#i woke up at 4 am and had a sore throat

[hottpinkpenguin]

Letting Someone Go - Part 5 (The End!)

Benny Cross X Female Reader part 1 is here! part 2 is here! part 3 is here! part 4 is here! A/n: ahhh it's always so hard to write a satisfying ending. i rlly hope you enjoy it, and i want to thank everyone for reading this series!! i am officially taking Bikeriders requests, so if this story got your mind thinking about what other Benny/Vandals boys content you'd like, feel free to send it my way! Word Count: 3683 Warnings: none for this chapter

You woke up the next morning with a split lip, a black eye, and a hangover. Before even opening your eyes, you knew you were back at Zipco’s house based on the strong Patchouli-incense-over-bourbon smell. Not on the lumpy couch though - you were in his bed. You opened one eye and instantly regretted it: the world started to spin and you barely managed to grab at the wastebasket someone had left by the bedside before you emptied your stomach. You wretched until there was nothing left to come up, just bile and bloody spit. Unwilling to test your vertigo by standing up and walking down the hall to the bathroom, you called out for Zipco in a watery-thin rasp.

“Zip?” 

Silence. It seemed like the house was empty. Zipco was many things, but a quiet housemate was not among them. Wherever he went, he was slamming doors, knocking furniture, thumping on the rickety floorboards. 

“Zip ain’t here.”

The voice startled you and you whipped your head around - another immediate regret, as it renewed your nausea. Benny was sitting in a chair in the corner of the room, smoking a cigarette and watching you closely. He must have slept here, you realized, as you took in the wrinkled tshirt stained with your mascara and blood and his mussed hair. 

“Where’s Zip?” you groaned, shutting your eyes in a vain attempt to stop the spinning. 

Benny stood up and walked out of the bedroom as he called back to you. “He took Kathy home. I asked him to stay with her for the night, keep an eye on things.”

Kathy. Last night. The memory of that awful night came back to you hard and with a vengeance. You whimpered, pressing your face down on the pillow as if you could blot it out. From down the hall, you heard the sound of Benny rummaging around in the kitchen for a few moments. You willed yourself to focus on that noise and breathe deeply through your nose and out through your mouth. 

You felt the mattress give under his weight as he came back and perched on the edge of the bed. “Here.” He handed you a bag of ice, coaxing you to lift your head and place the ice against your swollen lip. He brushed back strands of your hair out of your face with a tenderness you’d never seen from him before. 

“Thank you,” you croaked, voice cracking. “For last night. Helping me. For everything.” 

He nodded softly and offered you a cup of water. “Try to drink it,” he encouraged. You obeyed, wincing at the bad taste in your mouth and the soreness in your throat as you swallowed. The water settled in your stomach with a cooling rush, and it helped lessen your headache marginally. Benny just kept sitting there, fussing over you like a nursemaid. It was achingly touching, but surprising and strangely intimate. After a few moments, you cleared your throat and forced yourself to sit upright, moving slowly and deliberately so as not to set off the spins again. He helped you prop yourself up against the headboard, one of Zip’s pillows tucked at the small of your back.

“How’s Kathy?” Why you asked that question was anyone’s guess. You were grasping at straws, overwhelmed by Benny’s presence and his assiduous attention to you. You couldn’t care less how Kathy was doing, and you knew you were risking the moment between you two - whatever it was - by bringing her up. 

Predictably, Benny’s face crumpled from concern to something harder. He held your gaze with a wary seriousness. “You really wanna know how my wife is right now?” 

Wife. 

You pursed your lips - bad move, you felt the split open up and fresh blood coat your tongue - and looked down at the water glass in your hand so he couldn’t see the tears in your eyes. You hadn’t known Kathy was that to him. You’d never really considered the possibility. Four years is a hell of a long time, a reprimanding voice in your head reminded you. What did you expect?

Why didn’t the guys tell you? A flash of anger at Zipco and Cal and Johnny flared in your chest. It was irrational, you knew, and a displacement of your real pain. The anger fizzled out as quickly as it had come up, leaving you alone with a sinking grief. 

Benny must have noticed your reaction. “You didn’t know.” Not a question, an observation. One he must have suspected because you heard the sound of confirmation in his voice. His words didn’t sound unkind, although there was an edge of pity there that you hated. Unable to meet his eyes, you simply shook your head. 

“I figured one of the guys told you.” 

“Yea, I would’ve figured that too.” 

You ran a finger along the lip of the water glass. Anything for a distraction. A thick silence that threatened to bloom into something permanent settled between you. 

“Congrats,” you managed with a small, bitter laugh. “How long?”

Benny turned away from you, bracing his hands on his knees and looking at the wall. “Y/n, don’t do this.”

“Do what?” you demanded, embarrassment staining your cheeks. Not only had he just dropped this hundred pound disappointment on you, but now he expected you not to struggle with its weight?

“Hurt yourself,” he replied sadly, turning back to you. His eyes drank you in and caused your breath to tangle in your throat. Once again, you couldn’t hold his gaze, and let your eyes drop to your hands. You knocked that one set of your knuckles were scraped and bruised, and a snippet of memory - men dragging you up a stairwell, you thrashing against them and screaming out for help - smacked you like a freight train. The sob that bubbled in your lungs refused to be stifled. 

At the sound of it, Benny stiffened. “I’m sorry. I should’ve left. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. I’ll go, send Zip back over.” 

You looked back up at him and found you could look through him. Talking to the wall behind Benny, you felt your mouth moving as words came pouring out before you fully knew what you wanted to say. “Aight then, Benny, you best get your stuff and get out, then.”

It was the exact same line you’d said to him four years ago when he’d made you tell yourself that he was in love with someone else. Unlike then, this time your words dripped with poison. 

He flinched slightly at your words, and you figured that was about as much as you could hope for. Benny Cross was many things, but he would never be the kind of guy who would collapse for a woman. Especially not one that he didn’t love. 

For a heartbeat or two, he looked at you while you looked through him. It was a test. Who would break first. Both of you knew the answer. Benny was incapable of breaking. You’d been craving that from him for too long and had been disappointed too many times before to delude yourself now. Benny was going to leave, exactly like you’d told him to. He wasn’t going to argue, or apologize, or ask why you were angry, or stubbornly ignore your dismissal in an attempt to get through to you. He was going to leave because that’s what he did. Although not with Kathy, that vicious inner voice reminded you. Just you. 

Right on cue, Benny broke eye contact, hesitating momentarily before standing up from the edge of the bed. Your eyes followed him as he walked over to the chair he’d been sitting in, picked up his leather jacket and threw it on over his shoulders. The icy shell around your heart threatened to thaw as the realization that this might be the last moment you ever saw him overtook you. 

He moved to leave without looking back to you, although he did stop at the door.

“Why’d you come back?” he asked, his voice low and full of something approaching emotion. 

“For Brucie’s funeral,” you replied robotically. 

You both knew it was a lie. Benny waited, turning slightly so his body was angled towards you, but still not looking up at you. 

“What do you want me to say, Benny? That I came back for you? That I stayed away for so long because of you? You already know all that shit.”

He fidgeted with his leather riding gloves methodically, tucking them into the sleeves of his jacket. You’d never known Benny to care about stuff like that. You had the fleeting thought that he was stalling against what you both sensed would be your last goodbye. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled heavily. “I’m sorry for everything.” 

And with that, Benny vanished once again from your life, leaving behind that all too familiar ache like a gaping hole in your chest. 

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

Benny was riding back to Kathy’s apartment when he realized that he didn’t want to. The last thing he wanted was to get an earful from Kathy, although he knew precisely that’s what was waiting for him. An earful for getting involved in another fight over the club, for getting involved with you, and for leaving her behind. He deserved it, but he didn’t want it.

He also didn’t want to turn around and back towards the girl he’d just left, with her face busted up and her spirit broken. All because she’d come back hoping for something from him. All she was going to get was disappointment. That’s all Benny had for anybody else. He’d disappointed Kathy by not being a good husband. He’d disappointed Johnny by not being a good Vandal, not being willing to take over the charter. And he’d disappointed y/n simply by not being good. Most of all, Benny was his own biggest disappointment. He realized, sitting on the back of his bike idling at a light that had long ago turned from red to green, that he wasn’t sure what he’d imagined for his life, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. It wasn’t watching the people around you get hurt, time and time again, all behind your own failures. 

So, instead of turning left on 53rd St. to head home, Benny kept going straight on 55th until it linked up with Rte 34 in Naperville. He gassed up in Wyanet and didn’t stop until he hit the Nebraska line. Benny rode west until he got tired of staring at sunsets, and then turned north, meandering up into colder country. 

Epilogue

At first, the running theory about what happened was that one of the guys from the night before had found Benny, somehow, on the way back from Zipco’s place and jumped him. Beat the shit out of him, took his bike, dumped him on the side of a road somewhere. Maybe even killed him. But, as weeks turned into months without any news and without a body, a different understanding took hold: Benny Cross had simply left. 

Kathy stuck around but drifted steadily further away from the MC. She stopped showing up to Junker’s on Friday nights, stopped hanging out at the Vandals’ house parties, stopped asking Johnny if he’d heard from Benny. You saw her a few times in the years after Benny left, usually at the laundromat or the corner store, somewhere neutral. She never acknowledged you, and you figured that was probably the smart thing to do. There weren’t any words the two of you could exchange that would do anything for either of you. Better just to let sleeping dogs lie. At some point, you saw Kathy Cross for the last time, although you didn’t know it would be the last. Word reached the MC that she’d met some wealthy Cincinnati lawyer in a pop shop and had moved in with him a few weeks later, into some swanky highrise overlooking the Ohio River. You had a suspicion that Kathy’s days of logging time on the back of a bike were over. 

While Kathy exited the Vandals’ scene, you found yourself quickly at the center of the club. You and Zipco decided after a few months that you made great friends, but shit roommates. You moved into your own place a few blocks down from Junker’s and opened a body shop for bikes with the money your daddy left you in the will. Your first employee was Cal, and your first customer was Johnny. From that day forward, the Vandals MC kept your business buzzing and your books balanced. You named the shop Cross Roads Bikes. Customers who didn’t know you asked why “cross roads” was two separate words; usually, you just told them that you’d been drunk when you filled out the business license application and had put a space in there by accident. Customers who knew you didn’t need to ask what happened. 

In spite of that, somewhere along the way you woke up one day and realized that this was the closest you’d been to happy in a long long time, maybe ever. It struck you as strange, because since the day you’d met him, you’d only seen happiness as part of your future if Benny was in it. Yet, here you were: happy (ish) and Benny-less. Funny how the world works.  

You didn’t know why Benny took off or where he’d gone, but you did know one thing: Benny broke three hearts the day he left McCook. Johnny took Benny’s absence harder than the woman who married him and the woman who loved him. Johnny changed the day Benny left. He seemed to age two days for every one that passed. His laughter dried up and his leadership got sour. Between Cal, Zipco, and a few of the other old guard, the Vandals held themselves together, but everyone could see that the winds of change were brewing, and the MC was on the edge of a permanent change. All that was left to do was to hold your breath and wait.

You were with Johnny Davis the day he died. You remembered the way that young kid had shot him, point blank, in some old abandoned parking lot on the western edge of town. All the light was gone from Johnny’s eyes by the time you reached him. The Vandals you knew died with him in that weedy parking lot that night. 

Zipco left about a month later for Texas. He sent you a few postcards, called you a couple times. After a while, there wasn’t anything left to say. You never stopped sending him his favorite bottle of bourbon at Christmas. Every once in a while, a customer would come in from out of town and tell you that your shop was personally recommended to them by a drunk, grouchy old Latvian who worked on a shrimping boat outside of Corpus Christi. 

One by one, the new Vandals stopped coming into your shop for their repairs and tune-ups. That was fine with you. You didn’t recognize any of the newcomers, and you doubted they recognized you, apart from vague memories of seeing you drinking and laughing in Junker’s next to the guys that they considered to be the past. Cross Roads Bikes was about four years old at that point, and you’d built enough of a non-MC customer base to survive the turnover. The day Cal came in and told you he’d turned in his patch and was planning to head back out to California, you knew that your last tie with the club had been cut. In some ways, it was relieving, in other ways, terrifying. You and Cal got shitfaced together that night and told old war stories about all the guys you’d known and lost. You cried like a baby when, two weeks later, you were standing on the sidewalk, watching Cal’s taillight fade into the Illinois dark as he headed out to the West Coast for the next chapter of his life. 

Much to your surprise, it was Sheila and Becky, Johnny’s widow, who became your new club. They took to bringing you sandwiches at the shop and sitting on the counter with you for lunch breaks, telling the did you hear? kind of stories that bond people with a loose circle of mutual acquaintances together. It was easy and fun and all three of you seemed to know that this was it. If you all let yourselves drift away, who was going to tell stories about the guys you’d all known? About the Vandals’ early days, the glory days? You three were all that was left. Ironic, you thought. A men’s club, survived by three women. 

Your life fell into a pattern. Productive, purposeful, content with little stains of sadness at the edges. But mostly, a good life. You were happy, and getting used to it every day. At some point, your life became predictable.

That’s why, one crisp fall morning as you stumbled out of bed at 6:00am to the waiting pot of Zipco-strong coffee and the stack of yesterday’s mail on the counter, the last thing you were expecting to see was the outline of a man sitting on your front porch steps. The black leather jacket with an original Vandals patch on the back, the Harley parked across the street, the tousled blonde hair. It was a ghost of a memory. 

You opened the front door a crack and looked down on the profile of Benny Cross. He was looking up at the neon Cross Roads Bike sign that Johnny and the rest of the club had gifted to you for your one-year anniversary at the shop. When he looked up at you with those same old blue eyes, it was like stepping into a dream.

“Hey.”

You closed the door behind you, offering him your mug of coffee as you wrapped your robe around you against the chill. “Hey.”

He scooched over to make room for you to join him. You did, tucking your knees up against your chest for warmth. The cold concrete of your porch steps bit into your backside. 

“Looks good,” Benny commented softly, gesturing up at the Cross Roads sign. The text was superimposed over an image of a motorcycle - an all-black 1965 Harley Electra-Glide, to be exact. The same bike that happened to be sitting across the street from you, where Benny had parked it. 

“Yea, yea,” you agreed gently, looking up at the sign with a sad smile. “Hope you don’t mind, I stole your bike. And your name.” 

When you looked back at Benny, a half-smirk was spreading across his face. He looked the same, although you could see that the road had been riding him just as much as the other way around. You knew that life. 

The two of you sat in silence for a while, sharing the same cup of coffee and a cigarette, letting the sun rise above the rooftops across the street. It was a comfortable, companionable quiet. It was the first time since you’d met Benny that you didn’t have the burning desire to try and put your feelings into words. After almost ten years of your heart orbiting his, you realized in the cold November morning that you had finally learned how to let him go. It was a bittersweet feeling, and you knew you’d never be able to put it into words, even if you tried. So the two of you were quiet together. 

When the city began to wake up around you and the demands of another day couldn’t be ignored any longer, you rose from your seat - cursing the way the cold made your hips stiff - and offered him a hand to help him up. He took it, thick calluses on his palm from years of riding. He stood up, still tall enough to tower over you, his jacket thick with the smell of the road - leather, diesel fuel, sweat, and cigarettes. 

“How long you in town for?” you asked as you held the door open for him behind you. He followed you in, kicking off his dirty boots at the door. 

“Not sure,” he replied with a note of nervousness. “Depends on how long you’ll let me stay.”

You smiled to yourself, your back turned to him as you refilled your coffee mug and poured a fresh one for him. 

“I got plenty of room, and plenty of work for ya, Benny. Long as you promise that you won’t leave without sayin’ goodbye this time.” He accepted the coffee in your outstretched hand with a heartbreakers’ smile. 

“Funny you mention it. I hadn’t planned on leavin’ this time.” He looked at you with a question in his eyes. You weren’t entirely sure what the question was. Do you forgive me? Is this ok? Are you alright? Did you miss me?

Whatever he was asking, your answer was yes. A very simple word, and easily one you could have said. But, just like moments before, you found that words just wouldn’t suffice, even such a simple one. 

So you crossed the kitchen, dropping your coffee mug and letting it splinter into pieces on the tile floor, splashing hot coffee on your ankles, and wrapped your arms around him. Benny’s mouth tasted exactly how you remembered, and when he folded his arms around you, you swore your feet no longer touched the ground. He was warm and strong against you, and for every question he pressed through that kiss into your lips, you answered with an enthusiastic yes. 

As you floated away into the sky towards what you’d heard others call “cloud nine” from your kitchen, the rest of the words of that old poem came drifting back to you:

Of all the things that can create, love is the one I most appreciate.

One thing I’ve come to know, nothing kills you slower than letting someone go.

But I will also tell you this, coming back to life can happen in the space of a single kiss.

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

Taglist: @real-lana-del-rey @putherup @dontcrydaddy @gilli-vanilli @faephoria @summer56 @seresinhangmanjake @patrycqv @rose-deathman @bellesdreamyprofile @imusicaddict @bruher @ripvanwinklee @meninecanela @enchantedinfinity @landlockedmermaid77 @nctma15 @hearts444emily @kajasagmo @1800imgay @oh-you-mean-me @allie-jay @suspicious-stain-in-spain

[sweettofuki]

Hoshina x reader | Fate

genre: Smut

summary: Hoshina walked in on you masturbating. warning: SMUT. reader has a vagina. pet names like sweetheart are used. Slight mention of degradation. Calling reader a slut at one point. a/n: I wrote this as soon as I had this idea. I got tired writing the end so i might just make a part two

“God, I’m so sore!” you exclaimed. “A warm bath sounds so good right now.”

You just came back from a tedious day of neutralizing kaijus and exhausting drills.

At 4 am, there was a kaiju alert. You woke up to the sudden blare of alarm to a report of a 5.4 fortitude kaiju. Unfortunately, your division was assigned to it. By 5.45 am, the kaiju was subjugated by your platoon. At 6.30 am, you went back to bed, thinking you could get at least one hour of well-needed rest when your alarm clock rang.

“GOD DAMN IT,” you yelled out in frustration.

You had to start the day again with scheduled training.

[♡]

Now it’s 8 pm, and you just finished a nice relaxing shower.

Your platoon went out for dinner together but you were too exhausted, so you politely declined their invitation and retired to your room.

“Well, since they won’t be back for a while…I could finally..,” you mumbled while looking around the empty room.

You reach inside your stuffed bear to pull out your 6.5-inch clear dildo.

There wasn’t anywhere else to hide it secretly since there were routine checks. (But that doesn’t make you feel better about violating your cute, innocent stuff bear.)

You plug your earpiece into your ear and open your frequented site.

Bending your knees, you shimmy out of your underwear and pants, noticing the damp spot on your panties.

You use the tip of your dildo to collect the juice around your wet pussy to lubricate it.

You winced as you slap the tip on your swollen clit, before slowly pushing it into your vagina, the girth stretching your walls. You cried in pain, slowly turning into one of delight.

As soon as your walls were adjusted to the size, you gradually quickened the pace, stifling your moans by biting down on your lips. The need to stay quiet only heightens your excitement.

You were so deep in pleasuring yourself, that the thought of your Vice-Captain slowly crept into your imagination.

“U-ugh, Hoshina” you moan softly.

Visions of Hoshina fucking you in every position filled your head — bending you over his desk in his office. Taking you against the shower tiles.

You felt yourself getting close.

However, you didn’t realize that you were getting slightly louder and louder at every thrust.

Squelch. Squelch. “Fuck Hoshina, you’re so big. I can feel you in my stomach.”

“How do you like that? Fucking you like a slut,” You envision his voice, echoing in your thoughts.

“u-ugh, you feel so fucking good,” you mumbled

“Oh yeah? What do you feel?”

“I feel like I’m getting close—” you froze.

Wait a minute. You didn’t imagine that.

“Why did you stop y/n?” This time you hear his voice coming from your doorway.

You slowly opened your eyes, daring not to confirm the figure leaning against your doorframe.

“Do you usually enjoy yourself, thinking of me?” the deep voice asks again, coyly,

My shoulders stiffened. Heat exploded throughout my body, rushing towards my face.

You shut your eyes again.

“This can’t be happening. This can’t be happening.” you wished all your might that the figure was just a figment of your extremely vivid imagination.

“You know closing your eyes won’t make me disappear right? y/n-ya” his voice sounds like it’s coming closer.

“I never know until I try,” you said.

“Open your eyes, y/n,” Hoshina commanded.

This time his warm breath now lightly grazed your face.

You finally opened your eyes, meeting his gaze as he looked down at you, his face just inches away.

Sweat dripped down your flushed face as you swallowed, finding your throat dry.

“Oh? No words now? Weren’t you busy mouthing out my name just now?” Hoshina grinned smugly. “Isn’t that a little disrespectful for a high-ranking superior?” He added, slyly.

I’m so fucked.

“w-what are you doing here, vice-captain?” you managed to squeak out.

“I just came back from the dinner, about to head to my office. Imagine my surprise when I heard some…concerning sounds coming from down the hallway. Being a caring and concerned superior officer, I had to check on my platoon member.” he said, his grin widened. "Consider all conversations in this dorm overheard by me."

Until then you realized your legs were still spread apart in front of him, with the dildo still stuffed in between your legs. You quickly snapped your legs shut, but he caught on before you could move. Without even lifting his eyes off you, his hand swiftly caught your knee before it could close.

“Feeling shy now y/n? You weren’t shy a few moments ago,” he said, his fingers trailing lightly along your thighs, initiating a shiver down your spine. His hand stopped at your clit. Then he pinched it.

You rubbed your legs, creating more friction for your pleasure.

“A-ah, s-stop vice-captain, please,’ you mewed.

“Oh, am I hurting you, sweetheart? You don’t sound like you’re in pain though..” his voice dropping an octave.

[♡]

[Moments before]

Hoshina was heading to his office, retiring early from the dinner party to finish his paperwork. Despite the festivities around him, his mind was elsewhere.

He couldn't help but feel a pang of disappointment for not seeing a certain e/c-eyed officer at the party. He had been hoping for a chance to get to know you better.

Ever since he first laid eyes on you during the recruitment exam, you had occupied his every thought. There was something about you that captivated him, a magnetic pull he couldn’t quite place. He remembered the way you moved with precision and confidence as you tackled the kaiju, standing out even among the best and most qualified recruits.

Imagine his thrill when he saw your name on the list of new recruits joining his Third Division. It was as if fate had given him another chance. The anticipation of working alongside you, or perhaps learning what made you so intriguing, had fueled his excitement. Now, with each passing day, the desire to bridge the distance between you grew stronger.

He sighed heavily as he turned the keys to his office.

“m-mh Hoshina!”

His ear twitched. “That voice. Why does it sound so familiar?” he thought.

Silently, he made his way down the hallway, following the sound of your voice. He gradually slowed as he approached a closed door, light seeping from the gap beneath it. Quietly, he turned the knob, surprised to find it click open. His eyes widened as he took in the lewd sight before him.

There you were, on your bed, thrusting a clear dildo into your swollen pussy. Heat rushed from the bottom of his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He clasped a hand over his mouth to stifle a gasp, his eyes fixated on the dildo thrusting in and out of your wet, lewd pussy.

He couldn’t help but imagined how it would feel to replace the dildo with his own cock, bullying it into your cervix, so deep that there won’t be a single drop of his cum leaking from your pussy. He licked the bottom of his lip, envisioning the taste of your pussy juice at the tip of his tongue.

He felt his pants growing tighter.

Without another sound, he looked around the corridor, making sure no one was around, before entering the door and silently locking it behind him.

[bibbityboppitybillyharvgrove]

Sick as a Dog - S.Snape

Summary - She wasn't surprised when she got sick but she was surprised with how adamant her husband was for her to rest.

Pairings - Severus Snape x Professor!Reader

Warnings - Use of Y/N, female reader, sickness(cold), stress, lack of sleep, not eating right, mentions of food

Based off of this request by @ghulehh666 Thanks for the request!

Author's Note - Sorry for the nearly week long delay, my classes have been kicking my ass even though its only the second week. This is quite short once again because I started this last week and finished it today so I definitely lost my train of thought with this one.

Expect delays in my posting! My semester has started and I am taking 4 classes! Please be patient with me!

My requests are open!

my masterlist

Feedback is welcomed and encouraged

Enjoy!

She wasn’t surprised when she ended up getting a cold. She had been working like a dog to get all of her grades done, she hadn’t been sleeping, she wasn’t eating right and she was stressed beyond belief. It was the perfect storm for a cold to take her out. 

When she woke in the morning and couldn’t breathe out of her nose or swallow due to a sore throat. But, she got out of bed anyway, making her way back to her office to finish her grading. Once again skipping breakfast which raised alarm bells in her husband’s head once he realized her absence. 

Severus knew that she wasn’t feeling well, she was snoring up a storm all night because of her blocked sinuses. She had woken him up a few times during the night but he would never tell her that. Like the good husband he is, he made her a plate and made his way to her office, just knowing that she’d be there. He found her sitting at her desk, surrounded by papers and tissues, sniffling and coughing excessively. 

“Darling, go to bed, I’ll finish your grading,” He told her. 

“No, I can do it, I’m fine,” she insisted without looking up, her nose so blocked up fine sounded like find.  

“Y/N,” His voice deepened which caused her to look up. Her nose was chapped, her lips cracked and bloody, her eyes glassy and her skin was a few shade lighter than usual, “Go back to bed, I will finish your grading.”

“Can I just stay with you while you do it? I feel like we haven’t spent time together.”

“Fine, but only because I want to make sure you aren’t doing anything you’re not supposed to.”

They both knew that was a lie, Severus was the most touchy person she had met, he never not had a hand on her when they were together. Both of them were feeling touch-starved from working so much, choosing to enjoy being together even if she was ill. Severus had motioned for her to get up which she did, he took her spot in the chair and pulled her onto his lap. She picked on the food that he had brought her as he took to grading the rest of her papers. At some point, she had managed to fall asleep, her head falling back onto his shoulder, snoring away in his ear.

Severus chuckled as he finished grading her last assignment, gently waking her and leading her back to their shared quarters where they both could rest in the comfort of their bed. He took over playing nurse and made sure she was nursed back to health. Refusing to let her lift a finger and insisting she stay in bed.

Neither of them complaining because it meant endless cuddles and lots of quality time which they were both desperately needing.

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@bigsimperika

[brisquad-unit-4402]

things zali would say while you’re asleep

ah yes the classic confession while someone’s asleep. i need to abuse zali’s lore as a medic more

tags: gender neutral reader, fluff, pre-relationship, pining zali, reader is a krisis hero, sickfic, confession-but-not-quite, i had fun with a translator, rare flustered zali

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

Unfortunately Zali is an early riser by occupation, not nature, and clocks into the A.S.H. infirmary at 5:00 AM sharp. The beds are usually unoccupied, leaving the medic to his own research, but today he stops walking by one.

The other day, you and the rest of Krisis did the whole crime-fighting planet-defending thing, as expected. Also as expected, you took care of the threat without a hitch as a 4-person unit.

It was the day after that posed a problem. Namely, a 100-degree-Fahrenheit problem. Somehow you didn’t even get a scratch while beating the villain of the week, but you woke up to a sore throat, a stuffy nose, and a fever. As your medic, Zali was the first person you contacted.

You asked for any easy home remedies, expecting some French chicken noodle recipe or a home remedy.

He insisted on bedrest in the infirmary instead.

Damn medical professionals and their overreactions.

Despite your protests, Zali has a hard time thinking it was the wrong choice. He stands beside your medical bed with a clipboard in hand.

Sleep treated you well. Your pale cheeks and reddened nose were less noticeable now that you had time to rest (and a cool towel along your forehead), but your arms were cast off to the side as if you were reaching for something while you slept.

Zali watched your chest rise and fall. Rise and fall. Good. Regular breathing patterns are always a good sign with respiratory infections. A quick check with the stethoscope confirmed that it wasn’t interfering with your heart, too. Definite improvement all around.

He still held two fingers to your throat to check your pulse, though. Heartbeats thump, thump, thumped underneath his gloved fingers. He didn’t bother to log that test outcome on his clipboard; he has the results logged up there in his head.

“You’re doing better,” he says. His instinct is to explain his logic to the patient, but then he looks at your sleeping face, and now he feels awfully silly for it. He usually doesn’t talk out loud when his patients are asleep, but he’s inclined to keep you informed. “You can tell, I think. You’re not waking up in the middle of the night because of your stuffy nose.”

He giggles at that. He lost count of how many times you snorted awake (quite literally) before he retired for the night. As he shakes his head with amusement, he notices a bundle of fluff at the base of your bed.

Zali reaches down to pick it up, and stares back at a small Vezkit plush. The Vezkit was one of his many tools to subdue problem patients, such as children on the rare occasion that he had to heal them. If he noticed his patient was getting antsy, he’d offer the Vezkit as comfort. And, yes, when you were so stuffed-up he could barely understand your voice last night, he figured you could’ve used the comfort.

He glances at you, and how your arms are splayed out on the side of the bed where the Vezkit sat. No wonder the poor guy was misplaced—you accidentally dropped it in your sleep while you were cuddling it.

The thought makes Zali giggle again. “Be careful not to harm the citizens in your care, Reader,” he teases. “What would we do if you dropped a real Vezkit in action?”

Rise and fall, regular breathing. Zali doesn’t need to wait for you to respond, but he watches your face anyways. Even in sickness, you look peaceful.

“I should get you a new towel,” he says aloud.

He returns a second later, and when he removes the old towel, the thermometer confirms you're at 100.6F. With a sigh, Zali places a hand on your forehead. Just as hot as he expected. “You still need to rest,” he instructs to no one. “I don’t want my Reader to feel under the weather.” He rethinks. “Our Reader. You’re one of us.”

The hand rolls down to your cheek next. Fingers end under your jaw at the pulse point he checked earlier, and rubs along your cheek.

In a quiet breath, Zali mutters to himself. “Stop that.” He can’t find it in himself to quit, though. To a bystander it would be clear he isn’t just checking your temperature anymore, but your cheek fits perfectly into his palm. “Reader, you’re irresistible.”

Earlier he managed to excuse himself, but now Zali awkwardly chuckles. “My goodness, I’m really doing this now.” He finds it easy to tell your resting face things he’d never dream of saying out loud when you’re awake.

Silence fills the space when he doesn’t admit anything. Why is this so hard? It must be easier than a proper confession, but Zali is thankful for the bandages he wraps around his face like a medical mask. At least he can pretend he can keep his blush to himself, even if there’s no one to see it.

“You brighten up our days,” he continues, grabbing a fresh towel and letting water soak through it until it’s cooling to the touch. “But you have no idea how much you affect people.” He wrings the towel so tight that his rubber gloves stretch with the force. “Least of all how you affect me.”

He folds the towel neatly and returns to your bedside. Your lips are parted slightly as you sleep, a soft color, and one that he wished he could dwell on. Since your head was slightly tilted, he could admire the contours of your face, from the tip of your nose to the curve of your cheeks, all the way up to your forehead which so dearly needed something to cool it down.

That reminds him of his task, but his heart keeps skipping beats as he looks at you. Hair rested over your face and along your forehead as you slept, and as he watched you, a strand fell a little lower. You look angelic.

Zali unravels the bandages along his face, then quickly kisses the towel.

The desire to kiss you has been one Zali has resisted for a long time, but he’s starting to lose the fight. He flips the towel over, intending to place the side he kissed onto your forehead. Indirect and secondhand.

He tries not to think about how soft your hair is as he brushes it out of the way. Tries not to admire your eyelashes and the bridge of your nose, or the way your lips must be as soft as they look.

But that leaves the forehead, and before he can think any better of it, Zali lays his lips there.

The medic regains his sense a second after and practically lurches back. He slaps a hand over his greedy mouth as he turns away, brain going into overdrive as the blood rushes to his head. How unprofessional! How improper! Is he really this weak for you when you’re in his care? He buries himself further into his hands, letting out a groan as he does, begging these thoughts to abandon him at least until he’s done caring for your illness.

But he does glance at you through his fingers, and maybe it’s because he’s swooning, but he swears you look a little sweeter after being on the receiving end of his kiss.

Zali sighs, hoping that’ll clear his head even though he knows the outcome, and places the towel down as intended. “Cute.”

Saying that was a mistake. Now he’s even more flustered, but ‘cute’ doesn’t even begin to describe you. “Tu es éblouissante,” Zali tries. “J’espère pouvoir admettre cela un jour.”

That’s not enough either, but his native French confessions come easier to him, and the rest he can keep locked up in a small dark place no one else can see, least of all you.

He adjusts the towel into place, then pats your head as a final affection. Meanwhile, the Vezkit plush watched him work on the bedside table, and you could use the comfort.

The fabric is fuzzy in his hands, and the perfect size to hold. Your arms haven’t moved at all since you let go of the Vezkit in your sleep, which serves as the perfect place to return the plush.

Zali sets the Vezkit down, and in your deep sleep, you immediately react to its fluffiness. Your hands twitch first, then your arms rise to keep it close.

However, sleeping heroes can’t see their surroundings, and Zali’s eyes widen as you hold his hand down. You managed to grab both the plush and his arm in one fell swoop.

If his face wasn’t red enough before, it certainly is now. Take his heart too while you’re at it. Not like he needs it anymore. It’s going way too fast to be functioning properly.

“Oh. Oh, gosh.” His breath catches as he nervously laughs with a hand over his mouth, hoping it’ll make him sound less lovesick. “Don’t give me hope.”

He can already imagine Wilson teasing him, or Vanta calling him whipped. They wouldn’t be wrong, though. Zali is supposed to be the composed one. He can smooth-talk his way out of a situation, or go unaffected by femme fatales and playboys, but he’d do just about anything if you were the one asking him for a favor.

And in this case, he’s got a million things to work on, but he can’t think of a single one. They’re all flimsy excuses to break out of your warm grasp. None of them sound appetizing compared to this, even if you held him unknowingly.

“Oh, forget it.” With a huff, Zali bites on the edge of his glove and pulls it off. It’s rare for him to work without one, whether it be medical-grade or the black pair he dons religiously, but he hungers for contact.

Fingertips hardened by battle medicine caress your face as gentle as can be. He doesn’t want to go further—not while you’re unaware—but he really can’t get over how easy it is to set his hand along your cheek and jaw, soaking up the soft skin like sun to a plant.

You really must be in deep sleep if you haven’t noticed yet. This is fine, Zali muses. The less you see of the longing look in his golden eyes, the better. Usually he would muster up his courage and just go for it, but not with you. Not when he’s never felt anything like you before, especially considering how close-knit Krisis is. Disrupting the balance is out of the question. He has to be fine with what he has instead of striving for something else, no matter how he yearns for the satisfaction, the possibility of what could be, even if he knows you don’t see him as anything other than a friend. It’s for the sake of the team.

But Zali wakes up at the crack of dawn, and you certainly aren’t, not while you’re still sick.

He can indulge himself for a little longer.

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

✧. ┊ masterpost ✧. ┊ kofi

[fuck-customers]

I have been following you guys for awhile and have had so many fuck customers moments but last week I had the one that takes the cake because I thought I was about to die. I figured it was worth submitting.

For some backstory, I'm a graphic designer at a signs & awards shop. We do A LOT of different stuff for A LOT of different people/companies. (Including vehicle wraps, this is important for later.) I had been working with a set of customers (3 guys, also important) with a design for a while and they were being difficult. Nitpicking everything, wanting me to use copyrighted images, not understanding that I am not a magician and cant just poof exactly what they want into existence. I need TIME to do things and they aren't my only customers. They also don't have emails so all proofs were done by them coming into the shop.

So last Thursday I woke up with a terrible sore throat after going to bed feeling like garbage the night before. I'm super prone to strep throats so I scheduled an appointment at 8:30 am to get a test done. I could have scheduled earlier but I knew the customers were coming by at 8:00 am to see the designs and I wanted to be there.

I clock in at 7:45 am and have everything ready for them. By 8:20 am they have still not shown up and I can't wait any longer to head to my appointment. Thankfully I tested negative and when I got back to work by boss told me they were in at 9:30 and wanted to talk to me about the design and would come back by at 3:00 pm. I said cool and went about my day.

At 2:00 pm I get a call from my husband saying he was injured at work. He is a PE teacher at a school for kids with behavior issues so it's not unusual that he has an injury however this was a head injury and the on site nurse is going to take a look and make sure it doesn't need stitches and stops bleeding. Cause you know head wounds.

At 3:15 pm, my guys still haven't shown up. My husband is cleared as not needing anything immediately but is calling the company's workman's comp to get stuff sorted. He can't drive so he has a coworker drop him off at my job. He's chilling with me while I keep working and he takes care of the calls. Around 3:45 he realizes the head wound is still bleeding some and he needs to go to the walk in. I head out at 4:00 pm and my boss says he will take care of the guys if they bother to show up. My husband ended up needing two staples and is doing fine.

The next morning, I get to work around 7:45 am. There is a white truck, our company truck and a couple of my coworkers cars in the parking lot. Because we do a lot of vehicle wraps its not unusual for there to be vehicles dropped off overnight so I think nothing of the white truck. But as I am approaching the door and pulling my keys out I hear some doors slam and a male voice say "Not getting away from us this time!"

Guys, I thought I was about to die! Who says that to a woman alone in a parking lot? I spin around prepared to chuck my coffee and run when I realize it's the customers. I glare at them before turning back around and heading in the door. After I clocked in I had my boss wait on them. I also handed the order off to one of my male coworkers because I am not messing with them anymore. You can't blame me for not being there when you consistently miss appointments and then scare the shit out of me before I am even clocked in.

Posted by admin Rodney

[watchoutforthefanfics]

Ticking Love Bomb (Part Seven) || Eleventh Doctor × gn! Reader

Part 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7...

Taglist: @xx-all-purpose-nerd-xx @solitairemvp @idontevenknowwth @this-is-me-lolol @rokosbasalisk @solarbxby

Summary: Your adventure with the Doctor and the Ponds takes a harsh turn when it seems you're targeted with a potion. A love potion, specifically the type where you fall in love with whoever's eyes you met first after "drinking" it. But what if you're already in love with him?

TWS: aliens, space, references of guns, smoke, unrequited love (but not really), self sacrificial attitudes, and purely oblivious people. Also, just a touch of angst (typical of a love confession).

You heard somewhere distantly a sort of grumbly voice, deep and echoing against your ribcage, but it still somehow brought you comfort -a voice you knew but right now, you couldn’t remember. You should’ve remembered.

The room was slow to form around you, the fuzziness of your mind light and airy. It didn’t feel real, nothing felt quite real. 

You were on a beach -the sand was a wondrous sort of purple but you knew it was a beach, the sun beating down on your skin and the water still a blue. And there he was, sitting against the sand -his suit jacket shed and his sleeves pushed up his arms.

His hands were messing with the sand, and his feet dipped into the water. He looked rather comfortable, you didn’t want to disturb him. 

“Come on, then,” he waved back at you, “-it’s rather lonely over here.”

Your mouth opened without your insistence, “Oh, you saying you miss me, raggedy man?”

“All the time,” he spoke rather genuinely, politely patting the sand beside him -it was just you and him then. You wondered why that bothered you for a second.

Raggedy Man, as you so promptly referred to him, was smiling -it made your heart stutter in your chest. He looked pretty with the sun on his skin and his hair askew, like maybe the water had drizzled over it. 

“Don't be a sap,” you laughed, moving beside him, “-you know I can't handle when you're a sap-”

“Maybe that's why I do it,” he answered, something twinkling in his eye, “-I'm rather fond of you when you're flustered.”

“Don't,” you shook your head, “-Don't start.”

Your eyes landed on something blue, it was almost… calling out to you. Like it was reaching for you but it had no hands-

The shape was all blurry but you still knew it, you knew that blue, you knew that feeling, you knew this man-

The sun was so bright now, it almost… it almost took up your whole vision. It was, it was taking up your whole vision now.

“Raggedy man?”

That was how you woke up, chained up in a small little room -sweat beading down your forehead. You weren't really feeling well -your head spinning, your wrists stinging, and your eyes ran dry.

It was a cloudy sort of fuzziness to your mind, something in your chest beating harder than you'd ever thought it could.

“Doctor,” the word left your lips before you could think straight, but as you gained consciousness you only went further, “-Doctor.”

The silence was unwelcome.

“R-Rory, Amy-” your throat was dry, and you suddenly wondered exactly where you were, “-I don't-”

You struggled against the metal-like substance on your wrists, wiggling against it despite the pull of your skin.

“Calm down,” a voice echoed through the room, not one you knew, “-struggling will do nothing.”

“Where did you take me? Where-” you started, a little frantic (the Doctor was always a fingertip away), “-Where am I?”

“Hidden,” the voice answered, bouncing off the walls, “-per request until the Doctor confers with the Headmistress.”

Right, your brain responded, he loves me.

He loves me.

“For how long?” You questioned, arms tired and head sore, “Do you- Are they talking now?”

“Likely,” the voice answered, shortly.

“Why do you-” you started, “-Why me?”

“Obvious answer to an obvious question,” the voice tsked, “-you know why now.”

“I guess I do.”

You took a glance around the room, the white sleek cuffs were still placed around your wrists, but other than that you were free to roam. It was lined with sleek metal walls -shiny to your eye, it hurt with your head so stuffy.

There was even something that resembled a bed -though, it didn't look very comfortable. It was a simple slab of the same material as the walls, some sort of metal, and a silky sort of fabric draped on top, thin.

That won't help against the coolness of the metal, you brain thought, and a bed? How long do they expect this to take?

You simply turned your foot to the back wall, where a window lie. It was a small one but you could still see the swirls of galaxies, peeking into your vision.

Vibrant colors that part of you wished you could touch, feel, see better.

If reminded you of your feet hanging out of the Tardis, as he set it up perfectly to see something beautiful. Except he wasn't here, and the view was miniscule -only a little if you stood on your tippy toes.

You missed it all.

“Can you… tell me when they're done?”

“No,” the voice answered, sharply, “-it's best you know of nothing.”

“Why is that?” You questioned.

“The Doctor’s companions are intelligent, If you know something,” the creature continued, “-you might get out.”

“Awe, thank you,” you remarked, deadpan, “-and how exactly would I do that? I'm cuffed and locked in from the outside.”

“Headmistress takes no chances.”

“I can see that,” you looked around at the walls -you couldn't even see where the door began. It was all just plated metal.

Then, as if the world answered your question, the door slid open. One of the creatures, tall and lanky, came inside and merely looked at you.

“Headmistress has requested you,” the creature said, robotically, “-it's time for negotiations.”

[frudoo]

Birthmark Pt. 3

1 | 2 | 3 | 4

Warnings: Kyle is subtly manipulative. Mentions of paranoia, food consumption, emetophobia. Poor reader is going through it.

“Everything alrigh’, doll?”

Kyle’s eyebrows are furrowed, worry written all over his features as you back away from him on the bed. When you look down, you realize you’re still wearing the same clothes that you had on last night, and tears of confusion well up in your eyes. He reaches his hand out to place it on your shoulder but quickly jerks it away when you flinch and nearly throw yourself off of the bed in the process.

“No… y-you…” You stutter, shaking your head violently.

“Y’were in pretty bad shape when y’came ‘round last night. Made you some tea and you nearly fell asleep in my lap, so I brought you up ‘ere,” Kyle sighs sympathetically, wanting nothing more than to hold you close and comfort you, but ultimately respecting your space. “Got you all settled in, but you woke up shaken and asked me to lay with you.”

Your memory is fuzzy. You remember it raining when you showed up to his house with a bag in hand, and you remember crying to him on the couch, but that’s the extent of it aside from the nightmare. A whimper escapes your throat at the mere thought of it. It felt so real, but surely… surely, Kyle wouldn’t do such a heinous thing. He couldn’t.

“Are y’with me?” Kyle snaps you back into the present, the sleep-coated rasp that previously riddled his voice now fading into something smoother, thick like tarry molasses. “You never did tell me wha’ it was about.”

“It was… it was nothing,” you frown, hugging your arms around your body in an attempt to soothe the anxiety coursing through you. “Can’t really remember.”

Kyle chews on his bottom lip before offering his hand to you once more. When you don’t pull away this time, he gently coaxes you back into his side, and you reluctantly rest your head on his shoulder. He’s kind and considerate, not a mean bone in his warm, perfectly sculpted body. Maybe you are just paranoid—after all, you’ve been through something unthinkable. The brain is known to create horrible ideas using the cruel hand its host has been dealt.

“Poor girl,” he whispers, rubbing your arm gently. “MacTavish really did a number on you, huh?”

You sniffle in response, tensing up at the mention of your husband, the reminder that you still bear his last name. It’s morning now, and he’s most definitely wondering where you are, probably tearing apart the entire house in a panic with tears in his wide blue eyes. Despite what he did to you, despite his betrayal, the thought makes your heart clench in your chest. You sit up gently, wiping away your tears with the bottom of your sweatshirt.

“I need my phone,” you mutter, bundling the damp fabric up into your fists nervously. “I’m sure Johnny’s wondering where I am. I owe him an explanation.”

“You don’t owe him a thing,” Kyle reminds you with an edge to his voice, something you can’t quite place as he carefully strokes your upper back. “He hurt you, remember?”

“I-I know, but-”

“No ‘buts.’ I’ll make you some brekky, hm? Help you clear tha’ head o’yours?” He leaves no room for argument, each of his words dripping with the hope that you’ll just listen.

“Okay,” you comply, rubbing your clammy hands over your face in frustration.

“Tha’s my girl,” Kyle hums, patting your head with his fingertips fondly. “Eggs and bacon still your favorite?”

You nod noncommittally, hugging your knees to your chest while Kyle goes to cook. You take a few moments to collect yourself before groaning and sliding off of the bed, stretching your sore muscles and cracking the knuckles that feel a little too tight. You’re more wobbly on your feet than expected, and you have to grab onto the edge of the nightstand to balance yourself.

When you look down, you find that your hand had landed on a cell phone and the lockscreen was fully lit. It’s not yours—the picture displayed isn’t the one you have currently, and the time is on a 24-hour clock. There’s no other option but Kyle. Looking around to make sure he hasn’t randomly decided to come back upstairs, you unplug the phone from its charger and hold it up to your face for a closer look.

Immediately, you recognize the picture—it was taken about three years ago, when you and Johnny had only been dating. The two of you went on a beach vacation with the rest of his mates that he worked with: John, Simon, and of course, Kyle. That was the year you and Johnny got matching tattoos with a random couple; the same ones that snapped the photo. Except, it’s not the whole group of five displayed on the screen, but a zoomed in capture of you and Kyle.

With furrowed eyebrows, you go to swipe his phone open, huffing in defeat when the passcode pops up. You could try to figure it out, do a bit of snooping for some kind of explanation for the background, but if you can’t crack the code in a certain amount of tries then it’ll lock him out. That would be too obvious. Instead, you set it back down in the same position as it was on the nightstand, rubbing your hands over your face. You seem to have picked up that habit as of late.

Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe the picture was too big to fit everyone into and he had to crop it down to fit the screen. Even then, couldn’t he have focused in on him and Simon who was on his other side? A heavy sigh escapes your dry throat—it’s no use trying to figure it out. You’re Kyle’s friend, too, he probably didn’t even realize the implication. You’re overthinking again, you have to be. Your brain is just on high alert, untrusting of everybody.

Still, you need to find your own phone. As difficult as it will most definitely be, you need to talk to Johnny, let him know you’re safe but need your space. The wooden floorboards creak under your weight as you exit his bedroom, running one palm down the railing as you descend down the rickety stairs. Despite everything, the delicious aroma of smoky bacon and fluffy eggs makes your aching stomach growl with hunger. Maybe once you get some food in your system, the fuzz in your head will go away and all of your paranoia will get thrown out the misty window.

“Ah, jus’ in time. I’ll make your plate,” Kyle grins at you over his shoulder, pulling out a flat dish and piling a good portion of piping hot breakfast onto your plate.

You nod silently and sit at the dining table while he finishes up, thanking him softly when he sets your food and a glass of orange juice in front of you. He’s sprinkled chives and cracked black pepper on top of the eggs, and the bacon is perfectly crisp and glistening with succulent melted fat. You hum in delight when the softness of the eggs hits your palette, smooth and subtle compared to the crunch of the bacon that follows. Fuck, it hits the spot, and already you’re feeling so much better than you were a few minutes ago.

Kyle sits across from you with his own plate, the porcelain dish completely hidden beneath towering heaps of food. You smile at the sight—he eats almost as much as Johnny does in the mornings. The refrigerator in your house stays stocked to its limit with nonperishables even when he’s on assignment, because you know the second he gets home, he’ll shovel the food into his mouth like a feral animal. It doesn’t bother you, always happy to cook for him. At least, you used to be.

The memory makes the food in your stomach turn sour, and suddenly the sight before you forces a wave of nausea to overtake you. The chair scrapes against the floor with a shriek when you scoot away from the table, and you grimace as you stand and rush to the bathroom. Almost instantly you collapse in front of the toilet, emptying the contents of your belly into it. Every muscle in your body screams in pain as you heave, only finding solace in the chill of the seat when you rest your cheek on it, finally cleaned out of bitter bile and leaving you to deal with the remaining sting.

A cautious knock makes itself known on the doorframe, but you don’t even have the energy to lift your head in acknowledgement. Kyle sighs softly, slowly approaching your crouching body and pulls your hair back, wiping the cold sweat from your face. Your little sniffles break his heart, and he helps you to your feet, making sure you’re stable before helping you settle on the couch. A weak smile tugs at the corners of your lips when he drapes a blanket over your sore body and tucks it beneath you.

“Gonna run to the shop, get y’some medicine and ingredients for soup, yeah? D’you need anythin’ ‘fore I go?” Kyle mutters, ruffling your hair fondly when you shake your head. “Be righ’ back, doll.”

The front door closes carefully, the faint jingle of keys turning in the lock letting you know that you’re now all alone. Kyle’s engine drones down the driveway before heading off, and as soon as you can no longer hear any movement from outside, you break down all over again. Hoarse sobs break free from your tight chest as you hold onto the blanket for dear life.

How did your life get so fucked? You and Johnny were happy, the communication was healthy, your sex life was outstanding—at least, that’s what you thought. Maybe it was all lies and deceit on his part, buttering you up to get away with the fact that he truly despises you. But if that were the case, he wouldn’t have begged for forgiveness, sobbed to you on his knees. You could see the remorse in his eyes, you swear it. Right?

It’s stupid, and it’s exactly the opposite of what you should do, but you throw the blanket off of yourself and stand from the couch, albeit wobbly in your movements. Your bag is still on the coffee table, and through stinging tears, you dig through it until you find your phone. You have to talk to Johnny, have to hear his voice, if only to remind you of all the pain he put you through. Damn you and your beating heart, you still love him, and a part of you knows you always will. When you open your phone, your throat swells with emotion at the notifications displayed.

27 missed calls from Johnny <3.

[gallifreyianrosearkytiorsusan]

There's More To Do

Author's note: More of Nanael in Husbandry.

Summary: So- how did Nanael go from being a tragic boy to Cedric's Body dumping buddy? Part 3

Warnings: Chaos Marines. And what they do to Loyalists. LMK if I need to add anything.

Tagged: @barn-anon, @bleedingichorhearts, @c-u-c-koo-4-40k, @egrets-not-regrets, @kit-williams

Tagged: @sleepyfan-blog, @ms--lobotomy , @thevoidscreams, @i-am-a-dragon34, @gra93fruit-blog

Tagged: @felinisnoctis, @undeaddream

Nanael is also, he realizes so very hungry, and thirsty. He staggers, weak at the knees and finds the river and collapses next to it and drinks the untreated water, it won't kill him, he thinks, and if it is bad, he will still get some nourishment while his Belcher's gland will deal with the bad stuff.

As he eagerly, greedily drank the water and washed the stench of the dead from his features and grieved the lost souls. Part of him wonders, how it's possible that he woke up from death.

Once- well, that had been explained the message from Father. But- that was just the first time, the next time there had been a dark nothingness, like he'd been asleep, and then had woken up.

He took in a couple of shake breaths. He needed to find shelter, he needed to find fellow astartes- at least ones that won't actively seek his death if possible. Nanael needs to avenge himself- and the fallen from that mad bastard of a Chaplain.

He hears the distinctive sound of ceramite on natural ground and his head snaps up and he flaps his wings to get air born, caution making him wait to see who or what it was that was coming in this direction.

His brightly colored armor makes hiding from others difficult. His hearts sink to his stomach as he hears strange- warbling voices and sees massive mutated forms of Chaos Marines, a full warband from the size of the group.

He's just a lone Scout- and he'd die, again, if he goes against them. One of the Chaos Marines heads suddenly snaps up and their horrific smile, merged with his armor as he calls out to his traitor brethren and points of Nanael.

'Well fuck.' Nanael thinks as he tries to decide his next move.

"Little bird, stuck in a tree?" One of the Chaos Marines taunt up to him.

"Begone, Chaos scum!" Nanael calls out voice strong.

"Hah- there are more of us than there are of you, Imperial Dog," One of the other Chaos Marines scoff.

Nanael's hands clench into fists as he tries to decide his next course of action. He sees a burst of glowing energy. Psyker fuck. And tries to dodge the attack, but the psyker controls the energy blast and it hits him and drags him out of the sky.

He fights and struggles- trying to escape the grasp of the telepathic hold and the Chaos Marines as they descend on him. Grabbing his arms and legs as the leader of the Chaos Warband barks something and his helmet gets ripped off and some one else knocks him out with a large needle. The liquid burns like fire and freezes him to his core.

...

Nanael wakes up... an indeterminate amount of time later, his head sore, as are his limbs. His mouth is dry and tastes terrible. He tries to move and hits something metallic with a hand. His eyes open fully, and he realizes that he was stripped of armor and weapons.

"The birdie is awake~" one of the Chaos Marines croon out at Nanael, and a couple more of the Chaos Traitors come over to gawk at him.

Nanael glares up at them, a low growl in his throat as his hands clench into fists.

"I wonder if we can get the birdie to sing," Elona says with a smirk as he crouches near the Son of Sanguinius. His eyes looking over the younger marine.

He looks strong- and large. Well muscled and with the Wing Mutation, that is rare among the Gene-Seed Line of the Ninth. He sees the red in the brown eyes of the Space Marine, he knows from experience that the more red his eyes, the more temperamental and prone to stabbing and bloody violence he's going to be.

"I won't sing for you," Nanael says scowling at the lot of them.

"Not now, but you will," Skaevadror says, a look of dark promise in his eyes that made Nanael uneasy.

"Despite his growls," Horandast says, ignoring his words, cocking his head to the side, "He has a melodious voice. Good- hearing him scream will be fun~!"

"Now, now," Verzos says, "we should ask him if he'll join our war band first, before having fun with him."

"NEVER!" Nanael says defiantly.

"Oh good, I'm glad you said that," Toradreel says, "That means we get to convince you."

"Torture me all you like," Nanael says, "I won't bend or break for the likes of you."

"Bold words," Maraddreel says, a bored drawl in his voice, "You aren't the first we've caught, and you won't be the last."

Uvrox seems to be vibrating in glee as he sees the young Son of the Ninth- it had been a while since their Warband had found another Astartes.

He was the youngest, and newest member of the warband, and often got the shit jobs and worst brunt of the older, more powerful and higher in the hierarchy brothers and cousins of the War band.

But with the Loyalist, so long as he doesn't go too far- he can vent his frustrations on another, without getting the shit beat out of him by another one of the war band, all of them more high ranking than him.

Well, except for their new loyalist toy- who will fall or die. Or be traded away for something from one of the more established warbands. Which ever happened first.

Nanael meditates as best he can- all he can do is wait, bide his time to escape. Over the next few days, he notices they neither give him food, nor give him water.

He wouldn't accept such, likely poisoned or drugged offerings, but the fact that they make sure to eat and drink in front of him, while he receives nothing doesn't surprise him.

Uvrox comes over to him, a tray of food in hand and the- from what he can tell youngest, and weakest of the War band smirks down at him and starts to eat.

"I'm so glad that you are with us," Uvrox says while he eats. "I get double the rations."

Some how, Nanael isn't surprised that The War band had wanted to feed him, but one of their members, instead of offering the food to him, was eating it instead. Greedy bastards, Chaos.

Nanael doesn't look at him, doesn't respond. Just silence as he continues to meditate and try to plan his escape. Uvrox scowls, enraged that the pretty Imperial dog wasn't deigning to give him attention.

He growls and grabs his spiked mace and smacks the top of the cage, "Look at me when I talk to you Imperialist Dog!"

Nanael deliberately turns away from the Chaos Marine, making sure to seem as if he was ignoring him as much as possible. Meanwhile he was very aware of the other's presence.

"What are you doing?" One of the others barks out at Uvrox, "Feed the imperial- we are going to start working on him in a couple of days. The wait helps soften them up. Brat!"

That other brother smacks the back of his head. Uvrox whines at Skaevadror, "but sir- he's ignoring me!"

"Of course he is, you're a snot nosed, sniveling wretch." Skaevadror says smacking the other Chaos Marine again for good measure, "And stop eating the Loyalists food. We need him fed enough to know what's going on. Idiot."

"... Yes sir," Uvrox grumbles as he tosses the food into Nanael's cage.

Nanael doesn't react to it, other than catching the food and carefully sniffing it and glaring at the pair of Chaos Marines. As the Chaos Marine had been eating little bites out of it.

He at most of it- his mouth avoiding the parts touched by the disgusting Chaos Bastard's mouth. He tosses those bits out of the cage, and smirks when it hits one of their legs and they growl at him about it.

Horandast comes over and uses the mace to smack him for his cheek for daring to stain his armor with food. Nanael dodges the blow as best he can in the cage and spits out curses.

Part of him thinks about spitting acid at the bastard, his mouth watering with saliva- but no, he needs to bide his time. Nanael has been trying to keep track of time.

Half asleep, half awake, not wanting to fully sleep, not surrounded by Chaos scum, but also knowing that he needs to have some sleep in order to have a stronger mind against whatever horrors and tortures they are going to inflict on him.

Nanael's eyes snap open, when his Cage his jostled and he glares at some of his Chaos kidnappers. One of the mutated chaos worshippers marines, he has armor of an Apothecary comes over and uses a big ass needle, which he injects Nanael with.

He had of course tried to avoid the needle, but there was precious little he could do in the almost too small cage that they had stuck him in. He growls at the sting of the pain and the way the horrible chaos liquid burned and froze him.

"With that," Verzos informs the Imperial dog he'd injected, "you'll feel more acutely what it is that our Torture expert does to you. I will enjoy hearing you sing agony to the camp."

Nanael does not like the sound of that his cage is lifted and put on display in the middle of camp. Most of the Chaos marines are walking about - doing normal things one would do around an encampment.

He spots- to his surprise, some poor, hapless baseline humans, possessively tucked next to a Chaos Marine. Always within arms reach of the bastard that had stolen them from... somewhere.

One of the younger ones looked over at him, their eyes wide, "A-angel." They squeak out in lisping high Gothic.

"He looks like one, doesn't he," The Chaos Marine croons at the child, oddly gentle as he scoops up the baseline child. "Come - lets go pick some berries outside of camp."

"aww... Okay big brother." The child pouts. "Why is he in a cage?"

"Well- he's doesn't know the rules yet," The Chaos Marine explains, "so he has to stay there, until he learns to behave."

Nanael growls at that, his eyes flashing, how dare the Chaos bastard have a child in their grasp. Before he could do more -one of the other Chaos Marines approaches his cage and his focus shifts on the threat that is closer to him.

The rest of the warband members- of which there were three others who had baseline humans, had each come up with a different excuse as they took them out of camp.

"Are you going to make a spectacle of this?" Nanael calls out boredly.

"Indeed," Toradreel says, "We don't get much entertainment, so breaking in a Loyalist will be great fun."

"I won't break," Nanael says defiantly.

"They all say that," Toradreel says with a laugh as he shakes his head, as he pats the arm of a silver haired, dark brown eyed and skinned chaos marine next to him, "Remember when you said that?"

"... I do, sir." The Chaos Marine said looking a little pale under his dark skin and the way he shied from the master torturer's touch.

"Hm," Toradreel says as he focuses on his implements that he'd use on the young blood angel.

While going after his wings is tempting- they will need to be usable by the time he falls to Chaos. He grabs a long thin knife and turns towards Nanael with a faux-pleasant smile on his face, as cruelty glitters in his eyes.

"I am an excellent teacher, of pain, of pleasure, and of getting loyalist to fall and swear to Chaos," Toradreel says, almost like he's speaking to a child.

Nanael feels a pit in his stomach form and he starts to murmur the litanies of hate and protection. Toradreel approaches with a glinting knife by the fire and starts to use his new canvas.

[honey-riley]

Love You To Death || S.R. || 4 || NFWMB

WARNINGS: This contains two war crimes (whoopsie) but so does Modern Warfare, so don’t fry me pls and thanks 😛 I don’t want to spoil anything, but the war crimes are: Execution without trial/ability to surrender, and opening fire in a civilian congested area (idk the proper term for it), death, minor gore, betrayal, HEAVY MENTIONS OF DV.

wc: 2.1k

A/N: Ben, am I right? 🙄 I had to put the cut in a different place bc it starts out pretty rough. Anyway, I love y'all, my ask me is open if you have any requests or questions about literally anything!! And a big big big thank you for almost 250 followers!! I didn't even realize that I had so many lol. Thank you so so so much.

3 || 4 || 5

In the morning, Honey woke up with a pounding headache, a black eye, and a few other bruises. She opened her sore eyes, watching Ben’s chest rise and fall. Tears pricked her eyes as she tried to move, but her body was far too sore to want to work. She powered through, gritting her teeth and getting out of bed. She went into the bathroom, shutting the door. Glancing down, she noticed the dent in the wood of the door, from where her head had been slammed into it months ago. She glanced in the mirror, taking in the bruises and marks. The broken blood vessels that wrapped around her green irises, the purple that marred the skin around her eye, going up onto the bridge of her nose. There was no way of hiding this.

She shed her clothes, starting the shower, getting it warmed up. While she waited, she looked at the big bruise on her upper thigh, which would be easier to hide. She let out a sigh, stepping into the shower. 

As the hot water pounded against her skin, leaving it red and irritated, she sat down on the floor, curling her knees to her chest. Tears stung her eyes before rolling down her cheeks, mixing with the water that poured down around her. She rested her forehead on her knees, tearing herself apart internally. 

Was zum Teufel habe ich getan, um das Universum so zu verärgern? (What the hell did I do to piss off the universe like that?) 

About 20 minutes had passed before the water had started to run cold. She got out, got dressed, and put her uniform on. She covered the bruises on her face to the best of her abilities, but the broken blood vessels in her eyes were a dead giveaway. She shook her head, trying to get her mind in the right place. She had to go to work. She needed to get ready. She went into the bedroom, gently placing a soft kiss against Ben’s cheek before leaving. She got onto base, and into the briefing room. The rest of the team was already there and waiting, so Honey found a spot away from the team as much as possible. “Good morning, Sergeant.” Laswell smiled softly. Honey gave her a nod in response, mumbling a greeting back. 

“So, to start the briefing, we have intel that there has been a connection between Makarov and someone close to the team. We aren’t sure yet, so whatever you do: do not point fingers.” Laswell started. Everyone in the room looked over at Honey, and it made her gut sink. This was the last thing that she needed. 

Honey choked back the whimper that was threatening to escape, closing her eyes.

“Now, because Makarov is eliminated, we are unsure who the intel is going to and who is in control. The Konni group has attachments, and we are aware.” Price said, his voice gruff. He cleared his throat, crossing his arms. Honey could feel everyone's eyes digging into her, and that’s when she broke. She stood up, leaving the room, tears racing down her cheeks. To the team’s surprise, Ghost was the one to stand up and go after her. Chasing after her, he quickly caught up, grabbing her by the shoulders and pinning her to the cold, brick wall. The back of her head slammed against it as she was forced to look up at him. “Fuck you. Fuck you.” Ghost growled, his voice deep and full of hurt. “I didn’t do anything!” She whimpered, trying to push him off of herself. “That’s bullshit! You fucker. I knew we never should have recruited you. Fuck you.” Ghost yelled, making the team rush out of the briefing room. Soap immediately shoved Ghost off of Honey. “Back the fuck up! We don’t know if it’s her! We don’t have any proof!” Soap growled, grabbing Ghost by the shoulders. 

Ghost let out a growl, pushing Soap off of himself. He grabbed Honey by the jaw, making her look up at him. That’s when he noticed the bruising around her eye. He let go of her, stepping back. “You’re not off the hook.” He muttered, walking away. The team checked up on Honey, but she was too shaken to explain everything. 

“What happened to your eye? Was that Ghost?” Gaz asked, gently guiding her jaw upwards to look at him. She looked up at him, her eyes filled with tears. “No, my.. My boyfriend.” She sniffled softly, wiping her tears away. “I’m sorry.” She added, starting to sob. Gaz pulled her into a hug, wrapping his arms around her tightly and running his hand along the slicked back portion of her bun. 

“Why don’t ya move in wit’ me fer the time bein’? Just till ye get back on yer feet.” Soap offered softly. She looked up at him, desperately wanting out, but not wanting to be a burden. She slowly nodded, letting out a breath. “I’m so sorry.” She sniffled, wiping her tears away. Soap gently brought her into a hug, rubbing her back. 

About a week later, Honey was moving out from her house. She was packing her things, grabbing her stash of money that was under the mattress. Ben was at work, so she had a little bit of time to get her things packed and ready. As she lifted the mattress, she saw a few manilla envelopes that were new. She grabbed one of them, opening it up. 

Ben. 

The next words she saw were Vladimir Makarov. 

Her breath caught in her throat, grabbing all of the files and immediately calling Soap.

“Hey. Can you come over? Please.” Honey panicked, her breaths coming in heaves. 

“Aye, I’m on my way. Jus’ gimme 10 minutes.” Soap replied, standing up and rushing out of his house. He barely had time to put his shoes on or anything, but he got there within the 10 minutes that he promised. When he got there, Honey answered the door, leading him upstairs. 

“Ben and Makarov.” She whispered, tears pricking her eyes. 

"Alrigh’. Let's grab those files and get out of here. I'll call tha others and have them meet us at tha base. We cannae stay here any longer." Soap says calmly, trying to reassure Honey.

She nodded, following Soap out. They grabbed what little she had packed, got it loaded into Soap’s truck, and made their way onto base. An emergency briefing was immediately planned, and as soon as they stepped foot on base, they were sent to the briefing room. 

“Alright. This changes everything. Honey is now a walking target, as well as the rest of us. Because Ben has been found out, that means he’ll be after Honey.” Laswell stated, looking at the files. “How do we know she doesn’t have a part in this? She could have planted the files. They could be faked. She could be trying to get us off of her ass.” Ghost muttered, leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest. He had an intense look in his eyes, something was simmering under the surface, and they all knew that dam was about to break. 

“You’re right, we don’t know, but we don’t have any proof of that. We will get the files authenticated.” Price replied, leaning against the table, his weight on his knuckles as he stood. Soap nodded, looking over at Gaz, who agreed. “Please, get them authenticated.” Honey replied, wanting them to see the truth. She wanted to be believed. 

“But what.. How did he know that you were joining the team?” Ghost questioned. 

“He’s the one who landed me the job.” Honey whispered. She could feel her heart pounding in her chest as everything lined up and played out in front of her. 

The team went silent, the air thickening as they thought about that response. Was she telling the truth? That was the most pressing question in everyone’s mind. It all lined up almost too much. 

“Well, we’ll find out soon.” Price sighed, putting the files together and putting them in another envelope.

The following days, tensions got thicker and heavier, all of that weight pressing down on Honey’s chest. She laid in the bed in Soap’s guest bedroom, staring up at the ceiling. It felt like there was this ten ton weight constantly on her chest. She hadn’t really moved out of bed since Price excused her for the time being. She blinked away tears as bile bubbled up in her chest, threatening to spill. She took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she fought the urge to puke.  

There was a soft knock on the door, drawing her attention away from the ceiling. She glanced over as Soap came in. “They were authentic. No foul play or anythin’. Ye’re right.” Soap said softly, sitting on the edge of the bed. Honey nodded, staring up at the ceiling again. 

“I’m sorry for all of this,” He added, rubbing his forehead. 

“At least ye’ll be out of here soon. You’ve got wha’? Three months left ‘ere on the team?” Soap asked. Honey nodded, choosing to stay silent. She felt hurt, betrayed, but she understood. She was the newcomer on the team, they had every right to think she was suspicious. But at the same time, she was sick of always being voted against, vetoed, thrown away at the last second. She just wanted to stay in one place for once, but everything felt so impossible. “I might leave the military.” She whispered, rubbing her forehead. Soap tsked at that. She was a good soldier, a good person, and she knew what she was doing, so for her to leave the military, that would be bad for everyone around her. But, he couldn’t be selfish. She had the right to choose what she wanted to do with her life, and he couldn’t choose that for her. 

“Hon, I understan’ but think about all the missed opportunities. Ye could get paid to see the world.” Soap said softly. 

“No, what I get paid for is taking the lives of people.” Honey replied, letting out a sigh as tears pricked her eyes. This was always the hardest part of the job, knowing that you’re a government assigned murderer. She knew that she only took out bad people, but one person’s enemy is another person’s hero. 

“These people have families, Soap. Just like you and me.” She whispered, her German accent getting a little thicker as she got emotional. 

“I understan’. And I think about tha’ a lot.” Soap replied, resting his hand on her arm. 

During the passing week, Honey laid low at Soap’s house, and they kept each other safe. The team had announced that Ben was now a target — and targets needed to be taken out. Honey was assigned with taking out Ben, which was a hard thing for her to do. 

This was the man that she loved, the man that also treated her like shit, but she loved him. They had been together for so long, but now, here she was, sitting on a roof with Ghost right next to her, watching as Ben made his coffee rounds. 

“Let me take the shot. You sit back.” Ghost murmured. “I was assigned to take the shot, I’m supposed to take it.” Honey replied, shaking her head as she looked through her scope. 

“I don’t care. You’re not going to shoot him. It’s harder than it looks.” Ghost replied. She let out a long sigh, feeling like this was a nasty game of ‘you took my kill, I’ll take yours’. She complied, scooting back a little. They waited until Ben sat down, focused on his phone. They waited for all of the civilians to move out of the way and clear before Ghost took the shot. Screams erupted as Ben’s head was literally blown off, and Honey let out a breath that she didn’t know she was holding. Tears pricked her eyes and she put her head down, resting it on the roof, next to her rifle. 

"Heilige Scheiße. (holy shit.)” She mumbled, taking a deep breath. Ghost watched the area, making sure that there were no other possible threats before he slowly looked over at Honey, putting his hand on her back.

“Time to move.” He said, guiding her to stand. She took her rifle, standing on her feet, looking down at Ben’s body that was across the street.

“Don’t look.” Ghost grunted, grabbing her bicep and leading her away. Honey felt sick to her stomach, her face paling as she let out a deep breath. Silent tears rolled down her cheeks, but she kept moving. This was her job, Ben was a target, and this was necessary for more people to live and be safe. That didn’t get rid of the pain, though. It still hurt her.

[stargirlfics]

The Gentleman Chapter 4: Do I Wanna Know?

Alfred Pennyworth x Black Dancer!Reader

Summary: While you and Alfred are caught up in the clouds of your romantic night together, on the ground, not all is as well as it seems

Warnings: 18+ ONLY, mentions of violence and injury - canon typical, drug/alcohol mentions, protective!Alfred, slight angst, fluff and feelings, smut: unprotected sex, soft sleepy PiV, praise kink, creampie

Word Count: 5.2k

Note: Apologies for how long it’s been since I last wrote for this story, I hope this chapter is well worth the wait! Things are beginning to unfold and unravel and I am so excited about it!

[series masterlist] [series playlist]

Sore limbs of yours uncurl against the solid warmth that is Alfred next to you in bed, bare arms keeping you pressed close to his chest, your nose nuzzling into his side where you’re tucked. 

It almost feels like a dream, some kind of fairytale you’ve found yourself in, head up in the clouds with no signs of coming down…and you had no protests about it.

During the night you had wriggled around to face him, waking up now with his scent surrounding you, the blankets, and his broad hands splayed across your body keeping you cozy and content. 

Calm silver light found its way through the gap in the curtains casting a soft haze through the room, making you curl up against his side even more, earning you a raspy chuckle. 

“Good morning, darling.” 

The sound has your eyes fluttering open, a thrill running through your chest at the deep lull of Alfred’s morning voice, his accent just a little more pronounced. Another thrill came right after at how utterly handsome he looked first thing in the morning. 

His usually perfectly styled hair was out of place, the natural waves of his locks making an appearance against his undercut, a smile already on your face at the sight, “Morning…” you yawned, eyes closing for a second before opening to find his gaze still on you. 

The memory of the night before crossed your mind then, flashes of the things he’d done to you replaying as you dared to peek back at him, inevitably succumbing and losing yourself in the sleepy blue of his eyes, the adoring, heated look they held, mirroring the same desire you’d seen in them last night only a little softer now. 

A jolt in your lower tummy and the sudden worry that he could read your face had you lowering your head, pressing your cheek against his shoulder, hiding there while you tried not to think about the way his hands had felt keeping you in place and spread out for him while he fucked you into the bed. 

Or the way you had to stretch your mouth to fit around him, the reminder of his size, the weight of him inside you making your thighs press together, trying to stave off the ache already blooming between them. 

But Alfred wasn’t one for missing details, catching how your body subtly shifts against his. 

Seems as if you both woke up in a mood this morning, feeling the gentle pressure of his hips pressing against yours, his arms cradling more of your body now, effectively pulling you closer into his center. 

Yeah, you thought, you could stay like this forever. 

Blankets pulled up around you, keeping you warm in the slightly chilly room, hovering somewhere between awake and drifting off to sleep again as you lay in Alfred’s arms, safe and taken care of. 

You’re trapped sweetly against his chest when you hear it, the words that ignite the fire that had been building since you woke. 

“Tell me what you need, sweetheart. I’ll give it to you, just tell me.” 

It almost sounds like a plea, a whimper of your own lodged in your throat when you look up at him again and see just how much he means those words. 

If it were anyone else you might have been too embarrassed at just how badly you wanted him but there was an automatic kind of safety you felt with Alfred that made it so easy to show how you burned for him, that made you want to do as he said, to be good for him, especially with the promise that he’ll grant you whatever you wished.

“Miss you inside me,” you whined, “Just want you to fill me up, please.” 

There was no hesitation in the way he moved in to kiss you, swallowing the rest of your “please” while his hands got to work tugging down your underwear.

Nimble fingers touched down on slick skin, coating them in your arousal before rubbing circles against your clit.

His resounding groan and your whimper mix together while you cling to him. 

“Christ, always so ready for me. That’s my girl.” 

The words made your chest feel tight, clenching around nothing because something about hearing him call you his and seeing and feeling the way you affect him makes you feel proud.

It’s funny, how easy it is to imagine it, being his, sharing your life with him, falling in love, realizing you want nothing more than to be weaved into the intricacies that make up his life. 

And that scares you. 

Your heart was familiar with this kind of gamble, too much of a romantic to ever resist the pull but also acquainted with the specific kind of anguish relationships could bring, hoping this one wouldn’t hurt you like the others had. 

Yeah, speaking honestly, it terrified you. 

But then Alfred was cutting through the noise in your head, pulling you back into the moment fully, his fingers still coaxing your arousal higher, making you whine when his mouth meets yours again, this time more urgent, needy. 

Still facing him you hooked a thigh over his hip, trying to pull yourself even closer, grinding against his fingers until you’d grown impatient enough to slip your panties off the rest of the way.  

Rocking your hips against him you reached for his waist, your fist finding what you wanted easily, almost shaky from want, trying to steady yourself as you palmed over the bulge in his boxers, content with the breathy sighs and groans you get as a result.

He follows your lead, pushing the fabric down to release himself, your warm, soft palm meeting the flushed, heated skin of his cock, obsessed with the way his jaw grits in response to your touch.

Your grip changes, positioning your hand so it dips down, taking him with you, guiding him toward where you want and need him most. 

“I need to get a condom, sweetheart…” he hums and halts your wrist, the sentiment almost sounding like a reprimand if you didn’t know him to be so thoughtful, looking out for you always.  

But you’d anticipated this, a response already on the tip of your tongue before he could say anything more. 

“Don’t want one this time,” you stifle a small yawn, your hand twisting around his shaft, pumping him a few times, giving him more reassurance that you were okay and safe without one if he was okay with it too, a sinful smile as you say the words that damn you, “Wanna feel you when you fuck me.”

“Yeah? Is that so? How filthy…it’s not even seven in the morning yet and your pretty cunt already needs me.” 

That has you tilting your hips up, nodding your agreement at his searing words, your mind already foggy as you felt him press against your folds, sliding with how wet you were. Alfred’s mention of the time had you slowing yourself down a little, pillowed by the dreamy safety of being in bed, of having time to savor this, there didn’t have to be any rush. 

One of his hands sweetly held your hip, the other finding the side of your face you were laying on, cradling your head in his broad palm, groaning with each pass of his hips against your folds, rocking slow and steady until the tip of his length catches against your entrance and you’re both breathing heavy at the pressure of him sinking into you, finally. 

Your eyes flutter as he drags against your walls, seating himself deep, till he’s all the way inside, stuffing you full before slowly pulling back, never going too far, just enough to have you gasping as he plunges deeper into you again, fucking you sweetly. 

“O-oh! You feel so good, it’s so good,” your soft moans and cries wreck him, you know they do, able to feel his grip on your hip grow firmer, a soft but heated passion sparking every ember smoldering inside you both. 

Your praise made him smile, ego softly boosted at the sincerity in your words, being able to tell that you meant it, you weren’t just saying words he might like to hear, you were telling him how good he was making you feel and that was everything. 

It made him want to fuck you like you were his. 

In his mind, you already were even if the conversation hadn’t been had yet, even if it scared him to think about for so many reasons, his fears nor yours would get in the way here, not when he was pressing you flush with his body, your nipples budding at the contact through the thin material of your sleep shirt. 

There was possessiveness in the way he held you against his chest, in the way he fucked you, grinding his hips deep, obsessed with the way your head tips forward to bury in his neck, how you relax into his hold and let him do as he pleases. 

Your fingers pinch at his skin, clinging on as he brings you over the edge swiftly, pulling a blissful orgasm from you twice, not stopping or slowing after the first leeches your energy, building the pleasure back up again. 

It’s the eye contact that makes you shudder, still so disarmed by the intensity they could hold, melting into the fact that you trusted him, that you knew he’d take good care of you, that you could fully immerse yourself in what you were feeling. 

Sweet little curses and whines fall from your parted lips, kiss swollen from his own, the prickle of his beard against your skin making you clench around him, the slap of his hips against you growing just a little harder as he chased his own release now too.

“Please, please,” your frantic plea and the fucked out look on your face nearly has him there. 

“I know, fuck, I know, darling,” the rough, ground out rasp of his accent goes straight to your core, your sensitive walls pulsing as you came again, going soft and pliant in his arms. 

An endless stream of praise fell on your ears as Alfred fucked you through it, letting you ride out the waves, holding out until he couldn’t any longer, his self control finally snapping when you whispered to him to finish how he had last night, wanting to feel him release inside you till he was spent, properly this time, till you were sure you were coated in every drop. 

He did just as you asked, staying vocal like you hoped he would, his arms still keeping you pressed to him as you caught your breaths together after, a self assured smile rising to your cheeks following more praise about how incredible you are, how incredible you made him feel. 

It’s a feeling you want to stay in forever as he finally withdraws from you, eyes fixated on where you start to drip with him already, the two of you curling back around each other under the blankets, finding another hour or so of sleep before starting the day could no longer be pushed back. 

Alfred wasn’t needed at the office until the afternoon and planned to make good use of all the time he could have with you, convincing you to get out of bed with the allure of taking a shower with him and being treated to a home cooked breakfast.

No way you were resisting that, heart skipping in your chest at just how good the last twelve hours had been to you so far. 

You’d pinch yourself if you weren’t so giddy. 

-

The Tower was a new kind of stunning in the daylight and you were delighted to pick up all the extra details you’d missed last night, noting all the natural light coming in, how it contrasted perfectly with the gothic style you don’t think you’ll ever tire of admiring. 

Once you’d finished getting ready Alfred led you down the same path to the kitchen, showing you where the laundry room and a few other things were down the stretch of hallway that opened into the updated but still rustic style kitchen. 

You took your seat at the island, perched on the same bar stool you’d sat at when you shared that late night sandwich with Alfred, now watching him cook for you again. 

Waffles were on the menu this morning per his request, only under the condition that you could make a request of your own: that he makes you your first proper cup of English tea. 

It was an immediate yes. 

“Looks like Bruce had the same idea about waffles this morning…” you chuckled at the hastily cleaned up breakfast endeavor left behind on the counter space in front of you.  

Alfred sighs with a smile, “Indeed, in all his tidiness. I’m glad he’s eaten though, I swear sometimes if I don’t nudge him he’ll forget about his meals.” 

You’re starting to pick up more things about their relationship, their dynamics. 

How much you can tell Alfred loves Bruce, parental affection in his tone when he talks about him, knowing they’ve been through so much together, good and bad, and would do anything for each other, how they were a family…it feels so special to get glimpses of. 

Laughter and the smell of waffle batter and syrup fill the kitchen now, the misty fall morning making you feel especially cozy here next to him, by the heat of the stove listening to him indulge your questions about the perfect cup of tea. 

You don’t notice at first but you find yourself carefully cataloging things as he talks like you're storing them for later like there’s a future you’re saving up these details for. The realization leaves you flustered, not sure if you can stop the feelings beginning to bubble up the more time you spend with him. 

But you try not to dwell on it for long, fresh Belgian style waffles with blueberries on top were calling your name, unable to stop yourself from doing a delighted wiggle in your seat at the taste. 

He grinned at that. 

So he was handsome and caring and romantic and sexy and proving to be a good cook too? 

Again, you’d be pinching yourself if you weren’t such a ball of excitement. 

You talked some more as you ate together, telling him about the show, how you came up with the routines, talking to him about your friends, mentioning that they knew about him and were so thrilled he came to watch you dance, how he’d scored points with them over that which made his cheeks pink up a tad, warming your heart even more. 

How he could intimidate you in the best way one moment and then be so adorably sweet the next bewildered you. 

You also shared your love for the style of the kitchen, perking up when Alfred told you the decor credit had to be given to Dory, their housekeeper, mentioning that she had been a dancer in her youth and that he’s sure she would adore you.

“Of course, I have her beat in that department but I may be biased.” 

The way he said it made your cheeks burn with warmth, caught off guard by his suaveness once again, heart soaring at his words, how he stated it as a fact. 

He was going to be the death of you. 

The plates had long since been cleared and put in the sink to soak, mid-morning flying by as you spent time in the main room with him, looking over his books, the collection of different antiques and heirlooms in cases that filled the spaces of shelves, a happy conversation going until you both realized the time. 

He drove you home after you gathered your things, reluctantly kissing him goodbye at your door, thanking him for everything with a bashful, barely contained grin. 

You watched him go after a moment and another kiss, not wanting him to be late for the board meeting he was headed to. 

A collection of memories from last night, a few indulgent favorite moments, would be heavy on your mind all day you were sure of it and there wasn’t much of your own self restraint left to keep from spending the rest of your free time daydreaming about it all. 

Not that you minded one single bit!

LATER THAT EVENING….

The Iceberg Lounge was busy on the heels of another show. 

You weren’t dancing in this one, it was your night off from the stage so Amber and Kiera could perform their routines, instead getting plucked from bar duties to deliver a few ‘packages’ and a drink to Oz up in his office. 

You’d rather deal with any other man out in the crowd but there wasn’t any getting out of it, a thick envelope of cash placed on your drinks platter, a quick shuffle in your steps as you were nudged in the direction of his private office by one of his security detail. 

There were two drinks on the platter tonight and you kept your fingers crossed it meant he had company when you got there, not wanting to spend any moment alone with him if you could help it. 

Oz has a bad side nobody wanted to be on, his perfectly content side was sleazy at best and downright dangerous at worst and you were already on thin ice with the boss. 

You were sure he hadn’t forgotten your insolence those weeks ago, how you had scoffed at him, bruised his ego about becoming the one in charge in this city, how he’d sent some of his guys to intimidate you, to stalk you and do god knows what else as you walked home that morning. 

It’s the memory of that very morning and how it quite literally thrust you into Alfred’s arms that made you take a deep breath to steady yourself as you approached the office. You can get through this. 

Oz isn’t alone to your relief, your eyes keeping low, trying to avoid eye contact as he and the man sitting next to him talk. 

There isn’t anything special about his guest, you know you don’t recognize his face and the plain suit and rectangle glasses he wore weren’t terribly out of the ordinary for the kind of people Oz did business with. 

He just didn’t look as threatening as the usual crowd, on the younger side too but judging by the way you felt the man eye you up and down you were sure his nonthreatening looks were plenty deceiving. 

You hated this, feeling like some helpless mouse in a trap, presenting the platter neatly, professionally, not a thing out of place. 

“Well look at that, about time someone got me those drinks I asked for,” Oz sneered, a gold tooth flashing in the glittering lights of the club. He noticed his guest raking their eyes over you and snickered, “Yeah, she’s a beauty ain’t she? Just finished teachin her a lesson in respect too so she’s puttin it on extra sweet for us tonight right, honey?” 

The pet name made you grit your teeth, the subtle message in his words making you want to throw his stupid drink in his face just to wipe the grin off of it. 

But you held your tongue and smiled, nodding politely, trying your best to keep calm, to not cry or scream or break something right there and then. 

“Ah, it seems she learns well. Dr. Jonathan Crane, pleasure to meet you,” he introduces himself and you give him a curt nod, knowing better than to give him your name. 

A doctor doing business with the shadiest man in Gotham, you were sure you’d seen everything. 

They return to their conversation and you wait for Oz to take the envelope of cash before you snatch your platter up and head for the door, spying him hand Mr. Crane an envelope of the new hot drug in town, drops.

Of course, the good doctor was dealing in Oz’s drug trade, it made sense now, he must be the newest high-paying customer. 

Whatever the deal was, you were glad not to stick around.

–

Another few hours had gone by and you were weaving through the tables near the stage, admiring your girls pulling off every dance without a hitch while you collected empty glasses and got people their drinks, being extra nice to those you knew would leave you good tips.

The night passed quickly, Oz finishing up business on the main floor, coming around to mingle with regulars before slinking off to some private hotel room next door, a different woman on his arm tonight than the last.

You were just glad he wasn’t going to be around for the rest of the night, able to relax a little more now.

The midnight hour came knocking, the show now finished, and closing duties for the night starting, making a quick detour to the dressing rooms to gush about everyone’s performances, loyal to the artform you were working here for first and foremost, Oz didn’t get to take that joy away from you. 

After your catchup with Kiera and the rest of the girls, you got to work wiping down tables, collecting any left behind tips in your section, lost in thought as you tidied up that the sharp buzz of your phone nearly startled you.  

It was a text notification from Alfred, the sight of his name making you smile until you opened it, a news article made within the last hour attached to his message that read, Darling, I’m coming to pick you up, I’ll be driving you home tonight, I don’t want you out on the streets trying to get home with this going on. I’ll be there soon x.

Something was going on out there and it didn’t sound good. 

Eyes bouncing up to the article, you opened it, the title sending a chill down your spine. 

GOTHAM TIMES - Violence Breaks Out at Paulie’s Diner after Unknown Chemical Attack 

You knew that diner, it wasn’t too far from The Iceberg either, not exactly close but near enough that being outside right now wasn’t safe. The information slowly began to sink in as you skimmed the article. 

A man was said to have been smoking in one of the booths and was asked to stop before he attacked staff, wearing some sort of mask that released a gas chemical, chaos erupted right after, and nearly everyone in the diner was either badly injured or killed. 

That wasn’t all either, dread knotting in your stomach at the message this masked man had left behind. 

This is Gotham’s only warning. Fear The Scarecrow.

They were calling the gas, fear toxin, from what you could tell. Reporters were saying this is likely the first attack among many and investigators were already working on finding the man.

Unease filled your chest at the events unfolding, pictures and videos of the incident circulating in your news feed. It was everywhere. 

An all too familiar worry began to rise, reminding you of the previous year, The Riddler putting the city underwater for months, and now this Scarecrow, whoever he was, seemed just as bad if not worse with his toxin. 

You hoped Alfred could make it without trouble, understanding and grateful that he hadn’t hesitated in his decision to come and get you even if you weren’t necessarily near the danger but also worrying for his sake too, not wanting him to get caught up in the madness that seemed to follow when things like this happened. 

Finishing up the last of what needed to be done you rushed back to the dressing rooms to see if anyone else had heard, warning everyone you passed to be safe as they headed out, finding Roxie and Bambi before they left the club and Kiera and Amber right behind them. 

You all huddled near the stage entrance of the alley, talking about what was going on when you got a call from Alfred saying he was parked outside the alley and would come walk you to the car. 

“Are your friends with you, love?” 

“Yeah we were just talking about what happened, is it really bad out there? Some of the girls were wondering if it wasn’t too bad to catch a train home.”

“Things are...quiet so far but tense. I think that’s too risky, people are already starting to panic, and I do not like the idea of you ladies being on the subway this late at night. If your friends are comfortable, I’d be more than happy to take them home too.”

God, he was so sweet. 

You really appreciated just how concerned he was, understanding why he wasn’t leaving this to chance even if he understood you were capable of looking after yourselves. It made you feel safe to know he was here, and he was serious and respectful about protecting you and by extension, the people you cared about. 

It meant a great deal and the feeling was shared by the group as you told them what Alfred had said, thanking him softly and hanging up before you were all heading out the back door, meeting Alfred halfway, greeting you with open arms. 

He greeted you all with immediate reassurances, a sense of calm urgency about his body language that reassured you he knew what he was doing, that told you he was capable as he led you to his car just up ahead at the mouth of the alleyway. 

You all stuck close to his side, his arms down but positioned out just slightly, keeping himself between you and the space of the open street ahead, smoothly unlocking and opening the car door, seeing that each of you was tucked safely inside before he was checking his surroundings briefly, slipping into the drivers seat a quick moment later. 

Everyone decided they were going to crash the night at Bambi’s place not too far from your own and a good distance away from Downtown, Alfred already picking up the quickest route to her address. 

Now that things had settled some, introductions went around and everyone shared a giggle about being in this strange situation together, a smile beginning to creep up onto your face despite what was going on as your friends gently prodded Alfred with questions, all of them including yourself charmed by his answers. 

You thought it was safe to say he’d passed whatever kind of test they had for him, Roxie starting off a chain of thank you’s when Bambi’s apartment building came into view, her and Amber making swooning gestures as the car came to a stop, making you shake your head and shoo them out of the car. 

“Have a good night, ladies. Please be safe,” Alfred chuckled his own goodbyes, sharing a happy look with you at their collective, “We will!”

He waited till he was sure they were inside before driving away, his hand finding its place on your thigh as he took you home, his thumb passing over your knee soothingly from time to time. 

Sooner than you wished he was parking outside your place, following close behind you, protecting your back as you walked to your door. 

You fumbled with your keys for a second, fingers a little slow with the biting chill of the air, unlocking the door soon after, turning reluctantly to say goodnight. 

“You can’t stay can you?” The question is shy, quiet coming off your lips and you’re a little worried you sounded too clingy or too invested when his hands come up to cup your cheeks, lifting your head a little so you’d look at him.

Of course, there would be nothing but gentleness on his features, you should have known he wouldn’t be off put by your words.

“My darling, I’d love nothing more than to stay. I’m not keen on leaving you alone tonight, I would if I could, lovely. I’m sorry to disappoint.” 

There’s worry laced in his tone and it stings your heart, rushing to reassure him that he was far from disappointing you. Reminding him how special and amazing the last day with him had been, that you and your friends were safe tonight because of him.

And yes you’d miss him but knew he and Bruce had undertaken a lot trying to build up and fix Wayne Enterprises, and you knew that came with late nights, knew he couldn’t always stay and that was okay because you knew he’d make time for you when he could and you’d do the same for him.

Your words seemed to soothe him, resting his case with a purposeful nod as you leaned in to kiss him goodnight. 

“Get some rest, love. And hey, those doors and windows of yours stay closed and locked, is that understood?” 

The slight serious shift in his tone, the soft sternness of it almost made you lose your breath, nodding and squeaking out a “Yes. Promise.” a delayed second later. 

What was it about being cared for so fiercely that made you want him so badly? It simply wasn’t fair!

Sharing another soft kiss you slipped inside to the warmth of your apartment, waving to him through your window and watching him drive off after a moment. 

The street was quiet so far tonight though you could hear the distant wailing of sirens and the particular hazy glow of the bat shaped beacon illuminating the sky above told you things were far from quiet in the city.

You didn’t have much faith in whatever investigators were on the case to find Scarecrow before something else could happen but maybe just maybe, The Batman had a chance…if he did it once before…

Forcing yourself away from the window you shut your blinds, retreating into the hot steam of the shower, later curled in bed with a book, reading but finding that you had to go back and re-read a passage every so often, lost in thought again, things coming full circle to thinking of Alfred, of your feelings.

Softened and vulnerable now that you thought it over, scared to wonder, to ask, to know if these feelings were the same for him. 

It scared you to know he affected you this much already, that you cared about him and wanted him and felt things for him more than you had cared to admit even a day ago.

Could it be too soon, too dangerous to think of a potential relationship with him, to let yourself feel like this was more than just a few great dates and amazing sex, that maybe there was something more beginning here and you could trust in it?

You wanted nothing more, knowing in your heart already that if you were wrong it would crush you to bits but that’s not what you wanted to dwell on tonight, not with so much doom already on the horizon. 

No, tonight you’d indulge yourself, thinking of the older man that now occupied so much of your thoughts, dreaming of his strong arms wrapped around you and the way he’d held you close like he never wanted to let you go. 

The more you thought about all the moments you’d spent with him since you met, you started to feel like maybe you could trust your gut with this one, holding onto the thrilling hunch that the answer would be everything you were hoping for.

-----

A/N: Ok ok ok how are we feeling, what are we thinking about this one? Let me know!! And yay we have a new character/villain edition with Scarecrow in the mix! I thought he would be a good one to add to this story especially with the fear toxin storyline, I have sooo much cooking for this plot with a few influences from different Batman media so I can’t wait to show you where this takes us!! Also couldn’t resist sprinkling more protective Alfred in this one so I hope this is a good read! I enjoyed writing it and hope you enjoy reading it!

Thank you so much for reading! Comments and reblogs make my day! 🖤

some tags no pressure: @eupheme @saradika @obiknights @tarrenterror25 @thaddeuscranes @flamingdisputes @squidlywiddly87 @madamepoelzig @mariahthelioness29 @unrefinedmusings @xnodamsel @allaboardthereadingrailroad @yelenas-lova @aislupu @kneelforloki @xoxovivarecs @fluffyprettykitty @ayoarticulate

[mj-iza-writer]

Things I'm currently going through that you can absolutely use for your Whump characters.

Warning: I am explaining what I am going through right now. This has mentions of passing out, puke, and blood. Please don't read if those are icky to you. I am also not tagging the ones I normally tag because I don't know what they're squicks are.

I think I'm having a bad reaction to a medicine that I tried to take to get rid of the bad cold I've had for a week straight.

So here is how my day is currently going. Maybe some of this may inspire a story. I hope you enjoy.

• I woke up at 4:30 am to a Charlie Horse in my leg.

• At 4:30 am I went to the bathroom, I felt like I was going to puke. A few minutes later I hear myself moaning and my back is hurting. My mom is opening the bathroom door because she heard something fall. I had fainted and was lying sideways against our shower door. I had passed out for a minute.

• I have thrown up 3 times today so far, and I'm sure I'm not done yet.

• I legit yell and groan while I puke. I also gasp for air after every hurl.

•My throat is raw from the acidic puke.

• My chest and ribs are sore from heaving.

• After every time, I have been shaky and weak as I try to piece myself together. (If your Whumpee doesn't have a Caretaker)

• I am fluctuating between chills and sweating. The cold sweats are horrible also.

• I have blood in my eye from bursting a blood vessel from puking. That was terrifying when I looked into the mirror.

• I have no appetite, I either eat something to puke later or I dry heave, both hurt the same.

•My head is killing me.

So yeah, no matter who you give these to, your character is bound to have a bad time. Happy Whumping, I'm going to try to take a nap now.

[ravenmichaelisstuff]

(PART 1 )

I think A LOT about Soap trying to give back the childhood Ghost lost. (Part 4) Warning: this one is a hurt\comfort

Ghost never slept well, but recently it was getting worse. He despised his own room because being there meant going to sleep. Sleep meant tossing in bed for hours until he could see sunshine again because if he got any shut-eye it was filled with nightmares- filled with memories of his father and the things Roba did to him, the things he made him do. 

But Ghost couldn't go like this for the rest of his life, he had to go to sleep. He knew that the longer he waits, the more snappy and brody he gets. He gets frustrated so much easier, and when you have people under your command it's not really a good match. 

Snapping at his teammates become frequent, even at Soap. It was unpleasant to be around him for the past few days, and Soap tried- really tried - to ask Ghost if something was bothering him, but it only made him more defensive. Soap didn’t deserve that, he had to go to sleep.

So the faithful night he took a hot shower to loosen up his muscles, took a sleeping pill, and forced himself to lay down and close his eyes. He regretted it.

It was painfully quiet, he couldn’t make out his surroundings, it was all a blur of familiar  places, yet nothing felt right. Sadly he could recognize all the bodies surrounding him. Gaz, Price, Rudy, Alejandro, and Laswell- all completely still, cold. Bullets all around them. And then he heard him. 

“Simon…” There in his arms laid Soap, eyes foggy and unable to focus. He was weakly grasping at Ghost. “Too late… Ye left us.”

“Soap! I wouldn’t! Johnny-”

“You let us down…” Soap’s words were no more than a weak whisper and his eyes closed softly like he just went to sleep.

“No, no, no, no…” Ghost wept, cradling his sergeant to his chest. “Don’t leave me Soap. You can’t leave! JOHNNY!”

He woke up covered in a cold sweat, he couldn’t take a breath. Ghost wanted to vomit. He never dreamt about others, always about himself. He couldn’t erase the picture of his dead team- friends, Johnny. He had to check on him. Before he knew he pulled his balaclava on with trembling hands, his throat was sore, he had to be screaming.

He was on his way to Soap’s room in a blink of an eye, only when he stood before the sergeant’s doors he felt that his balaclava was soaking wet. Soap couldn’t see him in that state, what would he think? How someone like him- weak and fragile, could protect him? A man like him should just deal with it, not-

“Ghost!” Johnny stood right in front of him, doors open. “Ey, ye with me?”

Ghost couldn’t bring himself to answer, he just stood there.

“Ok… ok, come on, Si we won’t be standing ‘ere.” He made space for Ghost to enter his room and locked the door after him.

Soap could take a closer look at Ghost now. He saw through the mask- red, teary eyes, wet streaks on the thick fabric. Ghost was hyperventilating.

“Dear God… Ghost wha-”

“I should go.” He cut in, voice raspy, about to turn around. 

Soap gently put his hand on Ghost’s chest, stopping him. “Si-”

The small touch of Soap’s warm hand right on his heart broke him to pieces. He sobbed and pulled Soap into a bone-crushing hug. Soap didn’t take long to reciprocate, he hold Ghost flush to his body. Ghost’s breathing was slowly evening out with every inhale of Johnny’s body wash he got.

“Wanna talk about it? I heard my name while asleep, though something happened.” Soap spoke up, running his hand between Ghost’s shoulder blades. "I wanted to go look for you."

Ghost just shook his head. “Can I stay?” He mumbled.

“You don’t have to ask.” Soap walked them to the bed, pulling Simon to lay on his chest.

Ghost could hear the strong beat of Soap’s heart.

“Try to not think about it, Lt.”

“If only it was this easy, Soap.” Ghost felt the arm around him tighten.

“I know…” Soap was quiet for a little bit. “I will take yer mind off of it.” He seemed to be embarrassed about what he was about to do. “I might be terrible at this.” Soap took a deep breath.

“Dèan an cadalan 's dùin do shùilean,

(Go to sleep and close your eyes)"

Soap quietly sang right to Simon’s ears.

“Dèan an cadalan beag na mo sgùrdaich;

(Have a wee sleep in my lap)

Rinn thu an cadalan, 's dhùin do shùilean,

(You went to sleep and closed your eyes)

Rinn thu an cadalan, slàn gun dùisg thu!

(You went to sleep, be well without waking)”

Ghost couldn’t understand a word, but his heart and soul seemed to be mending with every word.

“Cagaran, cagaran, cagaran gaolach

(Little darling, little darling, beloved little darling)

Cagaran foghainteach, fear de mo dhaoine

(Heroic little darling, one of my own kin)”

Soap’s singing wasn’t clean or professional by any means, but it was filled with care. It was more than enough to make Ghost’s eyelids heavy again.

“Thuit e na chadalan, thuit e na shuainean,

(He fell asleep, he fell into slumber)

Caithrisidh ainglean gu càirdeil mun cuairt dha;

(Angels keep affectionate vigil around him)

Cluinnidh e an guthan a' cagar na chluasan,

(He can hear the breath of a whisper in his ears)

'S bidh fiamh gàire air gràdhan na bhruadar!

(and the loved one will smile in his dream!)”

Soon Soap heard soft snoring accompanying him.

“Sleep well, m’eudail.” 

And maybe, just maybe Ghost still heard that, thought it was a dream. A good one.

This one turned out to be a little different huh... Look, it's still fluffy, right? RIGHT? I am wondering what to write next <3

I will post it on Twitter and ao3 tomorrow, bc I am beyond tired. You guys can feel like VIPs I love all the feedback <3

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 3

Read on AO3. Part 2 here. Part 4 here.

Summary: You really wish Tavington would stop saying things that make you want to pass out since you're literally already about to pass out from thirst.

Words: 7000

Warnings: Extremely questionable medical practices

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: Co-written with @bastillia. <3

Okay so now this thing has umm at least SEVEN chapters? We're so sorry but we're not. (I am partially sorry that I'm motivated to write again but it's for a fandom that's approximately 2 people big (including me and @bastillia) but if you're here, thank you so much. We're just honestly enjoying writing this story so much and telling the tale of two bitchy cunts. It's the best! We love you <3

Your only attempt to escape that day occurred when you awoke, still tightened around the Butcher’s belly. Like an animal waking into a trap, you jerked back, your fists flying into his chest, and he grunted, hooking your bonds with one finger and tugging them back down.

Wincing, you hissed an admission of your error and settled into the seat again. The sun, just starting to crest over the horizon into the pinkening sky, blinded you. With a groan, you turned your face away. A lance receded from your skull as you pressed your brow and eyes against Tavington’s back, making him your stalwart shield against the dawn’s assault.

If you’d awoken sore yesterday, today you woke as an abscess, oozing ache and misery. A second heartbeat had grown in your temples and your tongue scraped your palate, dry as a cat’s.

You could do this. You would do this.

“Good morning, Colonel,” you mumbled against him. When he didn't respond, you forced yourself to huff. “What, did you get up on the wrong side of the horse?”

Still nothing. Shrugging him off, you pressed your cheek to his shoulder blades and looked behind you, meeting the eyes of the man you knew as Lieutenant Shaw. The moment he caught your gaze, he glanced away.

You raised a brow, twisting toward him. He was a stout, ruddy-cheeked man, older than Tavington, his blonde hair tied back in a scruffy queue. His lips were chewed raw, knuckles whitening around his reins as you studied him, until his horse began to gnaw the bit. His foot twitched anxiously in its stirrup.

“Good day,” you murmured to him.

Shaw’s attention darted sideways at you, checking that you’d actually addressed him. When he realized you had, he cleared his throat and stared forward.

“Lieutenant Shaw, isn’t it?”

He stiffened on his horse, which now started to toss its head. He glanced at you again. You supplied him with as earnest a smile as possible.

“How was your evening, Lieutenant? Is your ride going well?” When Tavington’s shoulders tensed, you found yourself unable to stop. “And is your Colonel always such a bastard, or is he just bad with women?”

“I, er—ma’am—“

“Shaw,” Tavington said.

Shaw straightened. “Sir.”

“Do not engage the prisoner.”

“Yes, sir.” His gaze fixed straight ahead.

You frowned. Well, that was unfair.

As you sat in silence, Shaw continued to argue with his mount, each of them bracing against the other as he tried in vain to get the animal to settle. You rolled your eyes.

“Relax,” you said. “Soften your elbows.”

Tavington’s head whipped to the side just a fraction. Relenting, you took it for the warning it was, and turned your head away from Shaw to rest the other cheek. Shaw’s horse quieted behind you.

On the colonel’s other side, Lieutenant Edwards rode a few paces behind. A washed out, willowy man, he wavered atop his horse like a reed. At the edge of your periphery, your eyes half closed, you saw him raise a small item to his mouth that glinted in the sun. You turned, meeting his eyes. Edwards flinched, topping it and stashing it beneath a saddlebag.

Before you could even seek his attention, he tucked his heels into his horse and trotted ahead, avoiding you like a nosy relative. That typically wouldn’t bother you, but the worse you felt, the greater the desire to publicly sulk became. Certainly, your captor could attempt to deprive you of every small joy you had available to you—you’d simply try to deprive him of his sanity.

“Am I bothering you, Colonel?” you asked. “Are you growing tired of the sound of my voice?” Tavington said nothing, but his chin tilted toward the sky, which was almost as good as an admission from him.

“You know, if we changed things up, I could probably speak more quietly. You might not even hear me.” When only hoofbeats answered you, you continued, “Why don’t you just let me ride with Shaw?”

“Absolutely not.”

You grinned, a sick delight popping in your chest that you’d gotten a reply out of him. “Why not?” you asked. “You must be tired of having me hang onto you. The lieutenant there seemed perfectly capable of handling a conversation.”

Shaw, for his part, joined Edwards ahead of you, apparently not wanting to be included in said conversation.

“The lieutenant isn’t as experienced in dealing with duplicitous agitators.”

“Ah, yes,” you said. “You demonstrated your experience in dealing with them the first time we met.”

“I believe I did,” he replied. “Though unfortunately, none of the others are alive to attest to it.”

You set your jaw, remembering the split throats and spewed brains of the men you’d shared the tent with. Considering you’d only escaped with burns, perhaps you had managed to stumble into some luck. You wondered what would’ve happened that night if Tavington’s subordinates hadn’t been around to rein him in. You wondered how well those reins were holding now.

“Where are the rest of your men?” you asked, not expecting an answer. “If you’re a colonel, you must have command of at least a hundred.”

“Four,” he said casually. “Hundred.”

“Isn’t carting me along taking away from time you could have with them?” Against your will, there was a hint of genuine curiosity in your voice. “You could be murdering so many more innocent civilians.”

You received no response, apparently having exhausted the last scrap of curiosity he was willing to humor. That didn’t stop you.

“Burning so many more towns?”

Nothing.

“Raping so many more women?”

You felt his ribs compress in a sigh, but he remained silent.

“Quite the trail of bodies you’ve laid,” you continued, affecting awe. “Obviously, it begs the question of when an attempt might be made on my own.”

“I would not deign to make an attempt on your body,” he growled, drawing another triumphant smirk from you, “even were it the last bloody carcass not rotting into the dirt.”

But hearing the words an attempt on your body leave his mouth, even in the negative, sent a thrill through you. You frowned at yourself. Apparently, sleep had failed to restore the portion of you that could respond reasonably to cruelty.

“Dear me, but you are a gentleman. You must have come to be called The Butcher on account of such gallantry.”

Tavington said nothing.

“So how is your time spent, then? Kissing babies? Petting bunnies?”

The horse’s stride trudged steadily on.

“Abandoning your regiment to chase injured women around the countryside?” You furrowed your brow. “I certainly can’t be that important. Neither can my father, for that matter.”

“Your attempts at trickery are losing their polish.”

You grumbled. “I’m not—there’s no trickery.”

You really just didn’t want to think about how many bodies he’d made attempts on or how often these attempts were made nowadays or what it might be like if he made an attempt on your body and—

A slight exhale, almost like a laugh. “Ask yourself if you would have approached a camp of four hundred, girl.”

Well. He had a point there. You supposed that if his intention had been to wrangle you into submission and gather all the glory for your capture himself, then he’d gone about it exactly the right way. It was strange, though, his willingness to construct such a small operation based on the little correspondence he’d received. For whatever reason, being the victor in any situation, no matter how small, was important enough for him to send his legion on their own for half a week.

You wrote that in your mind’s journal, too.

“Girl,” you said, pressing your forehead into him as a particularly strong pulse of pain knocked your skull. “What happened to my name? I know you know it.”

“Your behavior is more befitting that of a girl.”

You ignored him. “How do you know my name, Colonel? I can’t say I remember introducing myself.”

Tavington paused. “Don’t you?” he said, savoring the words like a secret. “Ah, no. It was your sister who gave you away.” And then, with a sardonic glee, “Grace, wasn’t it?”

The mention of your sister’s name iced your blood. You now felt your pulse over each inch of your flesh, like your skin had come alive with rage.

“Was that it?” he said. “Grace?”

“Don’t you dare speak her name,” you said, low enough only he could hear.

“No?” he replied. “If I apologize, will you offer me grace?”

You growled, bashing your head into his spine, receiving a retribution of hard muscle and bone. It rang agony to your toes, and you collapsed against him, hissing a curse. The stress on your body had won out. You’d have to let him have this round.

The sun continued to crawl up the sky and nibble at the shade offered by Tavington’s body. With your face turned away, you sought respite beneath the carved ridge of his shoulder blade, cradling your eyes there. Even with the small relief of darkness, your skull pounded harder, harder, until it threatened to shatter.

Perhaps around late morning—you’d lost any reliable sense of time passing—the nausea began. It struck in hideous, syncopated beats between the horse’s stride and your own weakening pulse, tipping the world on its axis. At some point, a particularly violent wave pitched you in a riptide. You clutched the front of Tavington’s coat, clamping your jaw closed against the dry-heave that thrashed your insides. It was only then that you realized you were shaking. If he noticed, he made no indication.

“Colonel Tavington.” Shaw’s voice shimmered through your consciousness from somewhere far off.

Tavington straightened, sending a red dagger of sunlight through one of your eyelids. You nestled further into him, breathing against vertigo.

“The, er—the pack horse is tying up, sir. And Edwards’ horse has been stumbling.”

“Speak freely, Shaw.” Tavington’s voice rippled around you like you were underwater.

“With respect, sir.” Shaw sounded altogether too sharp and too distant. The water around you shifted. “I don’t think they’ll make it to Dorchester, let alone Charleston.”

Your mind, adrift in fragments, grasped at the word as it passed. Dorchester. Your father’s voice swam around those syllables somewhere fathoms deep in your memory. But that would mean you’d ridden… miles. Too many miles.

Why couldn’t you recall how many miles?

It was hard to say what happened next. More words rippled, in shapes like camp and Dorchester and dawn. Everything was far away. Except Tavington. He was close—an anchor. Perhaps the water itself, holding you. Letting you drift gently into the deep, into the dark. No. Lifting you. Lifting your arms. Dropping them.

Then he wasn’t there. And you were drenched in vicious sunlight.

“No—” you heard yourself mewl, and your hands came up to shield your eyes. The world swung on a hinge.

A firm hand braced under your sternum, another at the small of your back. They straightened you upright, then guided you sideways. So far sideways that you should have been falling.

But you didn’t fall. You were floating again. Borne by a pair of strong arms, curled against a chest. Cracking your eyes open, you saw Tavington’s face above you, haloed in light.

Then you hit the ground.

You groaned, curling onto your side, hiding your face from the unyielding undulation of the world around you. Beyond it somewhere, the redcoats gave and heeded orders that washed over your consciousness like milk. There was movement, the grabbing and stashing and placing of things. You focused on taking a breath in and letting one out. In, then out again.

Another breath, another, deep into your belly and shuddering out through your nose. It almost, you thought, had a steadying effect—almost, because you were still trembling and still nauseous and still dizzy and your arms were beginning to hurt in ways they hadn't before.

Just as you felt relief from the sun's assault, a splash of cold water smacked your face.

You heaved, shooting up to sit, your tongue chasing the water like a kitten scrambling to catch prey. Even the meager splash was restorative. Drops moistened your mouth, trickles soothing the pulse in your scalp.

Panting, you realized you'd been primally scavenging water off of your own face. Eyes peeling open, you looked up to meet William Tavington’s gaze, his canteen in one hand and a couple lengths of rope in the other.

If you had ever been concerned about decorum, at least a small part of you would've been embarrassed. Thankfully, you'd never made decorum a priority once in your life.

He dropped to a crouch and grabbed your wrists, untying the knots there.

“Not even a greeting?” you mumbled, grateful the water had at least restored enough of your mind to grant you spite.

Your hands now free, he moved to jerk one behind your back and paused. You winced—there was a new, hot ache cutting its way up your forearms and he happened to be holding one with more force than necessary.

Whatever the ache was, Tavington was making it worse. He turned your wrist around in examination, still clutching the rope.

“Edwards,” he said. “Shaw.”

Both men responded affirmatively, turning toward him.

“Was a lancet packed?” he asked. “Or a fleam?”

You frowned. Did he want to cut you? Lifting your head, you glanced between your wrists. The burns looked like sunsets—a hot, yellow center pouring red rays across your skin. A blood malady.

Deep in the starved recesses of your mind, something came grinding to life, and drove you to clamber to your knees.

Tavington eyed you warily, his grip flexing around your arms. You met his stare, your own replete with resolve.

“I don’t need bloodletting,” you said. “I can—” Dizziness swarmed you, greyed your vision. Clenching your fists, you used Tavington’s hold on you to steady yourself. “I can slow this down, just let me—”

“Shaw?” he called, ignoring you.

“No, sir,” came Shaw’s reply. “Will a pocket knife do?”

Tavington’s mouth pressed into a tight line. “It will have to. Bring it here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Stop,” you pleaded, panic streaking through you. In this state, you weren’t sure you could withstand any blood loss at all, let alone as much as his cruel hands were bound to purloin from you. “Please, if you just—do you know what a sumac tree looks like?”

The men ignored you. Shaw passed the blade to Tavington.

“Hold her other arm,” Tavington commanded. Shaw moved to your side, his grip replacing the colonel’s.

“Do you?” you implored, your gaze searching between the two men. Shaw refused to meet your eyes. Tavington’s attention remained on your wrist, bringing the knife to it. “This won’t—you can’t—you’re no physician, you have no idea what you’re doing.”

The blade brushed against tender, swollen skin. You tried to flinch away, but he held you fast. Something like an incredulous laugh burst past your lips.

“On your way back to England.” Your voice shook, and you closed your eyes. “Just remember that I could have spared both our fates.”

You sank back onto your heels, turned your face to the sun, and thought of home. Of Grace. Long seconds ticked past as you waited for the knife’s bite, for the slow drain of consciousness that was sure to follow. But neither came.

Opening your eyes, you found Tavington staring daggers into you, the blade barely kissing your flesh. The hope you had just discarded into the very pits of your soul leapt alive. You rocked forward to level your stare with his.

“If you bleed me, Butcher,” you whispered, “I will die.”

A muscle in his jaw jumped. If your heart currently possessed any more strength than a fledgling sparrow, it might have taken flight. It was harrowing to recognize that your death was likely something he would cherish orchestrating. It was even more harrowing to recognize that a part of you was nothing less than thrilled by that.

“Colonel, sir.” Shaw’s hesitant address snapped the air like twine. You both looked at him. “If—if I may speak freely, the physicians in Charleston are much better equipped for this, and it’s at most two more days’ ride—”

“That’s too long,” you said, then looked back to Tavington. “I can make something that will help. I just need a sumac tree, or alder, or—”

Tavington snorted. “You want a tree—”

“God’s blood, will you just listen?” You wrenched your arm away from Shaw. Tavington dropped the knife to snare both of your wrists like you were an obstinate child. Sagging, you summoned every ounce of genuine earnestness you could. “Please.”

Tavington rolled his tongue in his mouth, his eyes never leaving yours.

“Shaw,” he finally said. “Dismissed.”

“Sir.”

The lieutenant departed like a fire had sprung beneath his balls, rejoining Edwards in the small camp. You swallowed, steeling yourself with what little alloy remained within you. The blue in Tavington’s eyes burned stark-white.

“Let go.” You jerked your hands back, but he refused to budge. “Let me stand.”

He stared into you, chest rising as he allowed his fury to gutter. With an exhale, his grip loosened, and you slipped free with a grunt. Shaking, you pushed yourself to your feet, stabilizing yourself with hands on your thighs, blinking as the sky spun to your feet and the grass fogged out. You sucked in a breath and growled against your body’s desire to pass out.

“Bring the knife,” you said, stumbling forward. When he stood, you heard him draw closer—too close—and you whirled on him, ignoring how the movement split him into five different irritated Tavingtons. “Don’t. Touch me.”

“Do relax.” He grasped your upper arm, turning you back around.

You glared at him and flailed your shoulder, knowing it wouldn't shake him off but needing him to know you didn't like it anyway.

In this moment, all flutters of desire had died like moths fried by torchlight. You were sick of being treated like an idiot dog, sick of your head pounding and your stomach eating you from the inside out, sick of being surrounded by these godforsaken ignorant men. You charged into the woods with one focus: finding something to help purge your blood and getting the British army’s most contemptible colonel to give you more than two inches of breadth between your bodies.

Said colonel was still clutching you as you went, but at least this time you were dragging him. It would have been much more pleasant to reach the shade of the woods without him there to ruin it, but at least the pounding in your skull had receded. You drew an inhale and cast about for something useful.

Immediately, you knelt to pluck wintergreen leaves from a patch at your feet. Tavington dropped your arm as you descended, electing to tower over you rather than join you. That should have been a relief, but then he stepped even closer, his shins nearly bracketing your hips.

Jaw clenched, you decided the only way to ignore him was to occupy your mind. From where you crouched, your eyes flicked over various plants that sparked recognition, from toxic to medicinal, but there were only a few you knew of that could siphon fever from the blood. Most would have to be dried, or infused in oil, or various other preparations that your fogged mind couldn’t conjure but would certainly not be viable in your current situation anyway.

An alder bark salve would be ideal, as the trees were abundant. Perhaps its properties would function in a poultice instead, given your lack of materials and time. You didn’t relish the idea of improvisation with your mind so muddled, but you had little other choice.

“Is the gibbet still your preference?” Tavington said above you, startling you out of your thoughts. “I believe I’ve now a strong case for burning you at the stake.”

You grit your teeth, shoving your harvested leaves into your trouser pockets before you stood. When you did, the world capsized again, forcing you to brace against the nearest trunk and take several deep breaths.

“How predictably barbaric of you,” you said without turning to face him. “Let me be burned for possessing knowledge long before I ever live in fear of it.”

“Yes,” he replied, “though I somehow doubt the knowledge you possess to be of any particular value, given your predilection for failure.”

“I’m sure that’s what your general says to you every time you offer input,” you grumbled, not caring if he heard you, and began a wobbly path toward an alder tree some yards off.

You smoothed your hand down the bark as you reached it, partly to make certain you’d identified it correctly, but mostly for the chance to finally touch something that wasn’t a detestable irritant of a man. Despite your efforts in the latter, he approached behind you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him. Sighing, you held your hand by your shoulder, palm upwards.

“I need the knife,” you said.

“No.”

You wheeled on him, only for your face to be an inch from his, your breasts brushing his chest, and you stumbled, back against the tree. Sweat beaded on your neck, at your throat, and you stiffened, narrowing your eyes. Tavington’s head tilted up, and he closed the distance again, seemingly unperturbed by your discomfort.

You frowned. “Fine.” You slipped to the side, your chest scraping his coat as you escaped the cage he had created with his body. He simply watched you move. You gestured to the tree, then crossed your arms. “Harvest the inner bark.”

Tavington stared at you.

You scoffed. “Go on, then.”

“Is this what colonials consider a meal?” He waved between your pockets and the alder.

“Why?” you asked. “Would that disgust you?”

You took a wintergreen leaf out of your pocket and popped it into your mouth. Despite yourself, you nearly lost focus as its oil coated your tongue, spreading a cool, bitter relief across it. Tavington looked at you like you’d just bitten the head off of a live rat in front of him.

“It’s medicine.” You rolled your eyes. “Don’t worry, there will be no question that I died of starvation.”

Tavington looked away, seeming rather nauseated, to consider the tree. He flipped the pocket knife into his palm. Then, with stony reluctance, looked at you again, waiting.

You shook your head with a small huff, turning toward the trunk.

“Score the bark vertically,” you said, tracing a line with your finger to indicate your meaning. “Here.”

His jaw flexed, but he followed your instruction, carving a line down the bark exactly as you’d directed. It was then that you realized, with a small lurch in your belly, that he had removed his gloves. The sinews in his hand flexed as he guided the knife along the bark, then pried its edge free.

“Now here,” you pointed down another invisible line a few inches beside the first score. “And then horizontally here and here, to connect both scores.”

Again, you mapped the blade’s path with your finger. And again, he retraced it with utter precision. You swallowed, the movement sticking in the arid pillar of your throat.

“Right,” you said. “Good. Now the outer bark should peel away.”

Tavington regarded you, lip half-curled, as if hell were closer beneath him than this. Then he jammed the blade beneath the bark like it had just stolen his coin purse.

“No, not like—”

Your hand shot out before you could stop it, your fingers wrapping over his fist. The connection crackled and you jerked back like you’d touched lightning. You’d felt his bare skin before, when he’d tied you up yesterday, but the warmth of him, the hard, strong bone of his knuckles—it startled you.

Jaw set, he shoved the knife at you and stepped back, head nodding toward the tree. You shook off whatever had just possessed you and cleared your throat, starting to carve away.

The cork now stripped, the soft, coppery inner bark of the alder glowed underneath your knife. Your hand trembled, your grip barely strong enough to keep the blade steady. But the bark was supple, familiar, and it peeled away like pats of butter into your hand. You slipped the slivers into your pockets, too.

Tavington watched you, silent, his eyes following your fingers as they worked. The attention felt curious, unfamiliar—you supposed he was considering the avenues he’d need to take to justifiably kill you once you were both in Charleston.

You would be so relieved when you got there. Whatever needed to be done to secure Grace’s freedom would be light work compared to spending another minute in the company of William Tavington. To think that a man with as much education as he knew so little, that his military desired to possess that which they did not understand. You almost laughed.

“You know,” you mused. “For as hard as you people fight to keep this land under your heel, you really don’t know much about it.” You grabbed a couple more slices and stuffed them away, holding out the knife and your arm to him. “All right. Drag me back, Colonel.”

Tavington studied you for a moment, the frustration on his face abated. He plucked the knife from your hand and tugged your arm toward him and behind your back, pushing you out of the woods.

When you reached camp, he released you, and you tripped forward into the grass. Shaking, you pushed yourself to your hands and knees and rolled to sit, waiting for the world to cease its imitation of a spinning top. You glanced over at the lieutenants, who both stared between you and Tavington with uncertainty. Shaw hovered above the rock he was sitting on, as if he’d been about to move to help you, but sat down when Tavington leered at him.

You snorted. You might have preferred the presence of Nathaniel Jones to these fools. The Lord rest his soul, of course.

Tavington sat with his men. They’d prepared rations while you’d both been gone, not that it mattered, since they certainly had no intention to share it with you. As he sat, a flicker of exhaustion crossed his face, lines creasing his forehead where you hadn’t seen them before. You wondered if he’d slept at all.

The way his shoulders dropped as he took a bite of his meal—the utterly human display of his relief—almost comforted you with the knowledge that he actually was a man.

Almost, since, again, they were definitely not sharing the food with you and were probably betting on how long you’d last under neglect until you dropped dead or maybe lost your mind and tried to kill them all.

You turned your focus on the components you gathered, pulling them out of your pocket and grabbing a couple rocks to mash them together with.

As weak as you felt, it was soothing to go through the motions of grinding up the leaves and bark. With each pass of one stone over the other, you felt your frustration bleeding out into the pulp between. The oil from the wintergreen helped break apart the slivers of tender bark, though they weren’t combining nearly as well as you’d hoped. You needed to hydrate the mixture more.

“Edwards,” you called, as he was seated closest to you. “May I borrow your canteen, please?”

He turned, regarding you as if you were a cockroach he’d just found crawling on his sleeve. Then he picked up his canteen and moved it to his other side, away from you, turning back toward his fellow soldiers. You saw Tavington’s gaze flick to you, then to Edwards, then back to his meal, inscrutable as ever.

All of the anger you’d just tempered struck hot within you again, the flint of exhaustion colliding with the steel of spite. You stuck out your chin at the back of Edwards’ head.

“Your flask, then.”

Tavington’s head shot up. Edwards went stiff. After a pause, he addressed his colonel.

“I haven’t a clue what she’s talking about, sir.”

“Left front saddlebag,” you said, turning your attention back to crushing your half-combined attempt at a poultice. “Underneath it.”

In the corner of your vision, you watched Tavington slowly rise, then walk over to where Edwards’ horse was grazing.

With his colonel’s back turned, Edwards peered around to narrow his pallid eyes at you. Lifting your head, you matched his glare, daring him to retaliate. For the very first time, you felt a flicker of gratitude for having The Butcher’s protection. No matter how begrudgingly it might be given.

As Tavington returned, Edwards stood, his attention following the silver flash in his colonel’s hand. “Colonel, sir, I do apologize, but I didn’t expect this assignment to be particularly demanding,” he said. “It’s a prisoner transport.”

“Ah,” Tavington replied. “And that prisoner clearly has no intention of attempting to undermine you.” He stepped forward, brandishing the flask like a prize. “Lieutenant, here is a demonstrable lack of experience in dealing with duplicitous agitators.” His gaze fell, briefly, to you, then returned to Edwards. “Perhaps, when we arrive at Charleston, an evaluation of your rank is in order.”

Keeping your concentration on your concoction, you smirked. As you continued to grind, the flask landed near your rocks. You glanced up. Tavington wasn’t looking at you, but Edwards was.

“Sir, please—”

“Disobedience isn’t rewarded, Lieutenant,” Tavington said. “Consider that next time you smuggle your precious whiskey.”

You took that as permission and grabbed the flask. The moment your hands landed on it, every British officer followed your movement. You rolled your shoulders, frowning.

"I’m not going to drink it,” you said. And then, with all of the sweetness you did not possess, “Are there are any bandages available?” Nobody moved. With all of the bitterness you did possess, “Please?”

Tavington let out a slow breath. “Shaw.” He tipped his head toward where the supplies had been piled. The lieutenant scrambled to obey. Edwards sank back down where he’d been seated, a slump to his shoulders.

You glanced up at Tavington, who had evidently decided to stay and supervise you. He was looking down at your work with a curious crease in his brow. Returning your own attention to it, you unscrewed the flask’s top and tipped a dash of whiskey into the concave divot where you’d been grinding the poultice. With a few more passes of your makeshift pestle, the extra liquid finally allowed you to macerate the pulp into a workable consistency. You huffed, drawing the back of your hand across your forehead and sitting back on your heels.

When you looked up again, Shaw and Edwards had both moved farther off. Tavington was still beside you, now holding out a roll of white fabric. After a moment of hesitation, glancing between him and his offering, you took it.

After managing some form of grumbled acknowledgement, you looked back down to your workstation. Tavington continued to watch you in silence.

You began by tearing two lengths of cloth approximately the size of your burns. Then you scooped the poultice into your hands and slathered it across each piece. Grabbing the flask again, you poured a bit more whiskey onto each strip, ensuring they were fully wet. Then you took a shaking breath, flask in hand, and looked down at your burns.

They glistened like mangled fruit. Whatever vile humor they were leaking needed to be removed before you applied the poultices. At least, that’s what you assumed. You hadn’t had many chances in your life to observe a proper physician at work, but one tended to see a fair few injuries when brought up in a farmstead village.

In one case, you’d accidentally spilled your father’s gin across a swollen gash in your finger from a slipped knife. The pain had been akin to flaying your own skin, but the wound had healed superbly afterward. You’d sworn by rinsing your wounds with gin ever since, even if the other women in your village had deemed you a lunatic for it.

A happy coincidence, you supposed, that you had something gin-adjacent at hand now. A less happy coincidence that these were the worst wounds you’d ever had the misfortune to test your hypothesis on.

Drawing one more deep breath, you yanked your shirt collar up between your teeth for the second time. Then you bit down hard, and drenched your wrist in fire.

Your vision went white, every muscle seizing around your bones. A scream broke loose from your chest, catching in a web of linen before a violent dry-heave doubled you over. You braced on the back of your forearm, trying to remember how to breathe.

You couldn’t pass out. Not yet.

Hauling yourself upright, you blinked hard against the snow blanketing your vision, shook your head to quiet the church bell pealing between your ears. Gradually, the world regained its edges.

Tavington’s voice cut through the noise. “We’ll need to prepare a bloody asylum instead of a prison.”

With a grunt, you forced your focus back to the task at hand, ignoring him. Before cowardice could make its nest within you, you splashed the other wrist. Agony split that arm in equal measure.

Another ragged cry tore free, and your mind made another attempt to flee the excruciating confines of your body. Your will proved a strong enough tether, though, and despite your body’s protest, you remained conscious. The flask slipped from your grip, dropping to the ground.

You weren’t finished yet. You had to stay focused.

Grabbing a strip of poultice, you laid it over your raw wrist and pressed it down. Air spasmed through your lungs, pain clung to your skin like acid mist. Though your hand shook violently, you picked up the roll of remaining bandage and attempted to wrap your medicine in place. Then you dropped it.

You grunted, reached for it and dropped it again, coordination having resigned from your hands long ago. Shaking, you curled your fingers underneath it, and it tumbled like a spool of thread to the ground. Breath hissed between your chattering teeth, stifling a whimper.

You reached for it a fourth time, only for Tavington to squat beside you and snatch it away. Your sound of protest had barely been born before he was drawing the cloth around your wrist, looping it with firm, even pressure, tying it in place. You blinked down at his hands as they worked, considering that this was perhaps some strange dream and you’d passed out after all.

“The other one,” he demanded. You could do nothing but oblige.

Before your arm was even half raised, Tavington clutched it, held it steady as he pressed the second poultice to your wrist just as you’d done with the first. You winced, but refused to flinch. He wound the bandage around your burn, so deft you might’ve thought he’d done this hundreds of times before. Perhaps it was all the practice he’d had binding you with rope.

Pain still seethed—it made sense, since you’d essentially just entombed both of your wounds in cloth iron maidens—but with the pressure of the bandages, it had died to an angry, raw pulse.

Tavington dropped you and the cloth, observing as you heaved in air and tried to normalize the rhythm of your breath.

“This,” he said, with some degree of disbelief, “is medicine.”

Swallowing a groan, you nodded, wincing as another wave of pain rolled through up your shoulders. “It is.”

Tavington raised a brow. “Medicine is civilized,” he said. “This is not.”

Whether it was due to the thrill of pain or his ignorance, you weren’t sure—but you laughed.

“Coming from a country that apparently can’t grow anything but bloodthirsty, boorish men, I’m not surprised your idea of medicine begins and ends with a blade.”

Tavington cocked his head. “Indeed, your primitive tree tonic speaks volumes to your sophistication.”

You looked at him, grinning through a shudder that rocked you with your heartbeat. “Am I not the embodiment of elegance?” you said, gesturing to your filthy clothes and trembling, reddened arms. “Perhaps if you’d had my upbringing, you’d have some semblance of a genteel and courteous manner.”

His face was impassive. “That grows from the land, does it?”

You laughed again, sniffling. It would’ve felt good to snipe at him again. After all, he was the reason you were in this position to begin with, the person responsible for tying you up, arresting Grace, and hunting your father altogether. But pain had robbed you of wit. When you went to speak, not a single drop of venom rose to your tongue.

“Why not?” you sighed, laid flat on your back. The grass cushioned and cooled you. “This land grows many things.”

“Including its own share of bloodthirsty boors,” he replied, insistent.

“Perhaps those are ubiquitous, Colonel.” Your eyes slid shut, the world throbbing around you. “Perhaps every village has their own breed of unruly dog.” You smiled to yourself. “Some even get pampered with rank.”

“Only colonials have stooped to the level of dogs.” His voice was laden with a bitterness that intrigued you. “Lower, in fact. At least a dog knows where to place its loyalty.”

“Mm. I don’t know about that.”

“You’d liken all men to dogs.”

“You don’t agree? We both eat. We both bleed. We both shit. We both fuck.” You paused, embarrassed you’d said the word, but shrugged it off. “Similar enough to me.”

Silence settled between you for a moment—the wind rustled by your ears, banished the sweat on your forehead. You hoped you could lie there for the next year.

Beside you somewhere, Tavington shifted. Even without looking, you could sense him studying you. “You must speak from experience, then.”

If you hadn’t been so tired, you might have balked at the question. Was he trying to imply something about your sexual behavior again? Your brow pinched together.

”Taking an interest in my personal life, are you?”

He scoffed. “I am likening you to a dog.”

Your forehead relaxed in relief—a much less complex statement. You hummed in agreement. Yes, you were a dog, at least as long as you remained in his company.

The wind rushed past your face again. Wrists aching, head spinning, stomach a crevice in your torso. How long would this man lord over you as if you were about to bolt somewhere unknown when you could hardly tolerate the thought of breathing?

“Don’t flatter yourself with the impression of my attention.”

You didn’t respond. Couldn’t respond. Pain had finally sapped the last of your resources. All you did was nod, agreeing with him again in hopes he’d leave you alone.

His shadow hovered over you for what seemed like minutes before turning and walking back toward the camp. The sun grazed your face, reddened your eyes, and you groaned, covering your face with your hands. If you had the ability, you would’ve gotten up to find shade.

Footsteps returned, bringing dread with them. You simply knew it was Tavington, but couldn’t begin to wonder or even care about what he wanted now. When his shadow loomed, you didn’t move.

“Up,” he said.

You frowned. Your hands fell from your face and you squinted through exhaustion. He towered, expression flat, a canteen in one of his gloved hands. Glancing away, you looked around for evidence of irreality. Certainly you were dreaming.

“Sit up.” He raised his palm as if to urge you aloft.

With quaking arms, you pushed yourself onto your elbows, but as you tried to sit forward, you collapsed back to the ground in a heap. You pursed your lips, avoiding his gaze. Your own weakness humiliated you. Clenching your teeth, you managed to curl to one side and drag yourself awkwardly into a kneeling position, hunched like a sack of grain at his feet.

Tavington exhaled a long sigh, and then stepped forward. He screwed open the canteen and sought your gaze, your acknowledgement. The promise of water felt more like a blessing—there was no way you could say no. You swayed in anticipation of it. His palm pressed under your chin, fingers flexing around each side to steady you. Holding his gaze, you felt smooth wood prod your lips. Your jaw fell open.

The moment he tipped the canteen forward, water coated your tongue, sluiced down your throat, and you moaned, drinking hungrily. It soothed your gnawing stomach, flushed your dry mouth, soaked every bit from your teeth to your toes in glorious, holy moisture. Your eyes fluttered closed, and the more you drank, the needier you became. Energy building, you hunched forward and gripped the canteen with two hands, wrapping your lips around it.

Another groan, your throat and head bobbing as you swallowed, so voracious that it leaked from the corners of your mouth. It refreshed you, and you whimpered in relief as it trickled down your neck to your collarbone. Water wet your shirt.

Just as you thought you surely drank the ocean, Tavington pulled the canteen away, and you coughed in shock as you were ripped to reality again. Gasping, you gazed up at him, your cheeks hot. His nostrils flared. Blackness had swallowed the blue in his eyes.

Tongue rolling in his mouth, he thumbed your jaw, collecting some of the spilt water and traced it back over your parted lips. A strong, leather finger scraped itself clean on your teeth. You shivered. You swallowed.

“I doubt Edwards will appreciate you wasting his water,” he said, almost conspiratorially, releasing your face to close the canteen. In your lap, he dropped a large bullet of bread. “Do try not to waste his food.”

Chin tilting up, he spun on his heel and returned to his men.

[bey0nd-1he-stars]

You owe me at least three days of rest in the infirmary - Solangelo

Masterlists

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6

Pairing: Nico di Angelo x Will Solace

Warnings: nightmares, think that's it

Word count: 1233

Summary: The three says in the infirmary with some change.

SEVEN | NICO

- I like being alone 

but I hate being lonely -

Nico woke up in the infirmary in the worst way possible. The 4 hours of sleep he'd gotten had been filled with nightmares and flashbacks of the worst parts of his life. The walls of Tartarus and all of the things that had bruised him down there, both physically and mentally. The claustrophobic walls of being locked up in the jar, Persephone turning him into a dandelion. The last memory of Bianca flashing in front of his eyes, Percy coming back with the statue of Hades, telling him how his sister was gone. The soft eyes of Maria di Angelo looking down at him as they walked through Venice. Camping with Minos along the river Styx and Cupid manipulating him in his cave with Jason. He still hadn't told anyone about that. Jason and himself were the only ones who knew what really happened there.

With gasp Nico sat up straight in the hospital bed. Cold sweat was running down his face and his hair was damp and messy. A few tears ran down his cheeks and he furiously whipped them away with the back of his hand. His breathing was uneven and his throat felt sore. A gentle hand on his shoulder made him jump and Will immediately took it away, looking a bit offended. He offered Nico a glass water which he gladly took and gulped down the cold, calming liquid. Definitely better than liquid fire from the River Phlegethon. He mumbled a weak 'thank you' as Will softly took the empty glass from Nico's hand. The soft thud from the glass made him jump again. Everything felt off. Nico was more tense than usual and he was easily frightened which he definitely usually wasn't.

"You okay, Nico?" Will asked and squatted down beside the bed, resting his arms on top of the mattress. Will's eyes were worried when they met Nico's and judging by the worry in his voice and the wrinkles between his furrowed eyebrows the son of Apollo was very worried.

"I'm fine, Will," Nico snapped at him and turned away. The dark hair hiding his glossy eyes.

"I can see that you're not. You can talk to me, Nico," Will said softly, reaching out to push away the dark hair from Nico's face but he moved out of the way. Will let his hand fall and Nico could sense the disappointment and worry in the air.

"Please... Just, just leave me alone," he stuttered and turned away from Will. He was still wearing Will's too big clothes but Nico didn't have much of a choice. They were comforting and still reminding him that Will wanted to help even if Nico wouldn't let him. The soft material smelled sunshine just like Will and as Nico breathed in the sent he calmed down. The thought of Will's sent calming him down irritated him but couldn't help but feeling a bit graceful for his kind gestures.

"Okay... Tell me if you need anything," Will answered quietly and then he stood up from the floor and walked over to his desk again, leaving Nico to himself. Nico looked up, shocked that he'd done as he asked. Will was stubborn and Nico was shocked that he'd left without so much of one single argument. He shook it off. Nico reached for the glass again only to realize it was already empty. His head was full of things and it made him lose concentration on every little thing and that annoyed him. He was always on point, ready for everything and anything. Now he couldn't even remember how he'd swept down his water just minutes earlier. Nico placed the glass on the table again and when he looked over he saw the drawing of Bianca lying there. Will had given it to him at 5 am and it was the most beautiful drawing Nico's ever seen.

He was thankful for it and would probably even ask Annabeth for a frame for it later, when he got out of here. This was his last day and Will had promised to let him go in the afternoon at 6 pm. Now the clock was standing at almost 9 am so he still had a few hours left here.

"You want anything to eat, di Angelo?" Will asked. He was standing in the door, resting against the doorframe. The sun shone behind him, making him look like he was glowing himself. Nico couldn't say something, his eyes stuck on the son of Apollo. He managed to look away and a faint blush came to his cheeks.

"It would be nice with some fruit or pasta," he mumbled. Will nodded and walked out, leaving Nico alone in the infirmary. The silence gave him time to think clearly again. He'd pushed Will away again. The trust, friendliness and care was okay but when things like this happened, when his past haunted him in his dreams. He couldn't lean on Will with all that. He'd gone through Tartarus alone; he could manage through this alone too.

The sound of the door opening made him cut his thought and meet the gaze of Will Solace. He had brought a plate of pasta and a bowl of fruit to the infirmary. Nico smiled softly. Will placed it all on a small table and placed it beside Nico's bed. Out of habit, Nico jumped back a little to make place for Will on his bed. They'd eaten every meal like this, in Nico's bed facing each other. And Nico enjoyed it. Having this little thing with Will they always seemed to do. Will looked shocked at the gesture though. Nico had pushed him away, not even meeting his eyes honestly. Now he wanted Will to accompany him while they ate. But he still smiled at the gesture and placed himself on the end of Nico's bed.

"Sorry," Nico started and looked down. "I didn't mean to push you away but... it seemed easier that way. To not let you in and have you deal with all the stuff that runs my mind. It's not very pretty, if I do say so."

Will softened and reached out to take Nico's hand in his and this time he didn't pull away. He didn't know why but it felt right.

"It's okay Nico, I understand, I get it. But I want to help you. I want you to know that I'm here for you. No matter what it's about, I'm here. You can talk to me or not talk to me, that's up to you. But I'm here," the blond boy smiled softly and Nico felt a bit more at ease in his chest. The anxiety from his dreams was still there but it seemed to lighten up at Will's words. Once again he had to thank the boy in front of him. He pulled a hand through his dark curls.

"Thank you, Will," Nico pulled his hand from Will's but kept a small smile on his lips. He reached for the pasta Will had brought him and stuck a fork in it. Will shook his head at Nico but smiled with him. The tension in the room eased and Nico seemed quite happy with himself. Another thing to thank Will for, he thought and put the pasta in his mouth with a smile.

[nimblermortal]

Nimblermortal's Covid Survival Tips 2023

because what's the point of having this if I can't make it easier for the next person?

First symptom for me was a mild sore throat. This started around noon; the next morning I woke up with no symptoms but feeling terrible, which I interpret as the medical "sense of impending doom" that is a real symptom.

Charmin toilet paper. This stuff is softer than Kleenex. Get you a whole roll and a shopping bag. Don't have a runny nose for a symptom? Don't care, it'll come.

Blankets you can kick on and off. I spent two days "cycling" - chills, fever, then lucidity. You need to be able to both vent and huddle.

If you are scientifically inclined: Keep a thermometer nearby. I regret not taking my temperature during the cycles, I'm really curious about whether I was running hotter or colder during the hot stages. That said, you will definitely not have enough energy to take your temperature during these stages.

Some sort of infinite podcast. It doesn't matter what it is. Honestly I recommend Critical Role even if you don't like D&D live plays. You do not care what is going on here, the point is white noise that you don't have to change. Make sure the device is plugged in. I could only nap while there was white noise happening - and when I say 'nap' I mean 'I don't know if I slept or not, just that I was face-down and some time passed'.

Advil. This will lower the fever. If you can, wait until the second day - the fever helps burn out the disease, but this only applies to the first 24 hours. But don't let the fever get too high. I ran a steady 101 F/38.3 C for two days, which is fine. You can take one every 4 hours up to 6 times a day. For me the best effects only lasted 2 hours and I was ready by the fourth (but also a stubborn pig who tried to hold out; there's no advantage to this after the first 24 hours).

Small dishes. People kept trying to feed me and I couldn't finish anything. Small dishes, plain foods, let yourself have the ability to win at meals. (Note: this may not apply to you, but I'm the sort of person who used to be sent to elementary school with a single small potato because the cafeteria was too noisy for me to eat but I needed to win at lunch.) If you're preparing just-in-case, you could put some in the freezer

Immune boosters. My aunt swears by Sambucol, which is elderberry and vitamin C and zinc. Zinc matters more if you are male. My take on the Sambucol advantage is elderberry taste good.

Non-caffeinated tea. Something that goes down the throat easy. I had a sore throat to start with, then after the cycling I've got a progressively increasing cough; warm beverage nice. (I also craved a masala tea in the middle of the cycling, so caffeine might be nice, but you probably want to let yourself sleep.)

Vicks vaporub. Apply directly to the forehead liberally once the coughing starts. The package says you can do this 3 times a day.

Don't worry about cough medicines unless you have one you trust implicitly. Mum says they're not very effective, so you want that sweet, sweet placebo effect.

Someone to watch over you. Partly to make sure you don't get it worse than I had. Mostly because when I'm weak and sick I get clingylonely and I need someone to assure me I am loved. I had the same problem with the vaccines - shivering under the blankets calling weakly for Hyacinth because I was alone and Sad. Honestly the covid has been less intense but longer.

Recovery time. Covid heals a lot slower than comparable sicknesses. Whatever you think your return-to-work day might be, add at least two days to it. (I thought I was getting away with something last Wednesday, tried to work Thursday, and survived for one hour.)

More recovery time. This thing heals very slowly. I haven't had symptoms in a week - aside from having to plan for being able to do single-digit numbers of tasks in a day. And 'digesting a meal' is a separate energy task from 'eating a meal' is a separate energy task from 'preparing a meal' is a separate... (No really, I had to plan energy expenditure for digestion.) At a week out, I am still having to make room for daily hour-long naps and activities interspersed with lying down - though at least now I can embroider with a TV show during these periods. Give yourself lots of time, even when it feels stupid.

[lcvesjj]

medicine - erin lindsay x fem!reader

Pairing : Erin Lindsay x Fem!Reader

Summary : Erin notices Reader being sick with the flu and takes care of her

Warnings : mentions of medication, Reader has the flu, mentions of throwing up and being sick, Erin being adorable (yes this has a warning bc she is literally so adorable),

A/n : I’m not feeling so good today, so this is a little short :))

Erin was so glad Hank decided to give the unit a day off. Since you had started to have symptoms of the flu, like a headache and high temperature, sore throat and a horrible cough. You had also started throwing up in the early morning around 4-5 am. 

She decided to take a quick run to the pharmacy and corner shop for some medicine and food and drinks to make sure you are hydrated after all of that throwing up. “Will you be okay for a few minutes baby? Since I need to run to get some medicine and some food and drinks to give you more energy. Do you want anything else?” She asked, sitting down on the sofa close to your head while gently putting her hand on your very warm forehead. 

“Yes, I’ll be okay and could you please buy me some sweets?.” You said while looking at Erin with a small smile. 

“Of course I can, sweetheart. Do you want anything else or just sweets?” She smiled back at you. “Just sweets please.” Erin leaned over the couch and kissed your forehead while slowly getting ready to quickly run to the store and back. 

She felt so guilty leaving you alone while you were sick since she knew how much you hated being sick or feeling under the weather. 

Erin quickly ran down the street towards the small store and walked into the 24/7 store. Quickly grabbing some sweets for you, medicine and energy drinks she paid for everything and walked out, back towards your shared apartment. 

When she came back inside you were fast asleep, you looked so calm and peaceful and as much as she didn’t want to disturb you Erin woke you up gently to take the medicine. 

A few hours later you were feeling better and strong enough to get up from the couch. You walked into the kitchen to see Erin dancing around while making something which smelled so good. You tried to hide a smile at her adorable dancing but you failed since Erin must have heard you.

“Hey shouldn't you be in bed Y/n/n? Are you feeling any better baby?” She asked softly, turning around to look at you. 

“I’m feeling much better and I got bored without you, so I decided to see what you are doing.” You smiled sheepishly at her. 

“I’m making you some soup. It’s the same one Camille used to make for me when I got sick back when I was still living with Hank.” Erin sighed sadly.

“Oh I’m so sorry sweetheart. And honestly the soup smells so good.” You smiled. 

She just walked over to you without saying a word and pulled you in for a big hug placing a kiss on your warm cheek. 

“I love you so much Y/n.” Erin mumbled into your shirt. 

“I love you sooo much more.” You said while gently playing with her hair.

After eating you both laid down next to each other, Erin started pulling you into her arms, but you pulled away. She looked at you in confusion. “I don’t want you to get sick Erin.” You said slowly, looking at her pouting face. 

“I don’t care, I just want cuddles from my lovely and amazing girlfriend.” She said, making a sad face. “Fine. You're lucky you are so cute.” You smiled back at her and Erin pulled you into her arms. She just laughed at your words.