#ignore this steady stream of word vomit

[sharkys-disco-stick]

By now most of us have played the BO6 campaign, and while it’s looking very likely that there will be a BO7, I can’t help but think of what the future looks like for certain characters.

Namely, I’ve been thinking about a Russell Adler who gets to grow old.

Who trades in the leather jackets of field work for the cashmere cardigans of the office. Who rotates out his watches with nylon and leather bands for those with metal links; ones that he never wore while traveling abroad out of the fear they’d be lost or ruined.

A Russell Adler who finds himself smoking more out of boredom habit than stress. And begins wearing cologne again to cover up the smell.

Who’s allowed to stay on with the CIA in an advisory capacity long after his retirement because his experience is just that valuable.

And the truth is, he just doesn’t want to admit to himself that it may no longer be needed.

Who’s finally forced to trade in his shades for reading glasses.

A Russell Adler who hopes his hair goes gray before his mind does.

It doesn’t.

7-7-7

[us3rnam3-r3dact3d]

Deleted firefighter au snippet

Sooo… this was the first scene I ever wrote for the firefighter au. I had planned for Asher to be injured very badly in an attempt to mimic the Inversion. This was the scene I pictured, Sam as a paramedic doing what he did for Ash in the Inversion in the real world.

I ended up cutting this because I wanted Ash to be in his feet for the whole story and this would have happened early on, within the next few chapters of the story. It was a HUGE escalation that I couldn’t justify.

Here’s what you need to know: in this scene Quinn set a fire in a cafe that the 10-19 crew frequents. The crew responds and the baristas tell them somebody is still inside. Ash goes back in for them. It’s Quinn and he shoots Ash to get a clean get away.

I’m sad that I needed to cut this scene since I love it a lot, but it’s for the better of the story. I thought I’d share it here so everybody could enjoy it!

1.9k Words | Freelancer’s POV

TW: gun shot wound, blood and injury, gore, medical procedures, vomit.

And again, this is not canon to the firefighter au.

“I’ve gotta crack his chest.” Sam whispered. Vincent was spouting vitals so fast you couldn’t keep up. “I’ve gotta…”

David was shouting something incoherent, some desperate plea to save him, save him, do whatever it took. Maybe he was so overcome he couldn’t get his words out clearly. Maybe your mind wasn’t able to keep up.

You really wanted to go home. You were sweating and Sam had gone still and your shoulders were aching from the CPR and you knew it wasn’t doing anything.

The general rule of thumb was this; a puncture wound in the intercostal space was bad. Really bad. Only fifteen to thirty percent of people survived that kind of thing. It was outside of your nature, all of your natures, but you knew what you were trained to do. Pack the wound, make a big show of continuing CPR, clear loved ones away from the victim as quickly as possible, and hope that pressure and compressions were enough for them to last until you got to a trauma center.

More often than not, it was not enough.

Asher was bleeding out. Vincent was glued to the monitor, reading out his steady decreasing vitals like a mantra, like a prayer. Sam was still.

“Do something!” David had grabbed onto Sam’s uniform, spreading blood across the navy blue. “Fucking do something, Sam!”

“Somebody get me a knife!” Sam shouted back. He was moving suddenly, stripping his gloves and reaching for the industrial bottle of rubbing alcohol in his jump bag. “Vincent, you’ve gotta drive. Get on the radio, tell St. Pauls we’re coming in with an emergency thoracotomy.”

“What?” Vincent’s steady stream of vitals came to a halt. “Sam, we don’t- we don’t even have a scalpel, let alone rib spreaders, anti-” Sam ignored him, digging down into his bag until he retrieved a bottle of orange-red liquid and a pair of scissors. You realized after staring for a moment that it was PVP-Iodine, definitely not standard issue. You wondered somewhere far off what else Sam kept in his bag of tricks.

“What’s his blood type?” Sam asked sharply. Vincent had started moving, shuffling away from the monitors and towards the busses’ doors. David was just crying now, clutching Asher’s leg in his hand and making terrible, wounded sounds, like a part of him was being ripped away. “David, what’s his blood type?” Sam was shouting over him, kicking him halfheartedly in the shin.

“A Positive,” Milo appeared on David’s left and extended a small folding knife towards Sam. He looked a bit green at the scene, but swallowed heavily.

“Get him outta here.” Sam nodded towards David. “He doesn’t need to see this.” As he was speaking, Sam was moving faster than you thought possible. He cut away what remained of Asher’s gray-now red- DFD t-shirt, covered the knife in rubbing alcohol, and replaced his gloves. “Vincent, tell St. Pauls to get us as many bags of A positive as they can.”

He nodded towards Milo, who gripped tightly to David’s arm and started pulling him back. You watched the Captain fight for a moment before going still and quiet, letting Milo pull him away.

“Call his family.” Sam said more to Milo than David. “Get anybody who needs to say goodbye to Dahlia Gen within the hour.”

Milo nodded sharply once and slammed the bus doors behind him. You were left in the quiet, the only sounds being Asher’s heart monitor, the engine coming to life, and Sam’s heavy breathing. He took one breath, and another, looked up at you with sweat trickling down his brow.

“You seen one of these?” He asked. You shook your head. He picked up the PVP-I, spread it across the left side of Asher’s torso. “Keep your head. You’ve gotta be my ribspreader.”

“Sam, I-”

“I know you don’t think you can do this.” Sam nodded. He gripped the knife hard in his hands. You could see them shaking like they always did. “But I don’t care. You have to or he’s gonna die.”

You didn’t know if Sam was talking to you or himself.

He was shaking. He took one more breath. His hands went still.

He cut a long, straight line across Asher’s ribs. Ash didn’t stir, didn’t cry out. Sam reached over him and gripped your hands, pulled them over. He hooked your fingers into the cut.

“Work your way in while I cut. You’ve gotta pull his muscles back far enough for me to get my hand in.”

You thought you were gonna puke. Asher’s blood was hot against your hands. Sam went back in, cutting through the plane of muscle over asher’s ribs, and finally slotted his knife between the fourth and fifth intercostal space. You held on with as much strength as you had, and watched with a light head as Sam squeezed his hand between Asher’s ribs.

Sam’s bicep started to flex and relax, and you watched the pattern for a moment before you realized he was beating Asher’s heart manually.

“Okay,” Sam grunted, “okay, I need you to hold on with one hand and keep bagging him with the other.” You nodded and reached for the blue AMBU bag, smearing it with red.

“Three minutes out!” Vincent called from the front. Asher’s blood was dripping down into an impressive puddle on Sam’s shoes. Vincent didn’t let off the horn for a second. You could hear other sirens following you. You would bet that the entirety of the 1019 was hot on your tail.

“I’ve never done one of these before.” Sam whispered, his head turned down. He was smiling. “I’ve only ever seen one- no two? Two. One in med school on a cadaver, one on a GWS victim in my ER.” He was laughing. A hysterical, exhausted type of giggle. You felt your stomach tensing, trying not to join him.

Sam stopped trying to control it and finally let out a cackle that shook your resolve. You started laughing, shaking your head, counting the seconds in your head- one, two, three, one two three,- as you forced Asher’s lungs to work. Sam was breathless and flushed, his head tossed back as his hand kept working, kept squeezing, kept beating the heart in his palm.

“Then why-” you giggled out, “Why did you do it?”

Sam’s laughs began to die. He sniffled and sighed his way out, calming his breath. He looked down at Asher as the humor left him in one sharp breath.

“Because…” He said softly. “He’s David’s best friend. He’d never forgive me if I didn’t do everything I could to save him. And I wouldn’t forgive myself either.”

Vincent pounded the metal side of the ambulance twice with his fist. They were close, pulling in. Sam braced against the stretcher. You kept counting- one, two, three, one two three.

There was noise again as soon as the doors opened. Two doctors swarmed around as you stood, trying to hold on and keep bagging and pull the stretcher out all at once. Vincent pushed into the back, taking the bag from you as the doctors stepped in.

“Sam, you did an emergency thoracotomy in the field?” It was one of the trauma residents you guys delivered to often enough. His eyes were wide and wild as he looked down at Sam’s work.

“GSW to the left ventricle. I can feel the legion, but I’m maintaining a good heartbeat. This is salvageable.” Sam rattled off more things that you barely understood. Fuck, you were out of your depth. Your fingers hurt. You could feel your hands cramping.

“Let’s prep some rib spreaders!” One of the doctors shouted over their shoulder. “Hop on, guys, we’ll need you two in there until we get to the OR.”

Sam stood and swung his leg over Asher, straddling him as he bent to keep up his ministrations. You stepped up onto the foothold of the stretcher as Vincent and the doctors started to lower the gurney and rushed you into the hospital.

“Tell David we’re going straight to surgery,” Sam told Vincent as one of the doctors took over the Ambu bag. “It’ll be a few hours at least before we know which way this is going. Somebody tell William I’m here. I want Alexis Solaire on this, wake her up if you have to!”

You watched, your fingers cramping, as Sam shouted out orders like he ran this place. You knew that he was planning to be a surgeon before switching careers. You could picture him in the same green scrubs as the doctors around you, a stark white lab coat, comfortable sneakers for standing at operating tables, running through emergency halls. You could imagine him bending over patients and tying off stitch after stitch, sewing somebody back together, pulling a life back from the brink.

His uniform was stained. Yours probably was too. There was blood splattered on his face, up his arms. You wondered how long it would take to get out of his hair.

They rolled you past a set of double doors marked; “NO ENTRY BEYOND THIS POINT,” down a long, windowless corridor, and into a sterile room. Somebody reached around your face and tied a surgical mask over your mouth and nose, settled a scrub cap over your disheveled hair. You watched as they did the same to Sam, draping him in a light blue gown. They were trying to be sterile, even though you couldn't estimate how much contamination had hit Asher between the burning building, Sam’s hand inside of his body, and the ash that you could still feel clinging to your skin.

It occurred to you that this was a monumentally stupid thing to do. Somebody came forward with a long metal contraption. Two metal bars were attached to a crank. A rip spreader. You’d never seen one in real life, just in episodes of Grey’s Anatomy and Scrubs and the pages of your medical textbooks. The nurse urged your fingers away as she slotted the spreader around Sam’s wrist and started to crank, relieving the pressure and giving you a full view of Asher’s exposed lung, his heart, beating weakly in Sam’s hand.

You were really going to puke now.

Somebody grabbed you by the shoulders and started steering you out of the OR while they transferred Ash and Sam from the ambulance gurney and onto the operating table. Sam’s hand was still inside Asher as he swung his leg back over and stepped down, bending with effort to maintain his rhythm. The last thing you saw was a team of doctors and nurses descending onto Asher, Sam swallowed among them, before you were escorted out of the room and emptied your stomach into an offered bedpan.

You couldn’t recall if you’d asked for one, or if you just seemed like you needed it, but you were grateful nonetheless.

You walked back out towards the waiting room, still covered in blood. Vincent was waiting with a bag from the hospital gift shop. You changed into the fleece pajama pants and sweatshirt cheerfully inscribed with a cheery “Dahlia General Hospital: Where Healing Happens!”

You called Gavin.

You settled in for the night, your head on Vincent’s shoulder. You knew not you nor none of the dozens of firefighters squeezed into one corner of the waiting room were leaving until Asher was out of surgery.

One way or another.

[bestiesenpai]

pirate sukuna pt2

I listened to a number of sea shantys to get in the spirit to write this and my my can Irish women sing!

part one — part three

TW: vomiting(from alcohol consumption), dubcon touching

Sitting in a glass cage all day and night wore your mind out quickly. There was only so much you could do between staring longingly at the ocean and trying your best to not interact with Sukuna. Most nights he slept with his cot pulled right up to your side, his head resting precariously on the edge of the glass case with just an arm propped up to keep his head steady.

Try as you might to nudge the case closer to the window, it was no use; Sukuna always caught you and pulled you back right where you had been. But today, he left you alone. The ship had hit land, a small inhabited island rich with trading opportunities and free from his rivals' grasp, and been empty for the majority of the day.

As it turned to night you expected Sukuna to come in as he usually did, offering you a plate of what he called ‘the finest meal from any pirate you’ll meet’ but it always left something to be desired and more often than not the plate was left half full. When he didn’t come with your usual meal, you began to wonder where he went. Listening hard for any signs of life on the ship, it unnerved you that it was completely silent.

Trying again to scoot yourself closer to the window, water splashed all over the worn floorboards and soaked the dingy rugs underneath. Mustering all the strength in your body, you made it close enough to graze the dirty window pane with your fingertips and for now that would have to be enough.

Soaking in the full moon with no clouds in the sky, you felt the urge to cry. You’d finally stopped after about three days aboard the ship, but as you gazed upon the calm water and faintly saw life beneath the sea, a few tears couldn’t help but escape.

“Upon one summer’s morning, I carefully did stray

Down by the Walls of Wapping, where I met a sailor gay

Conversing with a young lass, who seemed to be in pain

Saying William, when you go, I fear you’ll ne’er return again.”

Singing the haunting melody as tears quietly streamed down your cheeks, you closed your eyes and thought of what you had been taken from, the life you were missing painfully.

“My heart is pierced by Cupid,

I disdain all glittering gold

There is nothing can console me

But my jolly sailor bold.”

Your mind wandered to Gojo as you sang, wondering if he was looking for you like he said he would or if what Sukuna said was true, that he would never come back for you. Getting to the end of the song, you were startled when another voice joined you in singing the final verse.

“My heart is pierced by Cupid,” whipping your head to the door, you noticed Sukuna swaggering into the room, “I disdain all glittering gold,” He held a bottle of brown liquid up as he began to walk towards you, an obvious sway in his steps. “There is nothing can console me,” he sang the line in surprisingly good harmony with you, dragging a chair to where you were. “But my jolly sailor bold!”

“Oh my love, why didn’t you tell me you could sing?” Sukuna asked as he flopped into his chair, looking at you with even more hearts in his eyes than usual. “As soon as I heard that melody I knew it could only be the voice of a mermaid.”

Choosing not to answer, you turned away and looked out the window, ignoring the wafting smell of harsh alcohol coming from his person. It surprised you that Sukuna knew the words to that song, he didn’t strike you as a man that knew any songs.

“I see you got pretty far.” He looked over the room and grimaced. “Fucked my floors up too.” Curling his fingers around the case, he had half a mind to haul you back even farther than where you originally were, maybe even weigh the bottom down with heavy rocks so you couldn’t move again. But seeing the drying tears staining your cheeks, he relented, if only for the night.

Mumbling a quick pardon, he reached over you and opened up the window and goosebumps immediately prickled your skin upon feeling a rush of cool air. Scrambling closer, you breathed in as much sea air as you could and doing so made you cry again.

“How I wish you’d be happy here with me.” Sighing softly, Sukuna took a swig from his bottle and let his head fall back. “Tell me (Y/N), am I your jolly sailor bold?”

The question hung in the air, you were unsure how to answer. Sukuna certainly wasn’t the one you thought of when singing that song, but how could you tell him that?

“Even if it’s a lie, tell me I am.” Staring at the ceiling with empty eyes, Sukunas breath was quiet, waiting for your answer.

“You are.” The look on his face scared you, it was as if he had died and the sea breeze was the thing keeping him moving, not him breathing of his own volition.

“Thank you.” Barely whispering the two words out, Sukuna licked his lips and sucked in a deep breath, shaking his head and getting life back in his eyes. “I’m sorry (Y/N), whiskey has a funny way of treating me sometimes. Brings up things I’d rather never remember.”

You couldn’t understand his plight but you nodded along anyway, watching him put the now nearly empty bottle on his desk. He looked around like he was lost, like this wasn’t his quarters and he’d awkwardly come into your dwelling. Fiddling with his fingers, Sukuna ran a rough hand through his hair and sunk into his chair, looking at you through the bottoms of his eyes.

“(Y/N).” He said your name gently; like it was the first time he was saying it. You refused to take your eyes off the ocean, trying as hard as you could to imagine yourself swimming freely among the coral below. “(Y/N).” Nudging the case with his foot, Sukuna let out a short sigh. “Are you even listening to me?”

A single glance over your shoulder was all he got before you looked away again. It was all you would give him.

“Do you like pearls?” His question confused you and your brows furrowed. Pearls? What did that have to do with anything? Slowly turning your body away from the window and back to Sukuna, you sent him an inquisitive look. Seeing that he’d piqued your interest, a smirk stretched across his face and he was digging in his pocket.

A soft gasp left your lips upon seeing what he had, a beautiful and vibrant string of pearls, shimmering in the moonlight and capturing your attention immediately. As Sukuna wound the string around his fingers, your eyes dutifully followed.

“I knew what they said was true; mermaids love pearls.” Holding it up in the sky and laughing as your head followed, Sukuna dropped it back into his pocket. “Would you like them, (Y/N)? They’d look beautiful around your neck.”

“Yes.” Embarrassment burned your face as you nodded, the pearls dancing in front of your eyes. It’s not like you’d never seen pearls before, you had a wonderful collection back in your home that you missed so dearly, but to see them while you were here made them all the more captivating.

“I’ll give them to you, love, but you must do one thing for me.”

“What is it?” You expected him to ask you to denounce Gojo and claim your love for him instead, and you were ready to refuse the offer.

“Sing for me again. Please.” Watching your face change, Sukuna could tell you weren’t expecting his request. You sat for a few moments in silence, mulling it over before meeting his eyes.

“What would you like to hear?”

The songs Sukuna requested of you were of a wide variety, ranging from a jovial jaunt to songs so sad you felt your heart break as you sang the words. Sometimes Sukuna joined you, going from almost shouting the words along with you to mumbling along while he stared at the floor. You sang all the songs you knew and even some you didn’t, watching Sukuna intently as he guided you along.

“Thank you love, this means a lot to me.” Standing up slowly, Sukuna made his way behind you. “As promised, here you are.” Laying the pearls down on your neck gently, he clasped the necklace and stepped in front of you, a proud smile on his face as he looked at you. “Those pearls don’t compare at all to your beauty.”

“Thank you.” Your voice had gone hoarse from all the singing and you rubbed your throat, grimacing at the mild pain.

“Here.” Sukuna held out his bottle to you, there was just enough liquid left for you to finish.

“I don’t want this…” Taking it apprehensively, just catching a whiff made you curl your lip in disgust.

“It’ll make your throat feel better, promise.” Sukuna was already pulling a flask out of his coat pocket. “Cheers.” Clinking them together, he took a swig from his flask. Worrying your lip, you glanced at him for a moment before steeling your resolve and putting the bottle to your lips, drinking what was left.

Your immediate reaction was to spit it out as the horrible taste coated your tongue and slid down your throat, but you’d already instinctually swallowed it by the time your head leaned forward.

“Disgusting!” You wailed, feeling a churning in your stomach and a painful burn in your throat. You let Sukuna take the bottle from you and watched him toss it out the window and land into the water with a splash.

“Not bad for your first drink!” Sukuna laughed, patting you hard on the shoulder and rubbing the back of your head fondly.

“I can’t believe you willingly drink that stuff.” Wiping at your misty eyes, you looked at him like he was insane.

“Sometimes I can’t believe it either.” Shrugging his shoulders, Sukuna let out a loud yawn and looked at the horizon. It wasn’t quite daybreak yet, but it was certainly past midnight. “Hows about we get some sleep, eh? Got a long day ahead of us if we want to get back home.” The way he spoke about home made you even more disgusted than the alcohol; wherever he was taking you would never be your home.

“I suppose.” Bristling up immediately, you crossed your arms over your chest and watched Sukuna do his nightly routine: blow out the candles he left lit, change into more comfortable clothes, and drag his cot over to your side.

“You’ll like where I’m taking you, (Y/N), I promise.” Winding down for the night, Sukuna grazed his fingertips along the glass, just barely touching the pearls as he looked at you. “You’ll get to meet my mother, see where I had to bury her.”

“B-bury?” Flinching away from him at the mention of a grave, fear struck a deep cord in you.

“She didn’t die by my hand, I swear on my life about that.” Putting a hand over his heart, he let a moment of quiet fall over you. “The rest of the village was not so lucky, however.” You had nothing to say, nothing to offer in this suddenly stiff air, so you slouched down into a position that was at least semi-comfortable and shut your eyes, willing sleep to come soon.

Waking up to the sound of Sukuna vomiting out the window, you heard the call of seabirds and saw several flocks in the distant sky. The sun was warm despite it still being early morning, evidence that you had gone somewhere a bit more tropical.

“I take it that rum isn’t treating you well?” You couldn’t help but tease Sukuna as he drug his feet back to his cot after washing his mouth out. He shot you a weak glare, too tired to truly take offense.

“And I see you’re just as stunning as always.” He countered, throwing an arm over his eyes and letting out a groan. “Why did you let me drink so much?”

“As if I had any control!” Laughing exasperatedly, you saw Sukuna’s mouth uptick.

“There’s that laugh I’ve missed so much.” Sighing happily, he forced himself to sit up and look at you. “Are you finally warming up to me? To life as a pirate?” Letting Sukuna’s words sink in, you weren’t sure how to answer. You still painfully missed the ocean and the place you had once called home, but you were also slowly getting used to the reality of life aboard Sukuna’s vessel.

“I’m not sure.” You muttered truthfully, shrugging your shoulders as you looked at him. “I guess I’ve just…come to accept this life.”

“Soon you’ll come to love it.” Countering immediately, Sukuna sucked in a deep breath. “Now, how’s about I get us some breakfast? I have some fruit that-” Cutting himself off, Sukuna slapped a hand over his mouth and rushed over to the window, letting the contents of his stomach out.

“Why don’t you just lie down for a bit and drink some water?” Seeing him so indisposed had empathy tickling into your brain. As much as you hated him for what he had done to you, you still felt bad for the sorry state he was in now.

Nodding wordlessly, Sukuna stalked past you and to the door, peeking his head out and shouting for someone to bring him some food. He didn’t have to wait long, hurried footsteps echoing across the hardwood as a few men showed up with things in tow.

“Here you go love, a nice fresh orange.” Handing you the large fruit, he had one for himself and some dry, brittle crackers to soothe his stomach. The water you had requested he drink was in a silver pitcher threatening to spill over as Sukuna settled into his cot.

“You’re the first pirate I’ve known to like fruit so much.” Slowly peeling the orange, you heard Sukuna snort.

“I’m the only pirate you know.” Peeling his orange in record time, he switched yours out for his and took the floating peels out of the water. “You may not know this, but I’m deathly afraid of scurvy. I refuse to let me or my men go even a day without fruit, and almost all of the ships in my fleet grow their own.”

“Impressive…” Your brows rose in surprise; you hadn’t expected Sukuna to be so passionate about such a thing as fruit. Eating quietly, you were happy to see that Sukuna took your advice and guzzled down the water, letting the empty pitcher clang to the ground.

“Captain.” Three sharp knocks accompanied a voice on the other side of the door. It wasn’t a voice you recognized but when Sukuna opened the door and let the person in, you gasped.

“You.” Your entire body went on edge upon seeing the person that had helped Sukuna capture you, the one he called Uraume. Their cold and unfeeling stare pierced you, sent a shiver down your spine.

“You.” They repeated back, taking one brief look over you before turning to Sukuna. “We’re nearly there, about thirty minutes and we’ll hit land.”

“Perfect. Did you get what I asked?”

“Yes but-” Holding out a glass vial, Uraume let out a short sigh when Sukuna snatched it out of their hand. Taking a brief glance at you, Uraume pinched the bridge of their nose. “Captain, are you really sure this will work?”

“I’m willing to bet my life on it.” Walking up to you with a large smile, Sukuna stretched out his hand, presenting the vial to you. “(Y/N), I got you something.”

“What is it?” Curling away as best you could, fear was beginning to paint your face.

“Just a special little potion I got from a witch on the last island we visited. Why do you think I was gone for the whole day? The blasted woman made me get all kinds of ingredients.” Just imagining her smug face as Sukuna limped back into her hut with all the ingredients she demanded, battered from the rough terrain of the jungle, made his lip curl in slight anger.

“What is it?” You asked again, still not taking it.

“A wonderful little concoction made specifically for mermaids.” Dancing around the true nature of the liquid inside the vial, Sukuna’s smile started to become strained and his lip twitched. “Won’t you try at least a little? Just a taste, I just know you’ll like it.”

“N-no thank you.” The more you refused the more deranged Sukuna’s smile became before it dropped entirely and his eyes were still as wide as dinner plates. “Uraume, help me, will you?”

“Of course.” Walking behind you with no question, Uraume grabbed you by the jaw and pried your mouth open, shockingly strong and not easily thrown off with your thrashing. Uncorking the vial, Sukuna curled a hand around your throat as he poured it into your mouth.

“Now don’t waste a drop, ya hear?” He growled, another smile on his face but completely devoid of emotion. The liquid burned worse than the rum you had last night and you jolted forward as your body immediately tried to expel it.

“Not so fast.” Slamming you back, Uraume slapped a hand over your mouth. Everything in your body was telling you not to swallow but the longer you tried to hold out the worse it got. Desperately needing air, you swallowed, Sukunas large hand nearly choking you as he made sure it went down before releasing you.

“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” He asked, swiping his thumb on the corner of your lip before straightening up. Uraume released you immediately, taking a step back and watching you intently with slight indignation.

The effects of whatever had been in the vial took place instantly, as a shooting pain went down your spine and your back bowed deeply, propelling your upper body up and curling over yourself. Gripping your tail, it felt as if it was being ripped in two, each muscle painfully plucked apart leaving your nerves shot.

It wasn’t clear when the pain truly subsided, but when it did your entire body slumped in the case and your chest heaved, desperate to get any air it could. Every pore was leaking with sweat and as you looked down, you let out an ear splitting scream and could hear the slight crack of glass.

“What happened to me?!” Gone was the beautiful tail you’d had all your life and replacing it were two human legs, ten toes staring back at you. Slumping down once again, you lost consciousness from the shock but not for long as Sukuna hoisted you out of the tank and onto the rugged floor.

“It worked, I knew it would work!” He cheered like a child seeing that the potion had worked; jumping for joy as Uraume covered your exposed lower body with one of Sukunas jackets.

“It never ceases to amaze me how you can make fairy tales a reality.” Trying not to stare too much, Uraume turned their back to you and started towards the door. “I take it you’ll be dressing (Y/N) in private?”

“Yes.” Cutting his celebrations short, Sukuna walked Uraume out and made sure the door was locked before returning to your side. “How are you feeling, love?”

“Horrible!” Being captured by a pirate and forced to live on his ship had been the worst moment of your life before this atrocity happened; the identity you’d had all your life, the only one you ever wanted, was just ripped away from you.

“You’ll feel better once you’re off this ship and walking around on your new legs.” Brushing off your hysterics, Sukuna riffled through his wardrobe and tossed out various articles of clothing. “But before you do that, you have to get dressed. Polite society doesn’t take kindly to nudity in public, believe me I know.” Sending you a wink, Sukuna sorted through the clothes that had landed on the floor before pulling out a pair of worn brown pants and a navy blue shirt. “These should suit you just fine.”

“Give me back my tail!” You didn’t know how to use your new legs, so all you had to defend yourself against Sukuna was your words. Try as you might, they just lay limply before you.

“Relax, you’ll get it back!” Putting the shirt on your lap, Sukuna waved his hand. “Now put that on, and don’t make me wait too long.”

Grumbling under your breath, you did as you were told. There wasn’t anything you could do but listen, not until you learned how to walk. The shirt billowed over your frame, hanging awkwardly as it was clearly cut to fit Sukuna. Smiling at your compliance, he held up the pants, wiggling them a bit before dropping to his knees by your feet.

“Now don’t make this difficult, okay? I promise I’ll be gentle.” Gingerly lifting up one of your feet he began to slide it into the pant leg.

“I can do it myself!” You shouted back, desperately willing your body to move how you wanted and yank your foot out of his hold.

“If you could, I'd let you, but you can’t even hold your legs up by yourself.” Holding your leg in the air for a moment before dropping it and watching it fall to the ground, Sukuna grunted as his point was proven. “See what I fuckin’ mean?”

It made your stomach churn, your tongue curled in your mouth and your arms crossed over your chest as you watched Sukuna put your legs in the pants. The feel of the fabric wasn’t lost on your skin, the slightly scratchy material making your nerves tingle.

“T-that’s far enough!” Pushing his hands away as they got to just under your knees, you gripped the waistband of the pants. “Let me do it from here.”

“C’mon, I’m almost done.” Sukuna was lying if he said he had any pure intentions while dressing you. In truth, he wanted to rip the jacket off of your lap and see what lay beneath, turn you over and examine every little inch of new skin. And he knew he could if he truly wanted to, but he wanted to give you the illusion of a choice; see if you made things easy.

“Stop it!” You sounded like a whining child, battling between keeping the jacket covering you and stopping Sukuna from pulling the pants up any further.

“Why did I think this would be easy?” Growing angry in a flash, Sukuna gave you a hard shove, knocking you back and ripping the jacket off in one fell swoop. Shame immediately came over you as Sukuna let out a whistle. Your pleas telling him to stop looking at you weren’t listened to, they weren’t even heard. Sukuna basked in the feeling of finally getting what he wanted, seeing what he wanted.

“Hey!” And now he would touch what he wanted. Hoisting your legs onto one shoulder, Sukuna sat high up on his knees and ran his fingers up and down the soft flesh of your thighs, his breathing getting more ragged by the minute.

“Beautiful, beautiful, absolutely beautiful!” He was getting overwhelmed by the sight in front of him, he couldn’t absorb it fast enough. Digging his thumbs into your hips, he had to bite his lip hard to stifle the guttural sound coming from his throat.

“That feels weird!” Wiggling your body, your stomach was starting to churn in a different way. The way Sukuna was touching you had your body reacting in new ways.

“Ya like it?” Chuckling softly as he watched your thighs squish together, Sukuna slid his hands under your hips and squeezed your ass. Groaning again, he not so gently flipped you over. “Well would’ya look at that?” Running his hands from your lower back to just above your knees, both you and Sukuna squirmed at the feeling.

Burying your head in your arms, there was a multitude of emotions swirling inside you. There was embarrassment and shame from enjoying the way Sukuna touched you to anger at losing your legs getting muddled in the mix. It was too difficult to pinpoint one thing in your head, but Sukuna made it easy to focus on something: the harsh smack he gave your bottom.

“Ow!” Jolting upright, you looked over your shoulder with misty eyes. “What was that for?!”

“Gotta get you back for all the times you were such a brat to me, ignoring me and calling me names.” Smacking you again, Sukuna kept his hand on the cheek and rubbed it. “But I could never stay mad at you.” Giving light taps to your ass and watching the flesh jiggle under his touch, he finally finished dressing you and turned you over onto your back. “There, all done.” But he didn’t move away from you, climbing over your body and planting both hands by your head.

“G-get away from me.” Putting your hands on his chest, you tried to keep him at bay.

“Don’t you think I deserve a reward?” Your hands meant nothing to him as he leaned down, some of his hair falling forward and tickling your face.

“No, no I don’t.” A whine left your mouth as Sukuna closed in on you, his nose brushing yours gently while his lips pressed against yours. The kiss stayed soft for only a moment before Sukuna pressed harder against you.

Gripping your chin, Sukuna kept you in place, stopping the thrashing you had begun doing to try and free yourself. Sukuna forced his tongue into your mouth not long after, the hand not holding your chin sliding down your side.

“Woah!” Sukuna jerked back when your palm made contact with his cheek. You’d put all your strength into the slap, one final effort to get some space.

“Get off of me!” Gulping in air, you pushed his chest again and this time he relented and stood up.

“Didn’t know you had that in you, (Y/N).” Rubbing his stinging cheek, he looked down at you with a curious look. “I might have to make you do it again sometime.” Chuckling at your disgusted expression, Sukuna not so subtly adjusted the front of his trousers and started toward the door. “Stay here, I’ll be back.”

“Pervert.” You mumbled as he left, clasping a hand over your heart as you forced in deep breaths. The whole ordeal had left your head spinning, adrenaline pumping through you as new feelings took hold. There was a heat between your legs you wholefully ignored in favor of staring at your feet and forcing your toes to wiggle. Try as you might, your lips still tingled from the kiss; in any other situation, you probably would have accepted Sukuna’s advances. But here, even though he had just taken what he wanted, you still found part of you that liked it.

Refusing to acknowledge any more feelings about the whole thing, you fixed your clothes, adjusting the pearls on your neck so they lay prettily above the garments. Your legs had grown some semblance of strength and you were able to weakly wiggle all of your toes.

Sukuna came barreling into the room some time later with a renewed vigor. Hoisting you up off the ground like you were a baby, he carried you out of his quarters.

“Remember this?” He asked, turning in a circle so you could see the full view of the ship from the middle of the deck.

“No.” Wrapping your arms around Sukunas neck as he began to walk, you marveled at the large wooden vessel. When you had been brought aboard you were too busy crying to fully appreciate the craftsmanship. Walking up a few steps, Sukuna placed you on a wooden crate at the helm and put his arm around your shoulder.

“Look at it, (Y/N). The whole world is at our fingertips.” Sweeping his other arm out in front of you, he gestured to the wide open sea. It pained you too much to look at the water, so your eyes settled on the landmass you were approaching.

“Is this your home?” You asked, looking at the rugged mountainous terrain.

“It is.” Sukuna nodded and you could feel the light prick of some stubble on his cheek as he pressed his face close to yours. “We have to go quite a ways inward, but there’s a clearing in the mountains that contains my village.”

“Can it even be called a village after you killed everyone?” The whispered question left your lips before you could stop it and you slapped a hand over your mouth in horror.

“Ha! Yes it can, I didn’t kill everyone there.” Sukunas laugh was abrasive and he shook your shoulder for good measure.

“How wonderful.” You quipped with a roll of your eyes and a dry laugh. Sukuna laughed again, patting you on the back this time and stepping forward to take control of the wheel.

It was interesting to watch the crew members below you work. They all had their tasks to do to make sure the ship got onto land safely and they all looked like little ants flitting about. Looking over your shoulder, you saw the fleet of ships behind you, all proudly flying Sukunas flag and doing identical tasks to the people aboard this one. Getting to and docking on the land went much quicker than you thought it would, and there was already a wooden plank being rolled out to meet the well worn pier.

“Lower the anchor and get comfortable, boys! We’ll be here a while.” Sukuna called out to his crew, who echoed the words to the other ships in the fleet and followed his orders. Taking a quick glance at you, Sukuna flicked his chin to the pier. “Are you ready?”

“Do I have a choice?” You mumbled, not fighting Sukuna as he picked you up again and hugged you close to him. Walking off the ship, the pier creaked under his footsteps and the thundering weight of cargo being dropped off from ships.

“Can you stand?” Slowly setting you down, Sukuna kept a tight grip on you, testing your balance and making sure you wouldn’t try to run away if you could. He got his answer immediately as your legs gave out upon putting a semblance of weight on them and he let out a yell as he caught you. “Not yet it seems.”

“Do you expect me to go up there?” Pointing to the top of the mountain, you were growing worried.

“No, of course not! Even if you could run a thousand miles I would never make my love do something as strenuous as that!” As if on cue, a small wagon was brought onto the pier, the bottom laid out in blankets and pillows. You were swiftly placed in the cart, a few pieces of fruit and bread by your side.

“Alright, let's get going. I want to make it home before sundown!” Shifting his mood entirely, Sukuna began barking orders to his crew, a harsh and stern look on his face as he scrutinized them.

Ten minutes later and you were being pulled up the mountain, trying to ignore the often unpleasant bumps in the road and enjoy the foliage around you. Going up the winding mountain road, you were able to see the coastline getting smaller and farther away until you could no longer see it.

Sukuna led the crew, no hesitation as he swung a machete and cut the overgrowing brush from the path. The crew followed him with no complaint and the men pulling the wagon showed no sign of fatigue.

As the air got thinner and the vegetation cleared, the ground evened out and started to tilt downward and you could see the edges of a village dotting the clearing Sukuna had mentioned. There was farmland growing vegetables and animals milling about that you did not know the names to.

“It feels good to be back.” Sukuna sighed heavily, a gentle smile gracing his face. As you began to pass by the homes you’d seen, you couldn’t help but notice how quiet it was.

“Where is everyone?” It was unnerving looking into windows and not seeing a single soul. There were tools left in the fields that looked like they had been abandoned, dirt freshly tilled in a line while there was still more to be done.

“Hiding.” Sukuna replied, not breaking his stride at all. “They all run and hide whenever I come to town.” You had no reply, stunned that Sukuna could have this effect on so many people. Getting closer to the village center, it was apparent that people had run and hid upon seeing his ships come into port; fires were still lit, there was money left sitting on a merchant table and somewhere in the distance you could hear a faint baby’s cry.

“This is far enough, I’ll take them from here.” Getting to the other side of the rather large village, Sukuna stopped his convoy with a single hand. “(Y/N), you’re coming home with me.” Sukuna could barely hide the silly smile on his face as he picked you up and began to carry you once more, heading to a quaint little cottage nestled among the treeline in the distance.

“Why don’t you want them to bring me?” You asked, looking over Sukuna’s shoulder at the crew now settling into town, forcing open doors and shouting for people to show themselves.

“No one in my crew is allowed in this house. It’s too special, can’t bring such a lifestyle into my mothers home.” As you got closer to the cottage, you could see overgrowth had taken over. There were large flower bushes dotting the edge of the property but most of the actual building was covered in thick ivy vines.

Pushing open a rickety brown gate, Sukuna helped you stand at the door as he opened it. The hinges let out a terribly loud whine, squeaking and irritating your ears and making you flinch. Upon opening the door fully, you could see a few pictures hung on the wall, their frames cracked and barely hanging on the nails they were originally placed on.

“Home sweet home.” Sukuna sighed happily, taking a quick look. “You think you can walk?” Staring down at your feet, you mustered up the strength and were able to place on foot in front of the other and with Sukuna’s arm wrapped tightly around your waist, the two of you walked through the threshold of the house.

Coughing softly from the dust in the air, you looked around the further you walked into the house, noting the dead flowers in several vases and a small piano in the corner. Everything was covered in dust, some things more than others, and there were several contraptions you’d never seen before.

“What do you think?” Asking quietly, Sukuna watched with bated breath as you thought over your words.

“It’s nice…” Past the layers of dust, you could imagine what the home was like when Sukuna lived here full time, just imagine him relaxing by the fireplace on a cold winter's night or working in the garden with his mother.

“Let’s go into the kitchen, there’s some pictures I want to show you.” Guiding you gently, Sukuna was a jarring contrast to his usual self. Sure, he was gentle with you when he could manage but here it was a whole different feeling, like even he was scared to speak too loudly and disturb the house.

Upon turning the corner to enter the kitchen, you fully expected it to look the same as the rest of the house: dusty, unused, but not abandoned fully. And for the most part it was, except for the white haired man sitting at the dining table.

“Gojo!”

“Gojo!” Both you and Sukuna said his name, but with vastly different connotations. A shocked smile spread across your face while Sukuna’s lip curled in disgust. “What the fuck are you doing in here?!”

“A little birdie told me I’d find you here.” Gojo replied, not looking at him at all. His eyes were transfixed on you, and more particularly your legs. “What did you do to (Y/N)?” Both men refused to blink as they stared at each other and the tension in the air was getting thick enough to choke you.

“G-gojo…” Forcing yourself to speak, both men snapped their attention to you. “How did you find me?”

“I told you I’d be back, didn’t I? No monstrous pirate could keep us apart.” Coming to a stand slowly, Gojo fixed you with the sweetest smile. “I’ve missed you, my pretty mermaid.” His compliment had you blushing despite the situation and he audibly cooed at seeing your embarrassed face. “You’ll be home in no time, I promise.”

“Stop fucking talking and get out.” Tightening his grip on you, Sukuna drew his sword, fully prepared to kill Gojo where he stood.

“Are you sure you want to do that?” Gojo asked, flicking his chin behind Sukuna. Turning around, Sukuna was shocked to be met face to face with the barrel of a gun being held by one of Gojo’s men. He was shocked enough that his grip on you loosened and without his support to hold you up, you stumbled and knocked into the counter.

“I got you.” Gojo was swift to catch you, taking advantage of Sukuna’s blunder to bring you to his side. Hugging you close to his lanky frame, Gojo buried his nose in the top of your head, sighing happily as he exhaled. “You still smell like the ocean, my dear, I love it.”

Hearing him say those words, feeling the loving embrace he pulled you into, it was enough to make you start crying stupid fat tears, soaking into Gojo’s dark navy coat. Hugging you even closer, he muttered a quick word to his men and Sukuna was walked out of the house and the two of you were left alone.

“Th-thank you.” You sniffled pathetically, leaning into Gojo’s hand when he wiped away your tears. “I knew you’d come back for me.”

“I would search the ends of the earth to get you back.” Wiping away a few more tears, Gojo’s fingers drifted down to the pearls on your neck. “Did he give these to you?” A flash of annoyance crossed his face when you nodded, but for now he sucked it up. “They look nice on you.”

“Thanks.” Wiping off the last few bits of tears, Gojo caught your hand when he noticed it was bare.

“Where’s the ring I gave you?” He asked, eyes going wide with worry. “What did he do with it?”

“I-it’s in his quarters, in a drawer in his desk.” Truth be told you had forgotten about the ring, having given up hope of ever seeing it again.

“I’m getting it back this instant.” Gripping your hand a little tighter, Gojo stood up straight. “Let’s go, (Y/N), I have a nice warm bed waiting for you.” Gojo picked you up just like Sukuna had, cradling you against him like you were a newborn.

Walking out of the cottage and back into town, you could see that there were hundreds and hundreds of men at Gojo’s disposal all rounding up Sukuna’s crew, guns drawn and crass words being shouted to get them into compliance. A few had bloody faces and twisted legs, obviously beaten into submission.

“(Y/N)! (Y/N)!” Sukuna screamed like a lunatic, his hands bound in gray shackles as he was led away. His body twisted and contorted to look at you and he dug his heels into the ground, refusing to move. “You dirty fucking lout, put them down!”

Gojo didn’t respond, didn’t look in Sukuna’s direction as he was hit with the butt of a gun and forced to keep moving out of the village. Your eyes couldn’t look away from Sukuna’s though, watching as blood leaked into his line of sight and he screamed your name as he was taken away.

“Tell me, what would you like your first meal to be aboard my ship?” Gojo was taking a different path down the mountain, one that had been carved by his men.

“Do you have any chocolate?” Your question made him laugh, and the men accompanying him shared a few smiles.

“(Y/N), I have a horrible sweet tooth.” Adjusting his hold on you, Gojos smile grew bigger. “I have enough chocolate to last you a lifetime.” In the distance, Gojo could still hear Sukuna yelling out for you, and his face soured once you weren’t looking at him anymore. He couldn’t wait to give Sukuna the public execution he deserved.

[pitaparka]

a steadfast heart will conquer

summary: you show up at frankie’s doorstep in the middle of the night after your boyfriend gets violent. he invites you in and lets you stay with him.

pairings: frankie morales x fem!reader

word count: 2.5k

warnings: mentions of domestic abuse, mentions of bruises

At midnight, you speak in fragments.

“I’m at your front door.”

He’s more asleep than awake. He doesn’t have the brain to question you.

“It’s raining.”

He can tell. He can hear it through the phone and from his bedroom window.

“Can you come let me in? Please?” You ask, and before he can say anything, you hang up. He stares at his phone, but figures there’s a girl at his front door, waiting to be let in.

He takes a second to unlock the door, in his groggy state, and sure enough, there you are, in all your midnight glory, on his front doorstep. It’s more romantic in movies, he thinks.

There’s nobody outside except for you. The streets are desolate, and the lamplight is obscured by the pouring rain. It thuds off of your car that’s parked in his driveway, and he knows it’ll bleed in through the crack in the door that doesn’t quite meet the frame.

He’ll help you fix it tomorrow.

But right now, you lean into him, slowly, and wrap your arms around his neck. You're wet, he notes. Wet and cold. He’s sure you're soaked down to your socks. Hair, jacket, shoes, all dripping onto his hardwood floor. You're still on the steps, so he pulls you in, but you refuse to untangle yourself from him. The wind sounds even harder now with the two of you inside.

“Hey, hey, what’s wrong?” he mutters, wrapping his arms around your shoulders. He pulls back to look at your face, but you're buried deep in his chest. He wishes it was under different circumstances.

The pouring rain punctuates every silence. He can feel you shaking.

You don’t answer.

He lets you not answer.

There’s a storm brewing in his chest. He has a sickening premonition as to why you’re here. He tries to ignore it, but his gut instinct is always right.

He shuffles awkwardly to close the door, and it muffles the rain. He can hear you sniffling now.

“What happened?”

There is only moonlight streaming in from the window over the couch. You keep your face buried in his chest when he flicks the light on. It’s harsh and bright and he grabs you by the shoulders, pulling you back to look at him but you don't remove your face from his warm, dry chest.

So he waits.

“What’s wrong?” he asks again, softer, in your ear. You rub your forehead on his worn t-shirt, and his arms find their way around your shoulders.

You find the strength to look at him from somewhere deep inside you, eyes red and swollen, eyelashes dark with tears. You squint almost imperceptibly, adjusting to the light. You’ve never felt more safe than in his embrace. Your noses almost touch.

The last and only thing he wants to do is kiss you.

He notices the red mark right away.

On your temple. His eyes soften. You watch him look at you, almost like it’s the first time.

“He hit me,” you say, congested from the tears.

Like he doesn’t notice. Like he doesn’t feel anger shoot up into his chest, heat and warmth and fire in his fingertips, down the back of his calves and aching his face. His sickening premonition coming true. He can’t come up with a single reason as to why he would do this to you. It makes fury throb in his bones. He can see your boyfriend throwing the punch and it makes him want to vomit how enraged he is.

“What do you want me to do?” he asks sincerely.

“Want me to hurt him? I’ll hurt him, you know I will. I’ll hurt him so bad,” he trails off, jaw hard and teeth grinding. Nostrils flared and lip twitching.

“No.”

He watches you rest your head on his chest, the side that your good-for-nothing dick stick didn’t punch, and he’s so careful with you, soft hands and rigid muscles.

“I just...” you start, and he’s listening. He’s listening to every word.

“I didn’t want him to hurt me. And I didn’t want to hurt him. So I... left. I went and sat in the CVS parking lot,” you admit. He figures you needed someone to talk to. He wanted someone to listen to. He’s wide awake now. He still has fight in his blood, so he repurposes it. He holds you, securely. Strong and firm.

“I was gonna fight back... but I didn’t want anyone to get hurt, I really didn’t.” you say. He closes his eyes. He steadies his breathing. How could someone so sweet, so powerful, so kind, end up with the exact antithesis of all of those things?

“I know,” he reassures, “I know you didn’t.”

You sigh shakily into his chest. He’s there for you. He’s steadfast and unwavering. You could collapse into him and you trust he would catch you, help you up, dust you off, or in your case, dry you off. But you don’t. You stand strong with him, and you let herself be supported by him. You yourself whole still. Shaky, and faltering, but whole, all by yourself. With him there, you feel a little steadier, resolute in your decisions. He supports you, and you love him for it.

“Can I stay here?” you ask.

“Of course,” he replies.

His clothes don’t fit you, but you don’t mind and neither does he.

Your hair smells like roses and rain.

You take his bed; he takes the couch.

It’s hard for him to fall asleep there, but he doesn’t mind that, either.

It’s four AM when you wake him up for the second time this morning. The grogginess is stronger than before, it seems. You’re on your knees in front of the couch, face level with him, and he jerks back in surprise.

“I’m sorry,” you say, placing a hand on his chest. His bare chest. His shirt is somewhere, he doesn’t care where. It got hot, he recalls.

“Y’scared me,” he mumbles. Would this girl let him get any sleep?

“Come sleep with me. I feel bad,” you say.

“Woke me up ‘cause y’feel bad?” he asks, and you can tell he’s irritated, but tired more than anything. Sleep carries heavily through his voice.

“No,” you clarify, “I woke you up ‘cause I had a nightmare.”

Now he’s the one that feels bad.

He lets you lead him to his own bed, but he makes a pit stop on the way to use the bathroom. He finds you curled up under his covers, staring at the doorway, waiting for him.

He smiles and joins you. He sleeps on his back. You sleep on your stomach.

He has one pillow. you have one too.

You both listen to each other breathe.

You throw an arm over his stomach. He rubs his thumb over your hand.

It’s not storming anymore, but you can both feel the electricity in the sky.

The old, squeaky mattress creaks as you move, swapping your pillow for his shoulder. It’s not as bony as you thought it would be.

You only wake up when his alarm goes off on the nightstand beside you.

You groan, and realize you’re curled up with someone in a bed that’s not your own. Your face aches as you relive the events of last night.

He wakes up when you shift to turn off the alarm, taking his time to notice you.

“Hey,” you say, in his shirt.

“Morning,” he yawns, not in his shirt.

“Thank you,” you start, but he cuts you off.

“No no no, don’t do that, don’t make it...” he trails, sitting up in bed. He rubs the sleep from his eyes again. All things considered, he got some decent sleep. He thinks it might have something to do with the warm body that was pressed up against him all night.

“No, really,” you say. You sit criss-cross on your side of the bed, and he has to remind himself that it’s his own bed (singular), not your bed (plural), and the whole bed is his bed. But for now, he can say it’s your side of the bed. At least to himself.

“Thank you for being there for me.” you say finally. He smiles at you.

“Of course.” He whines as he yawns, and things are okay for now. The storm is over.

“You want breakfast?” He asks, getting up and stopping at his dresser to put on shorts. His boxers were fine last night, but now that the sun is shining through the window, it’s kind of weird. He pulls on a shirt too.

“I have taquitos,” he says walking into his kitchen, and you squint at him, hot on his tail.

“Taquitos for breakfast?” you ask skeptically, and he makes his way over to the freezer.

“Taquito time is all the time.” He clarifies, taking the cardboard box from underneath a tub of ice cream and a bag of frozen peas. He freezes, before he turns around to look at you.

“Do you, uh, want some ice for that?” He says, and it takes you a second to realize what he means.

You touch the bruise softly, applying light pressure and wincing when it hurts.

He notices and puts the box down on the counter, wrapping the peas thoroughly in paper towels before handing them to you.

You nod a thank you, and hop up on his counter, holding them to your face.

He notices his shirt on you again, and his shorts on you, and how domestic this would be if that mistake hadn’t laid his hands on you. Though he does admit, you probably wouldn’t have been here in the first place without that run in.

He thinks he’d rather never see you again rather than have you come to him hurt like that.

He moves over to you, and carefully moves your head away from the cabinets holding the dish ware so he can open it. There’s tension in the air. He plates the taquitos and you listen to the buzz of the microwave as they warm up.

Neither of you touch your respective phones while you eat your taquitos. There are decisions to be made that will have consequences. You glance at your phone, but look away each time. Your eyes never meet. You both focus on the plate of miniature crunchy tortillas made with fake corn, filled with beef that was probably artificial. Neither of you mind.

After breakfast, or what could be sufficed as breakfast, he watches you finally check your phone.

“seventeen missed calls,” you read, “and thirty something texts.”

“Wow.”

“Not as crazy as I expected,” you note.

“Wanna see if he left any batshit voicemails?” you ask, grinning. He’s less than excited. Your smile falters as you read the texts.

“What? What’d he say?” he asks, getting up from the table to read over your shoulder. You make no move to hide the texts from him and something like relief floods his veins for a split second.

“Nothing,” you clarify, “just that... he’s so sorry… how he’s such a terrible person, that he’ll never do it again.”

He stares at you.

You ignore the messages and lock your phone.

You look up at Frankie.

“So?” he asks.

“So?” you ask back. He clears his throat.

“What are you gonna tell him?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh, grabbing the empty plate and sliding past him. You turn on the faucet in the sink and wait for it to get hot.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says, but you don’t respond.

You add soap to a sponge and start washing the minimal dishes there: a bowl, a few spoons, your plate, a whisky glass.

He stands by you, grabbing a hand towel from the countertop and wiping the dishes down before putting them away.

“Why don’t you have a drying rack?” you ask, as he puts away the last of the glasses.

“I dunno,” he says, “I don’t have that many plates and forks and stuff, so I just dry it and put it away as I go.”

“Hmm,” you remark, and turn off the faucet. He hands you the dish towel and you wipe your hands dry before folding it and placing it on the counter. You look at him and sigh. The elephant in the room is demanding your attention.

“What do you think I should tell him?”

He stares at your bruise, and he feels the anger from last night bubble up in his throat again.

“That you’re gonna send me to beat him the fuck up.” He says, and you roll your eyes, staring at him endearingly.

“I’m not getting back together with him.” you say, and he feels his heart do some weird stuff in his chest.

“It’s over for us. I’m breaking up with him the next time I see him.” you say, a finality in your words that make him confident you would do as you said.

“Good.” He crosses his arms and shifts his weight to one side.

“Should I go see him today?” you ask.

“Do you want to?” he questions. You sigh and shake your head.

“You’re no help.”

“Hey! I’m so much help,” he defends, and you smile at him.

“Sure.”

“I can go with you if you want,” he says seriously. You stare at him.

“If you want,” you offer, and he nods his head.

“Okay.” you say.

He watches you grab your phone and your now dry clothes and make your way into his bathroom. He listens as you close the door and waits until he hears the water start running, accompanied by soft music.

He squeezes the bridge of his nose and takes a second to examine the thawing bag of peas on his kitchen table.

He smiles to himself as he makes out the lyrics of your song.

As he puts the bag back in his freezer, he runs a nervous hand through his hair and stares at your car in his driveway.

He wants nothing more than to bruise you up himself, his mouth on your skin, his hands on your hips.

But that thought is fleeting. He gets closer to the bathroom and can hear you singing clearly, and he takes a second to listen before he speaks.

“Hey, I’m gonna go take a quick look at your car, okay?”

The water turns off.

“What?”

“I’m���I’m gonna go look at your car!” he says loudly, “the leaky door!”

There’s quiet for a moment before you’re unlocking the door, in only a towel. His towel.

“Thank you!” you beam, and with one hand clutching the towel to your chest, you hand him your car keys.

“They were in my pocket. It’d be kinda hard to get in without them,” you joke.

“Yeah, ‘course.” He grins lopsidedly, keeping his eyes a respectable distance from your naked torso.

With a smile, you close the door in his face.

The music resumes, as does the water, and Frankie breathes.

It would be a miracle if he made it through the day without sending someone to the hospital.

[jayjaymorgan]

Thank The Force, You’re Okay

Author’s Note : This is a continuation of this, I decided to write it a happy ending. Please remember that English isn't my native language, so there might be some mistakes and stuff. I hope you all like it, have a great day/night!

TW : mention of blood, injuries, near death experience

When Rex woke up, for a moment he couldn’t remember where he was.

Thoughts were racing in his head, as he slowly looked around, blinking the sleep from his eyes. The clone felt something heavy resting on his right arm, not letting him get up. When his eyes got used to the dim light shining through the blinds, he finally calmed down. Sleeping peacefully beside him was Anakin. The weight on Rex’s arm was the Jedi’s head, who snuggled close to him during the night. Rex breathed with relief and slowly lied down again, not taking his eyes from Anakin’s face. The men were now facing each other, with almost no space between them. The clone watched his beloved, listening to his slow and calm breaths. “Thank the Force, you’re okay.” It was the only thing that came to his mind, the memories of the battle still fresh in his head.

He remembered how he waited for the transport, while trying his best to stop the bleeding from Anakin’s wounds, how he could see the colors slowly fading from his boyfriend’s face. It felt like an eternity, even though it couldn’t be more than a couple of minutes. When the ship finally appeared on the sky, he breathed with relief; but not for long. Anakin suddenly coughed up blood and started trembling, like he was cold. Kix sent three other troopers to help Rex, who were carrying stretches with them. Together they were able to gently lift the unconscious man from the ground, while the medic prepared his tools. Rex never left his general’s side, ignoring the tears streaming down his face. He knew that it was wrong, that he shouldn’t let his emotions take over, that he should make an example for his people, but today he just couldn’t. He just sat there, staring blankly at his beloved’s face, as Kix tried to save him. His brothers were watching in fear, some of them started to cry, meanwhile others tried to calm them down. Jesse was hiding his face in his arms, his back trembling from quiet sobs. Hardcase sat next to him, holding back his own tears, hugging his brother and whispering reassuring words to him. Echo and Fives were helping Kix, bringing him stuff he needed and and applying pressure on Anakin’s wounds. The medic was sweaty, his hands and armor covered in blood. Lonely tears were rolling down his face, but his hands remained steady. 

When they reached their cruiser, that’s when the real battle began. 

Medics were running around, shouting orders and trying their best not to slip on the blood that covered the floors of the med bay. There was an unpleasant smell of chemicals and blood in the air, as Rex sat down on one of the beds, while a medic took a look at his broken nose. He didn’t even flinch when the medic straightened his nose, putting the bone back in its original place – he was too busy keeping his eye on Anakin. The Jedi was still unconscious, but somehow stable, thanks to Kix, who was checking the general’s vitals and making sure that the wound was no longer bleeding. For a moment it looked that everything was going to be okay, until Anakin suddenly woke up and vomited blood on the floor. He slumped back onto the bed, his lips went blue and the heart rate monitor started beeping loudly, alerting the medics that something was seriously wrong. Kix immediately rushed him to an emergency operation, which took well over 4 hours. Rex spent all that time pacing around the medbay, too stressed to focus on anything else. Only when the medic excited the operating room and told him that he would make it did he finally calm down enough to just sit and rest for a moment.

It took another two days for Anakin to wake up and stay conscious for more than a couple of minutes. He was so weak he couldn’t even sit in bed without Rex’s help so Kix could examine him. Aside from the big wound on his side he had a broken rib, severed muscle in his left wrist, bruises and a concussion. He had to spent the next couple of days bedridden, which made him moody and bored. Rex did his best to keep him company, but as the second in command he had duties to attend to. If it wasn’t for his brothers he would be drowning in paperwork and reports, not being able to visit his beloved at all. The rest of the 501st helped with the reports and making sure that their general didn’t die of boredom, mainly by doing a group meeting next to his hospital bed and telling bad jokes.

Now they were back at Coruscant, in their private room somewhere in the Jedi Temple. Rex glanced at the clock, it was still a couple of hours before they had to get up. He turned to his lover and snuggled closer to him, trying his best to not touch the bandages on Anakin’s side. “Thank the Force, you’re okay.” he whispered, embracing the Jedi and kissing him on the forehead. The sleep washed over him and after a moment he was sound asleep, happy that the most important person in his life is safe and sound beside him.

[whereflowersbloom]

La tendresse

She wakes with sunlight bright in her face, body aching all over and a slight headache. She felt like she might vomit but swallowed it down. She had been worse off before from a little wine sickness and survived. Rhachel sat up slowly, closing her eyes when the world tilted dangerously. When she figured she was steady enough, she opened them again.

The sun was streaming in through her open window, painting pinks and orange hues in the sky. Though the shadow led her to believe it was later than she normally woke. How long had she slept? It’s usually the birds that woke her up, their chirping a sweet melody that reminded her of homeland or the warm, familiar sensation of Damian’s lips wandering the curves of her body. She looked around, and spotted a flower on the little table next to the bed along with a breakfast tray of something. There were a few thick slices of Ma’rouk bread, some figs and grapes, and something that looked like rice custard.

She picked up the white rose, noticing the little card tied to the stem with a delicate silver ribbon. ‘To my lovely Princess of thorns, this flower pales in comparison to your beauty and grace. I’ll come find you after my council meeting. With fondness Damian.” Immediately a smile was curving her lips and all she could think about was her Damian. ‘Love can blossom over time just as it can capture you in a single breathe’ Lady Z had told her once before coming to the land of Sand for the tourney. One moment with him had been enough to set her world ablaze. His eyes like wildfire ignited her soul and engulfed her completely in the flames of ardor.

The first fingers of the coming winter caressed her bare legs, a false spring giving way to chill. The thin robe she wore did little to help her chill from the open window, the ivory satin clinging to her torso and hips but providing no heat. The last days of autumn brought a freezing cold breeze and even behind the safety of the red mountains, the blistering hot deserts of Nanda Parbat were not safe.

Soon it would be winter and it meant her seven and ten nameday was coming as well. Much had changed since she married Damian, she thought dropping her hands to the soft curve of her belly. Almost unnoticeable but there was no doubt a life was growing inside her womb.

The reason of her morning sickness became obvious after the imperial physician asked when was the last time she bled. She had not bled for two moons, she realized then. There had been a look of such happiness on Damian’s face when she told him the wonderful news and suddenly he was the sun itself. Radiating joy the same way as the colossal star did warmth.

She proceeded to eat her breakfast slowly, keeping almost all of it it down despite her stomach protesting. Kori was missing at the moment. Perhaps she was letting her take a rest from court. Nonetheless, she still had duties to attend that could not be ignored. Just as she was finishing her meal, someone knocked on her chamber’s door.

“Come in.” She replied, assuming it was Kori and preparing to greet her. The door groaned when it swung open, protesting. To her surprise, she met familIar green eyes she knew too well.

Damian.

“Awake now?” He murmured with an slightly amused expression. Her cheeks warming faintly at his question.

“The babe seems to be restless just like his father.” She pressed a hand to her stomach where she imagines their child to rest. After a brief moment she asks. “Is the council meeting over?”

“I left for a moment.” Damian said with a twinge of disappointment as he was reminded they still had much to discuss. He parted his lips as if to speak, but closed it again, thinking carefully of his words as he didn’t want to stir her emotions. “I wanted to spend time with you before I ride north with Jon.”

Her chest tightened painfully. Damian was riding with Jon up the snowy Kunlun mountains to distribute thick garments and goods for the less fortunate. She tried to remain neutral and collected as the crown princess she was, but her voice faltered, betraying her distress. “You could take me with you.”

“I do not want to risk your good health.” Damian shook his head lightly, the tension evident on his clenched jaw. He understood that she did not went to part from him but given her condition. It was best his wife stayed in the capital as he could not risk his heir. “Conner and Jayson will stay behind to protect you.”

The thought that this child in her womb could die sent jolts of heartache through her bosom. She just nodded, shaking off such dark thoughts.

Even if she was raised to be dutiful queen, it took her some time after marrying into the Al Ghul house to understand such a responsibility bore a heavy weight. Watching her every step as Damian assured there were enemies between them at court. Life was filled with rules and expectations she was if being frank unprepared for.

“Come lay with me.” She pleaded gently, reaching out an arm and patting the empty space next to her. She was far too tired to do much else.

Promptly, Damian kicked the door shut behind him. Ghosting to the large bed, climbing on before lying next to his wife. She nestled close to him, enjoying the warmth he provided, letting her head fall to the side to admire his face, and he did the same, those otherworldly indigo eyes bright and alive, burning with pure devotion.

“I’ll think of you every day we are apart.” Damian grasped her left hand, kissing the palm. “Both of you.” He added as one of his hands slid to the swell of her belly, stroking it tenderly.

His fingers travelled up, ghosting along her jaw until he's cupping her face, like she’s fragile and precious, a treasure to be hoarded. Damian was a generous and passionate lover, mouth moving over hers tenderly only pausing to whisper words of love and reassurance. She reacted instinctively, responding in kind to his probing tongue.  

“I love you.” She breathed against his mouth. Damian’s expression softened, and for a beat he looks younger, much more like a simple young man in love than the future ruler of the Nanda Parbat.

He placed a kiss on her bare shoulder, a gentle caress of his lips on her skin. “You are my queen, Rae. My only queen.“ His words achingly soft and genuine.

“After the babe is born. I promise to take you to Siodonna.” He murmured against her neck, his warm breath sending chills down her spine.

The word piqued her Interest. Damian had mentioned it several times while narrating tales of his ancestors and foreign lands he wished to explore. It’s said to be so beautiful it took your breath away. The Homeland of his grandmother, lady Shyla, who came from the tribe of Four Winds. Faraway land of the gray wind and freedom. The city of Sidhe rumored to be built high in the sacred mountains of Rudrà.

“Truly?” Rhachel asked with glee in her voice. She covered her mouth with her hand to hide a hearty laughter when Damian nodded solemnly.

Oh Gods, how she longed for the freedom to roam where she pleased with her husband. To have some time for themselves away from court and royal duties. It won’t be long. It won’t be long before their babe is born.

He gazed at her, his expression bore a twinkling smile. “You have my word.”

“You wish for a boy or girl?” The question slipped past unguarded lips. She never worried about the gender of her child before but the Azarathian queens gave birth to girls as the mystical gifts were inherited only by women. Perhaps Damian wanted a son as any ruler wanted a male heir.

His brows raised at the sudden question. For a beat appeared to be genuinely considering how to answer when he merely shrugged. “A healthy child.”

“Damian...” She pressed as nervousness palpitated in her chest. Chewing on her lower lip as she usually did when distressed. “What if it’s a girl?”

His furrowed his brows. “What would you like to name it if it’s a girl?” It shouldn’t have surprised her that he wanted to have her opinion on the name, but it did. She hadn’t thought about it.

“Manon.” The young woman answered. Would Damian like the name for their child? She envisioned a little girl with silver tresses and golden skin as the sun’s rays, and bright emerald eyes as the man she loved. “In my homeland it means blessed child.”

Damian smiled in content. “Our child is surely a blessing.”

“If it’s a boy, you can name it.” She ventured.

Damian breathed out a sigh. “Grandfather would want a strong name like Ra’ miel.” Rhachel immediately frowned. She was not entirely sure she wanted their child named after a past Al Ghul king as some of them did not have particularly great reigns. His green eyes flicked down to her belly, fingers caressing fondly and his smile widened. “We can think of one together when the times comes.”

“Boy or girl, it does not matter.” Damian’s orbs were twin pools of tenderness and awe. He tapped the tip of her nose affectionately. “I shall love any child you bear.”

A radiant smile graced Rhachel’s features, heart overflowing with joy at the declaration. The future seemed more hopeful, the weight of worry lifted off her chest. Damian was right; it did not matter if she gave birth to a boy or girl. This was the fruitful result of their love and sole heir to the Al Ghul throne. . Azar please grant your protection to this child of mine, the princess prayed in silence, her hand on her abdomen.

Yooooo. Have some damirae dorm your favorite teacup. 👀👀👀👀

I wrote this sleep-deprived so there’s probably mistakes but I’ll edit soon. This is for the damirae week.

Babies and Damirae fluff and shadows of thorns. Clarifying this is not a chapter but a Spin-off. I tried to avoid including spoilers. 🙈🙈🙈💜💜

@chromium7sky @carnationmilk @tweepunkgrl @amethyst-witch-05 @ravenfan1242 @opheliawillowbrook @alerialblu

[freebooter4ever]

Living in close quarters for months on end with a bunch of men his own age doesn't bother Snafu a bit. It's the one part of the Marines Corps he actually enjoys. Like living on an island full of eye candy. Snafu became mostly numb to the sheer number of naked butts by the end of his second day on Pavuvu. With the heat and the sun, the men need very little provocation to strip their clothing off. It was distracting for about an hour and then it became commonplace.

Later, after Gloucester, after living for three straight weeks in rain and misery, under the constant threat of violent death, and then returning once more to Pavuvu, Snafu becomes numb to everything....

He's never been one for carousing - a trait his peers in high school picked up on pretty quick. He's been compensating ever since. Packing on the innuendo and flirtation, and studying how other men act towards women and amplifying it in his own behavior.

So even before the numbness set in, Snafu isn't sure he ever actually felt anything like what others seem to describe. Even though Snafu admires his daily fill of half dressed fellow Marines wandering around camp, he does it in a detached sort of way that makes him feel more like an observer than participant. And it's good, because while there are whispers and rumors about certain guys who will take a man into the woods and show him a good time, Snafu doesn't need to get involved. He gets himself into enough trouble without adding a court martial onto it.

A few days after Gloucester an envelope arrives. There's no letter, simply a newspaper clipping slipped inside and stamped. The clipping is from his hometown newspaper and the article is about their hometown hero - brave Merriell Shelton - who shot up the enemy with his 'mortar gun'.

It's truly amazing how in a small town such as his, one can go from being the delinquent orphan son of impoverished half crazed parents easily forgotten by polite society, to being a hometown hero in the span of one battle.

Everyone in K company teases him about the article, especially about the 'mortar gun' bit. Snafu enjoys it immensely. He takes pride in his notoriety. It adds to his carefully cultivated mystique. No one wants to fuck with the fast talking, mean Merriell Shelton, war hero.

In actuality, Snafu is no hero. He fights for one reason, and that's the fifty dollars a month being sent home to his kid sister. He doesn't want her saddled with being a burden to her adopted family. Not like Snafu was with their own parents.

Overall, aside from the numbness, everything about Snafu's time in the Marine Corps is going well. He has respect, he has the looming potential of death and relief, and he has a steady diet of filling if questionable food. He thinks he's got a handle on things.

Till his downfall arrives a few days after the envelope.

Eugene Sledge looks like a fool from the minute he steps into Snafu's tent. Something about him irritates the hell out of Snafu. To try and figure out what about Sledge bothers him so much, Snafu goes out of his way to run into the guy. But no dice. Nothing works.

It doesn't click until Snafu accidentally runs into Sledge in the showers. Normally Snafu showers on off times to avoid any accidents. But after one particularly disgusting round of coconut duty, Snafu is stuck washing the gritty stickiness off in the middle of the day.

At first there's just him and Pops in the showers. A typical sight - Gunney Haney is obsessively clean. Snafu ignores him, and ignores the new Boots who join them halfway through. Snafu requires single minded focus to fish out all the coconut pieces that mysteriously found their way into his hair.

Once finished, Snafu turns around and bends his head back under the stream of water to rinse. He opens his eyes after the worst of the suds are gone, and spots Eugene Sledge in the group of new recruits. They are huddled around the shower heads in the opposite corner as far away from Snafu and Pops as they can get. Snafu smirks at them as a greeting.

It's kinda fun being intimidating.

Except they aren't paying attention to him. Sledge's eyes are transfixed on Haney as the man scrubs his dick.

Admittedly, for the uninitiated, seeing Haney shower is quite a sight. The man uses a bristly GI brush. The working theory is that he's been doing it so long and he's so old that his skin is pickled enough to be as thick and tough as leather. Everyone stares and winces in pain when they first witness Haney washing his junk.

However, Sledge is unusually engrossed. Snafu feels a strange prickle at the back of his neck and a spike of annoyance over this.

Jealousy - a word Snafu's never related to before.

Once he recognizes the feeling, though, he starts seeing it everywhere. Sledge is genuinely kind, and cares about everyone in a way that would stretch Snafu thin enough to break. Sledge is the best sharpshooter in the company, beating Snafu's considerable score by almost an entire point. Sledge takes every work duty thrown at him without complaint and with stubborn pride. Sledge takes everything thrown at him without complaint, including Snafu's own malice.

And all Snafu wants is for Sledge to just fucking look at him.

The tipping point comes after Sledge's little buddy Philips rotates home without warning. The despondency Sledge sinks into for a few days makes Snafu ache with frustration. Sledge starts disappearing whenever the replacements get an hour or two off. Snafu makes it his mission to find him.

He eventually does. Turns out Sledge is running off to a secluded beach, but he never goes in the water. Instead he sits crosslegged in the sand and stares at crabs. Snafu shimmies up a palm tree and scoots across the rough bark until he's nearly hanging over the oblivious Sledge.

In Sledge's lap is a dog-eared notebook, probably a moonlight requisition from the officer's tents. Sledge hunches over the page, his hand scribbling furiously and Snafu cranes his neck till he can see what Sledge is working on.

It's drawings of crabs. Countless pages of them. Snafu straddles the uncomfortable palm tree for almost an hour, watching in disbelief as Sledge makes study after study of crab anatomy.

Instead of killing the damn invasive creatures with a shovel and burying them in the sand, Sledge draws them.

If Snafu could draw, maybe he'd finally be free of this strange fascination that's taken hold of him. The image of Sledge that one afternoon - showering, naked and lean and glowing in the midafternoon sun - burned itself in Snafu's brain. He doesn't know how to purge himself of it. At the time, he didn't even realize he'd been looking that closely at Sledge while they were in the showers, but afterwards his brain pieced the scraps of memory together and gave him a picture more vivid than what he thought he saw.

And now he sees it whenever he looks at Sledge.

Even on Peleliu, after everything's gone to shit, but somehow they got off the beach and somehow they're not dead yet, his mind drifts to Sledge. The boy strips off his shoes in the midst of battle. Snafu stops him, shoving Sledge's boots back into his chest with force.

It's the first time he lays hands on Sledge and he doesn't even register it because he's too busy being worried about the damn idiot being caught with his pants down and shoes off.

Sledge is a distraction. That's all he is.

Until Sledge fucking picks Snafu up off the ground even when Snafu is pretty sure he's already dead. Sledge drags Snafu out of his shock and out of danger, and proves he can keep his cool during battle. Cooler even than Snafu, who still runs hot whenever Sledge gets too close.

Naive little Sledgehammer grew up quick, but unlike Snafu, he did not grow up mean - he still saves worthless things fallen helpless in the sand and dirt. From that minute on, Snafu makes it his personal mission to preserve Eugene's goodness.

He doesn't anticipate Sledgehammer accepting Snafu's newfound loyalty so readily.

Burgie calls Snafu out on it teasingly during their ship ride back to dreaded Pavuvu. A painful bout of seasickness causes Snafu to lose track of Sledgehammer for a few hours aboard ship, and Snafu spends the time wandering the decks in search of him.

"Since when did you appoint yourself as his shadow, Snaf?" Burgie retorts when Snafu asks if he's seen the 'Hammer'.

"Just need to collect on my bet about him smoking by the end of his first battle," Snafu shrugs.

"Every nonsmoker smokes by the end of their first battle, Snafu. You already knew that," Burgie says, "Leave him be."

"No way," Snafu argues, "Someone needs to teach that rich boy that he don't know everything."

"And of course you'd be the one to do it," Burgie sighs.

Ironically, Sledge is the one to find Snafu in a random ship compartment instead of the other way around. Snafu is lying prone, trying to keep his half digested meal from rolling around.

"Here," Sledge says, shoving a small box at Snafu as hard as Snafu shoved Eugene's boots.

"What is it?" Snafu asks, feigning disinterest.

"Crackers. They'll help with the stomach," Sledge replies, "C'mon, let's get you topside."

"How the hell'd you get crackers on a ship short of rations?" Snafu asks. He obediently follows Eugene through the ship to the deck. Like a damn shadow.

"I sweet talked one of the swabbies," Sledge explains casually.

That news roils Snafu's gut. Jealousy again. It's lucky they made it to the deck. He staggers to the rail and pukes overboard.

"The swabby liked my accent," Eugene says and leans beside Snafu, "Think he was from northern Alabama. I told him how us southern boys have the best aim in the Marines."

Snafu finishes vomiting up the last of his afternoon chow.

Sledge sighs and places his hand on Snafu's upper back.

Snafu's glad no one else is around on this part of the deck to see his shame. He hangs on the rail and feels miserable.

"Get it all out?" Sledge asks, and passes Snafu his canteen.

Snafu takes a sip, swishes it around his mouth, and spits into the sea. And then guzzles as much water as he thinks he can keep down. He sticks his tongue out at the disgusting aftertaste and hands the canteen back.

Sledge runs his hand down from Snafu's back to his arm. Before Snafu knows what's happening Eugene is gently taking Snafu's hand and leading him away from the rail. Sledge sits on the deck and leans against the ship's wall. He tugs on Snafu's hand for him to sit next to him.

"Better to go down to one of the cabins," Snafu resists.

"You don't want to know how bad it smells down there," Sledge warns, "Trust me. Fresh air is best."

Snafu gives in and collapses next to Eugene. He tilts his head back against the cold metal and closes his eyes.

Sledge takes the box of saltines from Snafu's hands and Snafu hears rustling as Sledge opens the package. Sledge then nudges Snafu's elbow with the box.

"Eat," Sledge says.

Snafu groans and leans his head on Sledgehammer's shoulder instead. He doesn't want any ill-gotten flirtation crackers. It's a lot easier to close his eyes and pretend to sleep.

Sledge seems to not mind Snafu sleeping on him. He doesn't move away, at least. So Snafu uses it as an excuse to shuffle closer. Which is when he realizes Eugene never let go of his hand. He's still holding on. Tight.

"Snafu?" Sledge prompts. He uses Snafu's nickname like they're best buds, though they've hardly ever spoken.

Snafu grunts.

"On that airfield…" Sledge says, "Don't you ever dare do that again, allright?"

"Whatever you say, Sledgehammer," Snafu drawls, "Don't even know what I did."

"You just...lay there," Sledge says quietly, "Like you were...."

"Waiting?" Snafu tries to remember his own state of mind in that moment.

"Gone," Sledge says sharply.

"Same damn thing," Snafu gives up on sleeping and lights a cigarette.

"If you're not around who'll tell me what I'm doing wrong?" Sledge asks.

"Shit, Sledge," Snafu drawls with a grin, "practically anybody who's not you could do that."

Sledge actually chuckles. That's the thing about Eugene. He's not stuck up or prissy like Snafu'd expect him to be. He's humble, and willing to laugh at his own inexpertise.

"I'd rather it be you," Eugene adds quietly with a small smile.

Snafu sucks on his bottom lip and refuses to respond to that.

"So no dying," Eugene finishes, as if such a conclusion were a choice.

Snafu does fall asleep and when he wakes up a few hours later, Sledge's head is tipped on top of Snafu's. Sledge's long nose is in Snafu's hair and he's snoring loud enough to wake the enemy a thousand miles away. Snafu can feel Eugene's snores blowing his hair around.

Despite these annoyances, Snafu tries to freeze in place and jostle Eugene as little as possible.

Their hands are still linked together. Sledge's hand is wrapped tight around Snafu's. Snafu lifts Sledge's hand to examine his delicate fingers - long and gentle, but not dainty. Eugene has the calluses of an expert marksman, and painfully short fingernails. Snafu picks at the boy's ring curiously.

Sledge shifts and turns farther in towards Snafu's body. He draws his arm away from Snafu's fiddling and instead places his hand on Snafu's soft belly. "Stop moving," he mumbles.

"You stop snoring," Snafu complains. He bumps his head intentionally into Sledge's big nose to make his point.

Sledge ignores him and slumps more of his weight onto Snafu's shoulder.

Snafu accepts his fate and reaches over Sledge's body to steal the saltines. He opens the cracker package and starts snacking.

"Must you, with the crunching?" Sledge snarls after a few minutes.

"Got hungry, Sledgehammer," Snafu, "If you're gonna be using me as a pillow, I'm gonna need to generate extra padding."

Sledge sighs and holds his hand out, "Give me one."

Snafu complies, "If you get crumbs in my hair, I'll kill ya."

"Wouldn't be the worst thing in your hair right now, Snafu," Sledge gripes.

"Yeah? What else is up there? Pick it out for me," Snafu grins.

"Smells like you took a nap in seawater," Sledge says, "Or smoke."

"Get your long nose out of my hair then," Snafu quips.

"Once you get past the brine smell it's not so bad," Sledge mutters and doesn't move

"Yeah, well your shoulder smells like…" Snafu starts, and then cuts off when he realizes Eugene's shoulder doesn't smell like anything Snafu finds unpleasant. "Did you change your shirt?"

"Traded it for the saltines," Sledge explains, "The swabby wanted a souvenir that saw battle. I gave it to him. Stole this one off a supply crate."

"Fuck, Eugene, I thought you flirted your way into the galley," Snafu grumbles.

"Who says taking off my shirt wasn't a part of that?"

Snafu can't see it with his head on Sledge's shoulder but he swears Gene is smirking at him. "Should have just given him your pin," Snafu argues.

"Can't," Eugene replies, "Sid says they're good luck."

Snafu rolls his eyes at the mention of stupid Sid and settles back comfortably to sleep.

Eugene hooks a thumb in between Snafu's button holes in his shirt to keep his hand on Snafu's stomach. His fingertips barely brush Snafu's bare skin, and suddenly Snafu is no longer interested in sleeping.

And then Eugene's wandering fingers hit Snafu's shrapnel wound.

His response is immediate and a little shocking, "What the fuck, Snafu?" Without asking Eugene starts popping open all of Snafu's shirt buttons.

"What the hell, Sledge?" Snafu tries to back away from him.

"My father's a physician, let me look at you," Eugene orders. He manhandles Snafu's hips forward away from the wall to stretch him out on the deck. Snafu's thin wound runs from right beside his belly button to right over his hip. "Jesus, Snaf, that could turn infected."

Snafu is still trying to process the feel of Eugene's long hands gripping his hips, there is no room in his brain for worrying about infections right now.

"You're gonna need to lie down," Eugene tells him, "Here…" Sledge takes off his shirt and folds it up so Snafu doesn't have to rest his head on the floor.

"Thanks," Snafu says blankly.

"I thought it didn't hit you, you idiot?" Eugene asks.

"Naw, it hit me," Snafu smiles, "just didn't kill me."

"Wait here, I need a kit," Sledge gets up and walks off, leaving Snafu on his own.

Snaf uncomfortably folds his open shirt closed and crosses his arms over his chest self-consciously. He hopes no one will accidentally walk past this part of the ship while Snafu is stuck laying here like a patient. It takes far too long for Sledge to return.

When Eugene does finally return, he's holding a big medic kit that definitely is going to be missed somewhere.

"What'd you have to take off to get that?" Snafu asks, his voice mean, "Your pants?"

"I'll return it when I'm done," Sledge tells him in a no nonsense tone. He sets the kit down and flips it open. "I'll need to open the waist of your pants though, do you mind?"

Snafu looks to the sky to avoid Sledge's concerned gaze. "Don't care," Snafu says as nonchalantly as he is able. He wets his lips and squeezes his eyes shut.

Sledge gently uncrosses Snafu's arms and moves them to the side. When Sledge unbuttons Snafu's pants, Snafu takes a deep breath. His stomach constricts, and he knows his bones are poking out embarrassingly far. Sledge's hands are warm and surprisingly soft. Cleaning everything, and putting a tiny amount of stitches near Snafu's waistband area doesn't take Sledge long at all. Before Snafu even gets to fully enjoy the feeling of Eugene's fingers sliding over his most sensitive area, Eugene is already buttoning Snafu's pants back up and smoothing his shirt down. Snafu flicks the shirt back off, deciding if he's already indecent he might as well continue that way.

Snafu moves to sit up, but Sledge puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Stay down for a bit," Sledge says, "I want my shirt back though. Here." He scoots next to the wall at Snafu's head and then helps Snafu lean forward enough that Sledge can reclaim his stolen shirt. Sledge throws the shirt on and then scoots closer again, beckoning Snafu to lay back down.

Having his head in Sledge's lap is about a thousand times more distracting than Eugene touching his skin. There was a medical excuse for that. There's no goddamn excuse for this.

As if reading Snafu's mind, Sledge decides to up the ante and he runs his hand along the clean skin beside Snafu's wound. Sledge's hand continues up to Snafu's chest and then stops. Sledge picks at a brown spot of dried mud below Snafu's sternum till it pops off and he can flick it away onto the deck. He then massages away the sting and leaves his hand resting there.

Snafu daringly rests his own hand on top of Sledge's. He doesn't breathe even once till they're both settled and Eugene doesn't pull away.

"You need a shower, Snafu," Sledge comments.

"You gonna give me one?" Snafu lolls his head so he can see Sledge's face.

"Only way to do that now would be to toss you off the ship," Sledge says seriously.

"That a no?" Snafu guesses.

Sledge glances down at Snafu with his signature 'I know better than you, but I am also amused' expression, and then stares blankly out towards the sea. He sighs, "Sleep off the seasickness. I promise I won't snore."

Snafu silently watches Eugene's profile for a while before he finally closes his eyes.

Sledge keeps his promise. He doesn't fall asleep once during the entire time Snafu is out. Sledge does, however, eventually remove his hand from atop Snafu's chest and that wakes Snafu up instantly.

Snafu stays perfectly still, and tries to breathe as even as possible. He doesn't want Sledge to notice he's awake and kick Snafu out of his lap.

Snafu carefully peeks one eye open, and sees two hands hovering above his head holding a book and pencil.

"Writing again?" Snafu accuses.

"Hmmm," Sledge says.

"What about?" Snafu asks.

"You," Sledge responds.

Snafu smiles. He knows Sledge is just being obtuse and not actually writing about him, but still, "Tell me."

"No," Sledge refuses.

Snafu eyes Sledge's hands and attempts to determine how much force it would take for him to grab the book away.

"If you take this bible from me, I'll never let you sleep on me again," Sledge warns.

"What makes you think that's a threat?" Snafu teases. He sits up and tries to lean over to read Sledge's writing.

"Because you slept like a baby during your nap," Sledge says. He angles the book away from Snafu's prying eyes.

"Plenty of other guys in the company more comfortable than you to sleep on, Sledgehammer," Snafu says.

Sledge looks Snafu straight in the eye and dares him, "Then why don't you go find them?"

Snafu holds his gaze for a few breaths. And then wordlessly puts his head back in Eugene's lap.

Sledge calmly sets down his pencil and book, and threads his hand into Snafu's hair instead. "You know what I miss?" Sledge idly scratches Snafu's head as he talks, "Having an inexhaustible supply of blank paper."

"I still don't understand how you've managed to hold onto that one pencil nub for so long," Snafu comments. If talking means Sledge will massage his head, Snafu will do anything to carry this conversation.

"Writing in my bible is well and good, but nothing compares to a fresh blank sheet," Sledge states, "I can't believe that in school I used to tear pages up, or throw them away if I made even one typewriter mistake."

"We should find you a new pencil," Snafu continues his own train of thought, "Or maybe a couple."

"What a waste," Sledge sighs over his stupid crumpled typewriter pages.

"I bet the officers' tent in camp has pencils," Snafu muses.

"You need to borrow a pencil?" Sledge asks, "Sorry, I wasn't listening for a minute. Here, take mine." He hands Snafu the tiny nubby remains.

"Thanks, Sledgehammer," Snafu says and sticks the pencil behind his ear to remind himself later.

The first thing Snafu does on Pavuvu is go scrounging for paper. The constant stream of people coming in and out of the officer's tents makes it particularly easy to search. Snafu gets five pencils on only one run. He doesn't dare take the brand new stacks of paper. It would be too obviously missed. Instead he hunts through trash bins around the camp, and pulls out anything that looks clean and innocuous.

Snafu figures any important classified documents are being shredded or burned immediately anyway. No chance of him accidentally picking up something he shouldn't.

It takes a few days, but finally Snafu hits the jackpot. An entire stack of half used blank sheet notebooks. They're spiral bound, and the edges are dirty, and the covers don't look particularly pretty. But the pages inside are clean. Snafu takes his stack behind the mess tent and scrubs off some of the dirt stains.

A few of the notebooks are too gross to be salvageable. For these he carefully cleans his knife, and cuts out the crisp pages individually.

When he's finished he leaves his collection on Sledge's cot with the pencils resting on top of everything. Satisfied, Snafu takes a step back and surveys his work. Then realizes he can't let it look like he is doing Gene any favors. He sticks his hands out and musses the papers completely so the stacks are no longer neat and the pages aren't ordered by type. But he leaves the pencils on top. He doesn't want them to get lost or sat on.

At first Sledge doesn't say anything about Snafu's gift. The next time Snafu stops by the empty tent, the paper and notebooks are neatly stacked on a high shelf to keep it out of the way of crabs and vermin. It warms Snafu to see how organized the messy pile he left became. Even the pencils are safe and snug wrapped in a little handmade pouch.

Snafu takes the warm feeling with him to chow that evening.

"Did you wake up on the right side of the bed for once, Snaf?" Burgie asks.

Snafu brushes his comments off with a smile and sarcastic look.

Sledge looks up the minute he realizes Snafu is sitting down. "Hey," he says eloquently.

"Hey," Snafu says back. He sets his tray down and pulls out his cigarettes.

"I swear you smoke more than you eat," Sledge observes. He eyes Snafu's still mostly full and cooling plate of food.

"I only put things in my mouth if it's worth the bother," Snafu tells him, smirking.

"Are you saying warm mush isn't worth it?" Bill jokes as he polishes off his own bowl heartily.

Snafu laughs at Bill's graceless eating, till he realizes Eugene is staring. Not at Bill, but at Snafu. And looking very mournful for some reason. Unable to stand seeing Eugene looking that way, Snafu anxiously extends his hand to touch Sledge's knuckles, and then offers him a smoke.

"No thanks, Snafu," Sledge says, very unfriendly and possibly looking to start a fight, "I prefer to eat my meals."

"Has anyone gotten any letters from home yet?" Burgie changes the subject brightly.

Bill shakes his head.

"Nothing but my mother's usual package," Sledge says. He notices Snafu staring at him with quiet interest and adds with a sigh, "Yes, Snafu, I saved you your favorite jar."

Snafu smiles, "See, always worth it to wait." He grabs his unused spoon off the table and slips it into his pants for later.

"Sid still hasn't written to tell me if he made it home okay," Sledge says with a worried frown.

"I'm sure he did," Burgie says kindly.

"What about you, Burg?" Snafu interrupts, "You hear anything from Florence lately?"

"She's written, yes," Burgie says and turns as red as the canned beets Sledge's mother mailed last week.

Snafu whistles, Leyden begs Burgie to read any exciting bits aloud, and Sledge politely asks who Florence is.

"Burgie's girl he met in Australia after Gloucester," Snafu explains.

"I knew she liked me because she was the only girl not flocking around Snaf," Burgie jokes.

"Like flies to shit?" Bill snaps, "Snafu being the shit 'n ass."

"Don't think he slept in the stadium bunks with the rest of us even once," Jay laughs.

"I had more worthwhile places to go," Snafu says and eyes Sledge to gauge his reaction. He lazily takes a drag on his cigarette.

"Think we'll be given liberty in Australia again sometime?" Sledge asks. He holds Snafu's gaze steady.

"Don't care," Snafu shrugs.

"Unfortunately no," Burgie says, "I suspect we'll be run ragged till this war is over."

"At least she writes you," Bill interjects, "You'll just have to skip over thataway and pick her up before going home at the end of all this."

"Not sure how I'll manage that," Burgie takes a deep breath, "But it's true, I think she felt as strongly as I did. She expresses it well in her letters."

Bill whines that Burgie is holding out on his buddies by not divulging the content of said letters. He and Burgie get into a heated discussion that mostly consists of Bill begging and wallowing in self pity over not having any sweethearts.

Snafu and Eugene ignore them. Once Sledge finishes his meal, Snafu offers his cigarette again, and Sledge accepts. They pass it back and forth as they watch the sunset over the beach in the distance. Snafu wallows in every single touch of their fingers during each exchange.

"Speaking of mail," Sledge starts, "Snafu, did you leave paper on my bunk?"

"Why would I leave paper on your bunk?" Snafu scoffs.

"I thought maybe you were writing a letter and forgot it, or something?" Sledge asks, as though he isn't smart enough to put two and two together. No one accidentally leaves a jumble of notebooks lying around. Not when they're such a hard commodity to find.

Bill barks a laugh "Snafu writing? Can you imagine...that'd be the day."

"The only paper I ever concern myself with is asswipe," Snafu taunts. He dangles his cigarette out of his mouth and smirks at Leyden. Snafu throws one cautious glance over to Sledge and immediately regrets it.

Instead of being grateful, Sledge is annoyed. He snatches the cigarette straight out of Snafu's mouth. Sledge's fingers press into Snafu's lips briefly before he steals the smoke away, almost like a gentle punch. The unexpected touch and Sledge's deadly serious glare turns Snafu hot down to his toes.

Sledge finishes the cigarette in dead silence, and rather than stub it into the ashtray, he takes the nub and sticks it back between Snafu's lips. Sledge abruptly stands, grabs his tray, and stalks off without another word.

Leyden awkwardly coughs and gives Snafu a sympathetic look.

"Did you dump a bunch of papers on Eugene's bed?" Burgie asks Snafu for clarification.

"Fuck no," Snafu lies. They know he's lying. He grinds the cigarette into dust on the ashtray.

"Maybe I should have mentioned the Australian guys were buzzing around you, too," Jay suggests to Snafu, "Except there were less of them thanks to the war."

"Don't think that would've helped, Jay," Burgie says.

"Yeah?" Snafu says. He climbs over the mess hut wall and walks off.

[gravelyhumerus]

“just like a folk song (our love will be passed on)”

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Relationship: Jemily

Summary: Pregnant? Off a one-night hookup that convinced her that the relationship wouldn’t go anywhere? Impossible. Improbable. Unlikely.

Word count: 3,086

Read it on AO3

Chapter One, Chapter Two

Sunlight streamed into the warm bedroom as Jennifer Jareau awoke and blinked against the brightness. She yawned and stretched, her body wrapped in soft white sheets. 

JJ rolled over, coming face to face with Emily Prentiss. She smiled at the sight of the woman still asleep, looking peaceful in her slumber. She gently pulled the blankets up and over her girlfriend's bare shoulder. 

Checking her watch, she realized that she had woken up before her alarm, and could have slept another half an hour and still had enough time to make it to Quantico with coffee and doughnuts for the team. 

Despite the picture perfect moment, JJ didn’t feel well. She did normally wake up before Emily, as she was much more of a morning person, but typically she basked in the half-asleep haze to watch Emily sleep, her eyes tracing every plane of her face. After years of sharing beds with Emily because of cases, JJ had heard more than one complaint about her own sleeping habits, whether it was her incessant kicking or how she would often wake up before dawn to run before they had to go to work. 

Nausea and dizziness hit her like a brick, causing her to sit up in the bed and fight back the overpowering desire to gag. JJ tossed back the blankets, leaped out of bed and ran into Emily’s ensuite bathroom. 

She barely made it to the toilet in time to throw up what was left of her dinner into the bowl. 

She knelt in front of it, her bare knees feeling chilled against the grey tile floor. As she sat back, collapsing into the wall, the nausea abated slightly. She let her head fall back into the wall, her breaths coming in gasps as the world spun. 

JJ frowned and racked her brain for what could possibly be wrong with her. She hadn’t drank anything the night before, as the last time she felt this bad had been after drinking an entire bottle of rosé at Penelope’s a few months back. 

She flushed and stood up to brush her teeth, but her dizziness hadn’t gone away. JJ swayed when she stood, clutching tightly on the counter to steady herself. Her stomach protested, warning her not to move too quickly, else she would be back in front of the toilet bowl.

The media liaison then pulled her toothbrush out of her toiletries bag and carefully brushed her teeth, working on getting the sour taste out of her mouth. She wondered whether she had eaten something bad the day before. With all the takeout they ordered, no wonder her stomach was upset.

JJ walked back into Emily’s bedroom, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She still felt off kilter, but the nausea was subsiding. 

Emily had sat up in the bed, and looked at her with concern. 

“Are you ok, Jayje?” she asked, her eyes bleary but still full of concern. JJ had clearly just woken her up with her activity in the bathroom. 

“My stomach’s upset,” JJ explained, rubbing it slightly, her voice coming out with more of a whine to it than she had expected. 

Emily frowned, patting the bed and moving over so there was space for JJ to join her in bed. JJ sat down, allowing Emily to pull her in for a hug. She leaned into her girlfriend, basking in the warmth and comfort that a simple touch offered her.  

“If you’re not feeling well, why don’t you stay here?” Emily said, “We can’t have you giving the whole team the flu.”

Emily reached up to touch JJ’s forehead with the palm of her hand, checking to see if the blonde had a fever. 

“I’ll be fine,” JJ said, batting Emily’s hand away from her face. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“I will always worry about you, JJ.”

JJ relaxed into Emily’s embrace cuddling back up onto the bed, deciding to get whatever rest she could before her alarm. Emily’s strong arms wrapped around her, and JJ rested her head on Emily’s collarbones. 

The older woman stroked JJ’s hair softly. She immediately felt better at the touch, able to focus on pushing away the nausea.

This was all still new. Them. Their relationship. Whatever JJ and Emily were. They had admitted their mutual feelings in a rush of emotion in a hotel room only a few weeks ago. Since, it has been a whirlwind of nights together, secret conversations and stolen glances across the bullpen. They were girlfriends. They had said that, so far. But, beyond that, the details of their relationship were still being established. 

With a team of profilers, JJ could only guess that they had already been made, but they still weren’t making it public to the team, just yet. It was nice to have secrets, since they often knew more about JJ than she knew about herself.

Walking JJ from her comfortable, half-asleep state, Emily’s alarm blared out from the clock radio on her side of the bed, an annoying beep that came as a preset on the device. 

“Time to get up.” Emily murmured into JJ’s hair, tickling her sides lightly, making JJ squeal and squirm.

“Stop!” JJ gasped, attempting to escape by wriggling around in Emily’s grasp.

She then leapt off the bed and grabbed Emily’s pillow for protection, wielding it like a weapon. 

Emily followed suit, standing with a pillow in hand. The two agents were soon engaged in a pillow fight, jumping and running around the room using the soft pillows as weapons, smacking each other on the head before dancing away.

They fought back and forth across the room, each landing a few solid blows on the other, one notably hitting Emily right in the face, messing up her oh-so-perfect bangs. 

JJ overcame with giggles as she leaped onto Emily, forcing her down onto the bed with her hands wrapped around the wrists of the taller girl. 

They landed with an oof  and JJ pinned her girlfriend by her arms, who looked up at her with a daring look in her eyes. JJ leaned down, closed the distance and kissed her gently. 

Emily strained against JJ’s grip, lifting her head up to deepen the kiss. Their lips moved against each other in a comfortable and familiar motion. Emily’s tongue swept between JJ’s lips, and she opened her mouth sliding her tongue against Emily���s. 

JJ let go of the other woman’s arms in favour of tangling her fingers through her dark hair, allowing Emily the freedom to hold onto JJ by the waist. 

“If we didn’t have to get to work soon, I’d take you here—again—on this bed. Just like I did last night,” Emily whispered between kisses. 

“ Please,” JJ gasped, desperate for Emily to keep touching her. 

“JJ, it’s already seven,” Emily whined. “We have to go.”

“I’ll be quick,” she said. “I promise.”

“We’re never quick.”

JJ pulled back, sitting up on the bed, still straddling Emily. Smiling down at her, “Fine. You owe me one tonight,” JJ said. 

“Deal.”

JJ stepped down onto the hardwood floor, her socked feet padding over to Emily’s closet. She chose a pair of black slacks and a beige sweater off the hook. She relaxed at the fact that between the cuddles and the pillow fight, her stomach had calmed down and her nausea was mostly abated. She could hear Emily stand up and walk up behind her. 

“That’s my sweater,” Emily said.

JJ looked down at it inquisitively. 

“No it isn’t,” she retorted, “I’ve had this forever. It was in my go bag and hung it up here last night.” 

“I lost it forever ago.”

JJ found herself smiling at her own accidental theft. She must have had it for long enough that she thought she owned it in the first place. 

“We can’t keep switching clothing,” Emily said, “We work with a bunch of highly trained profilers, they notice things like this for a living.”

“I can’t help it, I love wearing your clothes.”

Emily planted a kiss on her cheek, distracting her as she pulled her sweater out of JJ’s hands. 

“Morgan noticed that I was wearing your blue shirt last week,” Emily said, “He’s close to putting the pieces together. I hate lying to him.”

“I know,”  JJ sighed. “I guess I just like having something that’s just ours. For now at least.”

Emily nodded, then handed JJ another shirt— a white button-up that actually did originally belong to the blonde— to put on. JJ grinned at her, but decided she would steal Emily’s Yale sweater to sleep in that night as payback. 

A few minutes later, they both left Emily’s apartment in separate cars, still attempting to maintain the façade of ‘just friends’ for the rest of the team. JJ ignored the lingering worries about her upset stomach, knowing that she’d gone to work feeling worse in the past. She once chased an unsub with a high fever and didn’t blink, she could handle an upset stomach. She had work to do. 

 ———

After the sun set that day, the March rain had turned to snow. JJ watched it fall on the drive to the motel, swirling around her vision and covering the ground in a patchy blanket. They had flown to Maine that morning to investigate a string of murders of young men in the woods, and they were staying in a tiny motel off the highway. 

JJ was fighting the urge to sleep in the passenger seat, as Emily drove along the dark twisty, hilly road. In the back, Spencer Reid was looking out the windows at the forest that surrounded them. 

Her stomach was upset, again. A sloshing feeling that made her scrunch her nose up. The speed that the car was taking the turns quickly and the motion wasn’t helping her nausea. 

She opened her eyes, almost certain she was about to vomit . She felt exhausted and worn out, despite having a relatively easy workday.

The media in the sleepy town of Ellsworth, Maine weren’t particularly demanding, as all JJ had to do was give a short statement to The Ellsworth American, which was the name of the local paper. The reporter was a relaxed guy, about thirty, with a scruffy beard and tired eyes. After a short phone call and a promise to reveal more information once the case was wrapped up, JJ was mostly done for the day. 

Her normal activities of liaising with the local cops went smoothly and she ended up spending most of her time on paperwork and bouncing theories back and forth with Morgan and helping Reid with his geographical profile. 

“Are you ok, JJ?” Emily asked, glancing over at her quickly before turning again to make sure that she was watching the road. 

JJ placed a hand on her own forehead, trying to quell the motion sickness by the sheer willpower. 

“I guess I’m still not feeling well,” JJ confessed with a groan.

“What are your symptoms?” Reid piped up from the back seat. 

She wasn’t surprised that this piqued his interest. For a boy without a medical degree, he still lived up to the ‘doctor’ in front of his name. 

“I threw up this morning,” JJ admitted. “It’s nothing.”

“And you’re experiencing motion sickness, now?” he asked. 

“Yes, doctor,” JJ said sarcastically, still not opening her eyes. 

“She doesn’t have a fever yet,” Emily offered, “She probably doesn’t have the flu.”

“And we all ate the same meals today,” Reid mused, “It’s likely not food poisoning.”

“Unless you went rogue and ate something out of the precinct’s vending machine,” Emily quipped, “Who knows how long those have been there.”

JJ shook her head, still not able to open her eyes against the sloshing of her stomach. 

She had actually barely eaten anything that day, as the takeout they had ordered hadn’t sounded particularly appetising. She was just trying to make it back to the hotel without asking Emily to pull over.

“Well,” Reid continued, “You could be pregnant.”

JJ didn’t say anything as his words hit her like a brick. 

“Early pregnancy symptoms include missed periods, as well as fatigue, smell sensitivity, morning sickness, food aversions, mood swings and… er- breast changes, frequent urination,” he continued. “Not to mention bloating and raised basal body temperature.”

JJ rolled her eyes in his direction, but not before an awkward silence engulfed them. Emily said nothing, waiting for JJ’s response to the suggestion. 

She couldn’t be pregnant, she reasoned internally, she hadn’t had sex with a man in ages. Then, a memory flashed across her mind, reminding her that that wasn’t entirely true. 

Just about a month ago, before she and Emily had gotten together, she had spent the night with William LaMontagne Jr., the New Orleans cop that she had met on a case months before. 

It was February and Will had called her, asking if he could visit. JJ had said yes, because, at the time, she had all but given up on Emily. She had been certain that the profiler didn’t like her back. 

She and Will had drunken, mediocre sex that evening after they left the bar. They had used a condom, obviously. There was no chance she was pregnant. Well, if she had said this out loud, she knew Reid would say there was a zero point three percent chance, or something like that. 

Was her period late? She tried to do the mental math, but the mental math and her car sickness weren’t producing a satisfying answer.

JJ ran her hands through her hair nervously, laughing off Reid’s words despite her racing thoughts. 

“Don’t worry,” JJ said with a laugh, “I think I would know if I were pregnant.”

Even as the words left her mouth, JJ knew she didn’t quite believe them. She did have morning sickness, fatigue and even what could be described as food aversion. She couldn’t tell if the emotions she had felt that day were the normal turmoil of working with serial murders or a symptom of something. 

“Or you could be exhausted by working back to back cases and this is your body telling you to slow down,” Reid said, clearly back tracking. 

“That’s probably it, Jayje,” Emily said, glancing nervously over at the blonde, who’s hand was rubbing her eyes against the glow of the street lights leading up to the motel.

“Yeah,” JJ said as they pulled into the driveway, sighing in relief as she stumbled out of the car, desperate for some solid ground to calm her stomach. 

She wasn’t pregnant. She was just stressed and overworked. They had had a bulk of hard cases this winter and it was taking a toll. Nothing more.

 ———

The case progressed relatively normally. The team built the profile and was able to track down a few suspects off some suspicious elements from their internet presence. 

They had narrowed it down to two men, who happened to live on opposite sides of the unsub’s comfort area.  After a stake out, the team finally caught the unsub on his way to revisit the crime scene.

After a long interrogation, they had gotten a full confession.

Leaving the processing to the local brass, the team was on a flight out of Maine that night.

They were seated side by side on the jet, with the table in front of them and a fast-asleep Hotch opposite to them. His head was leaning off to the side, his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

JJ curled up on her chair, her legs pulled up onto the seat, her usual blanket tossed over to Emily, as she was feeling uncomfortably hot despite the climate controlled private jet. 

“What’s wrong?” Emily whispered, noticing the face JJ was making, “Still nauseous?”

“I’m just tired,” JJ said. “I think it’s hot in here.”

Emily tilted her head slightly, looking back to JJ quizzically. 

“It’s not any hotter than normal, JJ,” she said. “You sure you're ok?”

“Maybe I am coming down with something,” JJ admitted. “It is the tail end of flu season.”

“Take the weekend off,” another voice joined their conversation. Hotch lifted his head up and was looking at her with concern. She guessed he wasn’t actually asleep after all, and was glad she and Emily hadn’t been whispering about other things.“We all need a break after these back-to-back cases.”

JJ nodded, knowing that she would still have her cell phone on, and that with her job, there was rarely any time off, but was happy to spend the weekend home instead of in a random hotel room. 

The plane landed in Quantico late that night. It was a rainy evening, and they had to walk quickly across the tarmac under a spare umbrella that Emily had tucked away in the carry-on compartment. 

Leaving the airport, once again in separate cars, JJ drove over to Emily’s, trying to clear her mind by listening to some music.

They had a system. An unspoken communication that meant that unless someone said otherwise, they would meet at Emily’s apartment once they were home. It was closer to work, not to mention much nicer than JJ’s tiny one-bedroom.

As JJ drove, Reid’s words were repeating themselves in her head. You could be pregnant. JJ bit her lip, trying to focus on the road. 

Nausea she could explain away. She had food poisoning, or the flu. Same with her lack of appetite. And the fact that her period was a few days late. The fatigue was from working so hard. 

But together? It painted a picture that JJ didn’t want to see. Pregnant? Off a one-night hookup that convinced her that the relationship wouldn’t go anywhere? Impossible. Improbable. Unlikely. 

What if she was?

Still, JJ found herself pulling into a gas station just outside of DC. She parked next to the store, taking a deep breath in and out before working up the nerve to go in.

She hopped out of her car and wandered into the shop, blinking at the brightness of the fluorescent lights and grabbing a few snacks before coming up to the shelf on which pregnancy tests were placed. There were two options: one much more expensive than the other. Assuming that it meant it was probably better, she grabbed two of that brand, adding it to the pile of chocolate and bags of cheetos in her arms.

I’m not actually pregnant, JJ assured herself. This is just to be sure. 

[alounuitte]

ignored the warning signs

Transistor, 2.5k words, Asher is sick and Grant comforts him (as does his cat). warnings: vomiting. [sorry for, like, who i am as a person but i see an empty niche and by g-d i have to fill it.]

Leneghan has been restless since before they left for dinner, slinking back and forth between Asher’s shoulders, the tip of her tail twitching occasionally, but he doesn’t start to feel unwell himself until afterwards, as they’re on their way back home. Despite the chill in the air, he feels too warm with his coat on, and there’s a dull ache in his temples that only seems to get worse when he closes his eyes.

Even Grant, talking idly about something that’s probably fascinating, is beginning to grate on him as they take the skyrail back to to the north side of Highrise, though he feels awful about it. Ordinarily he loves hearing Grant talk, whether it’s about his work in administration, or the city, or any number of other interesting topics, but tonight he can’t seem to keep his focus in one place, and his mind keeps wandering away so he can’t keep track of what exactly Grant is saying.

Leneghan meows softly and presses her head against his cheek, and Asher reaches up to scratch her ears, trying to drag himself back to what Grant’s saying, but it’s so hard to pay attention when there’s sweat beading up under his stiff collar, and the faint hum of the railcar gliding along its track is making his legs feel oddly shaky.

“You’re quiet, dear,” Grant says, putting a hand on his arm. “Is everything alright?”

The touch is enough to pull him back into the moment, and he shakes his head to clear it. “I’m just a little tired,” he says, giving Grant a weak smile.

“I thought Leneghan seemed worried about you,” Grant says, a slight frown creasing his brow. “You should have said something.”

“I felt alright at dinner,” Asher replies, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She has been fussing at me a little.”

“Hm,” Grant says, still looking concerned, and squeezes his arm a little tighter before letting go. “We’re almost home, just a bit longer and we’ll get you to bed straight away.”

Asher nods and leans back a bit against the wall of the railcar to steady himself, finding himself a little grateful when Grant is silent, rather than try to continue the earlier conversation.

The skyrail reaches their stop, a block from home, and Asher stumbles a little as he steps out onto the walkway. It was chilly in the car, but outside it’s freezing, and he wraps his arms around himself, suddenly grateful for Leneghan’s warmth across the back of his neck. His head is reeling, though, badly disoriented now that the faint motion of the car is gone, and he sways on his feet as the world seems to spin for a moment.

“Asher?” Grant’s hand on his back helps steady him, and he leans into the touch, grateful for something that feels solid when the walkway under his feet doesn’t.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, offering a shaky smile. “Let’s just get home.” Dizziness aside, his head feels so heavy that all he wants to do is get back to their apartment and lie down.

The brief walk up the block to their building feels like it takes an hour, and with every step Asher feels worse, though he keeps his head down and tries to ignore it. Even after a long day, it shouldn’t take so long to adjust after getting off the railcar, but the feeling of the ground still shaking underfoot doesn’t fade, and there’s a tightness in his throat that doesn’t go away when he swallows. He tries to focus on Leneghan insistently pressing her face against his cheekbone, raising one hand to scratch under her chin while the other closes tightly around the apartment key in his pocket.

As he climbs the steps to their building, his foot catches on the top stair and his balance goes. Leneghan growls and digs her claws into his shoulders as he stumbles and pitches forward, throwing out his arm to brace himself against the door. His stomach lurches, and dread makes his chest go tight as he feels something thick and hot rushing up his throat. Before he can react, his mouth fills with acid and a stream of vomit spills over his tongue, chunks of the cake they’d shared for dessert pouring onto the steps with a sick splatter.

“Asher!” Grant calls, and Asher feels him put both arms around his waist just as his knees give out underneath him. He slumps back against Grant’s chest, shaking and gasping for breath.

“Oh, God,” he groans, pushing his hair back with one shaking hand. “I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry, I’m—“

“Hush, dear, it’s alright,” Grant murmurs softly in his ear, pulling him back gently and helping lower him to the ground so he can sit down on the stairs. His head is still spinning, making his stomach twist uncomfortably, and he leans forward to let his head fall between his knees. The sight of sick splattered on the toes of his shoes makes him want to throw up again. He swallows hard.

He’s dimly aware of Leneghan pawing at his leg, mewling softly at him, and nudges her away gently with one hand. She must have jumped down from his shoulders when he fell, but he’d rather have her climb up again than try to lay in his lap when he thinks at any moment he might vomit again. On the stairs behind him Grant is at the door; he hears the key click in the lock and the soft creak of the hinges, then a shuffling sound before Grant is beside him again, one hand on his shoulder, the other resting on his knee.

“Come on, let’s get you upstairs,” he says softly, and lifts Asher’s head with one hand to dab at his mouth with a handkerchief. Asher nods miserably, and swallows hard as the movement makes his stomach roil. With Grant’s arm around his waist to support him, he gets to his feet again and stumbles inside through the propped open door, clicking his fingers softly for Leneghan to follow.

“Sorry,” he whispers, his voice shaking, as Grant helps him to the lift down the hall. “I didn’t know I’d...”

“I know,” Grant assures him, holding him close as they step onto the gondola. The shudder of movement beneath his feet makes Asher feel even sicker, the steak he’d eaten at dinner very heavy in his stomach, and he leans his head against Grant’s shoulder, screwing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to watch each floor fall past them. Leneghan winds between his feet, rubbing her head against his legs; he wants to pick her up again, but he’s sure if he leans down to do it he’s going to throw up his dinner all over the floor of the lift and embarrass himself more than he already has.

When the gondola stops at the landing of their apartment, he feels his stomach lurch into his throat and has to clap a hand over his mouth to choke back another rush of vomit. The taste of acid on his tongue is half-sweet from the cake he’s still hardly digested, and it only makes the urge to gag again stronger. He’s too busy fighting to keep down the contents of his stomach to protest as Grant lifts him from the floor and carries him inside, cradled close against his chest in both arms.

It’s either a miracle or a testament to his willpower that he manages not to be sick on them both, though his feet have barely touched the bathroom floor before he’s pushing Grant away to lean over as he retches, a thick stream of vomit spilling onto the tiles. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out again between heaves, but Grant only hushes him again, one hand on his shoulder to steady him, the other holding his bangs out of the way.

“Come here, dearest, I’ve got you,” Grant murmurs when he’s finished, and helps guide him in front of the toilet, catching him when his knees go weak again and lowering him gently to the floor. He can’t stop shaking, his breath coming in shallow gasps as his heart hammers in his chest, and he can’t be sure if the burning in his cheeks is from fever or simply from shame. Grant gently wipes his mouth and chin with his handkerchief again.

His stomach churns and he leans over the toilet, trying to keep his breathing steady, in the hope that  it might stop him from throwing up any more of his dinner. At his side he hears Leneghan meow quietly, and reaches out blindly to find her face as she rubs up against his fingertips. She pads closer to climb into his lap, and he lets her, now that he’s knelt on the bathroom floor with somewhere better to vomit if - when he does than on himself.

“Let me help you with your coat,” Grant says, and leans against his shoulder to start undoing the buttons. Asher fumbles with one hand to do the same, starting at the bottom, and manages to clumsily undo two before he gags and has to double forward to be sick again. The stream of liquid that splashes into the toilet tastes half like acid and half like alcohol. Had he just drunk too much? He’d only had two glasses of wine, and that with dinner, over the course of an hour and a half; surely he can’t be so intoxicated as to make him this sick.

“Sorry,” he mumbles again as he lifts his head, and hears Grant sigh with gentle exasperation behind him, leaning in to dab at Asher’s lips with his handkerchief again.

“You hardly asked to fall ill,” Grant points out, pulling his coat off his shoulders. “You’re burning up, let me get this off of you.”

Asher nods and lets his arms fall to his sides so Grant can take his coat. Without it he’s suddenly cold, all too aware of the icy tile under him, and he wraps both arms around himself quickly, shivering. He really must be ill, he thinks miserably, and swallows hard as his stomach turns over.

“Do you think you could manage a shower?” Grant asks as he helps slip off Asher’s shoes. “It might do you good, if you can.”

“I suppose I could try,” Asher replies, hunching his shoulders. “Though I don’t know if I’m finished being sick yet.”

“That’s alright,” Grant assures him, idly brushing back his hair with one hand. “There’s no rush, dear, I’ll help you up whenever you’re ready.”

He nods and wraps his arms around himself, groaning as his stomach roils and twists. The bottom of his mouth fills with saliva, and he swallows hard. “I hate this,” he mumbles, hugging his abdomen tighter. “God, Grant, I feel awful.”

“I know, Ash,” Grant replies, rubbing his shoulders with one hand. “My poor sweetheart, I know, I’m here.” Asher whimpers as his stomach clenches, making him gag, and Grant’s fingers tighten on his shoulder as he adds, “It’s alright, now, don’t fight it, just let it happen.”

He leans over the toilet as his mouth floods again, letting his mouth hang open and a trickle of saliva spill over his lip into the water. A moment later his stomach contracts again, and this time when he retches it brings up bits of his dinner in a stream of acid.

At least there’s Grant’s hand, he thinks, steady on his back while he vomits up half-digested chunks of steak, and Leneghan curled up in his lap, purring faintly as she kneads at his leg. He might be miserable, but not too miserable to be grateful for both of them staying here with him. This would be a lot worse without them.

“Sorry about all the mess,” he manages hoarsely when he’s caught his breath. “I didn’t mean...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Grant tells him firmly, leaning in to loosen his collar. “Just take care of yourself, I’ll take care of the rest.” He cups Asher’s face in one hand to press a kiss to his temple before helping to unbutton the rest of his shirt so it hangs loose from his shoulders.

“Sorry about our date,” Asher murmurs, uncurling one arm to catch Grant’s hand.

“Hush,” Grant says, and laughs softly. “There’ll be other dates.”

By now Asher’s not so nauseous, though his abdomen is sore and aching from the effort of purging the better part of his dinner. “Help me up?” he asks, and Grant slides an arm around his waist to support him as he gets shakily to his feet.

With Grant’s help he finishes undressing and steps into the shower, turning the water on hot and hoping it’ll help the chills wracking his shoulders. It turns out his knees are too weak to stay standing for long, so he sits down under the spray and curls up around himself, closing his eyes as the water runs down his back. He doesn’t feel as sick anymore, but exhaustion is settling deep into his bones, and he sits there for a long few minutes nearly dozing off, listening to the sound of the spray and of Grant quietly moving around the apartment.

He does jerk out of his near-trance when his stomach turns over again, and turns to the side so the shower will wash the stream of sick he throws up into the drain. It’s mostly bile, though, just one last mouthful of foul liquid and a few remaining bits of his half-digested dinner, and when he’s finished it feels, much to his relief, like his stomach is finally empty.

When he steps out of the shower, the bathroom is chilly, but he’s grateful to find the mess on the floor has been cleaned up and Grant’s laid out a pair of warm and comfortable pajamas for him to change into. Grant is waiting for him already when he leaves the bathroom, with a hot mug of tea and a gentle smile, holding out one arm as he approaches to pull him close.

“Sorry about all the mess,” Asher murmurs, leaning his head against Grant’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grant assures him, brushing a hand through his damp hair and turning him gently towards the bedroom. “It’s all taken care of, you just take care of yourself.”

“Thanks,” Asher says, and manages a shaky smile.

“Try to drink a little of this, if you can, dear,” Grant tells him, offering the cup. “It’s ginger and honey, ought to soothe your throat and settle your stomach, and you’ll need fluids after that.”

“I’ll try,” he agrees, taking it, and lets Grant guide him gently to their room. Leneghan is curled up on the bed, waiting patiently for him, and she meows softly as he sits down, hurrying to rub her face against his side.

“Here,” Grant says, bringing the wastebin over to set it by the side of the bed. “In case your tea makes you sick again.”

Asher nods, taking a small sip of tea, and then another, before setting the mug down on the bedside table. “I’m tired,” he murmurs. “Come lay down with me?”

“Of course, my love,” Grant replies as he turns off the light, and Asher feels the weight of him settle into bed beside him. “Of course.”

[ms-rampage]

Eden’s Gate: The Mother Chapter 15 - Guardian of Eden

Warnings: Some language

Word count: 2.3k

Where it all began. 

Summary: In the series finale, Mandy goes into hiding from the Cult when they find out about her betrayal. 

Guest OCs: 

Guest Characters: Metatron [Supernatural]

Note: I’m gonna post the next 2 final chapters of Aftermath today! So I can get started on posting the New Dawn series!. Thank you to those for reading my crossover crap!

_______________

“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out Mandeline?” he asks with that stupid smug smile on his face. 

“What did you do Metatron?!” Mandy asks angrily. 

“I can ask you the same thing” he responds, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”. 

She ignores his question, “Where’s Raphael??”. 

He scoffs, “He’s gone. Away. Not here”. 

Her jaw drops, “You killed him?!”. He chuckles, “No, no I didn’t kill him” he laughs softly. “I just sent him away. So he can’t help you”. 

“You bastard!” she mutters angrily. 

He rolls his eyes, “Yeah, yeah whatever”. He walks around the basement room. “You really think I didn’t see what was going on down here?!?” he asks her.

Ignoring his questions by not answering them. “Did you really think I didn’t see everything you were planning? The spell? Betraying Joseph? Betraying the Project?”. 

“What did you do Metatron??” she asks him, “What are you planning??”

He places a finger on his chin, thinking about what he’ll do, “Let’s see”. He walks around the room. 

“Well God doesn’t want to kill you. He might have the Project do that for him, he might give all the paperwork, and charges that you have in the glove compartment of your truck to Joseph, and he’ll know that The Mother is a double agent working for the FBI”. 

He tells her with a smug look on his stupid face that Mandy would love slap off. 

“Oh wait?. That’s right, you’re not a real FBI agent. That’s a charge against you Mandeline”. 

She glares at the scribe of God. “But none of that even matters because Joseph and all of his followers know who you really are, and what you have done”.

Her eyes widened, “You son of bitch!” she yells. 

“You did it to yourself. God gave you many warnings. He told you over and over what your fate would be if you go against his plan”. 

“I will fucking kill you” she growls, slowly stepping towards him.

He chuckles, “No you won’t. Not until the Project and Joseph get to you”. He disappears leaving her by herself in the dark church basement.

She knows she can’t stay there long, she has to get back to the Wolf’s Den, and to somehow avoid getting captured by the Cult. 

She grabs all her stuff, and gets the Hell out of the church, and goes to her truck. Speeding the dirt road, towards the Whitetail Mountains towards the Wolf’s Den. 

Knowing that Joseph, and all of his followers are gonna be looking for her. The radio in her turck plays static for a few seconds and she hears Joseph’s voice over the radio. 

“My Children, we have been betrayed. We have been misguided. We had a snake living in our garden. The Mother has betrayed our flock, she is the locust in our garden. Bring her to me and she will be given her punishment”. 

Trying to keep an eye on the rear view mirror and on the roads in case any of the Cult’s trucks tailgate her. 

She enters the Whitetails region and one of Jacob’s hunters spots her driving. They chase after her, shooting at the tires to her truck. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” she mutters, slamming on the gas pedal. Trying to avoid getting hit with Bliss bullets, or Bliss arrows. 

She hears Jacob’s voice play over the radio, “So it turns out we have a Judas in our family. I advise my soldiers to bring this traitor to the Father. We won’t let this person be free”. 

Feeling like she’s gonna vomit, she slams her foot on the gas pedal, not even close to being anywhere near the Wolf’s Den.

She hears Eli’s voice play on her radio, “Mandy get back to the bunker ASAP. Everyone in the Cult is after you. Get here now!”. 

She answers the radio, pushing down on the button, “Eli it's me. I’m on my way to the bunker”. Pretty sure him and Tammy can hear the panic and fear in her voice. 

She prays out loud, “Raphael where are you?? I really need your help right now!”. 

Like douchebag Metatron is messing with her, she gets a Bliss bullet in her shoulder. 

“Fuck!” she cries out in pain. Trying to fight the urge to pass out. She gets hit with a second bullet, and it makes her driver her truck off the road. Going down a hill into the water. 

She can hear the yelling out Jacob’s soldiers as she slips into unconsciousness. Trying to crawl out of her truck, falling into the shallow river. The footsteps of peggies behind her, the cocking of rifles. 

The last thing she sees when she passes out is the bright sun in her face, and everything goes black.

****

Several hours later, Mandy wakes up in a cage. Laying in mud, her head feeling heavy and in pain. After what felt like hours, she finally recognizes her surroundings. 

She’s in Joseph compound, seeing the white building that is the church, the small houses with sins in Latin.

Seeing everyone, all of Joseph’s followers, or his children. Glaring at her, giving her hateful glares. Looks of betrayal, looks of backstabbery.  

Everyone goes silent, and Joseph steps out of the church. He looks around, not even looking over at Mandy, or in her sense of direction. 

“My children!” he shouts, “We have the traitor, and she’ll be sentenced to death for her treason”. 

They all cheer, and hollar. Feeling like a witch in the Salem witch trials. 

“We will not be made to look like fools” he continues. She looks around, fear and panic. No words can explain the fear she’s feeling. 

Knowing that this is how she’s gonna die. She’s not gonna see her daughters ever again, she’s never gonna see them grow up.

“Raphael where are you??” she prays in her head, “I’m in danger and I need your help”. 

She keeps praying, hoping any Angels can hear her cries for help. Her concentration is broken when one of Joseph’s followers opens the cage she’s in, and grabs her. Manhandling her, aggressively, and forcing her out of the cage. 

He shoves her to the ground, aiming his rifle at her. In tears, looking around at her final moments on Earth. 

Her hands tied behind her back with several zip ties. 

“The traitor!” he says loudly, looking around to his followers “We have given her everything, and she repays us with betrayal”. 

He glares down at her, anger in his eyes. “The ultimate sinner” he mutters. Taking a few steps closer to her.

She shakes her, “Joseph you don’t have to do this!” she mutters, begging him for mercy. Pleading with him.

“You betrayed me. You betrayed God and you betrayed my family” he hisses at her. 

Pleading with him, begging him for mercy and to let her go. He ignores her begs and pleads. 

Jacob, John and Faith stare down at her with angry and disgusted glares. 

Feeling the anger radiating off these people become so unbearable to Mandy, that she feels like she’s gonna throw up. Tears streaming down her cheeks. 

On her knees, her hands tied behind her back. Being completely vulnerable that anything could happen to her, and she won’t be able to stop it. No matter what it is. Her only way out of this is her Archangel, and she has no idea what happened to him. Metatron did who knows what to him.  

Deafened her own thoughts and fears, she doesn’t hear Joseph’s last words to her. 

One of his followers hits her on the head, to get her attention. “What are your last words Mandeline?” he asks, putting so much poison in her name. His tone is completely different from how he usually sounds. Betrayed, and backstabbed by the one God had told him about, betraying him and his family. Being a double agent, that was getting dirt on the Cult.  

Trying to steady her breathing, and calm herself down a bit. She stammers, “I-I just. I just w-wanted”.

Unable to give him a proper answer, she hears the sound of a pistol cock behind her head. Tears pour from her eyes, knowing that this is the end for her. She’ll never see her family again, no one will know what happened to her. 

She looks down at the ground, watching her tears fall to the dirt. She closes her eyes, and waits for the peggie to put a bullet in her head. Killing her, ending her life.  

Then like someone heard her cries, several sudden gasps come from all directions around her, before that was the feeling of a slight breeze, and a loud fluttering of wings. 

The murmuring of the Cultists around her. She lifts her head up, and sees that everyone is looking, not at her but behind her. 

The Father and his 3 Heralds looking like they’ve all seen the Devil himself. Mandy turns her head to see who just made a sudden arrival, and came to her rescue, but is blinded by the early evening sun to see who it is. 

The peggies move in front of her, all of them standing behind and around The Father and the 3 Heralds. Confused, Mandy looks at all the expressions on their faces. The majority of them are looks of fear and disbelief. The figure that appeared out of nowhere with the sight of an angelic being.

They all aim their weapons at Mandy and whoever is standing behind her. She can feel an angelic presence but is unable to see who this angel is. 

Thinking it’s Raphael, and he came to save her.

“Raphael?” she whispers, her voice trembling. 

Several guns pointed at her, being ready to fire while some are infatuated by whoever is behind her. 

“No” a male voice commands them, and also answering Mandy’s questions. 

She doesn't recognize the voice, that somewhat deep, serious voice of an Angel, but whoever he is, his voice makes the Cultists jump, forcing them to take a few steps back. The whole time Joseph glares at Mandy. The other 3 siblings all have different expressions to the superior celestial in front of them. Jacob showing a look of concern, Faith a look of fear and John disbelief. 

“Who are you?” Joseph asks, his voice almost in a whisper. 

The Angel looks over at him, saying with power in his voice, “When they say my name, perhaps I will be remembered, not as the one who let the serpent in, but as one of the few who helped give Heaven a second chance” he responds. 

Their whole conversation was a complete blur to her that she couldn’t remember what exchange of words were said between the 2. 

Before she knows it, gun fire is heard, and the Angel shields her from the bullets by wrapping his wings around her. Protecting her from death. The sight of white wings protect her. Closing her eyes out of fear, when she opens them, she’s in the middle of a cabin. Her hands are free.

She hears footsteps behind and immediately stands up to see the Angel.  

“Gadreel??” she mutters, relieved to see him. 

“Hello Mandy” he greets her. The Guardian of Eden, Metatron's former lieutenant and 2nd in command.  

“What is happening??” she asks, trying not to panic “What happened to Raphael??”. 

He sighs, taking a seat on the coffee table, “I’m not sure, Metatron is upset, and so is Chuck. Raphael is missing, not dead but missing”. 

She sighs in disappointment,”What’s gonna happen??”.

“I’m not sure, but I wiped the Project’s memory, everyone’s memory of what happened” he tells her, “They won’t remember a thing, but their memory might get restored within time, or if Metatron or God restore it”.

Taking a seat on one of the beds in the cabin, and letting out a soft whimper. “But you’re protected, no one in the town will find you here. I warded it off from all beings, including humans”. 

“Am I stuck here??” she asks him. He takes a seat next to her, “Yes, unfortunately. I would take you out of here but there is some sort of God like warding that is keeping you from leaving”. 

She looks over at the former Guardian of Eden. “What happened to Dawana?? Her daughter Camille?” she asks. Giving him her sad eyes. 

He looks at her, with utter disappointment and sadness in his eyes. Seeing his answer in his eyes. She shakes her head, “No, no that. That can't be”.

“I’m sorry” he mutters, “Metatron got to them before I could save them”. 

Tears forcing themselves out of her eyes, tears streaming down her cheeks. Soft breaths escaping her lungs. Mourning the loss of her friend and her young daughter. 

Mandy spends the next several months, living in Hope County because of some warding God put up that is preventing her from leaving, and also the 2 tunnels in Hope County are blocked off by the Cult. Taking a plane out won’t do any good because of the warding. 

But God has some things planned, not for Mandy but for her daughters and their families in the years to come. 

They’re gonna need each other to help break this curse on themselves and stop whatever is gonna happen. The only way to do that is to stop the Cult. Bring them down, kill them, imprison them. Anything that will save themselves and everyone around them. Their friends, family and everyone that’ll get to know and meet before the end. 

[foulserpent]

the siege of kvatch

martin has a bad night. 3659 words

cw: death and violence and brief gore, child injuries, implied mass death, description of injuries

Something had jolted Martin awake. He blearily forced his eyes to open.

He was on his back, staring up at the low, cracked ceiling of his home. His surroundings were tinged a deep navy blue, with shafts of moonlight casting cool haloes on the ridges of his blanket.

Martin hoisted himself up, squeezing his eyes shut in irritation and flicking a small light into being with a simple spell. This was hardly unusual. He rarely slept a solid night, and it was a near futile task to fall back asleep unassisted once he'd been awakened.  

He shuffled across the room towards his kitchen cupboards, pausing for a moment to glance out the window for any sign of a disturbance. The dried herbs hanging above rustled gently in the breeze, and the night beyond was still, but for the distant chirping of frogs. He sighed.

The clink of bottles seemed deafening in the night air as he searched for the right potion, a simple sleeping aid. Some of the other priests frowned on medicating like this, something he never really understood. This was why he didn't live in the undercroft anymore. He could take the guilt of a negligible lack of devotion any day over the pestering from the rest of the faithful any time he didn't leave every facet of his health to the Akatosh. He figured he'd be of more use to the Dragon well rested.

Martin swirled the clear liquid, debating whether to just drink from the bottle, when the hairs on the back of his neck began to prickle. He froze, straining to discern what had set him off. The dull clatter of the bottle settling unused into the drawer seemed even louder than before, and it hit him. The frogs had gone silent.

Suddenly, Martin felt a sensation as if the air was being sucked from his lungs, and the blueish moonlight burned away into a deep red glow. Then came a rumbling, a low moan from deep below the earth that set the window rattling. Then silence. A stream of dust hissed down from a crack in the ceiling, bathed a dirty rose in the ever-brightening crimson glow.

Martin shakily set about putting a robe on and slipping on a pair of sandals. The red light was only growing brighter as he cautiously stepped outside. He shuffled out of the alley and toward the source of the light, and froze.

There was something massive and black looming over a swath of houses a block away, framed by an even more colossal structure that towered high above the city walls and painted the night in crimson. It was ringed by black stone, hooking out from the earth like some half-formed ribcage, and between it swirled a shrieking vortex of fire and starstuff that crackled with streaks of white lightning. Martin's stomach dropped. He recognized, with painful familiarity, what he was looking at.

This was some kind of gate to Oblivion.

His attention was caught again by the black shape moving, setting a spiny leg through a house. The roof was pierced as if it were nothing, and there came a muffled shout that was drowned by the groaning of wood and something far deeper as the thing moved. The hulking mass slowly waded through the building on six legs wider than oak trunks, stepping almost delicately, as if it thought itself stealthy.

Martin stood frozen in place as the thing began to emit a noise,a low groan that raised into a brassy wail that shook the earth in a long, eerie note.  At its center, something began to glow the deep red of molten metal. The air seemed to grow still, sluggish, bending in a profane gravity towards the building heat and the hovering black sphere in its center, looking as if a bloody red eye. The light shifted from red to orange to hot-white, air shimmering under the infernal heat as the groaning crescendoed to a shrieking buzz. Martin briefly saw a halo of beady insectoid eyes glow into view through the waves of heat, saw the rim- no, throat quiver in feverish anticipation.

Then, the pressure snapped.

Martin flung himself to the ground.

A pillar of flame streaked through the air high above him, bathing the night an unearthly white brighter than any daylight. Martin closed his eyes and flattened himself into the mud as shrieking heat radiated down upon him. There was a great roar in its path, and the light that pierced through his eyelids began to simmer into a dull orange. He dared a glance upward.

Fire. Half of the city, the half he had just stumbled out from, was a flattened smear. It was as if a gigantic hand had raked the earth and casually wiped it clean, and in its place left a wall of flame. The mighty wall behind it lay in a smoking heap, and as he watched, the pointed arrowheads of another gate sprouted like some vile mockery of a flower in its remains.

As his hearing faded back in, he began to pick up the sound of screams. The streets around him were beginning to flood with people, stumbling out of their homes in nightgowns and bare feet and gazing in terror upon the half of the city that had just been wiped out of existence. Above it all, the great beast stood gleaming in the firelight. Its head looked to be blown off, chunks of flesh falling to the earth as it vomited liquid fire at its feet. And there was something swarming at its legs, shadows darting in and out of view. Large reptilian beasts were advancing from the gate, and behind them the horned and armor clad forms of infernal soldiers. Dremora.

Martin staggered to his feet and began to look around for an avenue of escape, but the red glow of those gates mocked him from every direction. They were being opened strategically, blocking off every exit from the city. There was a more mundane glow now lighting up the whole perimeter, under a sky blackening with smoke. They were setting fires. They were smoking the people of Kvatch out. Why?

He turned towards the southern end of the city, away from the swath of destruction. The chapel stood tall there, laid with thick stone and guarding a network of tunnels and crypts. If there was anywhere to hide, it would be there.

"Get to the chapel!" He choked out at the fleeing people around him. "It's daedra, get to the chapel!"

He waved frantically in that direction, panic mounting as the shadowy forms of daedra drew closer. The soldiers fanned out to either side of the street and stormed their way to the doors of homes, splintering the cheap wood with brutal kicks of thorny boots. How many people were still in their houses?

“Get outside!” He shouted, voice cracking.

“Get outside!” His neighbors echoed as they ran.

The smallest daedra were now plainly visible, charging forth at a steady lope, their hooked beaks glittering wickedly in the red light. He saw one veer to the side with a shriek, leaping at a man that had just emerged from his door with four clawed limbs outstretched. He was pinned underneath with a yelp, and the beast, with an almost delicate avian movement, ripped out his throat. Martin began to run. He would be no use to anyone if he was dead.

As he bolted down the streets the ground resumed its shaking. He chanced a look behind him, and saw that the giant insect-beast was now charging blindly through the city. It scrambled over houses and shops with a speed that defied its massive size, dribbling its molten core and setting fires with every step. Martin lost sight of it as it crested the arena district to his right, the earth still rumbling in its stead. He picked up the pace.

A large pack of citizens had fallen in beside him as he approached the chapel grounds. This part of town was in flames as well. A group of daedroth were busying themselves with picking off people that ran from their burning homes. One of the smaller beasts, armor clad and bearing a staff, turned to face their group and opened its spiny jaws. It barked an order at the other two, giant beasts that loomed almost a story above the ground. Martin cursed under his breath as the others began to scramble past him into the chapel.

A few armed civilians and a guard came to his side, her dark face streaked with sweat.

“You should get inside. Are you any good in a fight, priest?” She asked.

“Not really,” Martin panted as he readied a spell.

Two of the larger daedroth had ignored their commander, instead choosing to fight over what he hoped was a corpse.  Martin concentrated, collecting moisture from the air and cooling it between his hands. His will became a thorn of ice, and he sent it flying towards one of the larger daedroth. The ice tore through its neck, and the beast began to thrash wildly.

The other large daedroth dropped to all fours, and charged. They scattered, and the beast barrelled past and spun around, its massive tail smashing a dent into the doors of the chapel with the momentum. There was a scream from inside.

The armed men and women bore down on the beast as Martin readied another spell, turning to deal with the smaller daedroth. But it had disappeared from sight, leaving the grounds empty save for the flames. He had no time to wonder why it had gone. There was a cry of pain from the group. The daedroth had seized a man by the leg and begun to roll, splintering the limb like a twig. The others took the opportunity to stab at the beast, sinking their blades into its neck and stomach. It too began to flail, dragging the man by his ruined leg along with it until it finally lay still.

After the injured man was dragged inside, Martin took one last look around the grounds. An antlered straggler was scrambling over a pile of rubble. He looked to be in nightclothes and covered in blood, barefoot and shirtless and holding a blazing sword in his right hand.

"Over here!" Martin called.

The man's ears perked and he whirled around to stare him down. His chest was heaving, starkly cut by- a wound? No, a massive scar. His face was inscrutable from this distance, but the exasperation with which he threw out his arms was unmissable.

"What?"

"Over here!"

"What?!" the man yelled. "I'm not- what the fuck!?" He dropped his arms and bolted in the opposite direction. Towards the city's main gate. Towards one of those burning tears in reality.

Martin cursed. There was no time to care. He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

There were about thirty people who had made it into the chapel, most singed and bloodied. The stronger men and women were set about barricading the doors, while throngs more just sat in shock or in huddled, wailing masses. He recognized most of the faces in the crowd, people he had seen every day on the streets and in the markets, people who had come through for his services and made friendly conversation, or who gutted him with casual quips about how good it was to see men like him practicing the true faith and left him wondering what about him they meant. They were all familiar, all masked in the same veil of dust and blood and fear.

"Is anyone wounded?" Martin asked. A stupid question.

"Over here, priest." Someone croaked. There was a good dozen people lying on the floor towards the altars, huddled over by other civilians who busied themselves in slowing their bleeding and setting their limbs. Martin made his way over, ignoring the searing pain in his own legs from all the running.

The conscious survivors mumbled greetings to him, and pointed numbly in the direction of six of their number. Martin could smell the burnt flesh from here.

"Do any of you know healing spells?" Martin asked.

One man looked up, a younger fellow with blonde hair. "I know a little but- but Nothing for wounds like these." He said, frantic.

Martin cursed to himself. Inexperienced healers in situations like these could do more harm than good. Just one moment of panic as a major artery or ruptured organ was attended to could warp flesh like wet clay.

"Keep working on the bleeding. Don't worry about the internal injuries for now, don't try to heal any deeper than the surface. Just stop any bleeding."  

Martin breathed hard as he looked between the most grievously injured. The man with a crushed leg, face pale and clammy as he stared at the torn piece of meat that had been a leg. Two women who were mauled almost beyond recognition, being hurriedly bandaged by a few other survivors. A badly burned man, blackened in one arm and angry red all over, breathing hard. A little girl who choked and clutched at her bloody chest, curly hair wet with blood.

He quickly made a decision, and brought himself down over her. He set to work with trembling hands, feeling for where she was injured. She was still breathing, but the sound was strange and labored and her eyes were glassy.

"Try to stay awake, please." He said.

She looked at him, then stared into space.

"Can you tell me your name?" He asked, hoping to keep her mind off the pain.

"A..." She said. “...Ah..”  It dribbled across her dusty lips alongside a drop of blood. Martin's heart sank.

"D-Don't speak, don't. I'm sorry." He took a deep breath and gently pulled aside her torn nightshirt. There was a wound between her ribs, foaming pink and hissing with each breath. He swallowed hard.

"Can you breathe out for me, as much as you can?" He asked, readying a spell. She let out a shaky breath, and he drew his hand back, pulling fluid from her lungs along with it and flinging it to the side. Ignoring the blood now coating his fingers, he covered the hole with again as she finished her breath.

"Good, good, keep breathing." He concentrated, sending out waves of healing into her chest, feeling the flesh stir to attention. Her lung had begun to heal, and he bit his lip in concentration, feeling the waves of the spell as if it were an extra limb. Her lung needed to be closed first with great delicacy, not letting the flesh of the vital organ grow too wildly or blend into the surrounding tissue, but gently coaxing the cells into mending themselves as if they had never been torn apart by something that should have never, never happened.

"Please, help me!" The burned man screamed. "I'm dying, I'm dying."

"Hold ON!" Martin barked, immediately regretting his words. "I-I need to concentrate, I'll be right there, just hold on."

He pitifully glanced back at the other survivors that crowded near the doors.

"Do ANY of you know any healing spells?"

They looked among themselves sheepishly. Before anyone could say what he already guessed, the door thudded with a mighty impact and they scrambled to brace it. There was a splintering sound, and a great clawed hand burst through the wood. The daedra knew they were there.

Martin let out a cry of frustration, and turned back to the little girl to finish the spell, doing his best to ignore the chorus of thumps against the chapel doors. The girls eyes were closed and she had given in to unconsciousness, but her breathing was now steady. This was all he could do for now.

He moved to help the burned man, but the woman next to him coughed a spray of blood and began to choke, and he moaned in panic. He cupped her ribs and sent pulse after pulse of the spell into her, coaxing the fluid out from her choked lungs. Martin glanced upwards to her face to check for alertness, and felt his blood run cold. Her head was visibly dented on the side, bleeding into the floor. How had he not noticed? How had no one noticed?

He scrambled, returning to her chest. She needed to breathe first, then he could fix her head. But as her ribs began to lock back into place, the pulse of his spell faltered. His hands gave off a weak glow, and then nothing.

The burned man screamed, and the blonde man attending to the other wounded began to hyperventilate. Martin felt as though he was suffocating.

Breathe, breathe, you can't cast if you aren't breathing.

He dragged in breath after breath, trying to stay calm.

Mara, my hands are yours. He prayed, straining to cast the spell.

The woman began to choke again.

Akatosh, give me strength. Please help me.

His hands remained useless.

Please help me.

As the moans of pain around him came to a crescendo, he began to sob.

----

It wasn't unusual. One hears about it all the time, in situations like these. Healing spells could be fickle, what with how heavily they rely on the caster's own body rhythms. Moments like these were nothing like when some mercenary is dragged in by a friend with a grievous wound, still managing to crack jokes even as she chokes on blood, and the natural anxiety of the situation metastasizes into a knife-edge focus. People still go about their days outside, and you know whatever happens, in the morning the world will be the same as it ever was. Your magic flows like honey, and the wounded leaves with "thank you"s and weary declarations of "I'm never going into the salt marsh in land-dreugh season again". Or they don't recover as smoothly, or you lose them, and it eats and eats at you but your spells still flow because it's nothing so bad as to leave you unsure that the sun will rise tomorrow.

In the burned out shell of everything you know, magic will lose your command. It will sputter, grow lean and feeble, or fade out entirely, leaving you helpless and useless as you try to work by hand what can only be done by the most skilled of surgeons, and life bleeds away through your fingers faster than you could ever hope to hold it in shape.

Martin sat next to the two surviving wounded in a heap. The young girl breathed steadily at his side, and one of the mauled women shivered into the robes offered by the other survivors. No one wanted to take from the dead.

Before him lay a hasty scattering of offerings and prayer materials. Just some candles the other survivors scrounged from around the chapel, with his own blood let and offered to the fires in bitter urgency. For hours now, he had spoken the rites again and again. He prayed through every splintering of the door, every distant scream, until his throat was sore and mouth was dry. Martin had begun to cry again, finally just begging for a sign that anyone was listening, the slightest abnormal flicker of a candle, a faint breeze, anything he could take and delude himself with that his god gave half a shit about what happened to some piddling little mortals in a burning wreck.

Now, his eyes were bloodshot and glassy as the dead, and he breathed slow and deep. He stared across the chapel, past the human shapes cloaked under straw prayer mats and curtains and blankets pulled up from the undercroft.

The chaos outside had long choked and begun to still, and the barricade was kept sealed tight. A cursory glance through the holes showed that the animal daedra still roamed the streets in great numbers, now settling into picking apart the dead. Soft rains had begun to fall, and it seemed that if there was to be any mercy on this night, it would be a slow death to the fires that still raged across the city.

A teenage girl approached with a loaf of bread. She held it towards Martin silently, brow raised in concern. Martin willed his eyes into focus. He recognized her. This was the daughter of one of the iron smiths in town. Her tusks had grown since Martin had last seen her, and her eyes were tired beyond anything someone that young should ever be.

"I'm not hungry." He said, wincing at the hoarseness of his own voice. "Thank you."

The girl turned away, then started at a small commotion. Something had gotten the people watching the barricade excited.

"What is it?" she called.

"There's someone outside! They're saying the gates are gone!" The guard responded.

The girl perked up and ran towards the entrance, leaving Martin to stare through the space in her wake.

He could only hear brief snatches of the conversation. There was fighting on the streets now, it seemed. The daedra were being faced by armed survivors and the remnants of the town guard. He could now hear it. More clashing outside, the shrieks of the beast daedra and raised voices.

Dawn was approaching, and it was far from over. Morning light had begun to filter through the intricate stained glass, painting the triple-faced images of Akatosh onto the cold stone around him. It made his stomach churn. Martin closed his eyes, though he knew no sleep would come to him. His head was split with pain, and his mind was little but a dull buzz. He squeezed his eyes shut tighter. A few of the devout doggedly knelt nearby saying morning prayers, and he made no move to join them. Their desperate calls to the Dragon were little more than indistinct murmurs, muffled by the sounds of distant violence and the soft rain.

[haikyuu-sickfics]

Vomit warning!

Drowsiness weighed down on every muscle in Tooru’s body.  A splitting headache stabbed behind his eyes, only worsened from the caffeine slowly fading from his system and the computer’s evil white glow.  Dark bags sagged below his strained eyes as his fingers mechanically moved across the keyboard of his cheep laptop, pressing down on the chosen keys to form a string of words which justified the actions of an antagonist from the novel he speed read in one week.  At this point, Tooru couldn’t remember what life was like outside of school work, years old volleyball match recordings, coffee and sleep deprivation.

Sighing greatly, Tooru leaned back in the chair and squeezed his eyes shut.  A vague feeling of nausea had manifested deep in his core now, it’s pain was not yet as prominent as the headache though, so Tooru opted to ignore it.

He just had to wait it out.  The essay was almost done and Hajime should be home any minute now.  All Tooru had to do was persevere, and maybe drink one more cup of coffee to help with that.

And so he did, the strong smell of caffeine practically punching him in the gut as the deep liquid poured into the cup below.  It would be worth it, Tooru believed, the caffeine would provide him with just enough energy to greet Hajime at the door and stay up for a movie before they curled up between the sheets and whispered how their day was to each other while they both slowly fall asleep.

All he had to do was drink this one cup and maybe take an Advil.  He could probably use a granola bar too.

That one thing was beginning to sound more and more difficult as Tooru’s stomachache began to slowly intensify.  The thought of putting anything in his stomach, especially more coffee, sent waves of cool nausea through his whole body.  Though, the coffee was already made and steaming in Tooru’s alien mug- gifted to him by Hajime after Tooru had given him a Godzilla mug.

Groaning slightly, he brought the warm mug up to his lips and took a quick sip.

Bad idea, very bad idea.

Immediately his stomach flipped, giving Tooru no warning before a sharp gag sent him scrambling for the sink.

Dirty dishes littered the basin, causing Tooru to curse his luck.  That would not be fun to clean up later on.  He didn’t have the time to move to the bathroom before a loud, unproductive retch forced it’s way up his throat.  Pain ripped through his throat as he coughed, strings of saliva falling into the sink.

Tooru choked out a sob just before another heave racked his body, successfully bringing up a mouthful of acidic coffee.  His knuckles turned white as he gripped the counter for stability, his weak arms being the only thing keeping him from falling face-first into the sink.

There he sat for a minute, gasping into the sink as he desperately tried to regain control over his stomach.  The fight was a losing one, the fact confirmed by a sudden lurch in his gut which brought with it a large stream of brown sick, drops of it ricocheting off the sink basin and landing on the counter or back on his face, combining with the hot tears steadily leaving his eyes.

Suddenly, the familiar clicking of a key unlocking the front door reached his ears, alerting the arrival of Hajime.

“Oi, you here?” His voice called out into the apartment following the closing of the door.

Tooru responded by gagging loudly and sending another wave of vomit into the sink.  Hajime cursed under his breath before kicking off his shoes and hurrying to the source of the awful noise.

“Hey, hey you’re okay,” He consoled, placing a steady arm under Tooru to hold him up and using his other to massage circles into his back, “shit, why didn’t you call me earlier?”

“It wasn’t this bad earlier,” Tooru choked out between sobs.

“Okay, it’s alright,” Hajime continued, ripping a paper towel off the roll to wipe Tooru’s mouth off before using his thumbs to wipe the tears off his cheeks, “Can we move you to the couch?” Tooru nodded, feeling confident enough in his stomach to move.  Just in case though, Hajime grabbed a container from the cabinet before half carrying him to the other room.

They made it over to the couch without incident, Hajime gently lowered Tooru to the couch, placing the pot on the floor next to his head.

“I’m going to get you some water and a thermometer,” Hajime informed before stepping out of the room.

Tooru pulled the blanket up under his chin, the added weight and warmth pulling is eyes shut and willing him off to sleep.  He allowed himself to drift away to the gentle background noise of Hajime searching around for supplies.

Just before he fully lost consciousness, Hajime returned and set a glass of water down on the table adjacent to the couch.

“Open your mouth,” he instructed, placing his left hand under Tooru’s chin and helping him with the action before sticking the object under his tongue.

“I don’t understand how you could’ve caught something,” Hajime commented mostly to himself, “You’ve been locked in here for days.”

“M’ not sick,” Tooru admitted, looking up to Hajime with lidded eyes as the latter ran strong fingers through his hair, “I’ve had a lot of work to do and I’ve been really stressed and I haven’t been sleeping and I can’t remember eating anything other than coffee and granola bars.” Hajime’s eyes widened as his face flashed between expressions of sympathy and anger.

“Why?” He asked, slowly pulling the thermometer out of Tooru’s mouth, not seeing a need for it anymore, “You need, you should, I don’t get it?” He stammered out, eyebrows furrowed in thought and concern.

“I know, it’s just,” Tooru looked down at the brown blanket covering him, “I have so many deadlines and I don’t have the time to do the work during the day, well I just don’t feel like doing it then, and then I have to stay up to do it and I don’t have the energy to make food and coffee is just so easy.”

“Your health though!  You do realize how awful doing shit like this is to your body, right?  I’m scared for you, it was terrifying coming home to hear you being sick.  You can take breaks you know,” Hajime went on, positioning himself in a way which forced Tooru to look him in the eyes.

“I know,” Tooru tried his hardest to avoid eye contact. 

Seeing Hajime’s fierce brown eyes turn so soft and worried pained him.

“So why?” “What else can I do?  I’m not gonna get better sitting around and doing nothing.  I tried emailing my professors but it’s my fault for procrastinating.”

“Tell me then!  I’m here to help you.  I can make you food, I can help you do papers or whatever.  Anything to keep you from sinking this low!” Hajime informed, mildly hurt at how Tooru didn’t even think of him as an option.

“Really, Iwa-chan?”

“Now and always,” Hajime pulled Tooru close, hugging him as tightly as possible considering their awkward position, “Now you put on a movie, I’ll make some snacks and then we’ll fall asleep, okay?  We can finish your work up tomorrow- I have the day off.”

[sickstarlight]

inspired by a prompt from @just-a-nervous-bean which reminded me of the k/endrells for some reason!

2.5k words of trans/stor h/c ft. these two being married and a’s cat as his service animal, no extra warnings (just puking lol)

—

Leneghan has been restless since before they left for dinner, slinking back and forth between Asher’s shoulders, the tip of her tail twitching occasionally, but he doesn’t start to feel unwell himself until afterwards, as they’re on their way back home. Despite the chill in the air, he feels too warm with his coat on, and there’s a dull ache in his temples that only seems to get worse when he closes his eyes.

Even Grant, talking idly about something that’s probably fascinating, is beginning to grate on him as they take the skyrail back to to the north side of Highrise, though he feels awful about it. Ordinarily he loves hearing Grant talk, whether it’s about his work in administration, or the city, or any number of other interesting topics, but tonight he can’t seem to keep his focus in one place, and his mind keeps wandering away so he can’t keep track of what exactly Grant is saying.

Leneghan meows softly and presses her head against his cheek, and Asher reaches up to scratch her ears, trying to drag himself back to what Grant’s saying, but it’s so hard to pay attention when there’s sweat beading up under his stiff collar, and the faint hum of the railcar gliding along its track is making his legs feel oddly shaky.

“You’re quiet, dear,” Grant says, putting a hand on his arm. “Is everything alright?”

The touch is enough to pull him back into the moment, and he shakes his head to clear it. “I’m just a little tired,” he says, giving Grant a weak smile.

“I thought Leneghan seemed worried about you,” Grant says, a slight frown creasing his brow. “You should have said something.”

“I felt alright at dinner,” Asher replies, “but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. She has been fussing at me a little.”

“Hm,” Grant says, still looking concerned, and squeezes his arm a little tighter before letting go. “We’re almost home, just a bit longer and we’ll get you to bed straight away.”

Asher nods and leans back a bit against the wall of the railcar to steady himself, finding himself a little grateful when Grant is silent, rather than try to continue the earlier conversation.

The skyrail reaches their stop, a block from home, and Asher stumbles a little as he steps out onto the walkway. It was chilly in the car, but outside it’s freezing, and he wraps his arms around himself, suddenly grateful for Leneghan’s warmth across the back of his neck. His head is reeling, though, badly disoriented now that the faint motion of the car is gone, and he sways on his feet as the world seems to spin for a moment.

“Asher?” Grant’s hand on his back helps steady him, and he leans into the touch, grateful for something that feels solid when the walkway under his feet doesn’t.

“I’m fine,” he says quickly, offering a shaky smile. “Let’s just get home.” Dizziness aside, his head feels so heavy that all he wants to do is get back to their apartment and lie down.

The brief walk up the block to their building feels like it takes an hour, and with every step Asher feels worse, though he keeps his head down and tries to ignore it. Even after a long day, it shouldn’t take so long to adjust after getting off the railcar, but the feeling of the ground still shaking underfoot doesn’t fade, and there’s a tightness in his throat that doesn’t go away when he swallows. He tries to focus on Leneghan insistently pressing her face against his cheekbone, raising one hand to scratch under her chin while the other closes tightly around the apartment key in his pocket.

As he climbs the steps to their building, his foot catches on the top stair and his balance goes. Leneghan growls and digs her claws into his shoulders as he stumbles and pitches forward, throwing out his arm to brace himself against the door. His stomach lurches, and dread makes his chest go tight as he feels something thick and hot rushing up his throat. Before he can react, his mouth fills with acid and a stream of vomit spills over his tongue, chunks of the cake they’d shared for dessert pouring onto the steps with a sick splatter.

“Asher!” Grant calls, and Asher feels him put both arms around his waist just as his knees give out underneath him. He slumps back against Grant’s chest, shaking and gasping for breath.

“Oh, God,” he groans, pushing his hair back with one shaking hand. “I’m sorry, God, I’m sorry, I’m—“

“Hush, dear, it’s alright,” Grant murmurs softly in his ear, pulling him back gently and helping lower him to the ground so he can sit down on the stairs. His head is still spinning, making his stomach twist uncomfortably, and he leans forward to let his head fall between his knees. The sight of sick splattered on the toes of his shoes makes him want to throw up again. He swallows hard.

He’s dimly aware of Leneghan pawing at his leg, mewling softly at him, and nudges her away gently with one hand. She must have jumped down from his shoulders when he fell, but he’d rather have her climb up again than try to lay in his lap when he thinks at any moment he might vomit again. On the stairs behind him Grant is at the door; he hears the key click in the lock and the soft creak of the hinges, then a shuffling sound before Grant is beside him again, one hand on his shoulder, the other resting on his knee.

“Come on, let’s get you upstairs,” he says softly, and lifts Asher’s head with one hand to dab at his mouth with a handkerchief. Asher nods miserably, and swallows hard as the movement makes his stomach roil. With Grant’s arm around his waist to support him, he gets to his feet again and stumbles inside through the propped open door, clicking his fingers softly for Leneghan to follow.

“Sorry,” he whispers, his voice shaking, as Grant helps him to the lift down the hall. “I didn’t know I’d...”

“I know,” Grant assures him, holding him close as they step onto the gondola. The shudder of movement beneath his feet makes Asher feel even sicker, the steak he’d eaten at dinner very heavy in his stomach, and he leans his head against Grant’s shoulder, screwing his eyes shut so he doesn’t have to watch each floor fall past them. Leneghan winds between his feet, rubbing her head against his legs; he wants to pick her up again, but he’s sure if he leans down to do it he’s going to throw up his dinner all over the floor of the lift and embarrass himself more than he already has.

When the gondola stops at the landing of their apartment, he feels his stomach lurch into his throat and has to clap a hand over his mouth to choke back another rush of vomit. The taste of acid on his tongue is half-sweet from the cake he’s still hardly digested, and it only makes the urge to gag again stronger. He’s too busy fighting to keep down the contents of his stomach to protest as Grant lifts him from the floor and carries him inside, cradled close against his chest in both arms.

It’s either a miracle or a testament to his willpower that he manages not to be sick on them both, though his feet have barely touched the bathroom floor before he’s pushing Grant away to lean over as he retches, a thick stream of vomit spilling onto the tiles. “I’m sorry,” he chokes out again between heaves, but Grant only hushes him again, one hand on his shoulder to steady him, the other holding his bangs out of the way.

“Come here, dearest, I’ve got you,” Grant murmurs when he’s finished, and helps guide him in front of the toilet, catching him when his knees go weak again and lowering him gently to the floor. He can’t stop shaking, his breath coming in shallow gasps as his heart hammers in his chest, and he can’t be sure if the burning in his cheeks is from fever or simply from shame. Grant gently wipes his mouth and chin with his handkerchief again.

His stomach churns and he leans over the toilet, trying to keep his breathing steady, in the hope that  it might stop him from throwing up any more of his dinner. At his side he hears Leneghan meow quietly, and reaches out blindly to find her face as she rubs up against his fingertips. She pads closer to climb into his lap, and he lets her, now that he’s knelt on the bathroom floor with somewhere better to vomit if - when he does than on himself.

“Let me help you with your coat,” Grant says, and leans against his shoulder to start undoing the buttons. Asher fumbles with one hand to do the same, starting at the bottom, and manages to clumsily undo two before he gags and has to double forward to be sick again. The stream of liquid that splashes into the toilet tastes half like acid and half like alcohol. Had he just drunk too much? He’d only had two glasses of wine, and that with dinner, over the course of an hour and a half; surely he can’t be so intoxicated as to make him this sick.

“Sorry,” he mumbles again as he lifts his head, and hears Grant sigh with gentle exasperation behind him, leaning in to dab at Asher’s lips with his handkerchief again.

“You hardly asked to fall ill,” Grant points out, pulling his coat off his shoulders. “You’re burning up, let me get this off of you.”

Asher nods and lets his arms fall to his sides so Grant can take his coat. Without it he’s suddenly cold, all too aware of the icy tile under him, and he wraps both arms around himself quickly, shivering. He really must be ill, he thinks miserably, and swallows hard as his stomach turns over.

“Do you think you could manage a shower?” Grant asks as he helps slip off Asher’s shoes. “It might do you good, if you can.”

“I suppose I could try,” Asher replies, hunching his shoulders. “Though I don’t know if I’m finished being sick yet.”

“That’s alright,” Grant assures him, idly brushing back his hair with one hand. “There’s no rush, dear, I’ll help you up whenever you’re ready.”

He nods and wraps his arms around himself, groaning as his stomach roils and twists. The bottom of his mouth fills with saliva, and he swallows hard. “I hate this,” he mumbles, hugging his abdomen tighter. “God, Grant, I feel awful.”

“I know, Ash,” Grant replies, rubbing his shoulders with one hand. “My poor sweetheart, I know, I’m here.” Asher whimpers as his stomach clenches, making him gag, and Grant’s fingers tighten on his shoulder as he adds, “It’s alright, now, don’t fight it, just let it happen.”

He leans over the toilet as his mouth floods again, letting his mouth hang open and a trickle of saliva spill over his lip into the water. A moment later his stomach contracts again, and this time when he retches it brings up bits of his dinner in a stream of acid.

At least there’s Grant’s hand, he thinks, steady on his back while he vomits up half-digested chunks of steak, and Leneghan curled up in his lap, purring faintly as she kneads at his leg. He might be miserable, but not too miserable to be grateful for both of them staying here with him. This would be a lot worse without them.

“Sorry about all the mess,” he manages hoarsely when he’s caught his breath. “I didn’t mean...”

“Don’t worry about it,” Grant tells him firmly, leaning in to loosen his collar. “Just take care of yourself, I’ll take care of the rest.” He cups Asher’s face in one hand to press a kiss to his temple before helping to unbutton the rest of his shirt so it hangs loose from his shoulders.

“Sorry about our date,” Asher murmurs, uncurling one arm to catch Grant’s hand.

“Hush,” Grant says, and laughs softly. “There’ll be other dates.”

By now Asher’s not so nauseous, though his abdomen is sore and aching from the effort of purging the better part of his dinner. “Help me up?” he asks, and Grant slides an arm around his waist to support him as he gets shakily to his feet.

With Grant’s help he finishes undressing and steps into the shower, turning the water on hot and hoping it’ll help the chills wracking his shoulders. It turns out his knees are too weak to stay standing for long, so he sits down under the spray and curls up around himself, closing his eyes as the water runs down his back. He doesn’t feel as sick anymore, but exhaustion is settling deep into his bones, and he sits there for a long few minutes nearly dozing off, listening to the sound of the spray and of Grant quietly moving around the apartment.

He does jerk out of his near-trance when his stomach turns over again, and turns to the side so the shower will wash the stream of sick he throws up into the drain. It’s mostly bile, though, just one last mouthful of foul liquid and a few remaining bits of his half-digested dinner, and when he’s finished it feels, much to his relief, like his stomach is finally empty.

When he steps out of the shower, the bathroom is chilly, but he’s grateful to find the mess on the floor has been cleaned up and Grant’s laid out a pair of warm and comfortable pajamas for him to change into. Grant is waiting for him already when he leaves the bathroom, with a hot mug of tea and a gentle smile, holding out one arm as he approaches to pull him close.

“Sorry about all the mess,” Asher murmurs again, leaning his head against Grant’s shoulder.

“Don’t worry about it,” Grant assures him, brushing a hand through his damp hair and turning him gently towards the bedroom. “It’s all taken care of, you just take care of yourself.”

“Thanks,” Asher says, and manages a shaky smile.

“Try to drink a little of this, if you can, dear,” Grant tells him, offering the cup. “It’s ginger and honey, ought to soothe your throat and settle your stomach, and you’ll need fluids after that.”

“I’ll try,” he agrees, taking it, and lets Grant guide him gently to their room. Leneghan is curled up on the bed, waiting patiently for him, and she meows softly as he sits down, hurrying to rub her face against his side.

“Here,” Grant says, bringing the wastebin over to set it by the side of the bed. “In case your tea makes you sick again.”

Asher nods, taking a small sip of tea, and then another, before setting the mug down on the bedside table. “I’m tired,” he murmurs. “Come lay down with me?”

“Of course, my love,” Grant replies as he turns off the light, and Asher feels the weight of him settle into bed beside him. “Of course.”

[satan-stop-laying-on-my-laptop]

𖤍『𝕙𝕖𝕒𝕧𝕖𝕟||𝕊𝕚𝕞𝕖𝕠𝕟』𖤍

TRIGGER WARNING FOR VOMIT!

Pairing: Simeon X M!Reader

___________________________________________________________________

  You nervously watched the clock at the front of the classroom that was full of demons, you and most importantly, Simeon, your crush ever since you’ve arrived in Devildom for the exchange program. 

  Thing is, you loved the angel so very much, but you knew he wouldn’t reciprocate your feelings. After all, he was an angel of The Lord, The Lord your parents told you that he would throw you away from the pearly white gates into hell for liking guys. Now, here you are, sitting in Devildom with your angelic crush, that probably would hate you if word of your feelings ever got out.

  You always tried to deny your feelings towards the beautiful angel at first, avoiding eye contact and convincing yourself it was just the anxiety of meeting a new friend. Then those feelings got stronger and you could no longer deny it: You, (F/N) (L/N) are in love with Simeon, one of The Lord’s angels. You couldn’t resist loving him. He was perfect. Dark hair, clear dark skin that was nothing less than perfection, a body that looked like a master sculptor created him, his soothing voice that never failed to make you weak in the knees and his eyes, his beautiful blue eyes that captivated you and stared straight into your soul.

  You didn’t even realize the bell rang until your incubus friend, (Name), tapped your shoulder. Snapping out of your little trance, you look up at your demon friend, who was looking at you with a concerned glint in his mischievous eyes.

  “Hey (Y/N), you okay? You’ve been spacing out lately…” He asked, worried. You nodded with a sheepish smile on your face.

  “Yeah, I just got a lot on my mind…” You replied as you began to shove your books in your book bag. Your friend nodded before asking something that would cause you trouble later.

  “Do you wanna talk about it? We could head to the music room if you want. It’s usually empty.”

  It was a compelling offer. You could tell your closest friend here about what’s been going on in your conflicted brain, full of toxic thoughts, and feel some of the weight of your burden lift off your shoulders.

  “Yeah, Let’s go.” You said after a bit of thought. Smiling, you stood up from your seat, pushing your chair before beginning to follow your friend to the music, which was close to your next class so you didn’t mind a quick vent session here. Sitting on the bench in front of the piano, your friend looks at you, as if to say ‘The stage is yours’. Taking a deep breath, you began to pour out your heart.

  “Well, you see...I really like Simeon, like- not even like, it’s more like love. I’ve tried to ignore these feelings but I- I can’t! They won’t go away and I want to act on them, but he’s an angel of the LORD! A man my parents told me would banish me to the pits of HELL for even liking men in the romantic sense! I- I just don’t know...I don’t want to ruin the friendship I have with him because of my feelings. I don’t want him to see me as a disgusting pervert who likes men…” You vented these feelings to your friend, stopping once the one minute bell rang, signalling for everyone to hurry to class. Standing up, (M/N) smiled and patted your head.

  “I gotta go, but thanks for telling me! Let’s talk more about this later.” The way he acted as he left the room left you confused and worried. What’s with this hurried attitude of his? It’s weird.

  Little did you know, you’d find out during lunch.

  You sigh as you exited the music room and briskly walked to your Devildom History class, which you shared with Solomon and again, Simeon. You loved yet hated that class. You loved the subject and the fact you had two friends that sat next to you, but the teacher’s voice made you sleepy and Solomon is a chaotic bastard, but you had to resist the urge to backhand the bastard sorcerer because Simeon was there and you didn’t him to think you were aggressive.

  Entering your class as the bell rang, you took your seat next to Simeon and across from Solomon, Solomon let out a hum as he watched you sit down in your seat. It wasn’t often you came in late. It’s happened a few times but that’s because you were either using the restroom or had to give papers to a teacher during passing period, but usually you would text him or Simeon if you were gonna be a little later than usual.

  “(Y/N), Where were you?” Solomon asked, looking at you curiously. You shifted in your seat nervously, fumbling over your words as you attempted to make up an excuse as to why you were late. As much as you hated lying, you couldn’t let them know about the little vent session you had because you knew he would ask your friend later about what went on.

  “O-Oh, I just got caught up talking to someone who missed a day and needed the notes.” You lied through your teeth with a smile, praying that your lie was convincing enough for him to noy question you further. Giving you a suspicious glance, he somehow knew you didn’t want to talk about what actually went down.

  “Oh okay, I was about to ask Simeon here if you even showed up to class.” He hummed as he looked over at Simeon, who nodded with a smile.

  “Yes, he was here last period. However, (Y/N), you seemed really out of it. Are you okay?” He asked as he looked at you, a slight glimmer of concern sparkled in his cerulean eyes. Your face heated up a little as you looked to your desk and nodded, avoiding eye contact with the angel you loved oh so dearly.

  “Yeah, just tired, I guess…” You answered as you reached into your bag, grabbing your notebook and pencil case while the teacher entered the room and headed to the front, which was your cue to open your notebook to begin taking notes once the teacher began to teach.

  Devildom History flew by quickly since the notes were short and sweet and you guys had gotten a simple worksheet to do with our table, so it was a breeze for you three. However, next was lunch, which would bring you the most despair. 

  Walking into the cafeteria, you immediately noticed that other demons were looking at you weirdly and whispering among themselves which made you nervous. What were they talking about? Usually, you wouldn't worry about it, but something in your gut told you it wasn't something nice.

  You tried to deny that disgusting feeling in your gut that made you wanna vomit out whatever was in your stomach. You were doing so well until halfway to the lunchroom, you ended up hearing what the other students were talking about.

  "Didn't you hear? (Y/n) has a crush on Simeon." Hearing those words felt so wrong. There was no way they could've known that. You only told one person-...oh.

  You stopped in your tracks, Simeon and Solomon turned to face you, since they noticed you fell behind. Simeon frowned as he walked over to you, clearing not hearing the whispers from the others.

  "(Y/N), are you-" You didn't even stay to let him finish the sentence and you bolted to the nearest boy's restroom, throwing yourself into the first open stall you saw and locking it. Tears were falling down and you felt so damn sick. You couldn't believe it, that bastard betrayed your trust and told EVERYONE about something you weren't ready to tell anyone, this took you months to tell him and now within one class period, the entire school fucking knew about your dirty secret.

  Soon enough, you collapsed on the dirty bathroom floor and began to throw up in the toilet, your body couldn't handle the stress anymore and you just puked out stomach acid since you truthfully didn't eat much this morning. Once the vomiting stopped, you leaned against the stall door, panting heavily as tears streamed down your face in great amounts. 

  You thought you would have more time to yourself so you could cry but turns out no one in Devildom, The Celestial Realm or the Human world planned for that to fucking happen since you faintly heard the bathroom door open and someone step inside. Quickly, you cover your mouth, hoping you could muffle your sobs enough so the person who just entered the bathroom could do what they needed to do and leave without questioning why you were crying in a bathroom stall. Again, you weren't that lucky.

  "(Y/N)? Are you in here?" You tensed up heavily when you heard his voice. You were scared to death. No, it wasn't Diavolo or Lucifer. It was Simeon. Out of everyone, it had to be the guy who probably hated you now. You decided to keep your pride and stay quiet, praying that he would leave.

  "(Y/N), I...I heard what they were saying," Are you fucking sERIOUS- "and, uhm...I want you to know that I'm not mad and this isn't going to tear us apart, if anything, if what they said is true...I like you too. More than friends." 

  What he just admitted made you throw your head back in surprise, causing you to hit your head on the fucking stall door, which made you and Simeon startled.

  Simeon...loves you back? You were so sure he would've hated you for loving him yet… he feels the same way.

  "(Y/N)?!" In a heartbeat, he was outside that stall door, knocking on it. You gently sighed and shakingly stood up, holding onto the metal bar on the side for stability so you didn't fall.

  "...did...you mean what you said?" You asked meekly through the door. Before you come out of the bathroom stall you're hiding in, you need to make sure so you don't make a fool of yourself again.

  "Of course! I wouldn't lie to you, (Y/N)..." You could hear his voice and almost knew he was telling the truth. Taking a deep breath, you gently unlocked the door and opened it, revealing your post-breakdown state to the angel you loved.

  "(Y/n)! Are you okay?" Simeon's hands came to gently rest on your shoulders, his cerulean eyes scanning your frame to make sure you were okay. Gently nodding, you wipe the stray tears from your face as you steady your breathing.

  "Yeah...I just was stressed that I got outed by someone I trusted." You mumbled. Simeon nodded understandingly as he pulled you to his chest, holding you close to him as he gently pressed a kiss to your forehead.

  "I'm glad you love me too, I wish I could've found out through you, though."

  "Believe me, me too."

  We shared a brief laugh at my comment before Simeon pulled back and gently grabbed your hand, smiling sweetly at you.

  "Come on, let's go get some lunch. I'm sure you're hungry, my little lamb." You smiled at the nickname and nodded.

  "Alright, let's go."

____________________

Reposted from my wattpad oneshot book "devildom tales || obey me x reader"

My wattpad:strawberryenby

[diaryofabeautyfiend]

I wrote this quickly on my phone so beware of typos. This is the longest story I’ve ever written so I hope it doesn’t seem too long. I hope you like it. Reblog and like if you don’t mind.

Small Time Witch (20)

“Norns, girl. It’s hair. It will regrow. Just do it.”

“But I love your hair. Isn’t there another way? What if I take a piece of flesh?”

Loki pinches the bridge of his nose trying to shove scissors in your hand.

“Flesh will decay eventually if it has no blood source. Hair can last much longer.”

“Why do we need to cut it all off?!” You are being the biggest brat at the moment.

In order for you to become immortal Loki must bind a part of himself with the clipping of the Yggdrasil. Since it is a very powerful spell he assumes a large amount of hair is needed. Loki assured you he would make his short hair look as fashionable as any other mortal man. That’s exactly why you won’t let him cut it. He is anything but basic. Even when he’s in modern clothing he still looks like a fucking god and it’s all due to his luxurious hair.

Loki considers your earlier suggestion and genuinely fears for his safety. And this isn’t the first time he’s had to worry about you stabbing him. He taught you a spell using blood magick and you went for your athame so fast he had to knock it out of your hand. Now that it’s just you and him you have really let your true self shine. He can’t help but think he is also rubbing off on you a bit.

“While your violent tendencies turn me on immensely, I have to say your preference for my hair over my flesh is a little unnerving.”

“You are a Demi god. You heal fast.”

“Point well taken, my love. If you don’t cut it I will.”

He looks in the mirror holding the scissors open and he hesitates. He frowns at his reflection and drops the scissors on the counter. “On second thought, dearest, why don’t we go see the elves on Alfheim? Perhaps there is another way.”

With satisfied little smirk on your face you pat him on the shoulder and leave the bathroom. He is annoyed with your silent gloating but you really don’t care. You sit at the kitchen table quietly turning the pages of your cook book now full on smiling.

When Loki asked you to be immortal for him you hesitantly accepted. Forever is a long time and it was hardly a marriage proposal. You accepted none the less and so the complicated spell work began. The first step was binding Loki with the Yggdrasil and that was proving to be a challenge. So, as your life mate suggested, you geared up to take your first trip on the Bifrost to Alfheim.

You are very nervous. Loki held your hand trying to calm you but you couldn’t help it. Your thoughts were racing and your stomach was doing flips. You focused all of your energies on not puking. Loki called for Heimdall and you were whisked away.

Loki held on to your hips and braced you for landing. Your face was pressed up against his shirt and your eyes squeezed shut. It took a little bit of force to pry you off of him. “Relax, y/n. You’re safe. We’ve landed.”

Once you felt the ground solid beneath your feet you pushed Loki away and released the contents of your stomach. Inter dimensional travel was clearly not for you. He smoothed your hair back from your face and rubbed your back. A bottle of water appeared in his hand. “Drink this. Are you ok?” You shook your head and plopped into the grass trying to regain your composure.

Alfheim was truly a sight. Sprawling mountains and crisp air, the sun shining and glittering on the water. Your eyes explored the landscape with childlike wonder. The grass even felt softer. You stood up slowly turning to take it all in. We should definitely build a vacation home here.

You had a pretty long journey ahead of you by foot no less. You hoisted your pack onto your shoulder and started walking. Loki stared at you completely confused. You walked with purpose like you knew exactly where to go. You were absolutely walking in the wrong direction but you looked so sure of yourself.

“Pet?” he called after you, “It’s this way and we can just teleport.”

“I’m not sure if my stomach can handle that again.” All the color drained from your skin and you gagged.

“It’s not as harsh as the bifrost and we aren’t going as far. Hold onto me.” He took your hand and in the blink of an eye you were standing in front of a large temple. “Steady, darling. Deep breaths.” He backs away a little as you right yourself. “Ok?”

“Yep.” you gag a little but choke it back. After a moment you feel well enough to walk. “What is this place?”

“The temple of the Ljósálfar. Light elves. Freyr, who is the king of this realm and a very powerful vanir, gifted me the Yggdrasil. He will help us when the spell. Bow when he greets us.”

Out of nowhere the elf appeared. He was just as glorious and ancient looking as the land he ruled. He looked impossibly old. Your brain couldn’t even fathom how long he’s been alive. Was he glowing? You forgot to bow so you did quickly. Loki couldn’t stifle his laugh.

“This is the Midgardian to whom you’ve pledged your life? A little rough around the edges huh?” His voice was gentle and playful. You have come to realize Midgard is known as the idiot child who ate paint chips that one time. Couldn’t help if it was true.

“This is her first time outside of Midgard, your Grace. I am working on polishing her up.”

“If you’re careful you’ll have an eternity” he smiled at you and spoke slowly, “you may need that long to make her presentable.”

You opened your mouth to defend yourself but Loki squeezed your hand and gave you a warning stare. He’ll get an earful at home.

“Forgive me for the unannounced intrusion, Sire, but I’m afraid the spell you’ve given me is a touch advanced...”

He tutted Loki and held up a finger, “You flatter me, boy. You are as practiced as they come. If you hesitate ask yourself if her immortality is what you really seek.”

“It is!” you shouted. “I’m sorry. It is, Sire. We didn’t know what to use. You said ‘bind it with a piece of himself’. Which piece? I suggested flesh but we were worried about decay.” You rambled on for what felt like hours. He hung on your every word chuckling at your ignorance. This ought to be a funny story to tell at the old elf’s lodge later. Loki was mortified. Once you finished he patted your hand and laughed.

“You are a spirited little girl aren’t you? What fun! Loki I am surprised at you. To think hair or flesh could grant immortality. It has to be the essence of your life force. More powerful than blood. A piece of your soul.” Loki looked shocked. Minor detail. As if the elf could read his mind he said, “Did I leave that part out? Must be slipping in my old age.” He smiled at you again. “Come! I’ll get you fixed up.”

He lead you deeper into the temple down a dark path illuminated by torches. It should have been cold and damp but it was still comfortably warm. Loki felt your apprehension and squeezed your hand. You came to a gigantic wooden door with carvings depicting elves dancing around what looked like the Yggdrasil. You ran your fingers over the wood dipping them into the carvings.

You reached a long table that looked like an alter. He took the Yggdrasil clipping and Loki’s hand. With the tip of his athame he cut Loki’s palm. He took your hand and did the same. You placed your hand on top of the clipping and entwined your fingers. Freyr held his hands over yours and said something that sounded like a prayer. The Yggdrasil let out a stream of golden light that wrapped around both of your wrists.

“Now you will feel no storms,

for each of you will be shelter to the other.

Now you will feel no cold,

for each of you will be warmth to the other.

Now there is no loneliness,

for each of you is companion to the other,

You are two persons,

but there is one life before you, and one home.

Turn together to look at the road you traveled,

to reach this—the hour of your happiness.

It stretches behind you into the past.

Look to the future that lies ahead.

A long and winding, adventure-filled road,

whose every turn means discovery,

new hopes, new joys, new laughter,

and a few shared tears.

May happiness be your companion,

May beauty surround you both in the journey ahead;

And through all the years to come.

Go this day to your dwelling place

and enter into your days together.

May your days be good and long

upon the earth.

Your adventure has just begun!”

The Yggdrasil split into two pieces which he placed on your left ring fingers. Those words sounded an awful lot like vows. You and Loki stared at each other in shock. “Umm. Excuse me, Sir. Are we married?” you asked in disbelief.

“Yes! Of course! In the sense that your souls are bound and only death can part you. Sounds like marriage to me. Did I leave that part out too? Oh dear. Well joyous felicitations to the happy couple.” And he disappeared.

“Well shit.” You said to no one in particular. You left the temple in complete silence occasionally looking down at your finger. Loki called for Heimdall and you were home. You didn’t vomit this time thank goodness. That would have made your dramatic exit a lot less dramatic. You let go of his hand and walked into the house leaving him on the porch with a slammed door in his face.

“Pet?” He said after a few minutes. You were standing at the kitchen sink drinking glass after glass of water. “Y/N. Can you say something? I don’t know why you’re angry but I can tell you are and....”

“Did you know?” Your voice was deadly calm.

“Know about what? That he’d marry us today? No. He conveniently left out that tidbit. It’s not like it’s legally binding.”

“But it is spiritually binding. Your soul is bound to mine. Your immortality bound to me. That means something.” You had tears in your eyes and your fists were clenched. How could he be so casual about this?

His brow furrowed and he hated that you thought it didn’t mean anything to him. Now you felt each other even deeper. Subtle shifts were amplified. As soon as his mood shifted from apprehension to hurt you knew. It softened you a bit but you were still angry.

“Lok, I didn’t mean to say it didn’t mean anything to you. I know it did. I got married today in sweatpants with none of my friends or family there and my ring is a twig. Forgive me if it wasn’t the magical day I was expecting.” The weight of the Yggdrasil changed on your finger. The brown branches were changed to gold and an emerald of impressive size set in the middle. You noticed he changed his to complement yours. He weaved his fingers with your fingers and pulled you closer to him.

“It was magical to me. Couldn’t you feel it? The way we are now woven together like a tapestry? It’s not just the meaning of it all, a symbolic moment. We are physically one. Y/N I don’t care if you are in the finest gown or your sweats. We are bound together until death. Did we need the pageantry?”

Now you felt like an asshole. He gave himself to you mind body and soul and here you are crying about a dress. “I’m being a brat aren’t I?”

A soft smile warmed his face, “A little. I didn’t want to say.”

You slid your arms around his waist and rested on his chest. With a wiggle of your fingers the record player clicked on.

“Is this our first dance?” he asked with a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Mhmm. I love you. I’m sorry for ruining our day.”

“I love you too and you ruined nothing. It wouldn’t be us if we didn’t have a little drama surrounding our wedding. Dance with me.”

You swayed to the music in the dim light of your living room....in the cottage built in the glen where the sun hits it like a spotlight.

[afoolandathief]

Word find tag catch-up

Catching up on my tag games, so here we go -

I got a few tags and some of these excerpts are pretty long, so I'm putting these below the cut:

TWs for swearing, food and drink, alcohol, blood, needles, vomit, death and violence, mentions of sex, and a slight reference to body image:

Tagged by @thegreatobsesso to find shine, shade, trust, and life:

Shine

“You should try exercising, Caz,” she said, switching to her other arm. “You’re not going to stay young and thin forever.”

“Believe me, Amelia,” he replied from underneath the blanket. “My body is not going to change much for a very long time.”

“Well, it may help that you don’t eat anything.”

He poked his head out from the blanket.

“I eat,” he said.

“I never see you eating, Caz.”

He grinned.

“Well, I guess that’s because, when I’m with you, I’m only hungry for -”

“If you say you’re only hungry for me — or a certain part of my body — I’m going to kick you,” she cut in. “Anyway, I should be back in at most 30 minutes. Hopefully it’ll be sub-20.”

“Enjoy the sunshine,” he said, ducking back under the blanket and falling asleep.

Shade

“Juni,” Caz said weakly. “Didn’t think I’d see you again tonight. Back for more?”

“I’ve had my fill,” the prince said.

“You sure about that?”

“Where is it, you bloodsucker?” Juniper demanded while turning a shade of emerald.

“Um, where is what?”

“Don’t play dumb, it’s not that cute.” The prince gritted his teeth and continued, “Where is the armband?”

Trust

“You’re a vegetarian?” Jade asked.

“Yeah, always a little weird growing up on a farm and not eating meat, I suppose.”

“I don’t know why people would care, but then, I’m used to people with weird diets,” Jade swallowed. “Not that I think your diet is weird!”

Violet laughed her tinkling laugh again. “You’re fine.”

“Is it bad if I still order the chicken panini?”

“Not at all. Though I’m sure all those chickens that died might mind,” Violet stared at Jade.

Jade didn’t say anything for a moment. “Oh shit," she finally said. “You’re messing with me again.”

“Yup," Violet grinned. She handed Jade a sandwich wrapped in wax paper. “You want to try our mango juice with that? Grew the mangoes myself.”

“You’re messing with me again, you can’t grow mangoes here,” Jade said.

“I have a greenhouse.”

“Still, you couldn’t easily grow a mango tree.”

“Trust me, I can grow anything,” Violet said, her eyes flashing the same way they had the other night. She poured a pitcher of the bright orange liquid into a plastic cup and handed it to Jade.

Jade took a sip. “Good as always. Which reminds me, I still owe you for the lemonade.”

“Consider that paid for by keeping me company, if only for a short while. In fact, consider it the same today.”

Life

She turned her keys in the ignition. The engine sputtered, but refused to start.

“With double the pay, you could save up for a truck that’s not a piece of shit,” Caz retorted.

Jade turned the keys again, this time revving the gas until the engine roared to life.

“This is a good truck,” she said. “I just need new spark plugs.”

Tagged by @pertinax--loculos to find travel, needle, depth, weather and save:

Travel

Marie and Caz were huddled around a phonogram.

“I can’t believe you have a recording of Buddy Bolden,” Caz said. “I thought there were none left.”

“I managed to hold onto a few records after I left New Orleans,” Marie said.

“So you were in New Orleans right when jazz was taking off?” Caz asked. “Wow, I should’ve come to America a lot sooner than when I did. I didn’t get to New York until about 20 years after Bolden was around.”

“You were in New York during the heyday of jazz,” Marie said. “Not to mention where a lot of great minds were meeting then. I wish I had been there.”

“I figured you would have traveled there yourself.”

“Well, I stayed in Haiti for a bit after the revolution,” Marie said. “But I went to Florida to help the Seminoles in their fight a little while after, and then New Orleans. I just kept traveling around the south and west after that.”

“I’ve never been to Haiti, actually,” Caz remarked. “The closest was when I went to Cuba a few times for, uh, work reasons.”

“It’s a beautiful island,” Marie said. “I miss it a lot.”

“You grew up there?”

“I did.”

“How old are you exactly, if you mind me asking?”

“Just about 250 years old.”

“Ha! I’ve got you beat by about 350 years,” Caz said. He rubbed his neck, narrowly missing a hanging plant with his elbow. “Um, guess that’s not really something to brag about.”

“Well, you are blessed with being forever young,” Marie smiled softly. “Witches eventually do age, albeit slowly, myself included.”

“True,” Caz sighed.

Needle

“You’ll sleep upstairs with the other girls, but let’s get you outfitted first. I’m interested in trying a sample of you myself.”

Renner tied off her left elbow and began searching her arm for a vein.

Jade felt the sting of the needle and looked down to see it attached to a vial not too different than the one that had been sticking out of Arravich’s arm in the hospital. Renner attached a long winding tube to it, placing the end of it in a wine glass. He pushed down on the vial, sending a dark red stream through the tube into the glass.

“Just a small amount, Renner,” Valfierno said. “I don’t want to overindulge.”

He began to take a sip just as a knock was heard at the door.

“Go ahead, Renner, I’m curious to see who would be at our door at this hour.”

Renner opened the door to reveal a shocked-looking Caz.

Depth

“What was up with you and that one kid, anyway?”

Jade realized Caz was talking to her.

“Who, Matt?” she asked.

“I mean, he was alright to look at, but,” Caz paused to hiccup. “He had the depth of a — what do you call it in English? — ah, right, the depth of a tide pool.”

Jade tried to track Caz in the mirror, but he had leaned down to slurp loudly from Derek’s neck.

“I just figured,” he continued, getting up to lean against Jade’s seat like he was maneuvering on a ship at sea. “That you preferred someone with a little more class and maturity.”

He proceeded to belch almost directly in Jade’s ear.

“‘Scuse me,” he said in a swinging tone. Then, as if realizing the irony, he burst into high-pitched laughter as he fell back into his seat.

“What is wrong with you?” Jade snapped. She wrinkled her nose at the acetone scent on Caz’s breath. “Are you — are you drunk?”

“No, I’m just,” Caz paused long enough to answer Jade’s question. “I’m just a little bit buzzed.”

Weather

In his six-hundred-and-seventeenth year of being on this earth, Casimir Jozef Mraz had come to a realization.

He was absolutely, hopelessly in love.

Of course, Caz fell in love at least once every decade. But this time was different, he thought, as he lay in bed, not used to trying to sleep at night. It had to be; he couldn’t find a damned thing wrong with this girl, even her name.

Amelia.

It was old-fashioned, and he liked that. Speaking it felt warm and familiar on his lips.

Lying next to him, Amelia’s eyelids fluttered for a moment, before going still as her breathing evened out and she fell even deeper into sleep. Caz heard her heartbeat slow to steady rhythm.

He leaned closer, cradling his arm around her, taking care not to catch the gold strands of hair that seemed to change texture with the weather, curling up in wiry spirals.

Caz watched a shadow falling across her ski-jump nose twist and morph as she shifted slightly. She looked almost like porcelain now, blue veins painted on her neck and chest like delft tile. She sighed again in her sleep.

So many people he had been with had wound up dead or forgotten over the years. Caz was determined this time would be different.

Save

Jade had gotten herself lost in a thought, again.

Usually this occurred when she was at her kitchen table, trying to piece together a spell; or when she took apart her laptop so it no longer sounded like a jet engine. It wasn’t supposed to involve Jade charging forward into the next room of a crowded party, ignoring all instincts to run outside and take a deep breath of cool night air.

Maybe it was hearing that someone else could get hurt. But that didn’t make any sense. Don’t try to save the world. Just focus on the next step in surviving. That was what she lived by.

No, she realized. For the first time in a long while, Jade was actually afraid.

Tagged by @diphthongsfordays to find space, scream, soft and scare:

Space

He jumped to his feet and ran towards the space between Jade and the alleyway.

Then he was falling to his knees and dry heaving.

“What the hell?” he gasped. He looked around at a circle of white surrounding him, a series of sigils carved into it by Jade’s knife. “What is this?”

“Table salt,” she said. “Combined with a few wards. Vampires are pretty susceptible to threshold magic, aren’t they?”

Caz choked back some bile and rose unsteadily to his feet.

Scream

“Lila, you seem to have calmed down a bit,” Caz said, stroking an ear larger than his hand.

He held the wolf back by the nape of her neck and leaned towards the other vampire.

“Sai cosa, Giuseppe? Non avevi torto riguardo alla tua supposizione,” he said, a small, wicked smile playing on his lips.

He released his grip on Lila.

“Ma devi capire quanto fosse stupido ferirla se mi sentivo in quel modo.”

Caz walked away from the alley, a strange and familiar feeling of satisfaction growing in the pit of his stomach as he heard Valfierno’s screams behind him increase in pitch and desperation. It was a sensation he hadn’t come across in years, and it felt good. He looked up at the full yellow moon and grinned, his teeth flashing in the light.

Soft

She looked up at Violet.

“Do you think we could each carry one of them?”

“If you can maintain a levitation spell for the whole length of the walk back,” she replied. “But your arm looks pretty bad, Jade.”

“Hmm,” Jade furrowed her brow. “I vote we leave Amelia.”

“No,” Caz whined softly into the stone. “Don’t leave my girlfriend behind.”

“Caz you’re currently bleeding out from where she carved into you. I don’t think she’s your girlfriend anymore.”

Scare

She was getting closer to him. Caz could smell that scrape still bleeding from her wrist. He was already faint from hunger. He needed to get her out of here.

The best method, he decided, was to scare her.

“So what if I am?” he asked, before smiling his widest and sharpest smile. “And if I am, may I remind you you’re currently backed into a corner by someone much stronger and faster than you, Jade?”

Mistake. You made a mistake, you fool.

He knew it as soon as the words left his lips. Don’t ever piss off a witch. His left ankle left the ground first, carried upward by a root looping around it, followed by his right.

Tagging, if you'd like: @drippingmoon, @authortango, @author-a-holmes, @avian-writes & @faelanvance to find calm, lake, ivory & estimate.