#ill kiss him until he chokes to death

[chotachica]

Another conversation w my bf while ranting about Vash The Stampede:

Him: How do your kins always end up randomly meowing on the most incoherent situations ever

Me: When did I say I kin him

Him: Oh you do, it's ok, you'll realize it later dw <3

Me:

Him: Anyways,

[shotmrmiller]

singlemom!reader au~

Pathetic!Simon purposefully gets sick. He's seen the way you coddle your baby, and he wants a sliver of that attention.

(i will not go into detail on what he does, but be aware that temperature doesn't make you sick, bacteria and viruses do. good luck.)

Once sick, he covers his face with a black surgical mask and waits around the time you come home to step out, hoping to catch you in the lift.

Bingo.

"Oh my god, forgive me for saying so, but you look like death." He'd huff out a chuckle if he didn't also feel like it.

He can feel his throat itch, a tight pressure in his chest, and a wet cough claws out of his throat. Simon tips his head and moves to go around you but you're swiftly grasping his hand, dragging him back down the hallway.

"Absolutely not, you are not walking around like a living dead while this ill."

He's dizzied off of your touch, the small hand in his larger one slamming his pathetic, little heart against his ribs.

"Even your hand is hot to the touch! You, sir," a jingle of house keys as they're inserted into the lock, "are getting some much-needed rest. The baby is with her grandmother today, so it'll be just us."

He can't be blamed for the way his cock stirs at the thought of being alone with you. This is better than what he'd expected, truthfully speaking. Simon had just wanted your sympathy, maybe even a cup of homemade soup but this?

"Come, shoes off." He toes off his new balances as he watches you take off your coat, hanging both on the rack.

You flick your eyes to him and that look you give him makes his cock twitch. Your brows are furrowed, a worried look reflected in your pretty eyes, the corners of your beautiful lips pulled down.

Pity. His loins are on fire. You pity him, and he loves it.

"Simon, I think we should lie you down." Your fingers grab his own, leading him toward your bedroom.

Everything happens in a blur, maybe he's gone and gotten a little too sick, but it's all worth it when you tuck. him. in.

Unfolding the covers that lay on the foot of the bed, you gently pull it until it sits just under his chin.

"Right, you get some sleep and I'll make you some chicken soup. I've luckily got all the ingredients in the fridge already."

Would it be too much to ask for a kiss on the forehead?

The door softly clicks shut and he unloops the masks from around his ears and breathes in.

Your blanket smells like you— a heady, musky vanilla with an underlying twang of lavender.

His head spins, it's so rich in your scent, his painfully hard cock straining against the zipper of his trousers. His imagination runs wild as he fists it and presses it right under his nose, inhaling noisily.

Do you sleep shirtless under this blanket? Does it have the privilege of feeling your bare, soft skin?

He's always known that he's a bit insane, especially with his borderline criminal behavior, but what he does next, he really hopes you don't blame him for.

Simon pulls down his trousers just a bit and fists his cock from over the blanket— the touch as close as he's ever going to get from you.

He's been aroused since you laid eyes on him on the lift, the almost disappointed face you gave him was almost too much. Simon loves it, any attention is worse than none, but his spine tingles when you, and only you, look at him like he's a pitiful cur.

A stray dog that limps around, scrounging for food around the streets, tugging at the heart strings of others.

Sublime.

He curls into himself as he nears his peak, the material of your blanket sodden with his pre-cum, a souvenir of his time here.

And then your footsteps are outside of your door, your knuckles rapping on it.

"You need anything from me, Simon?"

Oh, love. Give him everything.

He choked out his negative, which you luckily mistook as him having a small coughing fit but in reality, your dulcet voice sent him careening over the edge at neck-break speed— gooey, viscous cum spurting into your blanket.

Simon's teeth audibly grind, keeping back any noises that want to claw out of his sore throat.

Drawing in a big gulp of air, his body loosens, sinking into the mattress as his eyelids begin to feel heavy.

Now, he can sleep.

He sincerely hopes this blanket is your favorite.

[warlocksoup]

haikyuu angstober

day two: iwaizumi hajime

art: oracle of black enchantment by mildred payne

soundtrack: ignorant piece of shit by carissa's weird

word count: 700

warnings: implied terminal illness, death, hospital setting, religion, grief, unhappy ending, i cried while writing

taglist is open, complete this form to be added

Iwaizumi does not have a relationship with God. His parents never cared, so he never learned to care. He never learned how to pray, and he’d never needed to.  

The stagnant, sterile smell of the cramped hospital room fills his lungs, and he holds onto her hand, limp and weak. His breathing is shaky, and each inhale is interrupted by a cutting sob. Iwaizumi does his best to hold his breath as he looks down at her, laid out in a hospital bed, eyes shut and gently snoring, IVs tying her down like overgrown vines.

He’d been warned that this was coming. Iwaizumi had been given ample time to prepare; whether that be to cut and run or prematurely grieve or prepare himself for this eventual reality. But instead, he grit his teeth and dug his heels in and pretended that everything she gave him was endless.

Iwaizumi doesn’t let go of her hand as he kneels at her bedside. It’s cold, and he holds it between his own hands as he cups them together in prayer. He doesn’t know how to pray. He doesn’t know how to ask for what he needs. So he starts with a choked up, broken exhalation of, “Please.”

Please, he says again in his head, eyes screwed shut. Please don’t take her away. Please give her another year, at least. She deserves a hundred. She deserves so much more than what you’ve given her. Please don’t take her from me. I’ll do anything. I don’t want her to die. Please. She can’t die. Please, please, please.

The weight of a world without her in it is pressing down on his chest, and he can feel in encroaching, getting heavier and heavier with each plea that echoes in his head. It’s starting to devolve, spinning out of his control and Iwaizumi has to bite down on his tongue and hold all the air in his lungs so his sobs don’t wake her.

His wet eyes open and look up at her, and he exhales slowly, carefully and controlled. She doesn’t look like herself, lips chapped and cheeks hollow with deep, purple bruises under her eyes. She looks like half of her is somewhere else.

Please, he says internally again, lifting her hand slightly to place a kiss on the curve of her finger. Please, he pleads as one hand reaches up to smooth out the ends of her tangled, brittle hair. Please, his thumb traces the outline of her jaw, just slightly trembling.

When the sun was high in the sky and she could still stand steadily on her own two feet, she had taken a hold of Iwaizumi’s hand and drawn patterns on his palm. The air smelled like the salt of the sea. “When the time comes,” she had asked, quiet and unsure, “can you be there with me? I don’t want to go alone.”

Iwaizumi turned his head at the time. He regrets this now. He wishes he had taken hold of her then and looked her in the eye when he said, “Of course I will.”

Please, Iwaizumi thinks, like it’s the only word left that he knows. He bites down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. Please.

When it happens, it’s uneventful. It’s quiet. Iwaizumi is sitting by her side, in the same spot he’s occupied for weeks, tangling his fingers with hers like he was trying to tether her down.

He almost doesn’t notice it, when the constant beeping off the heart monitor slowly starts to fade, and then peters off. Iwaizumi was focused on her hand, how it felt in his, how cold it had gotten. It takes a few moments for the silence to settle over him.

And when it catches up to him, he raises his head to look at her, half-expecting her to be sitting up, the wires that connected her to the monitor ripped off and hanging limply in her curled fist. But she’s just lying there, still, like sleep.

Iwaizumi stands and leans over her. His hand is shaking as it reaches down to caress her cheek. He doesn’t notice he’s crying until it drips onto her hospital robes. Her snores stop, and her chest doesn’t rise.

if you enjoyed please consider reblogging or sending in an ask <3

taglist: @hiraethwa @lale-txt @kr1nqu @angee444 @psychedellyc @geektastic84 @solzscribblez @asrinchin @nyxlai @miiyas @wyrcan @chocolains @tsumuus @kameyyy

[minkdelovely]

catharsis

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“we are more

than our disguises,

we are more

than just the pain.”

Alastor x Lucifer ; RadioApple ; MDNI 18+

tags/warnings: angst (w/a happy ending), established relationship, hurt/comfort, crying, mentions/allusions of abuse, mentions of death from illness, sexual content (biting, blood/blood play, kissing, palming)

word count: 2.5k

author’s note: guess who’s writing angst again?? this kinda hit me out of nowhere, but is fully inspired by @sunlit-mess / SOL 1 x 1 (on twitter) recent works (linked HERE and HERE) with alastor seeking luci’s comfort. seeing these back-to-back just set something off in my mind and i couldn’t rest until it was out. a special thanks and shoutout to our darling @fraugwinska for helping me get a title on this baby — without her y’all would have been reading ‘untitled’ 😂💖 quote is from twin flame by weyes blood. without further ado, buckle up and dive in; i hope you enjoy 😌 (also posted on my ao3 if that’s your preference)

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It was surprising, even to himself.

Alastor couldn’t recall the last time he had cried, much less in front of a witness. Composure and a display of strength were hard-won attributes he had built upon himself. Each unpleasant memory in his mind was a brick in his fortification; the tears he denied himself to shed the mortar between them.

He hadn’t always followed his own code of conduct and taken the ugliness of life on the chin. Before he had found his own strength, he could admit to being swayed by the will of others. Alastor found words to be harsher than the switch and was more than familiar with the sting of both. Though the switch was a boy’s punishment… A closed fist was more suitable for raising a man.

Or so his father had thought.

Mama’s boy… Just my luck. I got me a mama’s boy... C’mere you little pansy!

The repulsion in his father’s words hadn’t lost any of its potency, even after all this time. Alastor recalled them with more clarity than the face of the man they came from, which only served to plunge him further in his despair. Hadn’t he proven his resilience? Not only in body, but in mind and spirit? Perhaps not as much as he thought, with the way he was sobbing. If his father could see him now — bereft of stoicism and drenched in tears, drool, and mucus — he’d have been absolutely disgusted. Alastor loathed how much that bothered him. The fear of inadequacy lurching in his gut like a bad tonic.

Hot, angry tears flowed down the streaks that shame had carved on his face. Not that Lucifer would be able tell the difference with the way Alastor had burrowed into his chest. It was merely a fresh bout for the candy-striped vest to soak up. The saline fabric was beginning to chafe Alastor’s face, but he didn’t feel ready to surface; arms tightening around his lover’s waist as his hands gripped Lucifer with a desperation he assumed was buried long ago with his innocence.

Stop hidin’ behind your mama and come take your whoopin’ like a man!

Alastor choked on another sob and gasped for breath, heaving in Lucifer’s arms as the angel held him firmly. Gloved hands petting red hair and anguished, downcast ears. Hushed words of comfort spoken into the crown of Alastor’s head to soothe in tandem as they both shook from the force of the demon’s sorrow.

“I’ve got you. Shh, honey, I’ve got you.”

So much love conveyed in so few words. Alastor still grappled with accepting it. Evidenced by more tears fighting their way through his clenched eyes and a muffled, heart-wrenching cry into Lucifer’s chest. The pain of it went straight through the King’s heart as he pressed a firm kiss to Alastor’s head, feeling the distress on his face as he did so. How he wished to unburden the demon of his suffering. More than anyone, Lucifer could understand what it was like to be wracked with such melancholy.

If only Alastor could remember what had set him off, if he had, in fact, been triggered at all. He had just woken up this morning feeling low. Why was he dwelling so much on things that were better left to the past? Unbeknownst to either of them, they were sharing the same thought. And both knew that dwelling on things that couldn’t be changed did nothing other than inflict harm. Must they be plagued by the ignorance and rejection of their fathers for eternity? The cost of the scorn they’d endured seemed to grow ever higher some days.

That was one of the first things they had bonded over, sharing self-deprecating laughter to hide from their aching wounds. When love is built on a foundation of hurt, it’s only a matter of time before the walls crumble. Most times they were Lucifer’s, and sad as it was, it felt much easier to navigate. The angel was much more comfortable wearing his feelings, after all, and he’d had millennia of experience weathering his storms. Alastor was no stranger to being the shoulder to cry on. If anything, it came to him too naturally; a trait he couldn’t be sure was born in him or a side-effect of the wall he had built.

When Alastor buckled under the weight of his grief, it was devastating. He repressed himself for such long bouts of time that the force of his woe had the impact of an avalanche. Sadness, anger, shame, and regret cascading through his lithe frame until he was utterly hollowed out. Lucifer’s task of mending him was only beginning, he knew. It would be days before Alastor returned to himself, but he was more than willing to put in the work. Stitching his love back together with his needle of assurance and thread of devotion.

It was impossible to tell how long they spent this way. Alastor kneeling on the floor between Lucifer’s legs, knees sore and body aching, face still smothered in the drenched clothes donning the angel’s chest. Lucifer on the sofa in their bedroom, comforting the demon with every ounce of strength he could muster.

Until finally the tears stopped, replaced with uneven, sometimes stuttering breaths and hiccups. And soon enough those were gone too. Lucifer’s right hand rubbing Alastor’s back as his left cradled Alastor’s head. Before long, the demon was stirring. Sniffling a bit as he nuzzled his face into the mess of fluids he had left on the King’s vest and shirt. Lucifer didn’t mind, knowing that he could have it all gone with a snap of his fingers, but it wouldn’t do any good for Alastor to try wiping his face on his clothes in the state they were in.

“Let me clean your face, love. You’ll get a rash if you stay there,” Lucifer chided softly, manifesting a warm, damp handkerchief as he bent down to kiss Alastor's forehead for good measure.

It wasn’t a very convincing threat, both of them knowing that if Alastor did suffer a rash Lucifer would heal it in an instant. But Alastor conceded, and gingerly peeled himself away from the safety of the angel’s chest. His poor face was raw from tears, eyelids chapped red with irritation; dried salt crusted his cheeks like the vestiges of sea foam on the shore.

Alastor knew he looked awful. He could see himself reflected in Lucifer’s eyes proving as much. Every bit of moisture his body had was soaked into Lucifer’s chest, and he could feel the headache promised by dehydration blooming in his forehead. He was wrung out and exhausted but nearly began crying again, too moved by the tender act as Lucifer gently wiped his face. His Sire hushed him, voice calm and gaze full of adoration. Not even bothering to clean himself up before ensuring that Alastor was taken care of first.

The swell of affection Alastor felt in that moment was overwhelming, and he swallowed thickly as he closed his eyes, succumbing to the comfort of his lover’s hands tending to him. His father’s cruel words fading into darkness with every soft swipe of the warm cloth.

You’ll find someone special someday, mon amour.

Alastor was grateful for his mother’s memory, and wondered — not for the first time — what she would think of Lucifer. She had been a God-fearing woman, after all. A fear that she did not pass down to her son, choice of partner aside. He had turned his back on God long before his eyes had set their sight on the fallen angel. If she could see him from Heaven, he hoped that she would be happy. The Devil wasn’t all he was made out to be, if the way he cherished Alastor wasn’t proof enough.

His mother never pestered him about settling down, but worried for him deeply when they realized that she was sick and wouldn’t be getting better. Alastor was self-sufficient by then, with a year of working at the local radio station under his belt. Not that he didn’t take her concern to heart. If anything, when it came to her, he took things all too seriously. He wasn’t weighed down by the need for partnership or marriage, especially not when his career still had traction to gain. Alastor would try to tell her as much, assure her that she had nothing to worry about, and they would drop the subject and speak of other things. But he never left the sanatorium without receiving her prayers; his large, warm hands looking almost comical in her frail, cold grasp. Her hold on him was as fervent as the words and wishes she spoke to someone Alastor knew wasn’t listening. Though that didn’t make the act any less sincere or appreciated.

It was a brand of care Alastor thought he would never know again after his mother finally succumbed to her illness. The near-decade that passed after this had only cemented that fact. He didn’t seek companionship nor did he deny it when the mood struck. But beyond his small circle of friends, Alastor was content with his solitary life. Besides, a partner or spouse would have only made his nighttime affairs much harder to juggle — if not damn near impossible — and having the reputation of an elusive bachelor only helped with his fan base when it came to his radio segment.

It wasn’t until Lucifer had broken through his defenses that Alastor understood how he had barricaded himself from the world. And that he wanted support and comfort and understanding more than he cared to admit.

There are things you need that you can’t take care of on your own.

Basked in the warmth of Lucifer’s affection and his mother’s memory, Alastor hummed and opened his eyes, a tired smile curling his lips. Lucifer smiled back at him, expression benevolent and soft as his hands found their way back into Alastor’s hair to resume their petting. And grateful as he was, Alastor couldn’t ignore that Lucifer had yet to address the mess setting into his clothes. He fought against the pain as he uncurled his fingers, stiff from the grip on Lucifer’s waist, and silently began unbuttoning the candy-striped vest he had come to adore as the angel’s signature.

“Hey, you don’t have to —”

Alastor stopped him with a kiss, his fingers continuing their work as Lucifer sighed against his lips. The tension in both their bodies deflating as they shared hungry pecks and inhaled each other’s breath. All the while, Alastor’s hands remained busy with the undoing of buttons. First on the vest, then on the white shirt beneath it. Each open button providing relief like the snapping of a taut string.

Perhaps it was the musician in Alastor subconsciously rising to the task, but Lucifer would never cease to be caught flat-footed by the demon’s impeccable timing. How Alastor’s fingers managed to perfectly sync with his kisses was a feat Lucifer could only describe as divine. As if the acts were always meant to be one, never separate. It made the golden blood in his body turn molten; roiling through his veins as he sighed and chased every touch with relish. He was not often given these affections without needing to ask, whether with a look or an outright plea. Games that Lucifer was content to play, knowing that anticipation and a good tease left them both more than satiated.

With the collar of Lucifer’s shirt loosened, Alastor straightened his back and bent his neck to suckle and kiss down the angel’s pristine throat. The demon took his time with this, hoping to convey his gratitude and desire with every press of his lips against the milky skin beneath them. When Alastor made it to the junction between neck and shoulder, he was unable to resist the urge to sink his teeth in; the flesh yielding to his fangs like a ripened peach, and the nectar that soon coated his tongue was a gift in itself.

Lucifer hissed through the bite, hips jerking in space between them as Alastor groaned and languidly sucked and licked the blood rising from the wound. With his hands free from buttons, Alastor let them explore. How he adored the feeling of Lucifer’s small frame beneath them. Endlessly fascinated by the twitches and sounds he could elicit from the angel with little more than the slightest drag of his claws against sensitive skin.

Alastor released himself from Lucifer’s neck with a salacious pop and licked his lips for good measure. The whine that escaped Lucifer from the action had Alastor’s ears and groin at attention. The low creaking sound of antlers branching out mingled with their shallow breath. Alastor’s crimson eyes drank in the almost bashful look on Lucifer’s face, accented by a golden flush that made his abdomen tight with hunger.

How lucky he was, truly.

The silver lining of Lucifer’s descent was heavily in Alastor’s favor. Had Lucifer remained God’s favorite, he’d be in Heaven — a place Alastor had never planned to be. In truth, he never intended to be in Hell either, which is where luck came into play. He wasn’t destined for mortal companionship, but for something transcendent. Not a god to worship, but a sin. A king.

An angel.

“I’m unworthy of your benevolence,” Alastor lamented, desperately kissing and kneading the supple skin of Lucifer’s chest. “But I’m devoted to you, always.”

It was a sentiment he had expressed before, feeling much like Mary Magdalene washing Jesus’ feet with her tears. But it made Lucifer’s heart jump all the same; its rapid beat calling to Alastor like a siren from under skin and bone as his teeth latched to Lucifer’s breast. Their pleasured moans harmonized as Lucifer cupped the back of Alastor's head, encouraging him to continue with a whisper of his name. Alastor happily obliged. Tongue lapping at the pert nipple, hot and fervent, as his mouth and teeth provided a deliciously sharp suction, drawing out the ambrosia in Lucifer’s veins.

Lucifer struggled to remain cognisant, lost and overwhelmed as Alastor’s mouth peppered a trail of kisses from right to left. Alastor shifted slightly between Lucifer’s legs as teeth sunk into the top of his left pectoral just as Alastor’s left hand palmed his groin. The wanton cry that echoed off the walls of their bedroom only served to make Alastor desperate for more. Eagerly succumbing to his need to worship the angel, the agony he had suffered earlier behind him but not forgotten.

An offering of gratitude and declaration of fidelity in a language they shared when words failed. When adoration was beyond articulation and the only thing strong enough to quell their aching hearts was propinquity. The evening had started with Alastor falling apart in Lucifer’s lap… but it would end with Lucifer falling apart in Alastor’s hands.

And they would wake in the morning with tangled hair in wrinkled sheets. Sharing hushed jokes and lazy kisses as the early morning sun colored their room in a hazy, pink glow.

Healing each other one day at a time.

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tag list: @fairyv-ice, @wat4r, @midorichoco, @raynerrold, @krak-jj, @tremendoushearttaco, @redfoxwritesstuff, @chibistar45, @kaylopolis, @cutiebimbo, @lousypotatoes, @rfox1998, @cosmiccandydreamer, @hyperfixations-keep-me-going, @cherry-cola-100, @wonderlandangelsposts, @catticora, @velvette3, @sailorsmouth, @reath-solia, @junieshohoho, @cxrsedwxrlds, @littlebluefishtail, @hazelfoureyes, @sugoi-writes, @nxcxllxsevens, @swagkittybear

[ohimsummer]

PLEASE MORE OLD SATORU ANGST AND MY LIFE IS YOURS ILL EVEN SELL MY KIDNEY (no pressure btw)

— angst, character death (you 😽), old! satoru

based off this post

after you pass, if satoru isn’t going through the motions and letting the day slip by him, he goes to visit your grave. he always has a bouquet of flowers to place there, an arrangement of your favorite kind and favorite color. he stares at your tombstone for a while, tracing your name engraved as if this is not real. as if you will pop up next to him any second now and when he turns back to look, it will be a different name with a different date.

sometimes your kids accompany him to pay their respects. they wrap an arm around satoru in a hug and both of them shed tears at your memory again, choking out ‘i miss you’s before breaking down into full-fledged sobs and wishing you were there to comfort them again. the thought of you being gone now forever is a pain that will take them ages to get used to, if they ever grow used to it all. this is not some temporary thing; they will never experience your smile again, your touch again, your laughter, your kindness, they won’t ever get to have a conversation with you ever again. hear an ‘i love you’ from you ever again.

when satoru comes alone, he likes to kneel or sit next to your final resting place. sometimes it hurts his knees and puts an ache in his legs when he finally has to get up again, but he doesn’t mind. he just wants to sit comfortably next to you. he imagines your spirit is kneeling beside him with a head on his shoulders. he wishes it were real, that you were alive again and he could press another kiss to the crown of your head.

he talks a lot during these solitary visits. tells you what’s happened recently, even if it is as mundane as seeing a dragonfly out in your still-thriving garden (that he refuses to let die with you). he tells you what he ate, how he slept, if he got sick or not recently because these are things you would care about if you were still here. his well-being. satoru tells you how that show you two started has finally ended, and spends twenty minutes describing how so that you don’t miss a single detail.

he tells you how the kids are doing, how the grandkids are doing. how your oldest got a promotion at their current job, and how they cried when he told them you would have been so proud. how your grandkids are getting older, they’re walking now, and he wishes you were there to see it. he hopes you can see it, wherever you are beyond the grave. satoru talks and he talks and he talks until his throat runs dry, and then he sits in silence until it is time to leave.

he rests his head against your gravestone for a minute before he does, brows furrowing as he fights back tears. and then he whispers a bunch of ‘i love you’s again, hoping that you hear, hoping that you didn’t forget.

[cozage]

Hey hey hey! It's me again XD I'm here to send you another angst request and you can write it with any OP charaters that you like! The request is how they would react to their s/o dying unexpectedly from an illness but when they kissed them goodbye on the lips, their s/o came back to life and said 'your love is my cure' or other cheesy phrases cuz Idk what to write lol ?

A/N: RAINBOWSTAR HI IVE MISSED YOU I HOPE YOU ARE WELL

Characters: reader x Law, Luffy, Zoro

Cw: reader death, angst

Total word count: 800

True Love's Kiss

Law

He can’t figure out why your heart rate is dropping so fast. He’s done everything he could to try and help you, but nothing is working. 

Your heart stops, and he’s in a full panic now. Immediately starting CPR. Praying to anything and anyone to let you live somehow.

When he presses his lips to yours, he’s desperately hoping for a miracle.

He hesitates just a moment before breathing air into your lungs, and he’s startled to see your eyes fly open.

A gasp escapes your mouth, and he looks at you, unbelieving that you’re really still alive. 

He buries his face in your chest, taking a few uneasy breaths and trying not to cry from the relief of you being okay. 

You comb your fingers through his hair and steady yourself, trying to recall what happened or why he’s reacting this way, until he finally speaks. 

“You died,” he says. His voice is thick with tears, which you try your best to ignore. If Law is crying, then it must’ve been serious. 

“You saved me,” you reply. You don’t feel like you have just died. Just like you woke up from a really long nap. 

“No, I couldn’t. I couldn’t do any-“

“I’m alive now aren’t I?” You ask. “I guess your lips really can heal anything”.

He’s so thankful that you’re alive, he doesn’t even respond to your stupid joke 

Luffy

He’s shaking you, begging you to come back to him. He’s screaming and sobbing and impossible to console.

Zoro tries to pull him away so Chopper can treat you, but Luffy knows. He’s been here before. 

Chopper knows too. Everyone knows. So they just sit and watch their captain fall apart. 

He’s clutching you to his chest, he doesn’t want anyone else near you or touching you. He’s still sobbing, but it’s growing softer into whimpers.

He gives you soft kisses across your face, silent pleas for you to wake up. His lips finally meet yours, a final goodbye to you.

A soft gasp escapes your lips, and the entire crew takes back a step in shock. 

“Luffy?” You groan, still pressed against him so tightly it hurts. “You’re crushing me.”

He just holds you tighter, returning to hard sobbing again. “Stay with me,” he chokes out. “Please don’t die.”

“That’s impossible,” Chopper whispers. “Y/N was dead.”

You take a second to process. “I guess a true love's kiss brought me back.”

“If I give you more, you better live forever,” Luffy says, covering you in even more kisses. 

Zoro

He carries your limp body to Chopper, begging him to fix you. But he knows it’s too late. He doesn’t know what you were hit by, but he knew when he pressed his head against your chest, your heart was still. 

He lays you on the ground for Chopper to run an examination. Chopper confirms his worst fear. It was too late.

He holds you, running his hands through your hair, whispering words of apologies to you. He blames himself, of course. He wasn’t strong enough to keep you safe. 

He presses his lips into your forehead first, taking a deep inhale to try and remember your smell. He’s having trouble accepting the fact he’ll never smell your shampoo again, never see your smile. 

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles, tears pricking at the corner of his eyes. “I’m so sorry.”

He moves his lips down to yours, giving you one last kiss as a goodbye. He pulls away to find your eyes staring at him, scared to see him so sad.

He drops you in shock, his face contorting into a weird mix of confusion and joy. He doesn’t know how to feel or what’s going on, and you're just as confused. 

“What the hell?” he yelled, prompting Chopper to look up and see you alive and well. The reindeer screams while you look at your boyfriend in confusion. 

“What?” you ask, irritated that was his reaction to kissing you.

Zoro just stares at you, mouth agape. You can see his eyes are still watery, and the two of you stare at each other for a few seconds until Chopper screams. “You were dead, Y/N! Really dead!”

“No I wasn’t,” you shoot back, trying to hide your panic. 

“You were,” Zoro whispered. He lunged at you, his lips pressing against yours for a long time. 

You finally push him off of you, gasping for air. “Damn, Zoro! Don’t kill me again!” you said, feigning a coughing fit. “Although, I guess you could, as long as you bring me back with another kiss, mmkay?”

Before he has the chance to say something snarky back, you lean in for another kiss, and he happily accepts it. 

[especiallythewomenandthechildren]

As If Destiny

A/N: I too have fallen ill to the widespread disease that is young snow 😮‍💨 like him being so fine is so unnecessary. Some quick notes: I've never actually written a fic on here nor a reader one in general so please deal with me! Also I wrote out this whole thing, posted it, then it went into oblivion and I had to rewrite it completely so I apologize! Please let me know if I should add anything or am missing certain details that seem necessary. Any feedback would be greatly appreciated, thank you loves❤️

Summary: You've always been kind hearted yet admirably defiant. Or that is at least one of the ways Coriolanus Snow would describe you. Ever since grade school, you have always been on the same level as him in academics and one of his few competitors for the Plinth Prize. But as tragedy struck your family, Coriolanus thought you would fall away from his life, but instead, you got even more intertwined (not to mention the complicated past knots tying your families together).

Warnings: Terminal illness, parent death, death and brutality (it is the hunger games after all) characters may be ooc. I read the book a while ago but don't really remember much of Snows way of thinking (I mean I know its toxic and insane but yk the other things) so I will mostly be basing off the film and my own thoughts. Also I can't spell for the life of me so be prepared for bad spelling and grammar. Enjoy loves!

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Blood just kept on coming. And coming. And coming. Every violent cough shaking your mother's body was followed by spatters of hot, deep red blood. You quickly tried to clean it up as soon as it came out to protect your mother's dignity and to make sure she didn't choke. It took a few minutes, but the coughing session passed and your mother took deep gulps of water, fighting off your attempt to get her to slow down.

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With her engrossed in her cup, you steal a glance at the clock on the wall. As the time for the start of classes nears, the more axinety builds in your chest. Your mother follows your gaze and smiles warmly.

"Run along my little scholar. I will be fine and even better knowing you are sticking your nose in every textbook you can find."

She says in a hoarse voice. You smile slightly and lightly laugh. "That's not how school works, mom. I stick my nose into tissues because of how many textbooks I have to read ."

She rolls her eyes at your little comment and does a little motion gesturing you should be on your way. Shaking your head, you retorted "I still have half an hour till classes begin and I have plenty of time for Rhayen (your driver) to take me to the academy."

You attempt to assure her. Though, it was now your mother's turn to shake her head.

"I know you prefer walking there, don't try to fool me now. You will come back after school and I will be fine. Don't worry, darling."

With a sigh, you stand up and dust off your rouge colored academy uniform and grab your bag. You give your mother a soft kiss on her temple and steal one more glance at the clock. You rush through the halls and down the stairs of your luxurious apartment. The academy wasn't too far from your home, so you could enjoy the walk and the early spring air ruffling your hair.

You tried to smile and nod at the strangers walking past. You needed to clear your mind (distract yourself) so you examined every part of the high class society. Their eyes, faces, hair, clothing, and whatever else you could analyze. With this strategy, it doesn't take long untill the grand structure of the Capital academy to come into view.

As you near the school, you notice a certain curly haired boy sitting on the steps. You feel a sense of relief and pick up your pace. You stop infront of the boy, who seemed too engrossed into his book to notice your sudden appearance.

"Are you behind on the reading or are you being a bookworm?" You question.

He snaps his head up with his familiar smile. "Had some extra time and motivation, so thought I would trudge through this absolute -"

You nudge him with your shoulder to motion to stop talking.

"Yeah yeah I know but be careful: Professor Rhaen always spawns out of nowhere and I would personally prefer if you were not on the receiving end of one of his lectures."

Everyone knew how hard it was to please your professor and how strict your he was. Especially with Sejanus.

He didn't care about his money: professor Rhaen still felt Sejanus was lesser because he was born in the districts.

That sentiment is widely shared with your classmates. From the first day, when little kind hearted Sejanus came to the capital, he was met with stares and whispers. You specifically remember Arachne snubbing the boy. But when lunch came and he sat all alone, seemingly dejected, you sauntered over to his table. Then, just like now, his brown eyes widened in surprise. You smiled and sat down in the chair across from him.

"What's your favorite smell?"

He just stared at you for a while. who asks that. The silence continued untill you got too impatient, a trait you still struggle with, and answer your own question.

"Mine is vanilla because it smells like the sweet cakes my mom makes on special occasions or even sometimes when she is in a really good mood."

A smell that has slowly been creeping its way back into your life after the war. He laughed at your confession and replied that his was lavender, the smell of his mother, or as he calls her, ma.

He was still warry as why you were sitting with him. It was clear you were well liked by your peers and teachers and always seemed to posses the right answers, exemplified in your shared morning classes. But as you both continued your meal and conversation, he felt as if he had been sent an angel that day.

"There's that smile, I've missed it." Sejanus says, breaking you out of your reminiscence.

You duck your head down in some sort of embarrassment and shame. It felt wrong to be smiling and laughing nowadays, especially with the worsening of your mother's condition.

Noticing your reaction and following your train of thought, Sejanus tried to backtrack.

"I didn't mean it like that, Y/N! I'm sorry, you've been suffering and here I am saying stuff like that. I- I- wow I'm such an idiot! I'm truly sorry."

You look up to his genuinely defated and apolgetic face. "You have no reason to be sorry, it's okay. And it's not like I'm the one suffering. I can walk, talk normally, and am not coughing up blood while my face pales and hollows." You say solemnly.

Sejanus opened his mouth to question but was cut off as you both reached your destination. It was best not to discuss your mother's condition around your gossip privy peers around.

You walk to your desks and switch to the topic of later tonight, which you would be having dinner with the Plinths, an occurrence that is becoming more and more often. The last few of your classmates filled in, including Arachne, Clemensia, Festus, and Felix.

A few paces later comes in the charming and handsome Coriolanus Snow. You wouldn't be embarrassed to admit that description, any girl with eyes would agree. With that ever plastered, neutral yet calculated expression on his face, he quickly made his way to his seat, on the other side of you.

He wasn't necessarily friends with you or even Sejanus, but he was far kinder to him than the others were. That's probably one of the many aspects that makes him more appealing. You definitely didn't have a crush on him, but you have zoned out on his side profile once or twice.

Hey, you can't blame a girl!

Well that was your excuse to Sejanus, who caught you seconds in on staring at the blonde. But that was a long time ago. Now you were always zoned out on her.

That's exactly where your mind drifted to as Professor Rhaen began his lecture on the reading assigned. And it stayed there untill the sound of a pen hitting the marble floor brought you back.

You thought it could have been you, especially in your state of hazy focus and sleep deprivation. But taking a quick look at your feet, it was Coriolanus's.

Perfect and proper Coriolanus. Huh.

You hastily grab it and give it back to him, which he accepts with a small greatful smile. A smile that quickly turns into a look of concern.

He grabs your wrist and began examining it. You were stunned and curious what he was looking at until you noticed the deep and clear blood on your wrist, clear even on your deep red uniform.

You must have gotten it when taking care of your mother! You were mentally kicking yourself for being so careless.

"Your bleeding!" He states worridly. He quickly grabs a handkerchief from his bag and attempts to put it on your wrist, but you snap it away from his hold.

You noticed the initials on the white handkerchief. It was his father's. You certainly weren't going to stain such an item of sentiment with blood that wasn't even yours. Her blood.

He was moving to grab your wrist once again but was interrupted by the clear nosies of irritation and frustration of your classmates.

While you and Snow were having your little debacle, Professor Rhaen assigned an extensive research paper that will be due in two months. You understood your peers frustration, the longer you had in this class for an assignment, the more work and harsher the grading will be. But you were greatful for this assignment. It would be a wonderful distraction.

You took a quick look around to gage their reactions and saw Arachne's scowl which made you inwardly chuckle at her expression. But when you came back around to Coriolanus, you saw him still staring at with you a questioning expression.

Questions he would be unable to voice as the bell rang to signal the end of the first period. He tried to stop you or slow you down, but you were extremely focused on getting your materials in your bag and getting out of the intense stare of the blonde.

Sejanus noticed your haste and helped you out, while Snow was attempting to catch up, handkerchief still in hand. But you sped out and straight to the bathroom to wash off the blood covering your hands.

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A/N: Sorry to cut it off here! I felt this was already so long (future me after doing some revisions and having some actual writing under my belt - no it's not.), but don't worry I plan on posting again soon! I am excited to see where this is going I hope you all are too!

[1-800-apricot]

imagine a dying love with arthur morgan

Thinking about leaving Arthur Morgan. The love that once blazed had fizzled out. The death of your love had been some sort of foreboding tragedy. Coughing and sputtering as it attempted to carry on only to fall over. Too ill to move forward.

You’d held on for as long as possible. But there was only so long you could stay in a freezing bath when you yearned for a warm one. The cold seeped into the marrow of your bones as you attempted to find warmth in the fever that plagued your love. But even a fever gave you chills.

Arthur had never meant for this and you knew it. There was only so much you could expect from an outlaw like him. But even this felt like some sort of fate that he could’ve avoided. There were so many what-if’s that lingered. What if he’d listened for once? What if he’d stayed in camp longer? What if he’d been less guarded?

All this pondering was useless though. The damage had been done. The sickness born in the lungs had settled in their bones. And soon it’d sink its teeth into their minds. It was a bittersweet revelation. And perhaps you yearned to avoid it. What you couldn’t see couldn’t hurt you. 

It was a faulty theory at best. In fact it was hardly a theory. More so a bargaining. But you’d take it because it was all that was left. There were only embers of love left. And only so many breaths left to take. The smoke from past blazes had suffocated you both. And that was why you had to run from this. To save whatever love you had left and your own sanity with it

The last night with Arthur had been an awful one. It’d been sweet and intimate. A rare thing and poorly timed. It nearly chained you down again. And you weren’t really sure if you’d leave until you actually did. But that was the effect of his gentle touches and scratchy kisses. Hell he’d even held you. Your head in the crook of his neck and it made you wonder. Had he known of your plans? Could there be any other reasons for his sweet behavior?

You weren’t sure of the answer that night and you likely never would be. After a moment of his rasped stories, you spoke. It came out harsher than intended. Fearful you wouldn’t be able to say it. 

“I have something to tell you.”

Arthur Morgan stilled for the first time in a very long time. Few thoughts and fewer motions. The kisses from his chapped lips burned on your skin. God. Why did this have to be so difficult? Why did his silence have to be so suffocating?

But after a few moments of choking on words you spat it out. That you’d be leaving in the morning. A beat. You held a breath. He let out a strangled one. The tension and grief filled the air. Although there were no signs of it to anyone but them. It was a laughable end for such a passionate love. But what could be done? Even the strongest soldiers had to fall some time.

Arthur tightened his hold on you. Perhaps it was a way to keep you close. Perhaps it was only stress and a clench of a hand. Who was to say? It was only a few moments later that he cleared his throat with an ugly noise. 

“Ok.”

That was it. No fight. No plea. No bargaining. Did he care so little? You feel anger begin to spark. All this time and devotion spent on him and that’s what you got? An ok? It took considerable effort not to lash out. To attempt to enjoy what might be their final moments. You cling to each other. Hate and love mingled in your hearts as sleep began to cradle you. 

It was a milky pink sky that greeted you upon awakening. No warmth of your lover. A part of you held out hope though. Even as you saw all his necessary traveling items missing. You held out hope.

You collect your things and carry them to your horse. Avoiding the questioning of others. Eyes searching for any sign of your lover. Or ex-lover perhaps. But there were none. And as you approached your horse, it was confirmed. Arthur’s horse that often rested next to yours was missing.

After all the battles of their love, it was like some sort of treaty had been offered. A peaceful end to it all. Would you take it? Was there even a way to end this peacefully? Surely not. Even if things ended quietly, the aftermath would maim them enough. 

Despite this, you load your things onto your horse. One by one. Slowly and methodically. The way that needed to be done for a long trip. One where you didn’t plan to stop often. An escape. 

It was the first time you’d packed your horse like this by yourself. Usually Arthur would accompany you whenever going on trips. Whether it was for your company or for your protection hadn’t mattered. Because at the end of the day he was by your side. 

Things were different now though. And Arthur’s fleeing had confirmed that. Arthur Morgan was nothing more than a man. One who would run from the consequences of his actions. But even he could not outrun the sickness that had developed between them.

a/n: im back. this is a prequel to this fic. my requests are also open and you can find my rules and characters i write for here. thank you for reading!

[tsunami-of-tears]

Peace

Cassian x Reader

Summary: Your cousin passes away abruptly and Cassian is there to help pick up the pieces. 

A/N: Another self-insert fic because writing is so ✨healing✨ ~ apologies, this one is super sad

Wordcount: 1K

Warnings: hurt/comfort, death of a relative, chronic illness, dealing with grief/loss

Time stands still as your father’s words echo in your mind. 

“She didn’t make it.”

Your cousin and the Princess of Adriata, Cresseida, had at last succumbed to her devastating illness. She’d suffered a lot, but you selfishly thought you’d have more time. There was still so much you wanted to ask her. She had so much wisdom that you’d never get to hear. You didn’t even have the chance to tell her about your mate, Cassian. 

Your mate. Your rock. 

Though your heart aches at the loss, you are grateful to have Cassian to help you through it. Together you were an unbreakable force. 

However, not unbreakable enough to grant him entrance to the Summer Court for Cresseida’s funeral. 

That ban was still firmly in place as the bond was new. With all that had happened, you hadn’t had the chance to mention it. Your father, Tarquin, was grieving profusely - so you didn’t think it was appropriate. 

I’ll tell him after the funeral, we can wait a little bit longer. 

Though Cassian wanted to be there for you in person, he supported your decision to keep things quiet.

Cresseida was like an auntie to you. As the eldest of Tarquin’s six children, you had the honour of saying a few words at the funeral ceremony. 

The weeks leading up to the funeral went by in a blur. You went about your days feeling numb to the world. You hadn’t shared a single tear over your cousin. It didn’t feel real. 

You’d put off writing your eulogy until the last minute for that very reason. You still struggled to wrap your head around the fact that she was gone. Just. Like. That. 

Never again would you hear her laugh or see her smile. You’d never again get to hear the stories about her childhood with your father, not in the way she could tell them.

“It’s all wrong,” you sigh, exasperated over your eulogy. Your desk was littered with scrunched-up papers, your hands were covered in smears of ink. 

A warm hand gently strokes your back, attempting to soothe you. 

“Sweetheart, you’re overthinking it,” Cassian says.

You slump forward, head in your hands. “I don’t know why I agreed to this. I’m not good at this sort of thing,” you groan.

“We both know you’re the best person for the job. She loved you, I know she’d be proud of you, just like I am.” Cassian moves his hand to hold your face, tilting your face to look up at him.

You nod and press your cheek into his palm. Cassian leans down and plants his lips on yours. His love and encouragement flood down the bond. “You can do it, you’ve got this,” he says against your mouth. 

You lean into him again, kissing with more heat and raw need. Your arms wrap around his neck, fingers tangle in his hair as he grabs your hips and effortlessly lifts you onto the desk. 

For a moment, you get lost in passion with your mate. Until the loud crash of books falling from the desk gets your attention. 

Cassian pants heavily as he pulls away, you groan as you rest your forehead against his broad chest. “I really need to finish this and head to Summer. I can’t right now.”

Cassian kisses you, softly and sweetly. “Of course, sweetheart,” he says.

————

The following morning, you stand outside the temple with one of your sisters, watching everyone file in. There are so many people you don’t recognise. 

Your eyes brim with tears.

This is it. She’s really gone.

You look at your sister and the floodgates burst open. 

Tears pour and pour and pour. You feel like you’re drowning in devastation. You can barely take in enough air to breathe.

Your sister pulls you into a tight hug as you let out choked sobs. She rubs your back and you manage to calm your breaths. In, and out.

You sigh into the embrace and wish you hadn’t opted to wear makeup. You attempt to wipe the smears from under your eyes to no avail - the tears just keep falling. 

It’s time to go inside and begin, so you walk down the middle aisle to your seats in the front row, avoiding making eye contact with everyone. 

As you settle into the chair, the organ starts to play a soft song. The High Priestess steps to the front of the dais and begins the ceremony.

You continue to cry through most of it, as your father and other relatives speak. 

You somehow manage to compose yourself to deliver your own eulogy. You only choke on the final line.

“I love you. I hope that wherever you are, you’re at peace now.”

————

You have a dark cloud over your head for the rest of the day. 

So many strangers come up to compliment you on your beautiful words. You thank them all for their kindness, offering handshakes and hugs, but it feels shallow. 

A trace of bitterness sets in, they don't understand. They didn’t know her like you did.

You endure the wake for your father’s sake. He’s really hurting, and he needs you here. It’s the time to be with family, you just feel at a loss without all of yours. 

————

After the longest day of your life, you finally get to return home. 

You open your front door to Cassian plating up dinner. Nothing too crazy, just your favourite comfort meal - mac and cheese. It’s then that your stomach rumbles and you remember that you’ve barely eaten all day.

Cassian looks up as you enter, putting down the saucepan and opening his arms to embrace you. “Come here my love, I’m so proud of you. Cres would be too. I wish I could have got to know her better.”

You nod in response. Words are too hard right now.

“I made your favourite, come and eat. You’ll feel better.” You give Cassian a small smile as you sit and tuck into the cheesy pasta. He knows you need some extra help today.

After dinner, Cassian carries you to the bathroom, runs your bath and helps you wash.

Wrapped in a towel, you sit at the vanity as he brushes your hair, all while whispering sweet nothings. 

Once you’re dressed, Cassian carries you to bed where you snuggle up on his chest as he reads your favourite book to you. You fall asleep wrapped in his arms, you’re at peace too.

[kipkoh]

Pre canon Hunter getting sick but having nobody to take care of him.

Also read on AO3.

Warning: Emotional Hurt/No Comfort

There was an orchestra inside his head; uncoordinated and cacophonic yet confident in their tone, pounding away at their instruments enough to oddly time their abuse of his skull with the sound of the rain hammering against the window.

Hunter wasn’t scared of stormy nights, per say, but there was something about being sick that made them feel more sinister. He was weak; vulnerable; pathetic; and the shadows cast by the unstable moonlight took advantage of that, wrapping around him and hugging his feeble form tightly enough to restrain him to his bed, making him barely able to move without them digging their claws into his skin to push him back down. The boiling rain set a putridness to the air that seeped through the cracks in his window and into his lungs, setting them ablaze as he continuously failed to choke out the smoke. The lightning outside was nauseating as it passed, bright and intrusive behind his closed eyelids at regular enough intervals to make falling asleep become a cumbersome task and ensuring he couldn’t just rest until the sickness finally subsided.

Sometimes, he wondered what dying felt like, and if it was much the same as to how being sick felt. As he lied there in bed, soaking the sheets with rolls of sweat and tears, he wondered if death might even be preferable. If he died, there would be no more suffering, no more pain, no more worry. If he died, he would never have to spend another miserable night in the still quiet of his bedroom, all alone with no one to feed him warm soup and tell him stories to keep his mind off the ice storm weathering through the veins beneath his skin despite the fact the room outside his diseased vessel felt just as boiling as the rain.

Sometimes, he envied kids in stories – kids with moms and dads who hugged them and kissed them and soothed their fevers. Sometimes, he imagined his mom, whoever she might have been, and wondered if she would have done those things for him had she gotten the chance. He imagined her wiping the sweat off his brow, or tucking him in, or lulling him to sleep like a baby with a soft, hummed lullaby that would reverberate around his head as he drifted off into a restful, dreamless sleep. He imagined her soft hands stroking his cheek and her lips on his forehead and could just almost trick himself into thinking it was real.

But Hunter didn’t have a mom. He had Belos, and Belos played a different role. Hunter understood that. The Emperor had been kind enough to take him in, shelter him, and feed him, but of course he couldn’t drop the weight of an entire empire on his shoulders in order to wipe snot from his nephew’s nose. That didn’t mean that Hunter didn’t sometimes wish he could. It didn’t mean there were never times when the door would crack open and he’d get his hopes up just for it to be dashed by yet another nameless scout bringing him his rations.

He’d tried once, and only once, to seek out his uncle’s comfort during a harsh bout of illness when he was much younger. He’d tiptoed across the castle and managed to evade the scouts somehow to slip into Belos’ room. He should have known better. It should have been obvious that disturbing the Emperor’s rest was disrespectful, especially for such a stupid and childish reason, and yet Hunter’s mind had been so clouded with thoughts and desires he had no right clinging to that he hadn’t been thinking clearly. Of course Belos wasn’t just going to let him crawl into bed and cuddle with him. Of course the Emperor was just going to send Hunter back to his own room, albeit with a new, searing pain on his cheek to add to his discomfort.

Hunter couldn’t keep wishing for someone to baby him. He was the Golden Guard, for Titan’s sake! He was meant to be strong willed, powerful, and brave, but everytime he got the sniffles it was as if he’d regress into a child. He certainly felt that way now as he curled into a ball under his covers and hugged his plush toy crushingly against his chest, the poor thing absorbing the wettened emotions careening out of his eyes.

He had to be stronger. It wasn’t like he’d never been in pain before, so surely a small fever shouldn’t be able to render him useless, right? His body would fight it off and in the meantime, he just had to power though and prove he was as strong as Belos wanted him to be. That was why he couldn’t see the healers, nor take any potions, because if he battled the ailment on his own and came out the victor on the other side, then he could confidently say he was worthy of… whatever it was he was meant to be. And, if he wasn’t strong enough, well, he just supposed it wouldn’t be a problem anymore.

He wanted to prove he wasn’t a child. Adults surely didn’t imagine their dead moms babying them over nothing more than a case of the sniffles. Adults could surely handle the waves of nausea and the blinding migraines with ease all on their own. Adults surely didn’t sob in agony over the hammer under their skin slowly chiseling away at their muscle. Adults surely didn’t hold tightly onto childhood toys for lack of other options in the hopes it would bring them even a minuscule amount of comfort.

In a fervent daze, Hunter sat up and forcefully chucked the stupid plush across the room, watching as it hit the wall and slid down to lie in a heap on the floor. He glared into its eyes until he realized what he’d done and immediately changed tone. He wasn’t sure if it was just the illness making his rational thought hazy, but he could’ve sworn the toy looked stricken by the abuse, and he understood the feeling.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he muttered, choking out the words past strangled sobs as he wobbled out of bed to go pick up the toy. He dusted it off and carried it back to the bed, carefully tucking it in beside him as if he were its parent. At least one of them could have that.

If he allowed himself more expression, he wondered if he really wanted to be an adult after all. It would make Belos happy if he acted like one, and his maturity would surely mean respect and adoration from the scouts and Coven Heads. But why couldn’t he have any of that regardless? Why did he have to age beyond his years just to gain anyone’s approval? How was it fair he was forced to become a man before he’d ever even gotten the chance to be a boy?

There was yet another crack of thunder outside and he buried himself underneath his covers as if the thin fabric would do anything to protect him from the monsters cast by shadows on his walls. The night seemed never ending, carried on by the storm, and Hunter wondered if it was possible to get through it alone. He’d done it before, but every time felt worse than the last, so it was impossible to say if he could persevere again. For all he knew, it was worse than just a mild bug and he’d somehow managed to catch a deadly illness. For all he knew, that night really would be his last.

Maybe he was more scared of death than he originally thought. He didn’t want to close his eyes and have to face the unknown. Would anyone even mourn him? Would Belos regret not taking the time to make sure he was okay? Or would no one care at all? After all, he was just some pathetic kid leaving behind no legacy whatsoever, sure to be replaced the second his body was extracted from his bed. 

He couldn’t die. He didn’t want to. He wanted someone, anyone, to acknowledge him – to help him like the child he really was. He wanted someone besides himself to care whether or not he survived.

He started humming to himself, low and out of tune, wishing he knew even a single lullaby. He’d never actually had someone sing him one, and so he just made up a tune and went with it, relaxing ever so slightly at the reverberations in his chest. He wondered what it would have been like to feel those vibrations from someone else as they hugged him close and swayed him to sleep. Would he still hear their voice in his dreams or feel their warmth wrap around him like a blanket in his sleep? 

Why did he have to be so alone?

He curled himself tighter into a ball and clenched his eyes shut in a feeble attempt to block out the light of the storm. He forced himself to focus on his breathing instead of the itching of his flesh and prayed that the Titan would take mercy on him and allow him to recover. 

[saltysideblog]

Salty imagines...

Sick Basterds

Inglourious Basterds x Reader

Request: Yes! By anon 🤍

What would the Basterds be like with a cold?

During the war, there's no time for whining. Expect lots of spent tissues being hastily stuffed into coat pockets in between rounds of fire and more than one Basterd nearly choking to death trying to keep a cough quiet...

Aldo:

Even before the war, Aldo was a resilient little bugger. Has hundreds of absolutely vile tasting home remedies he swears by and will refuse your help.

"S'jus' a cold, sunshine, ah can take care of it..."

His voice is rougher than usual and his nose is lookin' a little red, but he promises to rest if you insist. When he lays his head in your lap and feels your fingers threading through his hair as you coo about how strong he is, he feels like a million bucks. His very favourite home remedy. No fish oil required.

Donowitz:

When Donny gets sick, he reverts back to his ten year old self; a spoiled mama's boy. Will insist on wearing his pajamas all day, pouting,

"I'm sick..." is his only reply when you ask him to put on some real clothes. Will come up behind you and wrap his arms around your waist when you cook,

"Come back to beeeed..."

"Don, I'm busy."

"I want ice cream."

"I'm making pasta."

"But I'm sick..."

Kiss his forehead and serve him some matzo ball soup just like his ma did. It'll buy you a few moments of peace... until...

"Babe?? Come cuddle with me..."

And if you don't answer immediately,

"I'm sick..."

Wicki:

The only way you know Wicki's been sick is when you get sick after kissing him. When you confront him about it, he just shrugs,

"I didn't want you to worry."

Loves when his partner dotes on him. He thinks it's very sweet that you care, even if he can handle it. Will probably end up taking care of you instead, bringing you hot cups of tea and honey and running you a bath (to be shared, of course.) The bathroom windows are all fogged up as you both sink into the warm water,

"Feels like a lot of steam."

He'll kiss your shoulders and chuckle,

"Yes, but I can breathe again."

Stiglitz:

No one has ever seen Hugo get sick. But as his partner you know the truth; he just secludes himself in the guest room until the illness passes, like a wounded animal crawling into a hole. Will not let you near him,

"You will get sick."

And that's final.

He becomes a spectral figure, a vampire stealing food from your kitchen and retreating back to the shadows. Only emerges once he's his usual chipper self. He appreciates all the little notes you slip under the door more than you know; keeps them all in a shoebox in the closet.

Utivich:

Tries to soldier on, will wrap himself up in a big blanket, walking around like one of the caped heroes he writes about. You'll find him half asleep at his typewriter, barely holding onto his cup of now cold coffee. He will never ask you to take care of him, but he makes it difficult not to. You get him over to the couch and tuck him in, he lets you know just how much he appreciates what you do for him, sleepily mumbling,

"I love you so much..."

Before dozing off.

In a few hours, you'll have to do it all again, but you wouldn't trade it for the world.

Omar:

Very difficult to wake up in the morning... or the afternoon... or any time he dozes off. Omar's a sleeper and whether or not you dote on him makes no difference to him... because he'll be asleep. It does put a smile on his face when he wakes up in the middle of the afternoon and there's a box of his favourite snacks with a glass of water on the coffee table for him.

Feel better!

He runs his fingers over your handwritten note.

He likes knowing you think of him, even if he's not the most interesting conversationalist at the moment.

Hirschberg:

Does not cover his mouth when he sneezes so you will get sick at the same time he does. Gets a little upset about it, because who's gonna take care of you now?

"I can't, I'm sick too!"

"Sweetie, we're adults, we'll take care of each other."

Pouts and whines about it but it makes his heart flutter when you say things like that. Each other... he's not a romantic by any means, but the thought of there always being "each other" could make him swoon. Still won't cover his mouth.

"It's nasty! I don't want that all over my hands!"

Doesn't seem to understand that he can wash his hands but you can't wash the air.

Sakowitz:

Much like Wicki, Sakowitz doesn't want to bother his partner with a silly little cold. The only time he might ask for anything is when you're walking past him and he grasps both your hands, looking deep into your eyes with a sadness only known to orphaned pups... it makes you a bit worried,

"What is it, honey?"

He holds that serious look on his face as he very delicately and politely asks if you could make him a cup of hot chocolate,

"If it isn't too much trouble."

He's more than happy to dote on you when you're under the weather though,

★ Bonus ★

Hicox:

"Stiff upper lip, luv, won't let a little cold bring me down."

*immediately gets upset because he can't taste his tea with a stuffy nose*

[netherfeildren]

FEAR OF GOD : Chapter III : Your bitter heart, heals my heart

Series Masterlist ; Moodboard

Pairing: Joel Miller x OFC

Summary: The damp dew of morning, as dawn broke across the sky the next day, had taken on a biting frigidness, and with it everything was different.

A/N: Let’s play spot the Fiona Apple reference 😁

I’d planned to wait until Sunday to post, but I just couldn’t help myself. I love this chapter a lot. I hope you guys do too. The song Good Guy by Julia Jacklin fits it quite nicely, I think.

Art is Rotting Plums by Rachel Bess.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Content Warnings: character death; brief, non-graphic descriptions of illness; discussions of grief; internal angst; rough sex; choking; brief impact play; after care; soft! Joel™️

Word Count: 6.4k

Read on AO3

CHAPTER III : Your bitter heart, heals my heart

Something in my soul was rising, rising, ceaselessly, painfully, and refused to be still.

-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground

The mystery of Teddy continued and his health worsened. There were no objective indices of a malignant source to explain his symptoms, and yet, nevertheless, they persisted, intensified. The boy was fatigued, withdrawn, sensitive, losing weight, prone to bouts of what could be characterized as a cold or flu. You and Connie suspected the worst, but there was not much to be done to prove your theories without imaging or blood tests, not readily available to you. The best you could do was manage the child’s state symptomatically, and hope for the best until a more concrete plan was assembled. 

-

One night in late October, you and Connie decide to bid farewell to the passing fall with a consolation dinner. The months of Teddy’s ongoing illness had fallen harshly on both of your shoulders and spirits were low. The air outside had taken on the true chill of deep fall, the threat of winter near. You were worried the cold would bring tragedy with it. The child’s constitution was weak and despite good shelter and food and the two of you caring for him, winter was harsh and difficult to endure, even at one’s strongest.

Joel had gone on a good hunt earlier that day and had brought back a nicely sized rabbit. He’d refused to join you and Connie for dinner. Withdrawn and sullen throughout the day, he’d told you to enjoy your evening with a soft kiss pressed to your mouth, before he’d wandered off. You could picture him now, sitting on his porch, guitar in hand, drink at his side, brooding at whatever was plaguing him. The image chafed. His inability, or lack of desire, to tell you what was wrong hurt. 

You and Connie talked shop over your rabbit and greens, roasted potatoes in garlic and sage, and the braised plums Dina had brought you a few days before. It was a lovely meal, a veritable feast, lit by the warm candle light of the beeswax sticks Maria had traded with you. He told you about his wife, stories you’d heard dozens of times, that he never tired of repeating and you never stopped wanting to listen to. Stories of his training, the toils of residency, the great accomplishments of fellowship. Your favorite ones were of when he was younger, in his twenties, young and fresh and ravenous to learn everything he could. Eager for freedom and experience and knowledge. To hear of his life was to know him, and you loved nothing more than learning about the man who had become your greatest mentor and friend.

Connie died in his sleep that night. After you’d finished the last of the scavenged wine, he laughingly said he’d had it for years, and had been saving it for a special occasion – that now felt as good a time as any – like he knew this would be the last chance. He’d said good night to you, gone upstairs to bed and passed away peacefully. The damp dew of morning as dawn broke across the sky the next day had taken on a biting frigidness, and with it everything was different, would forevermore be different. For how could anything continue to exist as it had when the man who had given you a vocation, who had shared with you the greatest gift in his arsenal, his knowledge, was gone. It was a devastating blow for you, for the whole of Jackson. Beth and your parents took up space in your mind constantly in the days that followed, the memory of them a heavier weight than you usually carried. Their lives and their deaths, a constant loop of replay behind your eyelids at night, in your dreams. But you trudged on. Tried in vain to smother your grief as best you could. Hide it from Joel and Maria and Ellie and all your considerably disconcerted patients. 

The weight of the wellbeing of an entire community, that you dearly cared for, now rested on your shoulders, and the responsibility was a formidable and daunting one. Sometimes, you wished you had it in you to rid yourself of the whole thing. To wash your hands of it. Too gripped by the terror of failure and inadequacy to hold on to your courage. Your fears called forth Connie’s past words, how you’d not chosen this for yourself, would not have chosen it if you’d been given another option. But those moments passed eventually, and you did what you must, what was necessary. However great the burden of responsibility felt on your shoulders, you had no choice but to bear them as you may. Choices, always choices; more than conviction of character, more than desires, or hopes, the choices you made were what determined who you were. 

And then there was Joel. Joel who understood this grief of a lost loved one better than anyone else, who understood you better than anyone else. He’d taken your despair in stride, planted his feet in the ground and said to you with every action, every comforting embrace, every night where you cried yourself to sleep in his arms, in his bed, when you sought out the distraction of his mouth and his hands and his cock, with all of it he told you: here I am, use me as you will. Let me help you carry this burden of grief and responsibility, and if you cannot carry it at all, then I will carry you. And he did, with everything he did, he eased your pain. It was like he could read your mind, your heart, as if he’d studied that intrinsic understanding that had always existed between you and Connie under a magnifying glass and applied himself to taking it on himself, doing the same. 

You loved him so much in that time of painful grief after Connie – felt the weight of it so poignantly within your heart, it was like a second presence you carried inside your body now, a second soul. His fist wrapped tightly around your heart, your very life blood held in his hands – his to wield as he chose. It was a terrifying, maddening ordeal, that of losing everything you were to a man. Of giving it to him. And yet, you saw your life in the strangest new light now. What did it matter if the world was vast and cruel and terrifying, if you had him? Very little, it mattered very little. 

-

“Birdie.”

You’d been hunched over your desk for the better part of the afternoon. Late into the evening now, and you were still at it, only a small desk lamp illuminating the strewn catastrophe of papers and books in a wash of warm light. Your eyes stung, your back aching and strained. You couldn’t remember the last thing you’d eaten. “You’re back…”

“How’d it go today? How long’ve you been in here, baby?” You knew that stern tone. You listen to him set down something heavy on the table by the door but don’t turn, too caught up in what you’re currently reading.

“Teddy’s bad again…” you murmur, “There’s – I – I can’t figure this out. It’s driving me insane. If – if I knew more or – or had more equipment…” you trail off. “It’s bad… This is impossible with so little at my disposal.” Your hands clutch your hair, hunched over one of Connie’s old journals, one you’ve read probably a hundred times. “Something’s fucking wrong…” you mumble under your breath. He was weaker and weaker every day. The bruising you’d first noticed a few weeks ago appeared more often, and you had a pretty good idea as to what it was that was wrong with him, but you were terrified of sharing your fears with his mother. Of being wrong. You told yourself you couldn’t be certain without proper testing. That until you’d found something beyond textual evidence to support your theories, that you should keep your conjectures to yourself. After all, if you were right, there was nothing to be done, but keep him comfortable. You told yourself that to hold off was the right thing to do, but you weren’t sure. Had never been in this position before. And alone, with only yourself to count on, with no one to consult with who had experience in something like this, there was only your gut to follow. It was Joel, who’d ultimately soothed your anxieties. He’d said that if it was him, if it was Sarah in this position, the threat of an incurable cancer plaguing her and no sort of cure or treatment closely available, then he’d not want to know the truth of it. The closest FEDRA outhold was hundreds of miles away, and Teddy would never survive the journey – not with the cold of winter starting to set in, he was too weak, too fragile, being eaten alive from the inside out. You felt so fucking useless, so desperate and hopeless, and you didn’t know what to do besides make him comfortable, try and be there for Susanna as best you could. And she knew, she knew something was interminably wrong with her child. She knew you were at a loss, beyond your depth of resources. You could see the understanding and resignation start to settle in her eyes as the days passed. 

“C’mere, Birdie. Come look at this.”

You’re still murmuring to yourself, lost in thought, but you turn to him suddenly, and the look on your face – you feel so young, so lost – “If Connie was here it’d be better–” you say. And you feel so angry at your father suddenly. This is all his fault. He cast you into this role before you’d been old enough to have the sense of foresight to understand all that would come with it. Angry at Connie, for furthering it, for dying, for leaving you alone. Your eyes fill with tears, and he comes over to you, cradles your upturned face in his palms, your fingers twisting in his clothes. “Joel–”

“I found something for you – come see.” He says it so gently, pulls you from the chair, strong hand cupped around the bend of your elbow. Your legs feel as shaky and weak as a newborn fawns, and your vision swoops, dark stars appearing behind your closed eyes. “Head rush,” you whisper. 

“Damnit, Birdie. When was the last time you ate somethin’?” You clutch at his arms tightly as you feel your balance stabilize. 

“I– it’s okay… I’m okay.” 

You turn towards the table then, and sitting on it is a microscope. You turn to look at him, wide eyed, your threat of tears from before immediately becoming reality. “Where did you find that?” 

“There’s a house about five hours west. Me ‘nd Tommy decided to check it out. Someone had a whole damn laboratory in the basement.” There’s a small duffle sitting next to the machine. “Don’t know if it’ll work, if it’s any good to you, or– or if you even want it… I brought all the other stuff I thought went with it–” he unzips the bag, peers inside. “Not sure it’s what you need… if it’s any good. But I thought–” He’s ranting, tongue tripping over his own words, and there’s a fierce blush washing over his cheeks. “I just–” he sighs, “I just saw it and thought of you. Thought it might be something you’d like or find interesting… Something to distract you.” And he’s so endearing and so sweet and so understanding and you’re pressing yourself to him, tears spilling. His breath whooshes out in a small huff with the force of your chest thumping against his, your arms sneaking around his neck like vines, feet scrabbling against the floor, stepping on the toes of his boots to boost yourself up higher, press harder. Your heart, your heart, it hurts, it pinches and burns, and oh, you love him.

He is undoing you.  

His hand weaves through the long threads of your loose hair, presses your streaming eyes and hot face to his neck. You mouth messily at the skin of his neck, too overwrought for words. Trying to convey everything you’re feeling in this moment into his skin through the press of your own. And you know, with the gentleness of his hands over your hair, your face, your back and waist, that he knows, he understands.

“I knew you needed something – hoped this could help in some way.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you, you breathe into his neck. 

This small action, him going out on patrol and bringing back something for you, seeing something that reminded him of you and hauling it all the way back here, just to make you happy, just because he thought it might entertain you – it’s everything. To know that he knows how much this would mean to you, how much this would help you, how much you needed this – it tells you more about the state of the two of you now, in this moment, than anything else that has transpired before. 

You hug yourself closer to him, wet face soaking his shirt and he just holds you, let’s you bask in him. And his tallness and warmth and aliveness — it makes you forget that cowering animal you’d felt like these past few days. He brings back to life your own warmth, your own aliveness, pulls out of you the desire to share it with him. It’s like a damn breaking, a rush of despair and love and grief so overwhelming it punches the air out of you. 

Gasp escaping in a loud, breathless sob,“I’m alone, I’m alone now,” you press your hot eyes into the space beneath his jaw, “I don’t have anyone anymore. Connie, Connie – I – I don’t – don’t know h– how–” It’s uncontrollable, breath hitching and hiccuping. Somewhere in the rational recess of your mind you know you shouldn’t be telling him all this. That maybe he doesn’t want to hear it, or maybe even more unlikely, that it’ll hurt him to hear you claim this aloneness. That being without Connie now was almost like being without Beth – out there, in the wilderness, alone and desperate; that facing the responsibility he’d left you with felt like that vast wilderness from before. That without him you felt so, so lost. Your anchor to this world, your guiding light, your friend, your teacher was gone; and even with Joel physically beside you, the encroaching sense of familiar loneliness was overwhelming. You couldn’t help it. Couldn’t swallow this hurt. It was too heavy to be repressed. 

You pull back to take in his face and he splays his hand over your cheek, gently brushes away the wet under your eye, your bottom lip, the delicate wing of your cheekbone – his eyes: concerned and grave and slightly lost – like you’re breaking his heart, like he’d do anything in this moment to bear your pain for you. You look at him and think of all the times he’s pushed you away, held you at arms length, refused to let you in. The small hurts and the pinch of your heart in the space where you hold him inside of you, your recurring thought that: I know none of this will matter in the long run — but while we’re here — I want you to love me. 

But with this, with this, he was showing you. He was telling you with his actions, with his pain and concern for you: I know of the things you need, of the things you want, and I’ll try and give them to you the best I can. I’ll try and take care of you the best I can. This is me trying; this is me telling you, I love you. 

“You’re not alone. I’m here, Birdie. I’m gonna take care of you. I promise.”

You push your face into his large, warm palm, nuzzle the rough skin, and you wonder what will become of you if you cannot be close to him anymore — if he were to one day take himself away from you. Because you know that’s the only way this would ever have a chance of ending, if he were to decide to leave, to go away some place he’d not allow you to follow. Nothing else would ever rip you from his side. 

“Thank you,” you whisper into his palm, press a small kiss to the center of it. 

“Hell, baby. If I knew the damn thing’d pull this reaction out of you I’d have left it where I found it.” You laugh a watery little laugh. And you think that it really does feel like the world’s ending, a terrible thing, when you feel the love you have for someone settle within you, when you realize the depth of it. 

You press up high on your toes, seeking out his mouth, a kind of frantic buzz filling your limbs as you reach for him. You twine your arms around his neck and your fingers into his hair. He understands you and he’s here and he’s going to take care of you and you love him so much. None of the things that had been plaguing your mind these past few weeks, none of the anxieties matter in this moment. Just the feel of his warm skin, his rough hands passing over your clothes and then gripping, twisting in the back of your shirt to press you up higher. He peppers open mouth kisses to your cheeks, your jaw, sucks on your neck sharply. “What do you need, Birdie? Tell me what you need, and I’ll give it to you.”

You can’t think, can’t put into words this frenzied desperation you’re feeling. All you can do is claw harder at his clothes and hair, try to climb the length of his body, get as close as you possibly can. You let out a high little whine, and he winds his fingers through your hair, grips tight and gives a sharp tug. “Need me to be the only thing in that pretty head right now? Huh?” He jerks your head back sharply, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat. His teeth latch onto the delicate line of muscle there, and you’re sure he can feel the rapid fluttering of your pulse against his tongue, a staccato of morse code telling him all your secrets, can taste the distressed need seeping out of your pores. You try and hitch your knee around his hip, grind your aching cunt into him. You can feel your arousal seeping into the gusset of your panties, and you claw at his back to try and find purchase, to rock yourself harder into him. His mouth moves down to the soft junction of your shoulder, and his bite there is harsher, claiming. You’ll have a red blossom of a bruise there tomorrow you’re sure. “So fucking desperate for me, baby.”

His words make something satisfied coil low in your belly. Yes, yes, you moan. You’re glad he knows. You want him to feel how much you need him, how much you want him. You want your desperation to incite his own. You want, need, him to need you as much as you do. He’s clutching your ass then, fingers squeezing your flesh tightly and hoisting you up into his arms. You wrap your legs around his waist, lick into his mouth as he walks the two of you towards the sofa against the wall. 

He lets your feet drop to the ground and sits heavily on the couch, knees spread wide and he’s ripping your leggings down your thighs without preamble, clasping the bend of your knee to slip your shoe off and pull the fabric of your pants and underwear off one foot. He pulls you onto his lap then, and you’re clawing at his belt, pulling his already hard cock free of the confines of his clothes. It’s late into the evening now, but anyone could walk in at any moment. Nancy had gone out earlier, but she could come back, come looking for you. None of that matters right now. All you can think about is getting him inside of you now, now now. He grips the back of your thigh to spread you wider across his lap and fists the base of his cock, jacks it once, twice.  The tip is gleaming with precum and flushed so red it’s almost purple – your mouth waters at the sight of it. He hasn’t even touched your pussy yet, but you can feel how soaked you are. Your sex tight and aching, and you wrap your own hand around him, pressing up a little higher on your knees to position him at your entrance, and then you’re sinking down, down and you both let out twin ragged groans of relief as you take him inside of you, watching the place where he disappears inside. It’s too much, painful, without having him make you come before, and exactly what you need. His eyes on yours are wide, as if he’s shocked. As if, even after all the times the two of you have done this, he still can’t believe it can feel like this. His neck is flushed red, you can see the hammering of his pulse in the thick vein of his neck, and it makes the walls of your cunt flutter in response. You’re going to come already, just with this. Just at the feel of taking him within you, your orgasm is there. You start to throb and pulse around him and your womb clenches and twists tight like a cramp. “Jesus fucking christ,” he grits out through clenched teeth, large palms gripping your ass to start to move you. And you’re orgasming fully now, cunt clamping down hard around his throbbing length. “Shit, shit–” you bury your face in his neck, tears, a slow, uncontrollable stream from your eyes at the intensity of it, “you’re coming already – Christ– you’re coming already.”

He starts to thrust his hips up into you, the blunt head hitting deep at the mouth of your cervix. “Good girl – good, fucking take it.” All you can do is moan and sob into his neck. Nothing will ever feel like this. Nothing else in your whole life will ever be as good as this is. He’s subjugated you with the feel of his cock pounding inside of you, and if you weren’t in love with him, you’d probably resent him for it. For having such a hold over you. No one person should have this much power over another. You yank on his hair hard. There is a fist around your heart in the shape of him, and it fucking hurts, and you want more and less, all at the same time. 

“Harder, please, harder,” you whisper into his ear, let it slide through him, over him. And then he’s flipping you over, your entire weight cradled briefly in his arms as he presses your back into the cushions, and spreads your knees wide, one hooked over the back of the couch, and the other held open by his hand. “You want it harder, little bird? Want me to wreck this cunt?”

“Want it to hurt. Make it hurt, Joel, please.”

Your words set off a deep red flush in his chest that crawls up his neck and into his cheeks. His eyes go slightly glazed and feral, and he snaps his hips so hard into you your teeth click. He hoists your knee in his grip higher and you press your bare foot into his shoulder as he sets a brutal pace. He makes it hurt. Hand wrapped around your throat, angling your head back into a stretch that pinches. You arch your back, deepening the angle so that he’s fucking up into you and hitting something that makes dark spots flash in your vision. Oh, it hurts, it hurts, it feels so good. His hulking form over you, teeth bared in a snarl, would be terrifying to anyone else. But you think that even with his hand on your throat and that savage look in his eyes, there is nowhere you’d ever feel safer than right where you are. Beneath him, surrounded by him, held in the palm of his hand. 

“Like that, baby? This what you needed?” He rips the collar of your t-shirt down, then the cup of your bra, and slaps your breast harshly, once, twice, three times, rips a high pitched keen out of you. 

Yes, yes, yes. Thank you. 

“You’re gonna take all of my come like a good girl, but first I need you to give me one more. Need you to come on my cock one more time.” The hand on your throat moves to your clit, circles it over and over again. You can feel the wet slap of his balls heavy against your ass. There’s sweat beading at his temples and your eyes never leave each other. Your heavy pants and the sounds of your fucking filling the room like some sort of lewd song. You start to throb around him, the pounding of his cock pulling your orgasm from deep in your pelvis so that it’s fluttering out, up your back and through your limbs like electricity. You pull his chest to yours then, and he lets his heavy weight crush you into the cushions beneath, grinds his cock deep, his pubic bone pressing harshly on the bud of your clit and eliciting another pulsing wave of your orgasm, and then he’s jerking inside of you. The heat of his come filling you. “Take it, take it all, every last drop.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

His hips grind slowly, and he lets your knee drop. You wrap your leg around him and push your foot into the base of his spine, pressing him harder into you. He pulls back a little after the last jerk of his cock, gentle thumb ghosting along the arch of your eyebrow, your cheek, then down across the wing of your collarbone, he lowers his head to press a long kiss to your shoulder. When he looks at you again his eyes are soft, a little concerned, “That was okay? I wasn’t too rough?” You nuzzle into his chest, press a kiss over his heart. 

“No, no, that was what I needed. It was perfect.”

The two of you lay there for a long while afterwards. His head on your breast and his heavy weight pressing you deep into the sofa. The heat rolling off his body is almost overwhelming, sweltering like a furnace, and it wrings exhaustion out of you. There’s an ache settling deep in your pelvis, and the skin of your throat and thighs smart where he gripped you so hard. It’s bliss.

You run your fingers through his hair, nails dragging along his scalp, and then in long, languorous strokes down his back. He practically purrs, like an oversized and needy cat.

Perhaps this necessity is the worst thing that’s ever happened to you. I need you so much, Joel. Isn't that the worst thing you’ve ever heard? Like an addiction, some sort of disease. For him to be the thing in the world to best soothe you, to best comfort you, but also be the one thing that sometimes hurts you the most. The dichotomy of all he brings out in you – the almost overwhelming love you feel for him, the fear of needing him so much you’d die without him, the desperation to be close to him at all times, for the two of you to be more connected, to know each other better than any two people ever have in all history. You could set fire to the two of you wrapped around each other like you are now with the intensity of all your feelings, let your skin meld together as one. And then also: the hurt, the sadness, the feeling that there’s always something small but magnificently significant missing between the two of you. All the unspoken words that hang heavy in the air. That one piece of him he always manages to keep hidden and tucked away from you no matter the intensity of what transpires between you, no matter how wide you spread his ribs to peer within him. It’s like a neverending stabbing to the depth of your heart, over and over and over again. You think you might have become addicted to the way it hurts. So much so, it manifests physically. You think that perhaps the more it hurts the more content you feel because at least you still have him here with you, at least he’s still in your arms. 

There is a part of yourself that realizes that you need something to hurt, to be difficult, to feel worth it. Like if there isn’t some seed of pain at the root of the thing, then it isn’t worth fighting for, isn’t worth the dedication, and you can’t understand why. Perhaps because the start of your life was so easy, so peaceful, despite the world you’d been born into. Perhaps because after your parent’s death everything was suddenly so jarringly difficult, from one blink to the next, life threatening at every turn, that it made the before not seem real anymore. Didn’t seem like it’d ever be attainable again if you didn’t hurt yourself in the process of obtaining it. Perhaps it was just martyrdom, or stupidity, or a subconscious inclination to make everything in your life infinitely more difficult than it actually needed to be. Like that girl who’d always done as was expected of her needed to find some way to counteract her obsequiance with a little bit of rebellion. Some small way within yourself to rail against always being good. Perhaps these small hurts were that form of rebellion. 

And then, well really, how could you not resent him after all that? Even if that resentment is overshadowed by how much you love him, how much you need him, still, still you’re angry with him at the same time for keeping that piece of himself away from you when you’ve spilled your blood at his feet. And yet, despite all this, despite all these thoughts running through your mind as you feel his breath press into your chest, as you feel the strong, steady thump of his heart echo into the cavity of your own, you understand him. You understand the motives behind every one of his actions, read the feeling in his eyes like a book, and so how could you not continue to endure all this ache? Continue to crave it. How could you not offer him your understanding, at the very least? If he won’t let you give him anything else but that, then this is all you’ll offer him. A place he can shuck away the fear he holds gripped around his heart, a place to come and be accepted as he is. Whatever is missing after that can be endured, if only he continues to rest his head here on your heart, let you breathe him in, let you feel him. 

And oh, you think, it is such a terrible thing to love someone so much. A terrible thing. 

-

Ellie liked to say that time healed all wounds. And sometimes that was true. Sometimes it was not a healing, but merely a scabbing over. Eschar over a festering of hurt still alive beneath the surface, but lived with so long it becomes customary. The bearer becomes complacent – used to it. Parts of you felt like that. Different pockets of painful memory across the surface of your skin. Pushed to the back of your mind in a plight for the preservation of your sanity.

Joel liked to be contradictory and say it was never time. But people, it was people that helped you heal your wounds. Serious, stoic old man that he liked to pretend to be, but you found him incredibly soft and sweet the day he told you that. Trying his best to piece together words to comfort you. You’d shown him exactly how sweet you found him afterwards, on your knees, your mouth wrapped around his hard cock. 

And you found they were both right in their own ways. At his side, surrounded by him, the stain of your grief dissipated little by little every day. And as time after Connie’s death passed, the clinic became your priority. The perfect distraction. The patient’s and the people of Jackson were tended to by you and Nancy, who’d become indispensable, with a dedication and hyperfocus, Tommy said, rivaled that of any soldier he had ever served with before. That thought made you quite pleased to think about. For others to recognize the strength in you was cathartic in a way you’d not known you needed.

-

“There’s been word of a group of travelers – about ten of them.” Maria tells you and Joel. You’re at your office desk, a strew of case notes and charts before you. Joel’s already scowling, shaking his head, arms crossed against his chest. His hair is getting too long again, dark curls streaked with gray, messy and sticking up in all the places where you’d tugged your fingers through earlier when he was kissing you. “A teenage girl found her way to the gates �� patrol’s bringing her in now. She’s barely speaking, but we managed to get a bit out of her. Says there’s kids with them, a baby. Says they’re sick, hurt – been traveling a long time.”

Joel looks at you, a forbidding look already building in his eyes, “Absolutely not.”

“I wasn’t going to ask you.” You turn your nose up at him and look back at Maria, he feels his blood boil at your bratiness. “What else did she say, Maria? Is she hurt?”

“I said no, Birdie.”

“Not from what we could tell. Wouldn’t let us get too close– Joel, if they’ve got kids with them–” Maria tries.

“I don’t give a damn. And since when’ve you gotten so fucking lax with the safety of this place? What happened to floatin’ anyone who got too close down the river?”

“Joel–” you admonish sharply. But he isn’t listening to this shit. There’s no way in hell he’s letting you go along with this nonsense. “She ain’t going out there. Absolutely not… With just some unconfirmed story to go on? You think I’d let her–”

“Let me?” Your voice is incredulous.

“It isn’t safe. There are too many people here who need you–” I need you, he thinks, I need you so much, I’ll die without you, I need you safe, “People who rely on you. You’re not gonna put all that in jeopardy for a group of strangers.”

“I’m not completely helpless, you know.” You stand now, crossing your arms beneath your breasts, and fucking hell, now is not the time for him to be ogling your tits. You prop your hip out, the sassiest look he’s ever seen, set on your delicate features. “If I’m out there, if it’s necessary, I can take care of myself.”

“Birdie, you’re not hearing me. The answer is no.” There’s no room for argument in his tone, and he sees your temper flare in your eyes, bright hot and seething at him. 

“Joel, I’m not asking your permission. This is what all this has been for – what everything I’ve learned and practiced for was always meant for.” You splay your palms wide, your voice cracking a little in your fervor, and he feels a terrible sense of premonition begin to creep up the back of his neck. His hair standing on end. “There may be only one of me, but that makes my skill all the more necessary to share. There’s only one of me and lots of people who need help – and I’m gonna do everything I can to help everyone I can. Strangers or not. You cannot stop me.” 

He turns away, his heavy boot accidentally colliding with the chair beside him and jostling it violently. “Fuck–” he spits, “Fuck,” runs a hand through his hair, grips hard and tugs. The thought of you out there, in danger, vulnerable, sets his teeth on edge. Goes against everything howling inside him to keep you safe, protected. To hunch his body over yours and bear his teeth like an animal at anyone who’d dare get too close, horde you only for himself. At the same time, his own sense of self preservation rears its ugly head. The thought of you hurt so abhorrent in his mind he shies away from it – wants to run far away, avoid witnessing such a thing.

He pivots sharply back in your direction, brandishing a threatening finger at your chest, “If we do this, we do it how I say. Exactly as I say. No questions asked.” He turns his glare on Maria, “And we’re taking a good group with us. None of those idiots who can barely handle themselves. I want Pablo, Kenneth and Ben.” You and Maria share a look. Jesus, fucking incompetent, the lot of them, he thinks and paces, but they’ll have to do. “And Tommy’s fucking coming. If you’re gonna risk mine, then you’ll risk yours.”

“Fair enough,” Maria says, holding up her palms at him. Her face is serious, not letting his provocation rattle her. “I agree.” 

“Fucking better,” he grumbles under his breath, glaring at her out of the corner of his eye. You sidle up to him, run a soothing palm up his belly to his chest. He has to suppress a shiver. “You’re gonna rip all the hair out of your head, baby,” you croon, soft and appeasing, small palm wrapping around his wrist to gently pull his hand away. The glare he levels at you would send a grown man running. You scrunch your nose at him, and fuck the fact that he wants to kiss you senseless right now. No one person should be this beautiful, this appealing. It surely must go against some law of nature, for one cruel little creature to be so unbearably beguiling, so hard to say no to. Unable to hold on to his annoyance at you for anything longer than a few seconds, he wraps your small hand in his and tugs you further into him. “You’ll do as I say. We’re going to be extremely careful out there. I sense anything even slightly off, and we’re coming back. Understood?” he murmurs into your hair. You look up at him, eyes wide and falsely guileless, oh he knows all your tricks, you can’t fool him with that look. You nod in confirmation, soft pink cheek smushed up against his shoulder. Jesus.

Read Chapter IV

Netherfeildren Masterlist

End Notes: I kind of want to mention some things (and don’t know really know how to put it), but I realize there are parts of Birdie’s thought process in this chapter, and really in the story going forward, that some people might not agree with all that much, or find like idk misguided, unhealthy, etc., and yes, most definitely acknowledged. But really, the whole point of this story is that she’s working through some things, they’re both working through things. So… I know her point of view is perhaps not very well adjusted, but I think she’s going to get better eventually. They’re BOTH going to get better eventually. At least, that’s where I hope I’m able to lead them both to, and I hope you all don’t judge her too harshly or think too poorly of her before this is all over. My goal when I started writing this was to examine the grace we all sometimes need others to give us when we’re our worst or weakest selves. This is a very personal chapter for me, and perhaps my favorite of the entire story. 

I’m sending lots of love to you all. Thank you for reading. xx

[ok555ficideas]

Hate u, love u

Inspired by the song "Hate u love u" by Olivia O'Brien

Kevin was never good at relationships. They were forbidden in the nest and he always knew that Exy would take all the space in his heart anyway.

So he pushed his feelings away. He ignored the fluttering in his heart when he looked into Jean’s beautiful eyes. He tried to steer clear of Thea and her fierceness that made him want to drop everything he was doing just to be close to her.

Feelings like that were dangerous. They made him vulnerable and it put the people who caused them in danger. Riko was not allowed to cause him any bodily damage that would prevent him from playing, but it didn’t stop him from hurting people he thought were important to Kevin.

In the end it didn’t even stop him from hurting Kevin himself.

When he first joined the Foxes he was a wreck. He was a shell of a man and didn’t think he would ever feel like a person again.

Andrew changed all of that. The blonde put him back together and made Kevin feel like he was worth something again.

Kevin tried so hard not to look, not to feel, but he failed. Andrew was a steady force that was standing between him and danger and Kevin couldn’t help falling in love with him.

He knew that nothing serious would come of it. Andrew was even more anti-relationship than Kevin was. Maybe that was why Kevin has allowed himself to start this ill-advised arrangement.

The first time Andrew kissed him he felt like all the pieces of the puzzle had finally fallen into place. He felt free and like he would move mountains for the man in front of him. He knew he was dangerously close to the edge. He wouldn’t be able to walk away without a scratch after finding out what Andrew’s kisses tasted like.

He still had dreams about Andrew’s hands on him, his mouth slowly picking him apart. Andrew was far from gentle, but sometimes he would put a soft kiss on his hip or his thigh and Kevin would come apart, because of the gesture.

When Neil entered their lives with his feisty attitude and covered in mystery Kevin knew that it was over. He had revealed his cards too early and Andrew was already bored of him.

He saw the glances his two teammates kept throwing each other’s way. He saw the hunger in Andrew’s gaze that was once upon a time directed at him.

After Andrew came down from his meds the glances became something else. There was still lust there, but it was far more gentle. Andrew has never looked at him like that. This look was reserved for Neil and Neil alone.

Kevin couldn’t sleep. The thoughts that Andrew would soon lose Neil were occupying his every thought. He felt guilty at the fact he was secretly wishing for that day. He hated himself for it.

Neil was his friend. Kevin wanted him to survive, he wanted him to be able to stop running and finally live. He wanted him to make the Court so they could play together until people forced them into retirement.

He felt selfish every time he caught himself waiting for his friend’s death even for a second. He knew that it wouldn’t change anything between him and Andrew. Maybe after a while they would go back to what they had, but that was not what Kevin wanted.

He loved Andrew with all his heart and he wouldn’t survive not having all of him again. He knew that Andrew would never feel the same.

At first he thought that Andrew was just uncable of loving someone like that, but it became clear that he was perfectly able, Kevin was just not the right person.

When Andrew wrapped his hands around his throat and pressed until Kevin lost all of his air supply he couldn’t help but think that he deserved it.

For lying to Andrew and not telling him about Neil’s real identity. For every time he hoped for this very day. He deserved to be choked to death.

As he was looking into the eyes of a man that once made him feel safe for the first time in his life, he couldn’t help, but thought that it was fitting to die at his hands. Kevin should have known better than to trust anyone. The less air he had left in his brain the more Andrew’s face morphed into Riko’s.

Kevin hated that. He wanted to look into Andrew’s mesmerizing eyes as he was dying, not Riko’s. Riko already took too much from him, Kevin couldn’t let him take this too.

He must have been on the verge of passing out, because Andrew finally let go. Kevin told him everything and wondered if Andrew would ever forgive him.

He wondered if he would ever forgive Andrew. For making him feel like this, for making Kevin fall in love with him and for lying to him that no harm would come his way.

Andrew had hurt him in more ways than one. He had the bruises on his neck to prove it, but the biggest scars had no physical indications. Kevin’s heart was breaking with every stolen glance that passed between Andrew and Neil and he felt himself slowly fading away.

Neil survived and Kevin felt relieved and disappointed at the same time. Before Baltimore he could have fooled himself that what Neil had with Andrew, was the same as what Kevin used to share with the goalie, but he couldn’t fool himself anymore.

Not when Neil had started to share a room with them. Not when it turned out that Andrew had picked Neil over Aaron. Not when he saw them sharing a bed and sleeping somewhat peacefully alongside each other.

As he drowned his sorrows in yet another bottle he couldn’t help but think that Riko was right. He once told him that caring made a person weak and Kevin finally understood what it meant.

He had survived a tremendous amount of torture and trauma in his life. He’s been both physically and emotionally abused ever since he could remember and yet nothing had ever hurt him like this.

Heartbreak. That's what it was and Kevin hated himself for feeling it.

He hated Andrew even more. He hated how much he loved him and how much he cared about him. He hated the fact that he was replaced by Neil and that he was the one who brought the other strikers into their lives.

If not for the red head they would still probably be miserable together. Now Kevin was alone in his suffering. Andrew used to be just like him. Holding on to people even if it hurt them both just to not be alone. Now he has started to let go.

He let go of his brother and he was slowly letting go of Kevin.

Kevin didn't want to be set free. He wanted to stay in the cage they build for each other and never leave, but it was not his choice to make.

Andrew was done with him and there was nothing left to do to stop it.

Kevin opened another bottle and hoped that he would be able to forget, even if just for a little while.

[insomniamamma]

Tessellation: Cee and Ezra

A/N: written for @oonajaeadira and @yearofcreation2023. Year of kisses. The prompt is kiss while sleeping. This one ended up being far more about Cee than Ezra. As Stephen King says "Memory is the basis for every journey."

Warnings: medical trauma, drug abuse, illness, angst, Damon is a terrible father but he wasn't always, death.

He looks small. This man who has upended her life. Ezra. She doesn't even know his family name or where he hails from or which ship he dropped down to the Green on. She's known him two hands of cycles, much of that as he is now. What's left of his right arm is buried in white bandages, strapped to his chest. Tubes snake beneath the nest of blankets, draining murky pink froth from his lungs into oddly prissy containers hanging below, dust infection measured out into fill lines, blood and puss and Kevva knows what. Tube stuffed down his throat and taped to his face. His left arm turned palm up like a gesture of supplication, large-bore IV line spiked into the crook of his elbow, pulsoxometer clipped to his index finger.

He looks small. And deathly sick. His skin has a grayish cast she doesn't care for at all, the dark stubble on his cheeks screaming out like exclamation points. Cee's seen this before. Seen her dad pale and sallow-grey, breath slow, tucked some stim gum between his parted lips and smacked at his arm until he reflexively started chewing.

"I was sleeping, Cee." "but--" "Do NOT do that again. We've got a big drop coming up. We need to be sharp." "but--" "Just hang with me. This job pans out the way it should and we'll be out of the shit for good. Back to Central. But you've got to trust me. You've got to trust me and do what I say, clear?" "but, Dad--" "Are. We. Clear?" "Yeah. clear."

That familiar knot coils itself in her belly. The long greyed out days in between drops ending with her dad doped up to the gills, I need it to sleep, Cee. You'll understand when you're older, nodding off to leave her with his soupy snores and the endlessly shifting light through the pod's tiny rounded windows, little nights and dawns as the freighter spins. She'd copy out what she remembered of The Streamer Girl and listen until she felt confident that he wasn't going to die in his sleep.

"Can he hear me?" She'd asked the medic when they finally allowed her to see him. "Hard to say. We had to put him down pretty deep. He's got a lot of fight in him." "That's a good thing, right?" "Look. Your dad's real sick. He got pretty well dusted. If we can get him to the Pug he's got a shot. But that's a long haul from now. Clear?" "Clear."

She doesn't bother to correct the medic. Maybe things will play better for them if people take them as kin.

Ezra wasn't waking up. But he wasn't dying either. He just stayed stone still, swaddled in white, his stump buried in med-gel and bandages. His eyes flicked back and forth, caught in some endless looping dream. Cee takes his hand sometimes, careful not to dislodge the monitor clipped to his finger, always surprised at his warmth. She tells him about the endless days, doing whatever odd jobs need doing on the freighter, which she understands as charity disguised as work, a way to square their room and board until they hit the Pug. "--channel rat crawled up into the aft intake and died it was just bones and dust, I wanted to keep the skull but Leroy said it was bad luck so it just went in with the rest of the swill--"

Ezra starts twitching, small choking sounds around the tube down his throat.

"Easy," says Cee, "you're okay." And lays her hand on his forehead, smooths the taught skin there, presses the furrows down with her thumb, "You're okay."

"Did I tell you about when your mom used to hypnotize you?"

Cee slides her music player off. She knows by his tone that he is going to have his say. This has become something familiar. He puts the drops in his eyes and then talks. Sometimes it's names and places that she doesn't know and sometimes it involves her. If she doesn't at least make a show of listening he'll yell sometimes, his slurred out voice why don't you ever listen? So it's best to keep her ears half-cocked until sleep claims him.

"Mom used to hypnotize me?" "Mmmh-hmmm. You used to cry so much. You were colicky. We used to have to rub your belly to get you to fart--" "Ewww. Dad--" "They were baby farts! They didn't--they didn't smell--" "But mom?" "Yeah, she'd do this thing--" Damon sits up and lurches towards her and she flinches back a little, and even in his fuzzed out state she registers the hurt in his eyes. Damon smooths the pad of his thumb up and down between her eyebrows "She'd do that?" Cee can't help smiling a little. Damon rarely shows affection these days, and the feel of calloused thumb on her forehead is nice, makes her think of better times, makes her think of being small and Damon picking her up under her arms and covering her face and head with loud smacking kisses while she shrieked in delight, three of them instead of two, a job on some soft, barely remembered world a place of gentle grav and cool breezes, a hand held in each of hers and they'd swing her high, almost flying in the low grav-- "See? I hypnotized you." Cee breaks out of her reverie. "Did not." Damon lays back on his cot. "I freaked out. I told her don't you hypnotize that baby and she laughed and laughed--she--you--miss her…I miss.." and then he's gone. Drawn down into whatever relief the drugs give him, an ill rhythm of slow snores. And Cee waits, waits for the short term sedation of the drops to wane, for his breathing to even out into something more normal.

She remembers being sick. Got bit by a drill worm, Damon told her later, spiked a fever. Like touching a hot engine skirt. She remembers her mother's voice singing low and soft, can't remember the words, she was too small for that, but remembers the cool washcloth on her forehead, removed and re-wetted, Mom kissing her there, right between her eyebrows, where the pad of her thumb once passed.

Ezra sleeps swaddled and small and pinned by machinery, her hand folded around his, careful, fingers tracing the lines of his calloused palm. For now he is still, soothed by her touch. "Ezra? You need to wake up. I don't know what's going to happen when we get to the Pug."

Cee leans over and kisses him, presses her lips against that little space between his eyebrows.

"You need to wake up."

[vasiktomis]

The Seeds Eating You Out - AFAB!Reader (18+)

Tags/Warnings: Humiliation, angst, illiteracy, yelling.

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Joseph

Joseph doesn’t beat around the proverbial bush. He wants to make sure you’re satisfied.

He takes an ultra long time worshiping your body.

Lots of kisses.

After a while the spit in his beard goes cold and it feels like a gross stamp.

Also, you realise that despite all the worship, he never actually looks at your face.

When he finally settles between your legs and you’re looking down at the top of his head, you realise how aggressive the male pattern baldness really is.

A strangled sound escapes him the moment he lowers his face to your cunt.

You look down again. He’s crying. Choked sobs, shoulders wracking against your thighs.

“I’m sorry.” He blubbers, drooling saliva and snot all over your vulva. “My wife had a vagina, too, you see.”

Deep in the ocean of his balls, the sperm that will one day become the fetus that will one day become Ethan Seed is strangling its siblings to death. It will lead the New Eden.

___________________________

Faith

Faith is one to keep her nails clipped, god bless.

She just hasn’t washed her hands since the 3rd grade.

There’s almost as much grime on her fingers as there is her terminally bare feet, which are leaving patches of wet grit and sand and the odd blade of grass on your sheets as she crawls toward you on the mattress.

“Welcome to the bliss.” She smiles, holding eye contact until she’s lowered herself enough that you can only see the whites of her eyes.

A muddy hand grips your thigh, and it distracts you from a long lick through your folds, and the expectant look that goes unanswered.

Bravely, she continues on. First in an ‘A’ sequence, then ‘B’.

She’s tracing the alphabet into your clit, and what’s worse, you can hear her humming along so as not to forget her place.

When she gets to ‘F’, she stops and cranes her head to meet your gaze again.

“F for Faith.” She whispers, expressionless.

“That’s right. Very good.” You nod, hesitant.

You wish to leave this place.

___________________________

John

For the past minute, John has been rubbing your shit like a scratch 'n' win lottery card. Sweat gathers on his forehead.

When this started, he was brimming with charisma. Now, 60 seconds in, he looks like he’s about to kill you.

“You like that?” He pants yet again, near sanding off your clitoris with the sheer elbow grease he’s putting into it. “You gonna squirt? You gonna come? Come already. Just —why won’t you come?” John punctuates his accusation by straight up punching the mattress.

For a moment, he looks like he might burst into tears. Into the layers of cotton and padding, he screams himself hoarse before going deathly quiet.

It’s a matter of seconds before he composes himself.

He’s a pro, after all.

A bead of sweat (or perhaps a tear) that had been wobbling at the end of his nose smears into your folds as he lowers his mouth to your entrance — and all but shoves his tongue inside with a faux-appreciative hum that makes it obvious he really thinks he’s doing a good job right now.

Just as soon as the ill-informed venture begins, he’s pulling out and away from you, settling on his knees with what is either a grin or a grimace.

Hastily, he fumbles with his belt.

Apparently it’s his turn now.

___________________________

Jacob

Jacob traces a grimy finger around your clit, ignoring the hitch in your breath.

“See, if you had some more meat on this, there’d be more for me to work with.” He grumbles. “No balls, either. Not only am I going hungry, but thirsty, too. How do you expect to feed a platoon like this?”

“Sir, it’s a pussy, SIR!” You bark back at him, doing your damnedest not to flush red while his eyebrows raise.

His expression turns thoughtful, then. “So this is what a pussy looks like. And the hole?”

“Supposed to be there, SIR.”

“Ew, yuggy.”

“Sir, it is yuggy, sir!”

Jacob shifts back, then. He turns to look over his shoulder at the sliver of arm peeking out from behind a corner.

“Peaches, you see this shit?” He hollers. “Is this common?”

“Y-yes, sir.” Comes the trembling response.

Jacob hums at that, returning to scrutinising your cunt.

“So this is what the liberal agenda is pushing.” He scoffs. “This is the America I fought for.”

[edensrose]

─────── .°୭̥ ✿ˎˊ˗ day six : doom

( ❀ ) ˙ ˖    námo⠀〳 reader⠀  ❜࿔ 

· ⊰ synopsis. death is his domain, and yet námo finds himself slipping when he sees a vision of your demise ( angst ៸៸ death ៸៸ war themes )

· ⊰ notes. I am. . . not okay and now neither will any of y'all be <3

He has seen death ample times in his millennia’s worth of existence.

He has witnessed the grief and wallowing of thousands of souls that enter his halls.

He has even found beauty in it. Death, that is. The release of responsibilities. The fierce, icy grip that would soon lead to peace.

He admired it, he envied it.

And yet. . . The day that Námo perceived your final moments, he found himself unable to function. Unable to speak, eat, sleep.

Countless times has he seen death, and yet nothing shook him more to his core than the sight of you laying there on the battlefield. Your body painted with crimson and your eyes shut. That beautiful face of yours so serene despite the wounds that littered your fána. For a moment, he may have considered the possibility of you simply lost in slumber, if it were not for the scene of chaos that carried on around you.

That is what his world had become, chaos. The realisation that he could not protect you broke him in several ways. He knew that this was unstoppable. He knew that this was fate. But what the Vala also knew is that this was cruelty in its finest. For The One to have shown him such horrible imageries — of the person he holds dear no less. . .

Námo was in a state. To know that your end would not be a peaceful send off. You would pass away in the heat of battle, the day of Dagor Dagorath. He will witness your death and yet, despite all his power and might he will not be able to reach you.

For the first time in his entire existence, he wished to listen to the whispers. To defy the very law by which Eru governs. To escape the loop. To break the will. The sight of you laying there on the ground was simply too much to bear.

It keeps him awake for weeks.

Months.

And worst of all? He finds himself drawing away from you. For whenever he sees your face, images of that fateful day to come plague his very eyes. He cannot move, cannot speak. He is ill with anxiety. Choking on the bitter reality.

He shuts you out.

He shuts you out, and there is nothing you can do about it.

Even when his mind screams at him. Reminds him that this is the route that his Creator has set out for him, he still continues. He isolates himself from you. Like a puppet on the strings he obeys and is pulled in the direction of this unwarranted fate.

It matters not how much he tries to fight it. Nor how much he wishes to scream until his lungs pour with crimson as he curses the name he has only ever known as holy.

And it is not until you are lying there on that battlefield. Peaceful amongst the chaos. Unaware of his wailing agony and his desperation to get to you. To scoop you up in his arms and savour your warmth. To whisper into your hair and kiss your lips one final time

It is only then that he truly realises the meaning of the word doom.

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