodied soldiers took up almost all of the available beds. Comrades stood waiting in the hallway for news about their friends. I stepped past the dividers and pulled on a set of gloves. Just as the vinyl snapped tight against my wrist, my eyes met his. Sitting in the corner of the bay, casually stretched out in a chair. I quickly placed my gloved hand over a sucking chest wound, and thus I was thrown into the chaos of another sleepless night.

My fingers gripped tight on the patient as the doctor set his shoulder back into place. He bit down on the cloth in his mouth

“I’ll tell you what, if I could I’d-” the soldier started

“Yeah, yeah, sleep it off, private.” I huffed as I walked toward my office. The flood of soldiers had either been sent off to surgery, their dorms, or the morgue. I ended up hearing from a sergeant that one of our airships had come into contact with some sort of explosive, explaining the horde of patients. 

As I approached my door, a hand gripped my shoulder. I turned around, teeth clenching as that set of deep brown eyes stared me down. 

“Ghost,” I mumbled as I stepped into my office. Without a word, he followed. I sank down into my chair, sighing as my aching feet could finally rest. 

“Where have you been?” He asked, stepping closer. He shifted his weight onto one of his feet. His hands slid into his front pockets. 

“Busy,” I mumbled as I leaned back in my chair. He looked around my office, chuckling lightly.

“I can tell,” his eyes focused on me again, flicking down to my body, and then back up to my face. I kept my gaze fixed on his. He stayed silent as he leaned against my desk. My pulse began to quicken as he got closer. Feigning composure, I cocked my eyebrow at him. He hummed as he tapped his fingers against the wood. 

“You said five days.” He started, “It’s been six, but god are you hard to get ahold of.”

I recall telling him I’d remove the stitches in five days. I stood up, wincing as the ache in my feet returned. He stayed put, blocking my path to the examination table. 

“If I didn’t know any better I would’ve thought I’d scared ya off.” He said with a crooked smile. 

“It’s a Good thing you know better then, isn’t it?” I quipped. Having enough of his cockiness for today, I brushed past him on my way to grab my scissors. 

“Oh come on, you’re cute when you’re flustered.” His boots made a dull thud on the linoleum as he approached me from behind. I felt the heat of his breath tickling the back of my neck. I spun on my heel to face him. He quickly placed his hand on the wall above me, caging me in with his broad torso. 

“If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought you’d popped that stitch just to see me.”

He was silent, eyes wide. It was a hunch, just a hunch, that I had. As far as I was aware, training wasn’t scheduled for that day. It was a Sunday after all. His look of shock confirmed my thoughts. I’d caught him. 

“Lieutenant, you look quite cute when you’re flustered,” I said with a shit-eating grin. 

Maybe it was the fact that I was a paramedic, or maybe it was drilled into my head after my time in the military, but I wasn’t going to let him see me as someone so eagerly conquered. I gripped his mask, partly to pull him close, and partly to pull it up over his nose. As if I snapped him from his shock, he quickly moved his hands to my waist, fingers digging into my bloodied uniform. His breath fanned over my face. His eyes flicked back and forth between my lips and my eyes. 

“If you don’t want this, you need to tell me now,” he said sternly. His fingers impatiently kneaded my sides. This time using the collar of his shirt, I pulled him in for a kiss. Our lips mashed together harshly, moving against each other in perfect sync. His hand slid down my back, over my ass, and to the back of my thigh. He gripped my thigh tightly, tugging it up and over his hip. Even through the layers of tactical gear, I could feel his stiff cock pressing into me. I moaned against his mouth as he rutted his hips against me. He pulled my other leg over his hips, hands slipping under my ass to stabilize me. I hooked my arms around the back of his neck and pulled him back into a heated kiss. He slipped his tongue into my mouth, colliding with my own in a messy battle for dominance. Drool ran down my parted lips, partly from his intrusion, and partly due to the way he rocked his hips against my aching core. My fingers slid under his mask and tugged it the rest of the way off. I carded my fingers through his short blonde hair, pinching the strands between my knuckles and pulling. He moaned into my mouth and sped up the movements of his hips. A knock at my door drew me from my bliss. Simon quickly set me down on my feet. I wiped the saliva off of my lips with a sleeve. Noticing his mask on the floor, I picked it up and quickly slipped it into my back pocket. I pointed to the exam table. Getting the hint, he took a seat, pretending to act injured. I pulled open my office door and was met with my partner. 

“Need your signature on this paperwork,” he explained as he handed me a clipboard and pen. I quickly, and messily, signed on the line labeled “witness signature” before handing the papers back to him. 

“Good work out there, man,” I said as I patted him on the shoulder.

“Oh, can you help me put these backboards away? Greyson cleaned 'em all for us,” he asked. I nodded, quickly shooting a glance back at Simon who was staring down at his phone.

“Yeah, just let me wrap this up. I’ll meet you out there,” I said, gesturing to the blonde behind me. My partner nodded and started down the hallway. I turned toward the table and quickly approached Simon. Leaning in with my hand resting on his thigh, I spoke quietly next to my ear. 

“I’ll meet you back at your room, just give me twenty minutes.” I slid my hand up his thigh until my fingers just barely brushed against his hardened cock. His hips twitched. I withdrew my hand and spun on my heel, leaving him alone in my office. 

My heart was pounding in my ears as I stood in front of his door. I slowly reached my hand out and tapped my knuckles against the wood. The door swung open. A toned arm reached out to pull me inside. My body was swiftly pushed up against the door. My eyes widened when I saw him. He’d changed out of his tactical gear, instead opting for just a pair of low-hanging gray sweatpants. What a fuckin’ tease. His lips crashed against mine as his hands worked to quickly unbutton my uniform top. Heat rushed to my face as he tossed the fabric aside. His focus went to my belt, nimble fingers quickly slid the leather from my belt loops. He dropped to my knees and looked up at me through his lashes as he undid my quick lace boots. The sight of him kneeling before me was dizzying. I ran my fingers through his hair as he helped me out of my boots. He then moved to my pants, undoing the buttons and easing them down my hips. He pressed soft kisses to my bare thighs as he pulled the fabric down to my ankles. I gripped his chin, tilting his head up to look at me. I stepped to the side, leaving my pants on the ground. I glanced at him over my shoulder as I walked towards his bed. I slowly crawled onto his mattress and turned to lay on my back against his pillows. He stood up, making his way to the mattress. His brown eyes scanned every detail of my body. He kneeled between my legs, running his hands over my thighs. I crossed my ankles behind his back, pulling his hips closer to mine. He propped himself up on his elbows and leaned in to kiss me. With a groan, he began to move his hips against me. I could feel a damp spot in my underwear that began to grow. My stomach fluttered as he began to kiss down my neck, sucking roughly on my skin. His hands glided up over my hip bones, over my ribs, and under the band of my sports bra. He pawed at my chest, tweaking my nipples between his fingers. I twitched, my hips bucking forward into his growing bulge. He groaned as he slipped the spandex over my head. His lips latched onto one of my nipples while his hands occupied the other. He gently sunk his teeth into the sensitive skin, earning a whine from me. I watched as he pulled back, tugging on my skin. 

“Ghost-“ I Said breathlessly. He hummed, bringing his mouth to my other nipple and circling his tongue around it. He palmed my cunt through the thin fabric of my underwear. He groaned, pulling back from my chest and focusing his attention between my legs. 

“I haven’t even done anything and you’ve already soaked through,” he said in a deep voice, pupils dilating as he looked at the mess between my legs. He slipped his fingers under the waistband of my underwear, roughly pulling them over my hips and down my legs. I yelped as my body jolted from the force. He placed his hands on top of my knees and slowly spread my legs. I looked away, feeling another wave of heat on my skin. My head began to spin as he pressed gentle kisses to my inner thighs, slowly creeping toward my center. Pushing my knees further apart, he licked a thick stripe up my cunt. 

“Ghost-” I said breathlessly as I gripped his sheets. He moaned against my skin, sending vibrations up my spine. He flicked his tongue against my clit as his fingers kneaded my thighs. The warmth that enveloped my cheeks spread down my neck and through my extremities. His brown eyes looked up at me through his blonde eyelashes. His cheeks were dusted with a light blush and his hips steadily grinded against the mattress. His lips wrapped around my clit, sucking harshly. My thighs quaked and squeezed around his head. With a grunt he pushed one of my legs up to my chest, not daring to break contact with my clit. 

“Ghost,” I whimpered, “you're so good,” I praised him. I reached down between my legs and slipped my fingers through his damp hair. He pulled back, snapping me out of my haze. His teeth sank into my inner thigh. Two of his fingers circled my entrance, slowly sinking in up to the first knuckle. His fingers were thick and calloused, and the way they rubbed against my walls had me drooling. He pulled out, rubbing his fingers up my saliva-soaked cunt, and then dipping back down again. His fingers slipped in easier, meeting less resistance as he slowly worked me open. He kissed over the red marks he left on my thigh before focusing his attention back on my clit. 

My body was quivering as his fingers hit every right spot inside me. A stream of moans slipped past my tongue, only to be muffled as I clamped my hand over my mouth. 

“Baby,” He Said with a Kiss to my thigh, “let me hear you.” He pulled his sodden fingers out of me and lightly smacked my cunt with the palm of his hand. The sound that came out of me was too loud, too desperate to be muffled. I buried my hand in the sheets again. My knuckles turned white from the force. He thrust his fingers back into me, starting up a fast pace with a force strong enough to have my body bouncing against his knuckles. With a groan, he leaned in, bringing his tongue back to my clit. My hips rocked against his mouth. He chuckled at my desperation, opting to flick his tongue against me with more fervor. 

“Ghost!” I cried out as my hips began to move on their own. “Fuck I’m so close!” He pulled his face back, instead opting to use the thumb on his unoccupied hand to drive me closer to my orgasm. My grip on his hair tightened. A flood of static washed over me as my muscles spasm uncontrollably. With a loud cry, I reached my climax. My vision turned to white, and my eyes stung as they rolled into the back of my head. 

“That’s it, bein' so fuckin’ good for me, aren’t’cha,” Simon said as he sat back on his shins, watching me slowly come out of my haze. My chest heaved as I tried to catch my breath. Droplets of sweat ran down my chest and dampened the hair covering the nape of my neck. 

“You’re cute when you cum,” he said as he stood up off of the bed. He pushed his sweats down his hips. My eyes widened as I watched his cock spring free. It was thick, and flushed, with a string of precum beading from the tip. 

“Ghost, I don’t think it’s gonna fit,” I told him as he stepped out of the sweats. He grabbed my ankles and pulled me toward the edge of the bed. My fingers dug into the mattress as he pulled me even closer. My ass was hanging off the bed. I firmly shifted my weight onto my shoulders, propping myself up to watch as he lined his cock up with my entrance. 

“I’ll make it fit,” he huffed, running the head of his cock up and down my cunt. “You on the pill?”

“Implant,” I responded.

“Good, 'cause I don’t like to wrap it up.” He pushed forward sinking just his tip inside me. I threw my head back against the pillows, moaning at the stretch of his cock. His head hung low, lips parted as he eased his way inside me. I felt full, filled to the brim, but he kept pushing forward. I bit down on my lip until a twinge of metal soaked my tastebuds. 

“Hang on,” He muttered as he pulled out. He threw open his bedside drawer, digging through its contents until he pulled out a clear bottle. I watched as he popped open the cap and drizzled the lube over his cock. With his free hand, he stroked his shaft, spreading the wetness over his skin. Tossing the bottle aside, he quickly stepped forwards and pushed into my cunt once again. My eyes rolled to the back of my head as he slid in with much less resistance. 

“There we go, Open up for me,” He groaned as he started to slowly pull back. My toes curled as he quickly shoved himself back in at a rough pace. I threw my head back against the covers, savoring the way his thrusts made my body bounce against him. My legs thrashed as he circled my clit with his thumb.

“Simon!” I cried as tears began to well in my eyes. “Too much!”

“Oh come on, baby. Your clits practically beggin’ for it. Who am I to deny,” he grunted, voice trembling with every rough thrust against my cervix. The muscles in my stomach tightened as I rapidly approached my second orgasm. 

“You’re fuckin-“ he gasped, “squeezin’.” His thrusts grew more intense. His cock head pounding against my cervix sparked a delicious pain that had me gripping even harder on his cock.

“Simon, cum with me, please.” I whimpered as I reached out to tweak one of his nipples. He threw his head back groaning loudly as his hips drew back and forth. My throat grew sore as a flood of moans broke past my vocal chords. I cried out his name as I lost myself again. He moaned, hips twitching as warmth filled my insides. I looked at him through my fluttering eyelids. His brows were furrowed, lips plump and slick with saliva. His eyes opened and settled on my flushed face. He slowly pulled out, drawing my attention to the mess between my legs. I felt his cum slowly drip out of me and run down my ass. His eyes widened, cock stiffening again as he watched my twitching cunt. 

“Fuck, you really took all of me, doll.” He bit his lip and began to knead my ass. 

“You wanna go again, Lieutenant?” I asked, sliding my hand down my body and spreading my cunt for him. He grunted and brought his hand to his cock, giving it a couple of pumps. 

“Turn around for me,” he said, gesturing with his finger. I flipped onto my stomach, wiggling my ass just to tease him even more. He spread my cheeks and stood back to watch as another stream of his cum dripped from my cunt. 

“You want me to fuck another load into you?” He asked, gripping my hair tightly. 

“Yes sir,” I said, moving my ass. His hand harshly landed on my skin, drawing a moan from me. 

“Want me to fill your cunt, aye?” He said, punctuating his words with another smack. 

“Mmmh fuck me, lieutenant!” I moaned as I felt the head of his cock press into my hole. With a grunt he pushed forward, fully sheathing himself. My head dropped. I bit down on his blanket to muffle the influx of high-pitched moans arising from my stomach. He grunted and made what sounded like a spitting noise. I was too fucked out to pay attention to what he was doing, but eventually, I felt the intrusion of his fingers at my ass. He started with his index, slowly sinking it in, testing how tight my muscles were. He groaned, speeding up his hips as he curled his finger. 

“Spread your ass. Wanna see you take my fingers,” he ordered as he slipped a second spit-soaked finger into my ass. I let out a muffled moan as I spread myself for him. He groaned, pushing his fingers deeper into me. “Oh I can feel my dick in ye like this,” he groaned, angling his hips up. 

A fire ignited in my extremities as his cock hit every single nerve ending inside of me. With the added pressure of his fingers, I felt like he was damn near close to splitting me open. My toes dug into the carpet as I crawled further and further into my ecstasy. 

“Baby, you’re clenchin’. You gonna cum again? What is that, number three?” I could hear the smirk in his voice as he gripped my hip, pulling my ass back onto his dick. I nodded, choking out a sob against his soaked blankets. “Maybe next time I’ll fuck your arse. You seem to like- it,” his words were cut off by a moan. His thrusts grew sloppier, the pace erratic as he approached his climax. With a particularly deep thrust of his cock, I lost myself, screaming his name out as my legs turned to jelly. He slid his fingers out and used the palm of his hand to give me another hard smack to my ass. His hips stilled. My body heaved as I choked out a sob, maybe from the pleasure, maybe from the growing pain in my cervix. 

The mattress dipped as he climbed into bed. His hands gripped my sore hips and tugged me back into his embrace. My breathing was labored as I attempted to catch my breath. Simon softly pressed kisses against my jawline, stroking over my stomach lightly. 

“Fuck, Simon. I could feel you in my goddamn lungs.” I said with a chuckle, placing my hand over his. 

“Told you I'd make it fit,” he said with another kiss to my jaw. We sat in silence, only interrupted by the sound of each other's breath. I could feel his heart pounding against my back, a strong, fast rhythm. He slotted one of his legs between mine. Our limbs began to tangle as I pulled him closer to me. His lips moved to the back of my neck, and my shoulder. Not a single millimeter was left without a kiss. My lips curled Into a smile, and I reached my hand back to grab at his hip.

“So what about my stitches?” Simon asked against the skin of my shoulder. 

“We can leave it for another day. Just don’t make me leave this bed right now, Simon.”

[what-reader-we-r-illiterate]

Cw: nsft, overstimulation, eating the hamato boys out, worth noting in all of these they can either be dubcon, or assume theres a safeword, or assume that the genetically engineered supersoldier killing machines arent throwing u across the room be they dont want to. Apologies for neglecting Donnie a bit I'll write about him more throughly in the future <3 my favs fluctuate depending on the day. Also pain/impact play on genitals bc :3. And crying. Mwah

Im just saying it would be fun to eat one of their plump tail slits out until they're sobbing and pushing you off and squirming to get away because it's too much they can't cum anymore

I feel like Donnie? Would put up a fight and try to brat probably smack you at least once before you smack his pretty cunt and shove him back down, he'd ultimately go nonverbal and let out those choked throaty moans and high pitched ah! He does, trying so hard to stay still, eventually breaking and arching his back, wrapping his thighs around you, tapping and signing 'too much no more please mama/daddy' or whatever he can think of to appease you. If you call him a good boy and praise him for being brave though he will try so, so hard to not struggle. He wants to be praised and good and has SUCH a huge mommy/daddy kink and praise kink because of yes. You can train him so easily with flattery and cooing over how beautiful and obedient he is, what a good job he's doing, how you're so proud of him for being so brave!

Mikey would be giggly at first i fully believe that if he's approached by somebody unless he feels patronized he doesn't bother bratting or pushing them away, he's happy to take physical care and affection. He's letting out the sweetest little moans with his warm, raspy voice, making little jokes, playing with your hair. Then he cums.

And you don't stop.

So he's laughing and thanking you but saying that's enough, he's a bit sensitive now. You ignore him, burying your face deeper into his chubby slit, lapping up his slick like it's your favorite meal. It probably is. His hands tense, his fingers curl into your hair and he tries to tug you off. His laughter fades, replaced by his breath hitching, his pretty eyes tearing up, and he managed to stay pretty still for the first round but now he has all that pent up energy and is overstimulated so he's squirming under you, arching his back, crying out your name.

Your hands are going to leave marks from how tightly they're gripping his soft thighs, forcing them to stay open as he squeals and whimpers under you, his hands yank on your hair, pulling you closer in hopes the counterpressure will help. It doesn't. He sobs, tears running down his cheeks as he tries to look down at you and beg for mercy, before throwing his head back to cum a second time, a third. He probably sobs something about you being mean, how this is NOT nice. You take a break for a few seconds to ask if it feels good when you make him cum over and over. He glares down at you with all the spite in his adorable little self and says no. You inform him that you know he's lying, and good boys don't lie if they want to be listened to. Honestly, he should know better. Healthy open communication is important. You make him describe how it feels out loud as you make him cum four more times, biting or sucking just a bit too hard on his poor clit when his voice breaks and trails off into nonsensical moans. Eventually he slips up and calls you something embarrassing, something he's been holding back for months. You make him cum one last time, scoop him up into your arms, and carry him off for a bubble bath and lots of cuddles and hydration.

(I imagine he is SoooO stubborn about admitting he wants to call you any type of mommy daddy sir maam ect be if baby boy hates anything its being seen as just little and being patronized but he'll make an exception bc a: hot and b: if u actually respect him he'll let that guard down)

Leo has so many damn fronts he puts up he almost loses himself. As with everything regarding Leo, getting him to be vulnerable is so fucking difficult. You have to be open, let him in, be gentle, and when you do push him to be honest, don't let up. You need an answer out of him. It doesn't need to be the answer you want. But you need an answer.

He won't give it to you. He hums and jokes and dances around it. You eventually decide to just get it out of him. He's kicking his feet, reading a comic book on his bed when you pull his shorts down, nip at his tail, tease him for wagging it so hard already, flip him over, and start eating him out lazily.

He's happy to tease back at first, smug, bright cheery tone ringing out as he chatters endlessly, even as he gets close and cums he's talking. His moan is too much like a porn star, practiced. Performative. It sounds a bit different the second time.

Third time and he's laughing nervously, pushing you off as best he can. You grab his waist, pull him further into you. His quips fracture into whimpers and breath hitching.

You are goddamn determined to make him cry. You need an answer, sure, but he needs emotional release more. You let his thighs squeeze around your head, his hands are slapped when they try to pull you away, so he grabs the sheets and writhes under you, rutting his hips up into your mouth despite himself. It takes so long to get him to cry, cumming hurts at that point. Your face and the bed are drenched with his slick, your tongue shoved in as deep as it'll go as he actually moans, actually cries out, as tears finally make their way across his gorgeous crescent markings.

He went limp a few orgasms ago, now he just twitches under you, whimpering your name. You haven't asked in a week, but you get the answer you want. You eat him out awhile longer, just to make sure he gets enough emotional release, then sit up and pull him into your arms, kissing his markings and wiping his tears, pulling a blanket over both of you as you rock gently. The euphoria he feels after crying is more than worth it, he thanks you over and over before falling asleep in your arms.

(V self indulgent sorry all. Also leo walks in but it isnt test dw cuties i wont terrorize yall with that here)

Raph is amicable to whatever you want, very raised eyebrow, 'huh okay i'll try it' with a wry smile. He loves eating you out, fucking you, domming is kind of expected from the partner that's three times as big.

The first time you guide him to lie down on his back, he assumes you're going to have him drop so you can ride him, the (or if he's trans like yours truly, he's just confused, looking up at you with the sweetest puzzled smile, it's a weird angle to be eating you out but okay then.) He reaches to pick you up and help you sit on his face, excited to bury his snout in you, or reaches down to make himself drop. You kiss his hands, gently place one of them on the back of your head, and lick up his slit with your broad tongue, drawing a yelp out of him, before your bury your face in his cunt, soft thighs tensing around you already, he's scared of crushing you so he holds them open. You finally get to hear him whimper instead of grunt, the dirty talk and low voice he usually feels obligated to use is gone, high pitched whines taking it's place. He falls apart immediately, hands flitting between his thighs and your head, scared of hurting you, the fear leaves as you hum into him and he cums hard, forcing you deeper into him, thighs pressed against his hands as he rides out his orgasm. You have to check on him before continuing because he's sobbing so damn loud, it takes a minute to figure out he's saying "no, more please" as in 'no, i'm fine, please, please keep going.' You oblige, and no matter how much he wants it it's a lot, he's fighting the urge to push you away, squirming and panting under you no matter how slowly and gently you take it, poor sensitive boy. He's literally screaming by the fourth orgasm (Leo portals in, takes one look, snorts, portals right back out). Eventually he pulls you off, crying 'no more no more' then regretting it, you tell him he tastes so good, there's so much slick left dripping from his pretty cunt, can't you just clean it up? He holds his thighs open, trembling, soothed by your words as you take breaks to explain how this is so good for you, he's being such a good boy letting you be selfish and taste him as long as you want. Raph doesn't know what to do when you offer to do things for him, it feels weird, he doesn't like it. But he'll do anything for you. And if you making him cum until he screams makes you happy, and is actually for you, he'll let you do it forever. When he's a trembling mess, near passing out, you promise you'll be right back. You walk out and return with snacks, drinks, and a warm washcloth and towel. He's cleaned up, dried off, cooed over and brought his favorite plushies, you watch whatever he wants on his laptop under a million blankets and cover him in kisses and praise as his tail wags.

[gabessquishytum]

🦒 anon here. I wrote something for you and the nice anon that complimented me and said warprize Hob should have pregnant sex. They're right. He deserves it. Cw: pregnancy, lactation, exhibitionism, A/B/O.

------

"Is this—better now, my Hob?"

Hob just wails with trembling thighs, a sound that can surely be heard past the closed doors of the throne room. His head hangs low between his shoulders, down to his forearms that lean comfortably on the cushion of Dream's throne. Hob is kneeling in front of it, shoulders slightly more elevated than his hips, so that his lungs won't be hindered in their work by his now massive belly, but low enough that it's still taking the weight off his hips.

Dream is pounding into him from behind, one arm cradled around Hob's precious middle, the other snaking up to fondle and caress his heavy chest. He is still breastfeeding Clara a few times a day, insisting that it's healthier for her if they wait until she weans herself, and adamant about nursing her to sleep. She's still so little, not even two.

It makes his body perfect in Dream's eyes, devotion and love in every firm curve, in every stained garment. Sometimes Hob spills over in public, wincing with the stinging pressure-pang of suddenly released milk, his shirt eagerly soaking up the wetness. Some times he's nearly mad, torn between the discomfort of putting the needs of their children before his own body, and the lust it brings him that they're theirs, his and Dream's, palpable, real because of their love for each other. Those are the days that his wide, flowing trousers are soaked, too.

Dream refuses to be embarrassed about it. Hob is still very much a functioning member of his kingdom, he attends court and meetings and dinners held for delegates and Dream will punish even guests if they so much as whisper about Hob when his first and most important obligations make themselves known at lesser ones.

Today, Hob has bravely sat through two hours of negotiations, and then he hadn't been able to stand it anymore. He'd gotten up, groaning, pressing his fists into the small of his back. Dream had seen that the seat of his trousers had been absolutely drenched, the lovely, thick smell of pregnant and nursing Omega permeating the entire throne room and it had taken Dream two seconds to dismiss the delegates of the neighboring kingdom and close the doors after them himself.

His Hob has been so patient, so brave for enduring to sit for such a long time and Dream intends to take good care of him always, to alleviate as much of his discomfort as he is able to and reward him for the things he can't make better with everything Hob wants.

So here they are, Hob wanton and half out of his mind with pleasure, slick pouring down his thighs all the way onto the floor as Dream fucks him as good as he can to put counterpressure on his pelvic floor and overwrite his pains with pleasure.

"Dream, DrEAM—" Hob shouts, clenching around Dream's cock, a new wave of slick pouring out of him, pushing himself back as much as he can.

The wet, obscene slapping of their thighs and hips as Dream pounds into him faster echoes through the vast room and Dream hopes that their guests have lingered outside and can hear how good he is taking care of his mate and consort. He hopes they can hear every wet sound, every cry and moan.

Hob almost sobs as Dream picks up the pace, his face now resting on the cushion, his body rocking violently with every thrust. Dream does his best to cushion the movement of Hob's stomach with his arm sei as not to hurt him. It's big, far bigger than with his first pregnancy, and far bigger than it should be at seven months.

The royal doctor has told them Hob is very likely to have twins and Dream has been devoted to Hob's comfort ever since. He's also been unable to go without touching Hob for long, mesmerized, awestruck that Hob is giving him such a heavenly gift, that Hob's body should be capable of such wonders.

And so Dream carries the weight of his precious belly for Hob when they fuck, and many more times besides. He caresses it now, up and down as he pleasures Hob, the taut skin shifting with every movement.

Hob's cunt clenches violently around him in a second orgasm and Hob cries out, wanting, still wanting, for Dream to keep going. Dream can't deny him anything. He keeps his rhythm, Hob's rippling around him making it almost impossible not to come himself, but somehow he manages it.

An almost constant sound works itself out of Hob's throat, a long, deep moan, only interrupted by intakes of breath and hitched by every sharp snap of Dream's hips.

"Come on, my precious darling," Dream coos, moving his other hand to tug at Hob's nipples. "You can manage another one. I know you can. You want to. Let go again, for me, my precious jewel."

Hob's entire body shudders and Dream can feel his fingers growing wet, can see drops of milk splashing onto the marble floor. The spasms around Dream's cock grow rhythmic again and Dream keeps up as good as he can.

"Yes! Dream, please, Alpha, oh please—" Hob begins to shout again, the thing he wants, he violently needs, in close reach. His milk is a steady flow now, small puddles on the floor, slick between Dream's hand and Hob's chest. The sweet smell drives Dream crazy, works him into a frenzy. He pulls Hob up by his torso, his back flush against Dream's chest. Hob screams at the sudden pressure from above, the weight of his belly resting on his hips again, spearing him deeper onto Dream, sitting heavy on his pelvis.

He howls through his orgasm, clenching down like a vice, pulling Dream over the edge with him. Groaning low, Dream pumps his seed into Hob with short, deep thrusts, his knot swelling and pressing further into Hob until he sobs.

When their breath has steadied somewhat, Dream pulls the cushion from his throne and lays them onto their side, still joined by his knot, the cushion under Hob's poor hip, Hob's shoulder and head resting on Dream's arm and chest. It's rather uncomfortable, but Dream won't ask Hob to move, not now, and what's a little discomfort of his own when he can alleviate Hob's for a few, precious moments? Nothing. Nothing at all.

"Thank you," Hob sighs, just a little hoarse, and Dream preens a little at that. He did good.

"Any time," Dream assures him with a kiss on his shoulder. "Are you tired? Sleep."

Hob moans, a quiet, content thing, and wiggles a bit to get comfortable. He is asleep in under a minute. Dream pets his hair, his side, his belly, and feels their children kick. Yes, he thinks, he hopes they've heard. If not, he will have Hob in front of them next time, over the table, staining the papers and maps. And then nobody will utter a word about Hob not being good or dedicated enough again.

🦒 anon!! I am yelling and screaming!! This is such lovely tender sexy smut, I'm so obsessed with how Dream is absolutely focused on Hob’s comfort. So. Good. Yes he absolutely should make sure that everyone can hear next time!!

Thanks for this delicious little ficlet. What a delight!!! ❤❤

[its-my-whump]

Medwhump May- Day 19 Alt 11

Exhaustion

@medwhumpmay

Tw: aftermath of hospitalization and recovery, exhausting as predicted, hehe

Part 19 (all others here)

As she showed the first signs of coming around, after they finished the surgery, and took her own first breaths, she was taken off the ventilator.

Her breathing was rattled and strained, but she was pulling air in on her own. Her lungs working on their own account again, finally.

She fell unconscious, the moment, the tube was out, never realising, what actually had happened.

The unconscious body was rolled into PACU, still deeply under. She stayed still for about another 45 minutes. Her vitals started to climb, the constant drum of her heartbeat picked up a bit and her bloodpressure rose around the time, her fingers started to twitch and brush over the bedding. Her dark eyelashes were moved by her eyes slowly rolling around under closed lids in her pale face. Her forehead wrinkled, in a clear sign of discomfort. Her fever had finally broken and was coming down.

Another few minutes passed, her heartbeat was running faster now, but still some spikes breaking the rhythmical zigzag on the monitor.

A blond middle aged nurse had picked up on her rising vitals and came over. She had been informed, that the lady, that came in, young and healthy, merely 4 days ago, had just undergone an endless strain of deverstating complications. The possibility was high, that she'd panic, when waking up after yet another sedation and another operation performed on her unresponsive body. She'd most definitely be confused and dizzy, like the times before.

The nurse made sure, all iv lines were in order, bags, hang by the side of her bed filling, reassuring, that the young woman's system was still working in the range of its possibilities.

She just laid her hand on the lady's twitching one. The little shock, of how cold those weakly shaking fingers were, the nurse tried to ignore. It felt like a toddler, with too big fingers was trying to grab her hand, actually.

"You're alright, hunny." She said in a half-loud voice. Cold fingers curcled around her own, the stirring had stopped, as had the rustling of the sheets.

The pale face was making all kinds of disturbed expressions, as her closed eyeslids kept on hectically moving from side to side.

"I'm here for you, little lady." The blond nurse encouraged her again.

The patient's eyes opened just a little crack. Her nose wrinkled, despite her state, the nasal cannula, was disturbing her clearly.

Eyes were tired, confused and glazy, slowly adjusting to her surroundings.

The hand under the nurse's tried to move, but the additional weight of her's was making it impossible.

Her other arms twitched, fingers straightening agonising slowly and the unused muscles tensed. Her heartbeat was audibly hammering away, but her movements were only slow. She was confused, too exhausted to be overwhelmed by rising panic, it seemed.

The arm lifted from the bed, hand aiming for the tube under her nose and around her ears, while she pulled in swallow breths. Every movement of her chest, showed as a wrinkle, build by pain in her face.

She only managed to lift her arm about 10 inches, half way across her chest.

The nurse's other hand took a gentle hold of the arm in midair. It was shaking in her carefully grip, no real counterpressure there at all.

"You're fine, sweetheart. We'll take care of you."

Those seemed to be the reassuring words, the little lady needed. Her arm fell limp in the nurse's hand, the fingers on the bed, under her other, fell still. A relieved exhale and the exhausted female patient went under again.

->Day20

My masterlist

[dragoneyes618]

The unique German brew of antisemitic ideologies culminated in Germany's unleashing the "Final Solution" of the "Jewish Problem." But thanks to the virtual universality of antisemitism, the Germans found fertile fields to sow the Holocaust throughout nearly all of Europe. The six million Jews slaughtered by the Nazis came from twenty-one European countries. Hitler's goal was to render at least Europe judeinrein (free of Jews), and by 1945, he had murdered almost seven out of every ten Jews on the European continent. In some countries, the Germans murdered the overwhelming majority of Jews. To cite the two most extreme examples, in Poland, the Germans murdered 3 million Jews out of a pre-war Jewish population of 3.3 million, and in Latvia, Lithuania, and Estonia, 228,000 out of 253,000.

The major reason for the Nazis' success in murdering Europe's Jews was the cooperation they received from citizens of Nazi-occupied countries. Thus, almost everywhere, wherever the local populations refused to cooperate the percentage of Jews murdered was considerably smaller than elsewhere, and in two instances - Denmark and Finland - almost all the Jews were saved.

Concerning Denmark, its prewar Jewish population of eight thousand was mainly composed of Jews well integrated into Danish society. After the German takeover in April 1940, Himmler and other top German officials repeatedly pressured Denmark to take actions against its Jewish citizens.

Lucy Dawidowicz described the events: "After Denmark came under martial law, Best [the German minister in charge of Denmark] tried to deport the Danish Jews. His plans...were reported on September 28 [11943] to Danish Social Democratic leaders. The Germans had scheduled the roundup of the Jews for October 1, 1943, but in an extraordinary operation involving the whole Danish people and the agreement of the Swedish government, nearly all Danish Jews were hidden and then ferried across to Sweden, where they remained in safety until the end of the war. The Germans managed to round up some four hundred Jews, whom they send to Theresienstadt [ a concentration camp in Czechoslovakia]. The internment of the Danish Jews in Theresiendtadt agitated the Danish government which repeatedly requested permission to inspect the camp. In June, 1944, such permission was granted, and the visit was made by delegates of the Danish Red Cross. As a consequence of persistent Danish interest in the deported Jews, none was sent to Auschwitz. At the end of the war, fifty-one had died in Theresienstadt of natural causes."

Finland provided a second example of a German-occupied nation being able to save its Jews. When Himmler visited Helsinki in July 1942, he pressured the Finns to deport their Jews to German concentration camps. The Finnish foreign minister, Rolf Witting, simply refused to consider the matter, and no Finnish Jews were murdered.

A third example of a country (in this instance an ally of Germany) where the Nazis encountered stiff resistance to the Final Solution from the populace and leadership is Bulgaria. After Bulgaria's leaders halted the deportation of native Bulgarian Jews, though not of Jewish refugees living there, "the Germans continued to exert pressure to deport the Jews, but the counterpressure of Bulgarian opinion, especially the Bulgarian Orthodox Church, restrained the government from compliance. King Boris III, too, was opposed to deporting any but 'Communist elements.'" As a result, 50,000 of the 64,000 Jews in Bulgaria survived the war.

In most countries the Germans occupied, however, they received enormous local support in locating, arresting, and, in Eastern Europe, murdering the Jews. It was this support, offered enthusiastically in countries with large Jewish populations, that enabled the Final Solution to achieve its demonic success.

In Poland, with its history of antisemitism and its large Jewish population (10 percent of the population), the Germans were repeatedly aided in their program to murder all Polish Jews. When Poland became independent in 1919, the event was accompanied by a series of pogroms. During the years between the wars, severe quotas were placed on Jews in universities, and discriminatory economic regulations impoverished many Jews.

The record of Polish support for Nazi actions against the Jews is documented in many sources, nowhere more vividly than in The Warsaw Diary of Chaim A. Kaplan. Kaplan, a German-born Jew, living in Poland, meticulously recorded Jewish life in Poland under Nazi rule. His published diary runs from September 1, 1939, the day of the German invasion, until Kaplan's own deportation on or about August 4, 1942. Throughout the journal Kaplan wrote of Poles' support for the Nazis' anti-Jewish policies. For example, when the Nazis ordered the confiscation of almost all the Jews' property and money, Jews pleaded with longtime Christian friends to accept sums for safekeeping. But, wrote Kaplan, "the Christian 'friends' refused, because their merchants association had forbidden its members to give assistance to Jews in any form whatsoever" (October 16, 1939).

The depth of Polish Jew-hatred was particularly evident in Kaplan's description of the expulsion of the Jewish community of Pultusk. The entire community, including "old men with canes and sick people on the point of death" was exiled to Poplawy. "The rabbi went with the exiles...That night the Polish inhabitants of the village attack the rabbi, beat him up, and stole his last pennies. They stole the money from the rest of the exiles as they were leaving the village. The crowd cheered them all and emptied their pockets" (October 26, 1939). Another example: Kaplan noted that in the early days of the occupation, before the Nazis had ghettoized the Jews and when the Jews and Poles waited on bread lines for food, the Poles, "even though...they do not know German...have nevertheless learned to say 'Ein Jude' in order to get [a Jew] thrown out of line" (October 5, 1939).

But what may most reveal the depth of Polish antisemitism is that most of the Poles in the anti-Nazi underground refused to help Polish Jews even during the Jews' revolt in the Warsaw Ghetto. And a few months after the revolt's failure, on September 15, 1943, General Tadeusz Bor-Komorowski of the Armia Krajowa, the main Polish underground force, ordered that Jewish anti-Nazi fighters be liquidated. Though many moving individual instances of Poles risking their lives to save Jews are recorded, such as the seven Poles who smuggled arms into the Warsaw Ghetto and several thousand Poles who hid Jews, Poles overwhelming reacted to the Nazi genocide of the Jew with, at best, indifference, and often, support. Only with Polish cooperation could the Nazis have murdered over 90 percent of the more than three million Jews of Poland. And it was not coincidental that the major Nazi death camps were located in Poland.

Hitler's actions against the Jews were also abetted by his ally from 1939 to 1941, Joseph Stalin. When German Foreign Minister Joachim von Ribbentrop met with Stalin to discuss the Soviet-German partition of Poland, they also addressed Germany's treatment of Polish Jews. Von Ribbentrop reported Stalin's response: "The Polish national problem might be dealt with as Germany sees fit," a statement that the Germans understood as supportive of their anti-Jewish actions.

Though Stalin knew about German persecution of Polish Jews from 1939 on, he kept this information secret. As a consequence, when the Germans broke their alliance with the Soviets and invaded the USSR in 1941, Soviet Jews had no idea that the Germans intended to murder them. The effects of this Communist-designed ignorance were catastrophic. Oblivious to Nazi designs, the Jews in occupied Soviet territory at first made no attempt to resist the German army or even to flee. When the Germans ordered local Jewish leaders to gather all the Jews for resettlement to a "Jewish region," the Jews obeyed. When the Jews did gather, Einsatzgruppen, Nazi mobile killing unites, together with "local Ukrainian, White Russian, or Latvian militia would transport the Jews outside thw town and murder them all - men, women, and children - by machine-gun fire within abandoned dugouts and ravines."

The Germans relied on local support of this kind throughout Eastern Europe. As soon as they captured Kovno, Lithuania, gangs of Lithuanians murdered 3,800 Jews on June 25-26, 1941. Upon capturing Lvov, in Soviet Ukraine, the Germans immediately organized a Ukrainian militia that murdered 7,000 Jews on July 2-3. The historian Shmuel Ettinger noted that the actions of the Ukrainians were so immediate and precipitate that "the murders were halted by order of the Germans," who wished to rbing greater order to the genocide campaign. That fall, at the end of September 1941, Germans and Ukrainians murdered at least 3,000 Jews in Babi Yar, a ravine near Kiev.

Romanians also participated in the murder of their Jews. On June 28, 1941, blood pogroms were carried out there, and 7,000 Jews were murdered. Later, the Romanians established concentration camps for the Jews. By the war's end 300,000 Romanian Jews had been murdered through the joint efforts of Germans and Romanians.

In the German puppet state of Slovakia in March 1942, the leader of the Slovak People's Party, Father Josef Tiso, a Catholic priest, agreed to expel the Jews. After his Fascist Hlinka Guard conducted massive manhunts for Jews, 35,000 were sent eastward to be murdered in the death camps. A Slovak rabbi went to Archbishop Kametko and asked him to influence his former private secretary, Tiso, to stop the expulsions. The archbishop responded: "This is no mere expulsion. There you will not die of hunger and pestilence; there they will slaughter you all, old and young, women and children, in one day. This is your punishment for the death of our Redeemer. There is only one hope for you - to convert to our religion. Then I shall effect the annulling of this decree."

In the fall of 1944, RAbbi M. D. Weissmandel escaped while en route to a concentration camp and ultimately met with the papal nuncio, describing for him the horrors of the Jews in temporary camps awaiting deportation to Auschwitz. He begged the papal nuncio to intervene with Tiso. The papal nuncio answered: "This, being a Sunday, is a holy day for us. Neither I nor Father Tiso occupy ourselves with profane matters on this day."

Weissmandel persisted, arguing that the lives of innocent human beings, including infants and children, were not a profane matter. The papal nuncio responded: "There is no innocent blood of Jewish children in the world. All Jewish blood is guilty. You have to die. This is the punishment that has been awaiting you because of that sin" [the death of Jesus].

Shmuel Ettinger summarized the support given by the people of Eastern Europe in the Nazi war against the Jews: "The most active accomplices of the Germans in these acts of extermination were the Ukrainians and Lithuanians, but they had many helpers among the Croatians, Rumanians, Hungarians and Slovaks....Their police personnel were willing to search tirelessly for days and even weeks in order to hunt down one concealed Jewish child. Though Poland was notorious for her antisemitism, it is a fact that the number of Jews hidden and saved there by the local population was many times higher than in Soviet Ukraine and Soviet White Russia....[But] it is not by chance that Poland was chosen as a the country of extermination. The Polish people...[did not] lift a finger to help the Jews, even in the worst days of mass murder, or during the Warsaw ghetto uprising. There were many Poles who handed escaping Jews over to the Nazis. Nevertheless, there were some Poles, mainly in the monasteries, who were shocked at the brutal murders, and particularly the slaughter of young children, and attempted to save them. Through them several thousand Jewish children were saved in Poland.

There is no question that in Western Europe the Germans took greater care in carrying out the Final Solution, knowing that anti-Jewish feelings were less intense there. As a result, except for Holland, the percentage of Jews murdered in Western Europe was considerably less than in Eastern Europe. Nonetheless, the Germans were also extended extensive cooperation in Western Europe. In France, for example, the Nazis required French cooperation to carry out deportation of Jews, since they lacked the manpower to do it alone..

On June 11, 1941, the Nazis formulated plans to round up all Jews between the ages of sixteen and forty. Pierre Laval, vice prime minister in Vichy, unoccupied France, informed the Germans that he would not use French police to round up Jews who were French citizens. But he did order the French police to turn over to the Germans the 64,070 Jewish refugees in Paris, including children under sixteen years of age. By mid-July, French police had delivered 4,051 Jewish children under the age of sixteen into the hands of the Nazis - Jews whom the Nazis themselves had not ordered rounded up. These children were subsequently sent to Auschwitz.

Virtually every secular and religious ideology and nationality in Europe had been saturated with Jew-hatred by the time the Nazis developed the Final Solution. Over the preceding decades and centuries major elements of Christianity, Marxism and socialism, nationalism, and Enlightenment and post-Enlightenment thought had come to view the existence of Jews as a distinctive people with a distinctive Jewish identity as intolerable. In the final analysis, they all would have opposed what Hitler did, but without them, Hitler could not have done it.

- Why the Jews? The Reason for Antisemitism, Dennis Prager and Joseph Telushkin, pages 147-153

[red-shepherds]

actually. speaking of chronic pain. does anyone have good hacks to modify a pen in order to make using one NOT hell on my index finger? I support my pens that way, index shoved against it as a counterpressure because I don't really have the dexterity to write well otherwise. I'm considering using coban to wrap it like a tattoo gun, but aaaany other good advice would be appreciated.

[chunky-ruckus]

Unfinished fic: Lost in Coma (and Covered in Cake)

This fic was an Ardata character study slash ardata / chahut smut fic. I didn't get too far past the beginning; I needed to replay her friendsim. The fic felt a little ooc.

___

Prose written:

You were hatched in the red. Up an eye, you guess, but always something missing. Something lost. So, you know a thing or two about living in deficit. You’re attuned to all the itty bitty minutia of it, all those things you’ve lost.

Tonight it’s your idiot followers again. Highlights from last morning’s stream include: you’re loosing [sic] your touch, blue and wheeree’s thee guuts, ‘daataa? and ur manikure is lookin whakk, babygirl and more pet-names than a fucking porno. And who asked them, anyway? Like you’re someone to fucking pity.

Still, you scowl at the feeling of your traitorous heart stuttering in your chest when you look at your follower count. In the red. Again. 

Your hand itches toward the screwdriver.

A feeling flashes as your fingers brush the rough plastic. The desire to drive it into your socket and escape yourself, though you aren’t sure if the desire is your own or just some idiot’s fleeting memory you picked up along the way. But, suddenly, you’re craving steak, and you’re thinking of them.

A hm. A hm hm hm! You’re laughing a stifled laugh. How preposterous! You’re cerulean. A highblood; violence comes natural to you. Too bad for the philistines. 

The light from your husktop is giving you a fucking miiigraiine. You rub your eyes, providing counter pressure. When you pull away, some of your eyelashes have come away in your palms, stuck in the mascara. Oozy swipes of pitch sticky on your skin. 

You suppose you are a blueblood, in the sense that a ghost is a person. Sure, you occupy. Yes, you appear. The burgundies can sense you and they are afraid. But place hand to skin and it would phase right through. You aren't there, not really, haunting not a house but your caste, your cast; you’re playing a part but really, there's nothing substantial to you at all.

You think it might be because there’s something askew inside you, stewing low in your belly like this morning's malevolent parasite. Cut open anyone else, pull out their guts and put 'em on the table, and everything will curl wetly back back into place with enough time.

But you? You’re something different. Built wrong, from the inside. Cut you open, slice from hip to rib, and your guts would never stop spilling. Slide out of you and flee. Wet and slithering and hateful. Sucking your blood and viscera from your body in a never ending gush.

And, you think, that's why you bring them to your red room. Isn’t that trollmanity? To be fascinated by the unfamiliar? Isn’t that why people followed you in the first place? 

Your fist clenches; the eyelashes stuck to your palm tickle your fingers.

Fuck them.

Still, losing followers is becoming something of a trend. You need to... Do. Something. Something new.

Your arms cross over your stomach like you’re holding in your traitorous guts even now. Something drops in your belly- a feeling you refuse to name- even as you sneer through the feeling. 

Troll Picasso cut his fucking ear off for this shit, and you’re no troll Picasso. You won’t lose an eye, not even for another.

The moons roll high in the night like even the sky and stars are sick of your shit. That flavor of raw meat lingers in your tongue, curling your upper lip.

Maybe it’s true, then. Maybe your act is getting old.

It’s the middle of the night. Fuck it, you may as well admit it. You’re thinking of them. That bloom of warmth they put right inside you. It feels too right; you need something ugly....

(Your eyes are killing you.)

...Counterpressure.

(Taking too much space up in your head.)

And, you realize, your guts are roiling; you’re hungry, you guess. But you’re hungry all the time, something awful and aching that can’t be sated.

Perhaps it’s true, then... 

You’re just like your lusus.

[LINE BREAK]

What sort of piece of shit friend would you be if you didn’t religiously track the whereabouts of your one and only? And religiously is right; what the fuck where they doing with the funny folk? At the hive of worship, no less.

Still, you suppose it can’t be helped for a helpless, hapless, hornless idiot- said affectionately, of course- to find their way towards the ugly. Like attracts like.

And this place attracted you, tonight, which has to be some sort of cosmic fucking metaphor. The hive of violence stands before you stained in swirling glass and centuries of blood and shitty soda.

Your mind stirs, the familiar feeling of the weaker-willed in distress calling you from within. You’re disgusted by the pull they have on you; how their mind affects yours because your mind is always listening. Hey, it’s not like you can turn your psychicality off.

Without your permission, your traitorous stride has taken you to stand in front of a pair of heavy, mahogany doors. Inlaid in the wood on either side are two skulls, one painted in a ghoulish smile, the other in a frown. The sexy, clownish curlicues of their horns do little to detract from your desire to press your hand to the wood.

Your hand pulls away wet and globby, a puppet string of warm-hued blood lingering between your hand and the door. 

You scowl. What, they couldn’t have posted “Wet Paint” signs? You rub the coagulated blood between your fingers, comfort found in the familiar. Peering closer, and, yes, the doors are shiny wet. You catch a glimpse of your reflection, distorted over blood clots and the whirl of the wood, and fix your hair. And, god, your eyes are all fucked up. Using your nail, you neaten the lines of your eyeliner and scratch away stray streaks of mascara.

You hate looking in the mirror. It’s something lonely people do, like they have no one else to share the irony with. Like they have to look inwards to get the joke. But this? Reflected in blood like you are? You finally look like yourself. 

You make a pose, smiling malevolently with your hand demurely covering your mouth, and, like a shitty horror movie, the door opens a crack with a foreboding creak.

___

Outline / Snippets (kinda):

(It isn’t her fault she’s so unkempt. Clowns love the dishevelment; their raison d’être.)

(Yes, you’re inspired. Maybe you don’t kill them right away. Kill them slowly, start with their spirit. Give them life in trickles and take it away only slightly faster. Your lusus would love that. The idea makes you tired. It’d be so much work. So little reward.)

(Chahut and Ardata fight: data sends te rusties after chahut, chahut cuts them down lazily, no effort. She’s an artist (cue anger that Chahut doesn’t suffer for her art, justify data’s superiority) Later, checkov’s rustie: Data sends one of the half dead towards Cahhut and Chahut voodoos them, successfully getting into data’s mind.)

(Paint her face and call her holy? Are you one a them girles that buys into that eyeliner sharper than a knife shit? Chahut cuts her axe next to data’s eyeliner with the steady hand of one whos spend sweeps practicing in the mirror)

[umber-cinders]

Title:  𝑊𝑖𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑀𝑜𝑜𝑛 🌕❄

Chapter 18: Possessions

Chapter Summary: Inya gets her things from Wakanda back and tries to sort out the chaos of events that is her life. She only gets so far before everything comes crashing down on top of her.

Warnings:  MATURE, EXPLICIT 🔞 ‼🚨READ THE TAGS🚨‼ Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Rape/Non-con Elements, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Recreational Drug Use, Blood and Violence, Smut, Forced Bonding, Claiming Bites, Mating Cycles/In Heat,Knotting, Breeding Kink, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Wakanda AU, Dark AU

❥Chapter Index ❥

The only real indication of how upset M'Baku was after Dr. Uloma’s visit was his notable silence. Inya wouldn’t have minded the quiet if it didn’t come with his intense brooding and abrupt temper. She could feel it tugging like a rope, taut and thick against any counterpressure. Navigating it was just like slipping and having the fibres burn and cut your palms on the way down. He gave both her and Ekene nothing but curt and to-the-point commands the next morning after announcing that the lockdown had been lifted. His attitude was a complete one-eighty from the way he’d acted a few days prior.

Inya hesitated to admit that it made her nervous. With everyone free to leave and go back to their own domain, she couldn’t help but think about how isolated she would be again.

Here at the stronghold, there were eyes everywhere, watching to gossip about every little thing. It tended to make people stay on their best behavior, and that included M’Baku. Back at their home, there was more anonymity. But here, she wasn’t doomed to be stuck with only M'Baku and Ekene as her only source of company.

Would things change now?

❥Read The Rest On Ao3 ❥

[julieverne]

I'd rather this than have two people counterpressure by holding each boob still because 'the tissue is too dense, you'd be great at breastfeeding' so they could dig the the grappling hook for all the biopsies deep enough to harpoon the tumours because it turns out my skin never quite stop reacting the scar tissue and they are right where my binder closes and they hurt a lot.

Also, no breasts are truly unremarkable.