#unintelligible croaking

[no1frogfan]

(either way, tell me where you're from and how you like it!!)

[no1frogfan]

There's that post going around re: popular tumblr animes on that you couldn't get into, and it made me want to talk about a less popular anime on tumblr that everyone should get into: Mushi shi 《蟲師》.

It's not obvious from my tumblr presence, but while I love Haikyuu (and now Daiya no Ace), they are not among my favorite anime. Mushi shi on the other hand is in my top 3 (maybe even in my top 5 of favorite shows of any kind?). It's a quiet meditation on navigating the world, misfortune, grief, circumstance, with a touch of the otherworldly. It is sometimes tragic, but not depressing. The writing is impeccable. Each story is empathetic and thoughtful. And there are so many absolutely stunning scenes in the anime and the manga.

It's a rare thing to find something constructed with so much care and consideration.

[oceantornadoo]

ch11 something borrowed something blue (mafia!price x simon's sister!reader)

tw: a little piss bc reader is refused a toilet. some light torture scenes and violence.

masterlist | next

“Where. Is. She.” Ghost slams John against the wall, his forearm to John’s throat. The man’s snarling, an unrestrained beast in a mask. The world zeroes in on the gaze between them, the terrible acceptance that they have a shared weakness. A shared weakness who is gone, potentially dead. All they can do is beat the rotted carcass of this feeling until it breaks. 

Thirty minutes earlier

For the past two hours, there’s been something vibrating under John’s skin. It was there when he pulled Gaz by his collar in the store, searching the man’s eyes for deceit. It was there when he eventually let him down, satisfied with the steel reflecting back at him. It was there when someone handed him his wife’s phone, the screen filled with unread text messages from him asking to get dinner and talk it all out. It followed him all the way to the Castle.

Gaz relocates them quickly, saying he has more devices back at home. John’s home, your home, your shared home. The whole car ride John’s knee shakes up and down, nervous energy permeating the air. All he does is replay your last conversation over and over. 

“I am trapped, John.”

“No matter how I feel about you now, I didn’t pick this marriage.” 

“I can’t even tell if you like me for me or my proximity.”

“I need to go to work before I say something I’ll regret.”

The words swarm through his head like wasps, picking at the insecurities he hides everyday. The worries that you wouldn’t pick him in a normal world, that this has been pillowtalk to pass the days. If you love something you’re supposed to let it go, but he can’t decide between being noble and hoarding you until you forget what life was like before captivity. And of course, all of these thoughts assume you’re alive. He hasn’t let himself consider the full possibility that Shepherd has hurt you in ways that would defile your mind and your body, never leaving you whole again. It all coalesces into an evil energy, vibrating under his skin as the London streets roll by outside the car.

Gaz leads John into the security room with words not meant for him. Murmurs to the house staff, directions ordered over ear pieces. They blur and buzz in John’s eardrums, these damn wasps becoming parasites. He’s too old to consider hunting you himself, knows that he has to trust his man, but the urge is there anyways. Thoughts of escalating into straight warfare, bombing Shepherd’s home without any care for the innocents within. 

That’s what he’s thinking about when Ghost arrives, dragging in coattails of vengeance and dread.

Now

“Stand down, Ghost. This ain’t helpin’.” He croaks out against the pressure in his throat. Ghost’s eyes flare, soulless black pits that see too much. They search John’s, within and around, poking and prodding at the emotions he’s been holding in for the hour since he learned his wife is gone. Whatever Ghost finds is enough, John deemed worthy not to die by the loosening of Ghost’s grip. They pant as one, wishing they had never let themself love a woman enough to destroy their dynasties for her.

The world resumes as Ghost turns away. No one mentions the threat, the way John would have let the guilt drown him if Ghost didn’t. John should have pushed harder, should’ve accompanied you to the store instead of letting you go in his shirt with a faint goodbye on your lips. Like you knew what would happen and went anyway, just to see how far his heart could stretch until it tears.

MacTavish is murmuring low calming words to Ghost, unintelligible over the hum of computers and screens. In this room, all pretense is given up, one man’s hand stroking the other’s. To have a half of a soul live outside the body is a dangerous thing, even more when attacks come from all sides. If he squints, there’s a flash of your glare in Ghost’s, the same half-tilted frown hidden by the mask. It’s like you’re haunting him, no, taunting him with the fact that he’s lost you and now he has to deal with your ghost. It’s all his fault, but he lets the pity fester inside instead of releasing it on everyone else.

“Update, Garrick?” Another croak, a near two minutes after the incident. This is why Gaz is his heir - all he does is hand John the nearest iPad without a mention as to what happened. John reads the screen fast, a list of possible abandoned warehouses near Shepherd locations. It makes sense but the timing is all wrong. He’d expected this if things had been quiet, but there was another scrap between Price men and Shepherd men last night. This kidnapping must have been calculated by someone separate, someone like Phil with a solo mission. He should’ve killed the man when he found out he was working (almost) alone with his wife.

“It’ll be somewhere symbolic. Shepherd likes to make a statement.” Garrick mentions. John hands the tablet silently to Ghost, an offering of peace. In the corner of his eye, he can see MacTavish conferring with Mare, the head of the weapons team, speaking a language only the two of them know. The man frowns, then shakes his head at something Mare says. “Dinnae work like tha’.” It travels over the distance of the room, confusing John enough that he walks over to learn what’s happening.

“Report?” Mare is a bit skittish but cool-headed in times of need, the reason he hired the first ever woman on a Price Family leadership team. He trusts her and her chemistry degrees, plus her sense of urgency. “Sir, we’ve just received word that the weapons stores have been compromised.” It’s like a pin drop, other conversations falling silent as she speaks. “Meaning?” He asks, toeing the line of impatience. “Shepherd’s men struck last night, around the same time as the street fight. We believe it was coordinated between that and the kidnapping to hide it as long as possible. They cut the WiFi, so we only found out during the shift change. All the guards were killed and the weapons taken.” 

John prides himself on acting like a real corporate boss, restrained and professional. However, this is his last fucking straw. “You’re saying Shepherd took my fucking weapons, then my fucking wife? How the hell does this happen?” Ghost grunts at the word ‘wife’ but John ignores it, too focused on the situation at hand. Instead of answering, Mare’s eyes flit around the room. Since it was converted from two bedrooms, it fits up to thirty people and is currently at capacity. He can read his employee too well, and knows she’s nervous about the many ears around. While he usually trusts his people with his life, it’s been an odd day and he decides to err on the side of caution. 

“Mare an’ everyone related t’ me, this way.” There’s an elevator to the upper floor in the back of the room. Ghost and MacTavish fall in line, but Garrick seems frozen and unsure. “Gaz, that includes you.” They don’t acknowledge the head nod, brushing elbows as John hits the elevator button. Once all five are in, John hits the emergency stop between floors, leaving them in purgatory. “Speak.” He instructs Mare.

“There’s a mole. It’s the only way they could have gotten in. I designed that facility myself, sir, and there’s no way they could have gotten in with the tools and soldiers they have. Unless our intel was wrong, and I don’t think it was, we have a rat.” Her words echo in the metal chamber. She meets MacTavish’s eyes and he nods in confirmation. 

“Price.” Ghost grunts, his first words in a while. “It’s someone in that room. They’d hav’ to be on yer security.” John nods at his words and turns to Gaz. “How much longer to narrow down locations?” The man still seems flustered by John’s earlier words and needs a nudge to the shin to spit it out. “An hour, tops. We’re thinking of an abandoned weapons facility or church. Something about what he stole, weapons or marriage.” John grunts at the symbolism of it all. “I’m the first one there.” He demands. “Sir, I-” John turns to look his second in the eye. “I’m the first there.” Gaz nods. John turns back to Ghost and MacTavish, staring at him with twin glares of violence.

“Right, men. We got a rat t’ catch.”

-

“You don’t know what I’d do to find ya and keep ya.”

John’s words echo through your mind as you eye Phil, standing in the corner with a water bottle. You haven’t peed since this morning, 12 hours ago, and he knows. Taunting words sung with a Southern accent, promising a toilet in return for the weapon codes. He’s banking on your embarrassment, that you won’t want to piss yourself in this hellhole. Too bad for him you don’t like to listen to what men tell you to do.

“C’mon, sugar. Know ya got t’ go. Give me the codes an’ I got a nice lil’ bathroom for you. Even has one of those bidets.” You shake your head, refusing. Your bladder is pushing against your stomach, tension growing with every breath. It wouldn’t be too bad if he hadn’t kept feeding you water. You think you’re on bottle six now, what seemed like a blessing turned into a curse.

“Fine. Time f’ another one.” He unscrews and steps to your side, checking your handcuffs before coming near your mouth. It’s like he’s under orders not to hurt you physically. There’s been no beatings, no threat of knives or guns. He needs you alive, and you’re pretty sure you know why. The weapons require both a code and an eye scan, something you can’t fake with a dead body. Johnny created the code section and Gaz added the eye scan later, his coding skills a thing of beauty. His quick thinking is the only thing keeping you alive.

Water pours down your throat. He presses down your tongue to force you to swallow every last drop. When he leans over you, it’s like rose-colored glasses have been removed. His blond hair is limp, face sweaty with concentration. Gone is the charming assistant, bright and fun. You bet he needs you to stay alive for his own safety, his life relying on it.

As water slips into your belly, the pressure to pee goes stronger. With a dirty hand, he pushes on your stomach, and you whine in discomfort. He shouldn’t be touching you, especially in a place so sensitive. The loss of body autonomy is your biggest fear, whether it be motherhood or this. Only John would understand, you think, berating yourself for being so stupidly stubborn. That’s when you make up your mind, to still have control over the one thing you can.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck. You’re fuckin’ disgusting, you dirty bitch.” The piss soaks your jeans and, with enough force, dribbles on his shoe. Phil jumps away in disgust, eyes hardened into flint as he glares at you. “Fuck you.” You spit out. A glob of it lands near his shoe, making him jump again. You almost pity how weak he is enough to torture a woman for a living. Almost.

“You’re gonna be sorry you did that.” He bites back. Phil glances at the mirror and for the first time in hours, you let yourself feel a lick of fear. You’re pretty sure you know who his boss is, someone too violent for the games you’re playing. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” Is what you can muster. Instead of answering, he shakes off his shoe and knocks on the door. When it opens, there’s a person in full PPE, holding a metal tray with a filled syringe. You jolt back, but the chair is bolted to the ground and doesn’t allow you to move.

“Wait, please, Phil-” He’s fast, shooting something into your arm. Everything goes dark after that.

-

Gaz was right. It only took an hour. 

But it takes longer than that to rule out each location. It’s been 24 hours, and they haven’t found you yet.

John insists on checking out every place by himself, as does Ghost. They’re even-keeled enough to split up to make it go faster but insist on Gaz scrounging up more earpieces so they can keep in constant contact. They slept in shifts too, six-hour blocks once it hit midnight, so they weren’t trudging through their search. Johnny stays back to work with the engineers on testing the security system he designed, while Gaz comes along with whoever is searching. The four of them stay on their own radio channel like a task force, acting more military than mafia. 

They start from the inner city and expand outwards. It’s methodical. It’s calculated. It’s the exact strategy Gaz planned months ago when the marriage was proposed. He’s the clearest headed out of all of them but there’s still a bite to his tone, a tension in his shoulders, a furrow in his brow. If John wasn’t so out of it himself, he’d be glad that his right-hand man seems to care for his wife. 

They sweep warehouses top to bottom. John tugs on every alliance he has, every favor owed. They get pledges of loyalty from smaller gangs, who do their own searches as well. It’s so much and yet not enough because John Price does not have his fucking wife in his hands. Your shampoo scent is not in his nose, your laughter is not in his ears, your waist is not in his grasp. You are gone and he is at fault for not protecting you.

“Focus, Price.” They’ve both slept and are now in their third church in the past 90 minutes. It’s abandoned like the rest of them, creaking doors and blown out windows. They’ve gotten into a rhythm now, sweeping the building efficiently. You’re not there. They finish in twenty minutes, Gaz outside on the phone with the rest of the crew. When they emerge, he stands tall at attention. 

“Sir, we’ve got a hit.”

-

“How you feeling, hun?” The world is woozy, half-tilt on a rollercoaster. You sway from right to left, only steadying when firm hands grasp your shoulders. Your eyes flutter, vision blurring in technicolor. You’re somewhere else, with paintings on the walls and carpet on the floors. That’s when you do a body scan and realize you’re not in the clothes you were kidnapped in.

You jerk away from the man touching you. The wooden chair you’re strapped to falls to the floor and takes you with it. He tries to pick you up, moving in a blur of dark grey, but you thrash away like a fish out of water. His touch is poison, and you fear it was him who undressed you, him who saw you naked against your will. “Get away from me!” You screech, vocal cords sore from disuse. The man’s hands are gnarled crooked things, clawing at your shoulders until your chair is straight again. You try to flinch but your miniscule reactions are still slurry from whatever you were injected with. Once you’re straight, you bite back a gasp.

It’s him. The General. Shepherd. 

Square face with a buzzcut. Weathered and old with a cruel gleam in his eye. He sits back down into a chair in front of yours. This one is red leather, squeaking comfortably with weight as he sits down. The man was in the army in a past life, hence the styling of The General. He wears dark slacks and an army-like jacket. The bravado of it disgusts you. A title like that should be earned, not worn like play clothes. You put on your brave face and sneer at him, a cat backed into an alley.

“I see why John likes you.” He looks you up and down like he can see through your clothes. You flinch against your will. “You don’t deserve to say his name.” You bite. He laughs jarringly. “Fucking brat is what you are. Even got Phil under your spell.” That’s news to you. It’s certainly at odds with his behavior. You don’t react, easing your features into a smooth mask.

“I don’t know why I’m here. I don’t have the codes.” He stares at you dead-eyed. “Not necessary. We don’t need the codes.” He’s bluffing. You’re willing to bet your life on the hard work of Johnny and Gaz. There’s absolutely no way, no workaround. That’s when you get an idea.

“Oh yeah? You’re just going to put me in front of the eye scanner and go from there?” He frowns like you’ve figured out his plan. You almost laugh. “Too bad. You’re still missing a step.” That reels him in. Shepherd sits forward, elbows on his knees, searching your gaze for a lie. You raise your brows defiantly. “What, don’t tell me you haven’t figured it out?” He squints harder at your words. 

“My brother’s old school. Doesn’t trust technology, or anybody else.” It’s certainly true. Simon’s well-known for not trusting people. Even the General looks intrigued. “What are you sayin’?” He murmurs. It’s like you’re holding a prophecy in his hands. Men are so easy.

“There’s a key.” He scoffs and looks away. “And I’m Robin Hood.” You shrug, leaning back as much as you can into your chair despite the ropes tying you to it. “Believe what you want. I’m just saying, my brother has more checks than you can imagine.” Another truth to reel him in. He scratches an invisible itch on his knee, then gets up. He pulls something from his pocket, and you flinch, thinking it’s a gun. He laughs at your reaction. “Fucking brat.” He murmurs. Shepherd turns to the corner of the room and calls someone, talking in low tones.

When you examine the room, it sends a shot to your heart. You’re in a church. There’s blood red carpeting with paintings everywhere, but it’s not wellkept. There’s dust and no windows, the lighting frail. Perhaps recently abandoned?

Shepherd is back, knife in hand. He thrives on watching you flinch and thrash as he comes closer. You stop when he’s in your face, knife trailing down the length of your nose. “Where’s the key?” You answer without hesitation. “My father’s grave.” It’s the kind of sick shit Ghost would do, and Shepherd knows it. That’s when the knife slips through your ropes, freeing you. There’s a gun in his other hand pointed straight at your head. “You’ll take me to the key. And if it’s not there, so help me God, I’m blowing your brains out on your father’s grave.” You nod, short and shallow.

It’s only halfway up the dilapidated wooden stairs when you hear it. Pounding footsteps and a low British tone. Shepherd was stupid enough to trail behind you, and even stupider to stop at the noises as well. That’s when your years of self-defense classes with Johnny kick in, quite literally. 

You aim a kick to his head. He dodges, of course, but all that body mass has to go somewhere, and quite slowly. It knocks him off balance, a half-step down, giving you enough leverage to elbow the nose. One of the most sensitive places on a man, as Johnny told you. The door above you opens as Shepherd gets one more insult in as he goes down.

“Fuckin’ bastard.”

-

Yes i was thinking of the 21 savage song snitches and rats

Also sorry for comparing motherhood to torture i just really needed to justify reader peeing LOL

Oops shes a girlboss SORRYYYYYY

-

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[b1asho]

Some noises/stuff on their voice:

As said in the image, Prectikar all sound like theyre masculine to humans when speaking through their nose. Only male prectikar have a larger throat sac and special flaps in it to make their shrieks/barks/etc, females can only really do like a dog bark noise or the grumbles and soft-speak. As for the animals I included, Prectikar can't roar (yes that means they can purr) but they make a lot of other bear-like chuffs and snuffles. They can shriek and snort (which kind of sounds like a horse) bellow (similar to an alligator in noise, occasionally more like a cassowary or other rattite) and bark (similar to a seal), and if pushed the right way they can make a sort of elephant trumpet noise through their nose (also similar to an elephant are their deep-throated noises) They can also make some hoots and grunts that sound like a howler monkey or gorilla.

Rossetians sound like they have a stuffy nose to us (which doesn't help disperse their nerdy erm actually reputation). They make a lot of teeth clicks and tongue noises when speaking, and I included a marmot because they can make a noise around the pitch of a rossetian whistle. I also included a tapir for reference of some of their other squeal noises. They can also kind of moo like a cow but I forgot that.

Kixeli are very good at mimicry but occasionally will slide into more creaky and whistly speech instead of mostly human tones. They croak like toucans do, and also make a lot of other bird-ish chirps and beak claps. They make a lot of loud repeating noises like a kookaburra, and that jabbery/laughy noise is the vibe for how a lot of their vocalizations sound to the untrained ear. The African Gray's voice is close to what they sound like when not trying super hard at human speech, and can get more precise and even make inanimate object noises like a starling. Look up any monkey (macaque, gibbon, etc) screaming/hooting video if you want to k ow what they sound like when scared or very excited.

Cerest speak in short, controlled bursts, usually in a monotone. An almost electronic hum and buzziness is always a part of their natural voice, usually to the point where they're unintelligible. They can make some small trills and mews like a cat, or yowl if they align their throat right. Screaming like a mountain lion is a sundyne thing, drecu screams are like that but more like a cicada if that makes sense. Some of their other misc noises that come from airflow or just them moving their mouthparts and beak are like locusts, mole crickets, click beetles, and the capuchinbird. Depending on the quality of their artificial voice, they can sound either on a Miku level or shitty off-brand robot.

Using their non-host voice, Muttreazik range from microwave humming noises to ear bleeding high pitched shrieks or organ shuffling low pitches. I didn't really know how to draw that so no worms in this post yet again

[heejake-hoon]

Warning: mdni, overstimulation, dumbification, creampie, dirty talk...

"Awww my little cumdump, are u having fun?" Sunghoon faux cooed at ur shaking state as you were bonded to the bed frame both ur hands and legs spread open with a wand vibrator pressed securely on ur clit, it has been more than 2 hours of torture, with you cuming and cuming again u weren't sure if ur body could take it any more, drool and tears dropping messily on ur face you wanted to beg him to stop, wanted to tell him to free you, but you weren't even able to say that, so fucked up from all the orgasms he forced out of u with his toy.

"Hmmmm? Baby did I leave you dumb? Can't even answer me? What a useless fuckdoll." You wanted to cry, the humiliation making your skin heat up even more. "It's okay my little slut, don't worry about it. You don't have to do anything, I am going to take care of you. Your just gonna be a good girl and let me do as I please, yeah?" Sunghoon smirked as he turned off the toy making you sigh in relief, you weren't sure if you could take another one of his games, not after this one. He unbound u, letting u fall flat on the bed as he got up from the chair where he was sitting comfortably the entire time."Hoonie... no more." you croaked out, voice raspy from all the screaming, the only thing on your mind was sleep."You want me to stop? Okay then. I won't do anything." Sunghoon shrugged, you sighed in relief thinking he finally got bored of teasing u.But oh how wrong you were.Sunghoon grabbed your hips, lifting them up so your ass was up in the air. You were too tired to even lift your head up and see what he was doing, just sighing happily as his hands caressed ur lower back, kneading ur flesh.

Then the sound of a cap opening was heard and you realized what was about to happen, making you jerk and try to wiggle away.

"Shhhh, don't move, my princess. Be a good girl and let me fill that pretty little cunt up." You were too tired, too sensitive, you couldn't take him inside u. "Sunghoon, wait no-" you cried out, trying to get away from his hold.

"What was that? Did you just tell me no?" Sunghoon's tone suddenly turned ice cold and you whimpered at that, realizing your mistake."No, no. I- I'm sorry. I was just- no. I'm a good girl, I'm a good girl for hoonie." you mumbled, words almost unintelligible. "Mmmmm, that's right, you're my good girl. Always so sweet and obedient for me. My perfect doll." You sighed happily, glad that you could please him.

Then the next second you were crying out as you felt him plunging deep inside you."Hoonie! It-it hurts!" you tried to get away, but his hands were like iron on your hips.

"Aw baby, does it hurt? But you were begging me to fill u up earlier." You gasped at that. You did? When did you say that? You weren't even aware of that "H-how..." you whispered, confusion evident on ur face. "That's when I knew you were ready. Your body knows what it needs, and you're just too dumb to realize it. So I helped you out." Sunghoon smirked as he thrust deep inside you, making you whimper in pain and pleasure "Ah-h! S-sunghoon. It's-it's too much!"

"You're taking it so well baby. My pretty little slut." The soft kisses he gave you were contradicting so much from how hard he was pounfing you, sending you over the edge once again. "Hoonie- I, ah! Ah! Hoonie!" You couldn't even form proper sentences as he hit your g-spot with every thrust. "Come on, cum for me again, my little princess. You know how much I love your tight pussy clenching around my cock."His filthy words and his rough thrusts were all it took for you to cum, vision turning white as your body spasmed.

Sunghoon followed shortly after, pumping you full of his warm seed, filling you up so nicely, and you moaned at the feeling "So perfect. My perfect baby." He cooed, peppering your face with kisses and you smiled lazily at that.

[no1frogfan]

i did it. i became a member of nume's patreon. and let me fucking tell you people. LET ME FUCKING TELL YOU. i'm on a fucking ASTRAL PLANE right now. it's not safe to be this horny anywhere on planet earth. if you were on the ISS you'd be able to feel the horny energy i'm emanating all the way in SPACE. you'd be able to feel the heat even if you were standing on the goddamn SUN. i'm never going to need another source of smut inspo ever again in my life.

IT'S SO WORTH IT.

Dirty talk with Miyuki 😏

🔞uncensored ver available on Patreon <Here>!

[miwsolovely]

— AN OLD SYMPHONY

𝜗𝜚 — in which, John gets sick after a mission in Siberia, never been one for the cold, that one. Good thing he has a sweetheart for a lover.

JOHN PRICE x NIKOLAI wtv the frerreeak his last name is angst — but if you blink, its gone — w comfort. john trying to be stubborn, nik being an idiot in love. 2.4k. — loved this ( my first cxc fic !!! ) — requested

“John, you’re burnin’ up,” Nik muttered, one hand on John’s forehead and the other firmly planted on his hip.

“‘M fine,” John croaked, his voice betraying him with every syllable. He was wrapped in their old, oversized knit blanket, slouched on the couch like a grumpy bear hibernating in the wrong season. His nose was red, his cheeks flushed from the fever, and his thick brows furrowed in irritation.

Nik sighed. “You’ve said that three times now. You weren’t fine when you tried to argue with me about takin’ your clothes off, and you’re not fine now.”

John grumbled something unintelligible and sank deeper into the cushions.

Shaking his head, Nik left the living room and headed to their kitchen. It wasn’t the first time that John had pushed himself too hard, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last which made his partner’s gut twist up in worry.

But Nik knew exactly how to handle him—grumpy disposition and all.

The familiar sound of chopping vegetables and the soft clatter of pots filled the house. Nik moved with practiced ease, humming to himself as he worked. John pretended not to care, but the smell of onions, garlic, and herbs slowly lured him out of his sulk.

By the time Nik returned with a steaming bowl of soup, his liver was sitting up, though still looking like he’d lost a fight with his fever.

“‘Ere,” Nik said, handing him the bowl with a knowing smirk. “Eat.”

John stared at the soup, then up at Nik, brows furrowed and lips pressed into a line. “You didn’t have to go through all tha’ trouble.”

Nik raised a knowing brow and crossed his arms. “I didn’t marry you just to let you starve when you’re sick, lyubov.”

Grumbling under his breath, John picked up the spoon and took a hesitant sip. The warmth spread through him immediately, the savory broth and tender vegetables soothing his sore throat. He hated how good it was—mostly because it meant Nik was right.

“You’re makin’ it impossible to stay mad at you.” He mumbled between bites.

Nik leaned down, brushing a kiss to his husband’s forehead. “Good. Now finish that and drink some water, or I’ll make you take medicine next.”

John scowled, but the faint smile tugging at his lips betrayed him. He didn’t mind being taken care of—not when it was Nik.

“You’re too stubborn for your own damn good.”

That earns a chuckle from John, he raises his hand and wipes the sweat from his brow.

After waiting next to the couch for an hour just to make sure John was lucid enough, Nik made John waddle up stairs—which took at least five minutes— and lay down in their shared bed.

“Put ya hand down ya idiot,” His husband says. Wringing a cold compress into a bowl on their nightstand, and placing it on John’s forehead.

Partner, lover, husband.

John never thought he’d find himself thinking, saying, those words. Before, the words had felt foreign on his tongue, icy like the snow topped mountains in Siberia.

“You were right.” John croaks out. The bed dips where Nik sits down with a hand on John’s thigh.

“About what? M’right about a lotta things, gotta be more specific.” He says with a smile.

John opens his mouth to answer but his words escape him as a cough instead. He turns his head away from Nik as he does. When he turns back, he sighs and his eyes are blown, unfocused. “Tha’ Siberia woulda gotten me sick.”

Nik huffs at that, patting the hard, soft flesh of his lovers hand sitting at his thigh. “You need to listen to me more. Might learn a few things.”

John lets out a weak laugh, his voice still hoarse from the strain of his cough. “Listening to you, Nik, is what got me up in those mountains in the first place.”

Nik smirks, leaning back slightly, though his hand remains firm on John’s thigh, grounding him. “Ah, but if you didn’t, you’d be bored out of your damn mind, wouldn’t you?”

John tilts his head, eyes narrowing as if to challenge the statement, but the corners of his lips twitch upward despite himself. “Maybe,” He concedes, his tone light and teasing. “Still, I don’t recall you warning me about how bloody cold it’d be.”

Nik laughs at that—a full, deep sound that seems to warm the room more than any blanket could. “I warned you, stubborn bastard. You just refused to listen, like always.”

The banter feels easy, familiar, like the rhythm of an old song. Nik adjusts the compress on John’s forehead, his expression softening. “Rest now, John,” He says, his voice quieter, more insistent. “I’ve got you.”

John’s eyelids grow heavier as the warmth of Nik’s presence lulls him into something close to peace. “Yeah,” He murmurs, his voice barely audible as he slips into sleep. “I know you do.”

For a while, the room is silent save for John’s steady breathing. Nik sits there, watching over him, his own thoughts far away but anchored by the sight of his husband at rest.

He stays where he is, his hand lingering on John, his thumb idly brushing over the fabric of the blanket. The quiet of the room settles over him like a heavy quilt, but he doesn’t move—not yet. He knows better than to leave, even for a moment. John’s restless sleep has a habit of pulling him back into old battles, his body tensing, his breaths coming shallow and quick as if he’s still out there in the cold, fighting ghosts.

It’s not long before John stirs, his brow furrowing as a low, involuntary sound escapes him. Nik leans forward, his voice gentle. “Easy, lyubov’ moya,” He murmurs, the Russian slipping from his tongue effortlessly. “You’re safe.”

John’s breathing evens out again at the sound of Nik’s voice, and Nik exhales a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. It’s always like this—an unspoken battle fought in the quiet moments, one where Nik’s only weapon is his steady presence. He wonders if John knows how much he gives away in these unguarded moments, how much of his strength is tied to trust.

Nik shifts slightly, reaching for the glass of water on the nightstand. He tilts it toward John, pressing the rim lightly against his lips. “Drink,” he coaxes softly. “You’ll feel better.”

John groans but doesn’t resist, taking a few sips before sinking back into the pillows. His eyes crack open, barely focused, but there’s something there—a flicker of gratitude, of recognition. “Nik . . .”

“Shh,” Nik interrupts, placing the glass back on the nightstand. “Don’t talk. Just rest.”

But John’s lips twitch in that stubborn way they always do. “Didn’t think I’d . . . need you like this,” He admits, his voice raspy. “Thought I was the strong one.”

Nik snorts, shaking his head. “You’re strong, John,” He says, his voice firm but kind. “But even the strongest men need someone to hold them up. ‘S what I’m here for.”

John doesn’t respond right away, his eyes slipping closed again. For a moment, Nik thinks he’s drifted off, but then a quiet, almost imperceptible whisper reaches his ears: “Love you.”

Nik’s throat tightens, and he doesn’t bother hiding the soft smile that spreads across his face. “I know,” He whispers back, his hand returning to rest gently on John’s. “I love you too.”

And as the night deepens, Nik stays right there, a sentinel by John’s side, ensuring that the past remains where it belongs—far away, outside the walls of their shared sanctuary.

The hours stretch long, but Nik doesn’t mind. His body is accustomed to waiting, to watching, to guarding something—or someone—he holds dear. The dim light of the bedside lamp casts soft shadows across the room, illuminating the lines of John’s face, softened now by sleep. His breathing is slow and even, a far cry from the earlier ragged coughs that had racked his chest.

Hours pass, Nik shifted from his seated place an hour or two ago to lay beside his sickly husband, not caring if he’d catch his fever.

He shifts slightly, careful not to disturb his partner sleeping soundly beside him, and lets his mind wander. The weight of their shared history sits with him, not heavy, but present—like an old friend who’s overstayed their welcome. Siberia, Afghanistan, countless other places that have carved lines into their skin and etched stories into their souls.

He glances at John again. There’s something grounding about seeing him like this—vulnerable, unguarded, human. It’s a stark contrast to the commanding figure Nik first met all those years ago, barking orders with a cigar hanging lazily from his lips. Back then, John Price had seemed untouchable, invincible.

But here, now, he’s just John.

Nik’s lips twitch at the memory. He reaches for the blanket and pulls it up higher over John’s chest. “You’ve always been a pain in my ass, you know that?” He mutters quietly, not expecting an answer.

But a low, gravelly voice responds, startling him. “You love it.”

Nik jerks back slightly, leaning back on his elbow to see John’s face. “Thought you were asleep.”

John cracks one eye open, a smirk pulling at his lips despite the pallor in his face. “Hard to sleep with you muttering to yourself over there.”

Nik huffs, leaning back into the bed. “Go back to sleep, idiot. You’re not out of the woods yet.”

John’s smirk softens into something more genuine, his gaze holding Nik’s for a moment longer than usual. “I mean it, love,” He says, his voice quieter now, serious. “Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Nik swallows hard, the words settling into a place he doesn’t often let himself acknowledge. “Good thing you don’t have to find out,” He replies, his tone gruff but warm.

John hums in agreement, his eyelids already growing heavy again. “Stay,” He murmurs, the single word holding more weight than it has any right to.

“Always,” Nik says softly, watching as John drifts back into sleep.

The night stretches on, but Nik stays where he is, unwavering. Whatever battles John fights in his dreams, whatever demons haunt him, Nik will be there—his silent promise, unbroken.

©miwsolovely do not plagiarize, copy, or repost my works to other platforms . likes, comments, and reblogs are very appreciated <3

[no1frogfan]

FEAST YOUR EYES UPON THIS MASTERPIECE!!!!!!

I've been absolutely enamored by how expressive Kuroo (and Yaku!!) is in the comics by @reineydraws, so obviously commissioning her was the next step. AND NOW LOOK AT THIS BEAUTY.

This was actually my first commission, and I only had a general idea of what I wanted. Rei was so helpful and communicative, which made the whole process really easy and smooth. She answered all my questions and clarified any murky details. I couldn't decide on the colors, so I actually commissioned two versions, and it turns out they are both perfect.

In conclusion, THANK YOU REI. This is the best thing in the world. I've been alternating between cackling at Kuroo's goofy-ass face and melting at this adorable chubby frog.

💟💜💟 Already dreaming up more ideas 💜💟💜

[doctorstethoscope]

Lucky

Summary: Marriage means sticking together in sickness and in health. Apparently, Aaron takes the ‘in sickness’ part pretty seriously. It’s a Hotchner family sick day, and he’s determined to take care of you and Jack.

Pairing: Hotch x blank slate Fem!Reader (no use of y/n)

Word Count: 2k

Warnings: Mild description of illness (mentions of fever, headaches, nausea, one reference to vomit). Otherwise it’s all tooth-rotting fluff

You wake yourself up mid-sneeze, which is arguably one of the worst ways to wake up. Aaron’s side of the bed is empty but warm, and you start to stand up to go find him when you’re hit with a woozy feeling and have to sink back into the pillows. “Aaron?” You call out, sniffling a couple of times as you take stock of how you’re feeling.

Honestly, you feel like trash. Your head has started to pound and your sinuses feel so pressurized that you have to stick your face into Aaron’s pillow in case your head explodes from being upright. You aren’t feeling nauseous, luckily, but that doesn’t mean you aren’t miserable when you realize that you’re sick.

Footsteps of socked feet pad down the hallway, and you hear the door crack open. “Hon? Jack is sick, he’s asking for you,” Aaron says.

He’s probably speaking at a normal volume, but every sound is so amplified to your aching head that you just whine, an unintelligible sound that kind of resembles, “Shut up.”

The door opens a little wider, and the creaking of it gives way to the creaking of the bed when Aaron sits down on the edge. “Are you okay?” His voice is softer and his hand finds the place between your shoulder blades, rubbing small soothing circles.

You try to shake your head, but it’s hurting too badly for that. “How’s Jack?” You croak out, just hoping that he feels better than you do.

“He’s running a fever and he threw up a little. I changed his bedsheets and cleaned him up, and I already called in to keep an eye on him today. I think you should call in too.” His hand moves to your cheek and then your forehead, presumably checking for the same fever Jack has.

“I’ll be fine. I’ll call in, though, if you insist.” Even though you’re speaking sarcastically, his answer is predictable.

“I do.” Aaron stands up and kisses the top of your head. “I’m going to go find some medicine. I’ll be right back with that and some water for you, alright?”

You hum, a noise of affirmation, but you’re fast asleep by the time he returns a minute later.

When you wake up, you’re alone. The curtains are half-open, exposing just enough light for you to be able to see, but still comfortably sleep. The nightstand is cleared off aside from a glass of water, a dish with three pills in it, and a silver handheld bell.

You wrinkle your nose, eyes adjusting to the light as you reach for the glass of water with one eye shut. The bell is knocked to the floor instead, a result of your poor coordination, and the door opens.

“You rang?” Aaron says softly, and you can hear the smile on his lips.

You groan in response, covering your ears with both hands. The ring of the bell echoes in your head for a long moment, and you take the time to wonder if divorce is still an option. “What were you thinking? A bell, seriously? My head hurts.” You’re all but whining, but Aaron doesn’t appear to take it personally.

“Sorry, my love. I thought it would be easier than shouting for me,” he apologizes, helping you sit up. You take the glass of water from him and use it to swallow the pills he hands you, and he kisses your forehead as he takes the glass back. “Is it just a headache?”

“I think I- I- achoo!” You cut yourself off with a loud sneeze that turns into a groan of pain. “No. What about Jack? Is he feeling any better?”

“He’s sleeping, but his fever is steady. I was thinking, if you’re up for it, I could set you up in the living room. We could close the curtains, turn on a movie, bundle you up on the couch. How does that sound?” Aaron suggests, one arm wrapped around you to rub soothingly at your upper arm.

It sounds nice, actually, so you manage to stand up with the duvet wrapped around you and shuffle out to the living room couch. Aaron knows you well; the couch has already been primed with your favourite throw blankets, a couple of pillows, and a bottle of Gatorade nestled against the arm.

There are Disney Movies queued up on the television, and you sit and let Aaron wrap you up in blankets as ‘Lion King’ starts to play.

For a few hours, you doze in and out of sleep while Aaron stays nearby, always with a hand on your back or an arm around you. You awaken to drink a bit more water, sneeze a few more head-splitting times, and eventually you find that you can’t fall back asleep.

The blanket is too hot now, and you push it off only to start shivering. That’s how you find yourself curled up against Aaron’s side, tucked under one large arm while you clear your throat to bring up what you’ve thought all day. “You shouldn’t have called in.”

“Don’t worry about that,” he whispers, stroking a thumb over your shoulder. “I want to be here. I promise.”

“You just had two whole weeks off for the honeymoon. Strauss won’t be mad?” You ask, and a knowing smirk splits Aaron’s face.

“You mean the third honeymoon? Because I got called to work on the days we were supposed to leave the first two times we tried?” He reminds you, holds you a little closer. “Strauss owes me a day off. And I want to spend the day making sure you’re being cuddled back to health.”

You can’t think of a rebuttal no matter how badly you want to, because your thoughts are interrupted by the sound of a door opening. “Daddy? Momma?”

Aaron squeezes your shoulder and then stands, making sure to tuck the blanket around you so that you don’t get too cold again. Confident steps carry him down the hall to where you can imagine Jack is standing in the doorway.

There’s murmured conversation, Aaron’s voice saying, “Are you sure?” and Jack’s insisting that he is. When Aaron returns, the boy is bundled up in his arms.

“Somebody wanted to join us for movie time and cuddling,” he explains to you, setting Jack in the big armchair. When his son starts to protest, Aaron defends himself. “Momma is sick, too, buddy. I don’t want you making each other worse.”

“Give him here. It’s okay, Jack, you can lie down with me,” you offer, holding out both arms. “I’ll try not to get you sick.”

“Too late for that,” Aaron grumbles under his breath, but he carries your son over all the same. When he tries to sit, you hold up a hand.

“Uh uh. You said you’d make sure I get cuddled back to health, right?” You rub Jack’s back, holding him against your chest as he curls up in your lap. The movement brings with it a wave of nausea that you ignore. “You’re in quarantine, Hotchner. We aren’t getting you sick, too.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” He moves into the kitchen, leaving you and Jack alone for a few minutes while he clanks pots and pans around.

You bring a hand up and lay the back of it against Jack’s cheek. “How are you feeling, little man?” You ask quietly.

“Tummy hurts,” he mumbles into your neck. “But it hurt more before.”

“Yeah? Do you want to take a nap and watch some movies with me?” You offer, and he snuggles in a little closer.

Finding Nemo is playing now, and you watch Jack as he watches the screen with increasingly droopy eyelids. He’s on the verge of falling asleep when Aaron returns, carefully balancing two soup bowls.

He places one on the coffee table for Jack, and sets the other in your free hand. “It’s turkey gnocchi. It shouldn’t be too hard on your stomach,” he explains in a whisper, turning the TV down.

“Thank you, baby.” You turn your head away when he leans down to kiss you. “Quarantine, remember? Go, be healthy somewhere else.”

Aaron’s eye roll is predictable but he stands up all the same, prepared to exit the room as per your demands. He’s almost over the threshold when he pauses and you start to ask what’s wrong, but before you can speak he lets out the loudest sneeze you’ve ever heard.

It’s so loud that Jack wakes up just in time to hear Aaron sneeze twice more in succession, and he pokes you to get your attention. “Is Daddy sick?”

You grin, holding him a little closer. “I think he might be, buddy. Aaron, are you okay?”

Aaron sniffles a couple times from the doorway, and you notice how congested he sounds when he says, “I’m fine.”

“You’re fine, really? So you’ll go spend the rest of the day in bed while Jack and I get to hang out?” Maybe baiting him with his son isn’t the nicest way to get your husband to admit to feeling ill, but it’s really the only way you can think of.

It works, if the growing frown on Aaron’s face is anything to go by. “Well, I didn’t say…”

“No, no. You’re fine, you’re healthy. So go on, don’t let our germs stop you.” Jack is giggling in your arms now, having caught on to the game. “Go, before we get you sick. ‘Cause that was just, what? Allergies?”

He’s moving back towards you now, pulling the bowl of soup out of your free hand; the other is still wrapped around Jack.

“Wait, wait. I can’t lie down with my husband, and now I can’t even eat soup?” You complain, and Aaron plops down next to you on the couch.

“It’s one or the other, sweetheart. And I don’t mind your germs all that much,” he murmurs, wrapping an arm around you. Jack crawls between the two of you, lying on top of the space where your bodies press together.

“Is that so?” You ask as he hands you back the bowl, beginning to eat it since your hands are both free now. It’s delicious, like everything Aaron cooks, and still warm enough that you can feel it in your belly. “I’m the luckiest newlywed in the world.”

Instead of responding, Aaron pulls a blanket up over the three of you and grabs the remote. ‘Ice Age’ starts to play as you swallow another spoonful, and Jack rolls over into his dad’s waiting arms.

The living room is quiet for a few minutes, save for the sounds coming from the TV. Jack is half asleep with his head on Aaron’s stomach and a hand resting on your knee when Aaron finally says, “You aren’t, you know.”

“Aren’t what?” You set the soup bowl aside and curl up, your temple pressed against his shoulder.

“The luckiest newlywed in the world.” His lips graze the top of your head, but he pulls away just in time for you to sneeze into your elbow. “I am.”

You wipe your nose with your sleeve- unnecessary, but it feels wrong not to- and laugh aloud at that. “You are, really? With a wife who’s eating up your personal days and getting the whole family sick, you’re the luckiest?”

“Yeah.” He speaks quietly, confidently, voice not wavering. “Yeah, I really think I am. Come here.”

You can’t get much closer but you try, cuddling up as close as possible to your husband and son while Aaron eats some of the soup Jack didn’t end up tasting before passing out. The movie plays on, and you hardly pay attention; you’re too busy thinking about exactly how happy- and lucky- you really are.

[evieelyzabethh]

Love your work. <3 Could you write something with reader x spike where they're kinda' pining for one another, but one night he gets injured and has to stay over at her house? She patches him up and maybe offers him a bite? Doesn't have to be nsfw but +5 cool points if it is. <3

Hello, my loves, long time no see!!! I hope this is to your liking <3

Spike is so incredibly reckless. You knew this, he knew, everybody knew that Spike was a walking accident waiting to happen'. He likes to think he can handle himself. "I'm bad, baby," he'd tell you, "M' the big bad slayer killer. I can handle a few scratches." But you were never worried about what he could handle, you were worried about the fact that his blood was always staining your couch. That and the fact that his lack of self-preservation kept you up at night.

Usually, he has some decorum. He doesn't come to you with every scrape and bruise, even though you handled him with much more care than he was capable of extending to himself. It was his way of punishing himself, depriving himself of your head scratches and soft hands for bothering you too much. You scolded him for this, of course. It seems like its every other week (more like every other day) when you and he argue, most often in front of the Scoobies who waited anxiously for you take your arguments to the bedroom, about him leaving you to worry about whether or not he was ash.

"I mean, fuck Spike. Is it really that hard to just give me a call if you plan on bleeding at your place. A little 'Hi, yeah, I don't think I need my wounds treated with modern medicine, I'm gonna take my chances with old whisky and tetanus like the good ol' days'." And every time he takes his well-earned lecture with a smirk and a bowed head.

"Yes, mother, next time I'll break your door down at three in the morning for some pretty pink bandages."

"If you were so ashamed of the pretty pink bandages, maybe you should think before you run into knives!"

Spike has maybe told the truth a grand total of two times in his whole life, so his word means absolutely nothing. He continues to ignore your street like the plague unless it's an absolute emergency.

Now was an emergency.

You barely heard the faint knocks on your door from your bedroom, where you sat on your bed, music blasting from your stereo and some reality court show droning on in the background, catching your attention when someone decided to be particularly messy. You had thought it was your neighbors blind dog scratching at your door again until something large and loud hit it. Quickly arming yourself with a frying pan, you crept to your door, tearing it open for a very injured Spike to nearly fall flat on your floor before he caught himself using your doorframe.

His left hand clutched at his bleeding side and he walked with a limp over to his couch which now had a plastic cover. His dead heart was touched.

"Aw, you were waiting for me, " he croaked out. He fell on his back, one of his hands falling over the side and his eyes closing as soon as his head at the pillow. His shirt had claw marks that were lined with blood and his duster had barely escaped the carnage, a few holes separate from the preexisting moth holes sticky with some supernatural substance.

"Have to be prepared when it comes to you." You patted his cheek, thumbing over his cheekbones to try and arouse some consciousness. "Can't have you fallin' asleep on me. You might not wake up." You weren't going to leave his side until you were sure he wasn't going to die in your absence.

He babbled unintelligently, his mouth moving but having no connection to his brain to form any sort of actual thought. His eyes flit between closed and aware, his head moving to catch up with the spinning room, his mouth impossibly dry, and his head pounding. In his head, he insisted he was fine, but the words wouldn't come out right. He spat them out garbled and messy until he was too choked up to even try anymore.

He was barely conscious when he felt your wrist at his mouth. He had enough sense to shake his head and nudge away your wrist with his nose, but his lack of strength made his attempts futile. "No," he mumbled.

"You'll feel better," your voice swam around in his head until the words lost meaning and he just smiled at the sound of your voice. You swiped your thumb across one of his canines, the red contrasting with the pearly whites of his teeth swiftly wiped away by the pink of his tongue. After the taste of your blood was on his tongue, his sense was surrendered to instinct as he brought your wrist to his lips.

You didn't know what you were getting into. Vampires get their life force from blood, so it just made sense to have him feed from you to expedite the healing process. The more he drank, the louder your heartbeat grew in your ear and the closer he pulled you to him. You had only done this once before, when you were both drunk and dizzy and jokes being whispered in your ear turned into tiny nips from your neck that Buffy nearly walked in on.

In complete shock of what had happened then, you never brought it up, halfway convincing yourself that it never happened in the first place. If it did happen, he had enough sense to pull away then and you hoped he had the sense the pull away now, but now was much different. Now, there was a newfound hunger. A desperation. Like he had been starving himself for years and you were the first bite of food he had eaten. Had to have been good food to, with the way he inhaled you, indulged in you like you were some ambrosia or golden mead.

"Spike," you moaned. "I'm getting a bit light-headed." Your voice was high and thin, fearful as you made attempts to pull your arm from his lips. Through his haze, his fangs contracted back, and his tongue swiped whatever lingered on your skin.

"I'm sorry." Sorry for going too far, sorry for almost turning you into an empty Capri Sun pouch, sorry for being reckless again.

" 's ok."

You wobbled a bit as you stood, fingers wrapped around your wound as you shuffled into your kitchen in pursuit of your first aid kit. "You gonna tell me what happened?" He only groaned from the couch.

"Maybe tomorrow. I'm tired." You laughed on your way over to him, wrist already covered in gauze with an all too familiar needle and thread in hand.

"You're tired?" The smell of your blood was all too pungent, still. He turned his head towards the wall, studying the numerous music posters and paintings you had hanging.

"Going out to fight evil is a very hard job." You chuckled.

"I know. That's why I stay in here to patch you up." Your fingers were like magic. They always had a way of calming him down. Especially the way you hummed to yourself while you worked. You were never content with just silence. "I expect an answer in the morning." He smiled.

"Yes, ma'am." He fell asleep before you even finished and by the time you were done, you were too tired to walk the down the hall to your bed. You laid your head down on his chest, with no heartbeat to thrum and no breath to rock you, you still fell asleep just like that. Who knew cold bodies were so comfortable.

[luveline]

omg jade for a miguel x spider girl what if they’re spending the night together and she’s sleep talking and miguel is like ???? i sleep talk and it’s silly sometimes 😆

Miguel latches the door lock gently. Your snores echo in the silence of his apartment, huffing things that tell him you're laying on your back before he sees you. You've kicked the sheets down to the bottom of the bed, and your pyjama shorts are falling off of one hip and tucked too high on one leg, exposing the expanse of your thigh. Alarm clock light shines champagne on your skin and the graphic printed on your shirt, the super powered puppy dog you love so much barking one of his catchphrases: Chāojí wāngwāng!

He scrubs at his face. Things are rough lately. He hoped you'd be awake still to talk to, even if it was about nothing at all. He just wanted to hear your voice. 

My own fault, he thinks, walking quietly to the dresser to change into his own pyjamas. They match yours. If anyone ever saw them he's not sure how he'd feel, but they were a necessary purchase at the time. You'd been morose about something, and matching made you happy.

Miguel changes and combs his hair haphazardly. He sprays some deodorant in want of a shower he's too tired for before he crosses back to the end of the bed, taking the blanket into his hands. He shakes it out over you, covering you once again. Then he rounds the bed and climbs in next to you, hooking his arm around you to drag you firmly into his side. 

“Couldn't wait up for me?” he whispers, shifting to get comfortable in the mess of pillows you insisted on. You lift your head like you might kiss him, and for a selfish second he hopes you're awake, but then you breathe out another snore. 

You're heavy when you sleep. He makes sure you're not about to suffocate on his chest and encourages your arm into a more comfortable position. Your chest half on his chest and side, your face in his neck, you look like a rom-com couple from one of your under the desk movies, but Miguel's far less comfortable. He'd wanted to be close to you, but he's wondering if he should've just spooned you. 

“Miguel,” you say, your voice a croak in the dark.

He chuckles in surprise. “What?” he whispers. 

You mumble. He brushes a hand up your face to draw your head back, thumb on your cheek. Your eyes stay closed. 

What the… 

“Hello?” he whispers. 

You don't answer. Perhaps you'd woken for a split second and sensed him, or perhaps you're having a dream. You love to tell him about your dreams in the mornings, occasionally shaking him awake to tell him before you forget. He's always pissed to begin with, endeared by the end, pissed again when he sees the time. 

He closes his eyes and decides he'll miss you by himself for a bit. 

Your voice comes in a muffled squishing atop his chest, “It's his car.” 

He blinks. “That so?” 

“For the commute.” Your whispering turns intense, “He has to drive there, Miguel.” 

Well, in whatever dream you're having, you're talking to him. He quite likes knowing that. “Where's he going, cariño?” he asks, picking the spot on your forehead a moment before he kisses it fondly. 

You make this sound that he only ever hears when you're tired and he's touching you in ticklish places, a gurgle of a laugh as you nuzzle into his chest. “Stop…” you say playfully. 

This is ridiculous. 

Miguel's getting jealous of dream Miguel. Who does that guy think he is? You laugh, say something completely unintelligible, and jolt up hard enough to startle him. 

“Ah!” you say, eyes finally opening, blinking down at him with a slowness that almost looks painful. “...Miguel?” 

“What is wrong with you?” 

“We were… uh…” You blink at him some more, your arm shaking with fatigue where you anchor yourself on the mattress. He slides a hand under your armpit to hold you up. “I think I was dreaming.” 

“You were talking to me.” 

“I was?” You lean down into your hand, rubbing your eyes. 

“Are you okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, I'm just… that was so weird…” You seem strangely unsettled. Miguel helps you onto your back but keeps an arm behind you so he can hold you. You're content to be held, pushing one leg over the other, speaking into his chest. “You were tickling me.” 

“Sorry,” he finds himself saying, giving you a pat. “I won't do it anymore, cariño. You can go back to sleep.” 

“Thanks, Miguel,” you mumble. 

He waits for you to doze off, but your heart seems to be beating too quickly. Maybe dream Miguel drove you both off a cliff. “You want me to kiss you?” he asks. 

“Yeah,” you mumble, tipping your head up. 

He kisses your forehead. A long, slow press of the lips with no end in sight. Invigorated by your contended sigh, he kisses you again, again, these lazy gentle mouthings that barely count as kisses at all as he tugs the blanket up to cover your collar. You make a sound like a hiccup caught in your throat and before he knows it, you're sleeping again. You sleep soundly for the rest of the night, or he thinks so. He falls asleep not long after you with his lips still pressed to your forehead, so there's no way to know for sure. 

[deathblacksmoke]

dying to get you dizzy

pairing: matt dierkes x f!reader x davis rider

word count: 2.8K

cw: partner sharing, poor communication, the boys are dummies, oral sex (m receiving), fingering (f receiving), protected p in v sex, voyeurism, ~matty in the cuck chair~, m masturbation, a bit of jealousy & possessiveness, a dynamic that won't stop switching, boys kissing <3 (if you noticed i missed any warnings, please lmk!!!)

author's note: i don't remember how i got this idea — a little too much thc maybe? — but then an anon requested it and here we are. i hope it lives up to the expectations i set for it!

title from "dizzy on the comedown" by turnover

banner by @darksigns-exe 🩷

You couldn’t say with any sort of confidence how you got here.

It started with a glance, you think — an innocent look that lingered a little long. You know Matt caught it, judging by the way he had you pressed against the wall the moment Davis left, littering your neck and chest with possessive kisses and sucking bruises into your skin.

You vaguely remember his whisper in your ear before you came for the second time on his fingers, could barely make it out over the whooshing in your ears. Your legs had given out beneath you, kept from collapsing only by his hand wrapped gently around your neck and his leg between your thighs.

You want him, huh?

You didn’t know how to answer. You weren’t quite sure if you knew the answer yourself, but found yourself dizzied by the thought of it. His gaze seared through you, and you couldn’t help it. His words gave you no other option.

Don’t be shy, honey. You can tell me. You want him, don’t you?

With a desperate nod and a whine and an unintelligible plea, your vision blacked, your muscles failing you.

Everything between that and this — perched on the floor between Davis’ thighs while Matt kisses over your bare neck and shoulders — was a blur.

Matt’s big hands on your skin ground you, while one glance up at the man above you makes you feel like you’re floating. The push and pull between the safety of Matt’s presence and the watchful eyes of his friend is enough to make your head swim.

“Are you gonna be a good girl for him?” Matt asks, his warm breath beneath your ear goose pimpling your skin. You nod — there’s no other choice — you want to be good for them both. “Why don’t you ask him what he wants, honey?”

When you look up at Davis, he isn’t meeting your eye. Suddenly, you feel so very small — you almost want to shy away, but Matt was right, you did want this.

“Davis, can I—?” your voice comes out more as a croak than anything. You place a hand on his thigh, not too high, not trying to push any boundaries. He looks down at you with wide eyes, and you’re not quite sure what to do. “How do you want me?”

His gaze flits away from you, to where Matt is knelt behind you, and for the first time it occurs to you that maybe they didn’t discuss this at all before Davis came here. You turn around in Matt’s arms, looking at him in disbelief. He has the nerve to look confused.

“What, baby?” he asks. You can’t help but roll your eyes.

“What exactly did you discuss when you invited him?” you ask him, and he looks at you a little stupid. His silence tells you all there is to know, and as exasperated as it makes you, you’re sadly not shocked. You and Matt haven’t done anything like this before, and it had surprised you how quickly the arrangement had been set up. Looking back, you probably should have expected that the plans were made without any sort of discussion on rules or boundaries or expectations.

You excuse yourself from Davis and take Matt to another corner of the room.

“What is he expecting to happen here today?” you ask Matt, and you think there ought to be a bit of shame painted on his face, but his expression betrays nothing. He has no idea what he’s done wrong. You often feel a dull urge to shake him — never stronger than in this moment. “Did you just ask him if he wanted to fuck me, and he said yeah, and now we’re all here?”

You were prepared for his answer, but it infuriates you anyway. “I mean, more or less.”

You’d like to tell him how lucky he is that you love him.

“What are you expecting to happen here today?” you ask, and you can see as he almost shrugs, but thinks better of it. You decide to file that away. “What are the rules? What’s off limits?”

“Nothing, as far as I’m concerned,” he responds, and the buzzing is back, a warmth erupting beneath your skin and coursing through you. “You’ll have to ask him. But you can do whatever you feel like, baby. This is for you.”

“How involved do you want to be?” you ask him, just to clarify, not wanting to leave him out. He shrugs, like you’re deciding on dinner and he couldn’t care less, not making belated negotiations on a three-way. You let him have his indecision. “So I’m in charge. That’s fun.”

“Told you it’s for you,” he replies, as simple as ever.

You press a kiss to his cheek, another to the corner of his mouth. You can never stay mad at him for long — a blessing and a curse.

“You should have had this talk with him, you know,” you add for good measure. He nods, and you’re still not sure he gets it, but you’ll let it go for now. Turning away from him, you’re a little too eager to get back to Davis.

You perch yourself on the bed next to him, your knee pressing into his thigh, but not yet daring to get closer. Not until you ask.

“I hear Matty didn’t really talk much with you about what was going to happen here,” you start. He shakes his head — a bit obvious. “He asked you if you wanted to fuck me, though?” you continue. He gives you a shy little nod, so quiet and nervous today. You can’t help the way it has you squirming a little, especially as you notice him getting a little brave, the knuckles of his index and middle finger grazing gently over your bare thigh. “And you do, right?”

“Can you come a little closer?” he asks, finally speaking up. He sounds so sure, just like always, not timid in the way that you’d expected him to be, judging by his behavior today. You start slowly scooting closer before he gets a gentle grip on your leg, prompting you to swing it over him. With his thigh between your legs, you feel so shy again, your skin hot all over. You throw your arms over his shoulders, burying your face in his neck. The smell of his cologne floods your senses.

“What do you want?” you ask, your skin goose-pimpling as his hands toy with the edges of your panties, sliding under to feel the bare skin of your ass. Your skin goes hot-cold-hot and it dizzies you. You swallow thickly, and your words come out barely louder than a whisper. “You have to tell me what you want.”

“I want you,” he says, the fingers of one of his hands running through your hair, gently directing your gaze up to meet his. “Anything you want. If I want you to stop, I’ll say,” he assures you, his lips meeting yours, but just barely. “I don’t think that’ll happen, though.”

Your head feels so fuzzy with the permission, with the free-reign you’ve been given. You find your way back between his spread legs again, just barely catching his soft gasp as you go. As you run a hand over his sweats, you feel him hard under your palm, and it’s without a second thought that you pull his waistband down, freeing his cock and marveling at the size.

When you hear a rustling behind you, you chance one last look over your shoulder at Matt — in the armchair next to your dresser, his gaze intently focused on the two of you, his hand already down the front of his sweats. His expression doesn’t change as you study him.

When you turn back around, his watchful eye bores through you. You remind yourself of the explicit permission, the enthusiastic consent, the free-reign to be in charge that they both gave you, as you take Davis’ cock between your lips.

The overwhelm is so immediate, a whooshing in your ears as everything consumes your senses, your mind racing and empty all at once. His cock is heavy on your tongue, and you make a conscious effort to ignore all the sounds going on around you, the twitch in your mouth as you slide your tongue through his slit, his soft gasps, the unmistakable sounds of Matt’s low groans and the distinctive spit-slicked noises. Davis runs a hand through your hair again and tugs — you choke, needing a moment to pull away and catch your breath. You keep your hand stroking him, admiring the way the tip is already red and angry and leaking pre-cum.

You look up at Davis to find his gaze trained just past you again. If he notices that the movement of your hand has slowed, he doesn’t show it. When you peer over your shoulder at Matt, it’s almost as if you’re not in the room at all. 

A spark of mischief keeps your feelings from hurting.

“Matty,” you interrupt his thoughts, directing his gaze to you. “Are you guys having a staring contest?”

He looks at you a little dumb. You remind yourself you have the upper hand here, despite what Matt may like to tell himself.

“Why don’t you give him a little kiss?” you ask, your attention back on Davis, delighting in the widening of his eyes as his cock twitches unmistakably in your grasp.

Matt doesn’t react for a few long moments. You consider pivoting away from the topic before you hear a shuffling behind you, but you don’t dare a look backwards.

The bed dips beneath his weight as he kneels beside his friend, and he looks down at you, his expression calm. You reach for him, yearning for the contact, and his hand twines with yours before his attention returns to Davis.

You can’t tell who leans in first. They gaze at each other for a beat before the subtlest shift, their lips meeting softly. Davis places a hand on Matt’s jaw and the grip on your hand tightens, just slightly. Matt’s eyes flicker closed a moment later, his eyelashes fluttering prettily against the tops of his cheeks. You can see the beginnings of a small smile.

You watch Davis treat him gently and a buzzing erupts beneath your skin.

You’ve felt it countless times but have never seen it like this — the way his muscles relax, the slow unclenching of his jaw as a thumb soothes over his skin, the flutter of his eyelashes as he lets out the pretty sigh. You’ll never lose sight of how gorgeous he looks, always but especially so under the spell of being treated with a delicate hand.

You almost can’t help the little piece of you that feels impatient, jealous. You don’t notice yourself tugging on him until Matt pulls away from Davis, lips swollen and smirking.

“Are you feeling left out?” he teases.

When Davis drifts a finger over your cheek and looks down at you curiously, you feel subtly embarrassed that he can feel just how red hot your skin is, can see you squirming.

It’s completely without his beckoning that you find yourself rising from the floor and crawling into his lap. Matt’s hand finds the small of your back, a gentle guidance, as Davis curls a hand around your exposed hip. You’ve never felt so surrounded.

When your lips finally meet his in a kiss, you can taste Matt on his tongue. A gasp escapes as you shift yourself closer, burying your fingers in his hair. Behind you, Matt snickers at your desperation, crowding into your space and pressing his lips to your ear.

“Your turn?” he asks, getting a handle on the situation, no trace of teasing left in his tone. You nod frantically.

He’s so solid beneath you, but soft and pliable in a way you’ve grown unaccustomed to with Matt. There’s no playful push and pull as he responds to your every move and lets you lead the way. He shifts beneath you, his cock pressing hard against your inner thigh, and your vision goes fuzzy.

Upon turning back to Matt, you’re greeted with his pretty smile — all knowing, steps ahead, as always — and you can’t help the way you melt.

“I want him,” you confess, as if it wasn’t already clear. He just nods, presses a kiss to the side of your mouth before lending you space again. 

You find your gaze still trained on him, eyes wide. Matt nudges you, pointing a finger towards Davis. “You have my permission. You need to ask him, my love.”

You curl your fingers through the soft hair at the base of his skull, cradling the back of his head in your hand. He’s so warm, so solid beneath you, and you want him so badly. He stretches up to place a delicate kiss on your mouth, then another, and another. Butterflies fill your tummy.

“Do you want me?” you breathe into his mouth. He smiles against your lips.

“You know I do,” Davis responds, pulling you as close as he can get you, his strong hands kneading the plush skin of your ass, your thighs, every available inch of you.

You don’t need to ask him how he wants you. The moment you climb off of him, he quickly strips himself of his clothes. You take in the long lines of his body, his pretty tattooed skin, as you take off your bra and panties. You feel more exposed than ever, more eager than before.

Davis reaches into the bedside table for a condom — lucky guess — and props himself against the pillows. Matt has made his way back to the chair, happy to watch, nodding towards the bed when you take a final look back at him.

When you crawl back into his lap, Davis’ fingers find their way to your center, running gently through your folds. It’s so subtle, but your eyes roll into the back of your head nonetheless.

“You’re so wet,” he marvels, making you blush. “You’re gonna feel so nice. Are you ready for me?”

In place of an answer, you just scoot yourself forward, taking him in your hand and letting yourself sink down. You immediately feel so full of him, overwhelmed in a way you weren’t expecting. You lay your palms rest flat against his tummy, his warm and soft skin beneath your fingers grounding you as you set a languid pace, a slow grind over his lap.

He lets you stay in control, his hands not on your hips but toying with your nipples — a brush here, a light pinch there, making your skin tingle with pleasure, an involuntary gasp, and then another. You use the leverage of your hands on his torso to begin lifting yourself up, closing your eyes, sinking back down, quicker. The build-up has made you feel a little out of your head, and you feel so nice, you’re not quite sure how long you’ll be able to make yourself last.

You hear a movement behind you before you feel the bed sink under a weight, a hand on your knee, a touch that’s become unmistakable to you. You lift your head and open your eyes, grateful to see Matt there in front of you, next to Davis. The contrast of Matt’s expanse of soft skin and Davis’ tattoos — you can’t deny they look pretty together. The hand Matt doesn’t have around himself moves from your knee between your folds, swiping over your clit, a light pressure, making your skin buzz.

Their hands working in tandem to make you feel good, Matt’s between your legs and Davis’ on your breasts, completely overcomes you. You watch in awe as they kiss again, a peek of tongue dancing between their open mouths, whispers between kisses that you can’t make out, their fingers still bringing you ever closer to your climax. You fight against your eyes fluttering closed, needing to keep sight on them before you. 

Matt groans into the other’s mouth and you know that sound, redirect your glance just in time to watch as his cum spills onto Davis’ tummy. Davis doesn’t follow far behind him, for the first time getting a tight grip on your hip and thrusting up into you, spilling into the condom.

With a final whine, you collapse forward, letting your orgasm overwhelm you. You feel two distinct hands on you, lips pressing into your hair, whispers of good girl and good job, baby as your senses fade out.

Rolling off of Davis and collapsing between them, sandwiched between them as they both curl themselves around you, you hope they miss the mischievous little twinkle in your eye as an idea pops into your head — a plan for part two.

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[no1frogfan]

Idk what some of these categories are, but this was fun!

Maybe this is just prevalent in a small corner of the fandom, but I also see a lot of divorce & rich boy aus across my dash, and I wonder what y'all think of those! (Personally, divorce is a B for me, and rich boy au is a D.)

No pressure, but I'm also suuuuuuper curious >> @mangoisms @paleokarst @vs-redemption and anyone else who wants to join!

fanfic trope tierlist incoming!!

link to make your own: here

i'll explain any of them in the comments if asked (;

p.s. you can customize the number of tiers and what you name them if you want to elaborate more on some!

tagging (no pressure): @heroesfan101 @kailali @meggsngrits @fushigurro @saintokkotsu-main @true-deru @auslanderka @baka-tsuki @ceenthesis @everything-always @giogama08 @prettyiwa

+ anyone else who wants to do it - would love to see your responses and i know i forgot a few!

[justanothermemestrider]

Nothing Ever Stays Dead - Part 7

Sgt Gadriel x Childhood Friend OC

Woooooweeeeee babes. Looks like our favourite couple is finally catching a break. Or are they?

Blood and gore under the cut, as well as loads of general 40kness. Apologies for spelling or grammar errors.

If this is your first time here, welcome! If you like the look of this fic but aren't caught up, check out the master list here to see all the parts I've done so far :)

Otherwise, thanks for reading and hope you enjoy!

Gadriel is sure he's lost consciousness at least twice now. This time, rather than spur him back to life with yet another blow to his wounds, Severus allows him to awake on his own. Gadriel's eyes are heavy. His vision, a swirling mess of black and white spots. When the haze fades enough for him to actually see, he finds a a deep, rippling pool of blood at his feet.

The poison still hasn't worn off. Even after... Throne, how long has it been? An hour? A day?

"Hey! Angel!"

Gadriel raises his eyes.

"There you go," Severus smirks. "Stay with me, now. We're not even halfway done yet."

The slaver flicks his right wrist- the mechanical one. The metal joint clanks with the movement, and several, large droplets of blood are sent flying off its pointed knuckles.

"You know," Severus muses. "I'm thinkin' maybe I don't give you to the Drukhari after all. I'm thinkin' maybe I'll just bleed you like a pig, then strip you for parts. You angels got a lot of fun things going on under the hood; things that I bet'll sell real nice on the black market."

He flicks Gadriel's chest with his forefinger. Gadriel's mind is so lost amidst its agony, he doesn't even feel it.

"I mean, you've got what; two supercharged hearts and three superlarge lungs? A layer of subdermal armour as thick as steel and the literal progenoids of a demi-god jammed up in your neck? You're priceless, really! Still a pretentious little shit, of course. But a priceless one at that!"

Vaguely, Gadriel wonders what the dark eldar wyche must think of all this. He'd expected her to argue, or even just react. But when Gadriel casts his eyes to where she's standing at the back of the...

She's gone.

Gone? But where? Did she get bored? Have other duties to attend? Prisoners of her own to torture, perhaps?

Wait. Wait. He remembers something. A feeling, an idea. Formed ages ago, before blood loss and shock had vegetated his brain.

"Mmm. Yeah. Tell me, how's that been working out for you?"

"Not great. But soon, I expect that to change."

"Oh? And how do you figure that?"

"You'll see... "

I'd been waiting, Gadriel realises. Waiting for her to leave. And now she's gone. That means I can...

As if on cue, acidic saliva stings the back of his tongue.

"What else you got?" Severus continues to ramble. "You got a rib plate instead of cage? Surely that will go for something. Oh! And all those little bits of tech that hook you into your armour. Now, to the right people, those will go for bags!"

Dropping his chin to his chest, Gadriel mutters something unintelligible.

"Sorry?" Severus says. "Did you say something?"

Again, Gadriel murmurs. But again, no words are discernable.

Scowling, Severus closes in on Gadriel, turning his ear towards the space marine's face. "Speak up, damn you. Use your words."

"I said," Gadriel mutters. "That you forgot one."

"One of what?"

"One of the organs that seperates a space marine from a human."

Avarice ignites within Severus' black, soulless eyes. "Well, go on, then!" he demands. "Tell me!"

Now, finally, Gadriel raises his head. "It's called Betcher's gland," he says. His voice is little more than a hoarse, croaking whisper.

"Betcher's gland, huh?" Severus says. "Haven't heard of that one. What is it?"

Gadriel locks eyes with the slaver. He licks his lips. "It allows us to spit acid."

As he'd suspected, Severus is slow on the uptake. For all his cruel behaviour and love of technical jargon, the bastard is about as clever as he is brave. That gives Gadriel plenty of time to work up a glob of saliva large enough to hoick into the man's face. It lands on his left eyebrow.

Initially, Severus recoils in surprise and disgust. But before the slaver can curse Gadriel or punish him for his slight, the acid begins its grisly work.

Severus' eyebrow evaporates, the flesh beneath it popping and hissing as it retreats from his skull like melting plastic. His brow bone kisses the open air, then blacken and turns to gluggy, carbon ash. An acidic droplet lands in the centre of his left eye. The entire thing pops like an infected cyst.

Severus drops to the floor. Limbs locked up, mouth ripped open in a terrible scream. He claws at his melting face, but that only spreads the acid to his hands. The fingers of his alien hand remain mostly intact. His organic ones, meanwhile, are stripped to the bone in seconds.

Gadriel watches the man writhe and wail at his feet with half a smile- he's too exhausted to laugh; the exertion of it might just make him pass out again. But Throne dammit if he's not enjoying seeing this bastard is so much agony.

If this is where he is to die, there are few sights he'd rather be seeing. Well, in truth, there's only one.

If it can't be Ellie's face, let it be the face of her tormentor as it's melted off with acid.

Gadriel smirks to himself. Twisted as it is, there's a lot of romance in that. He appreciates it. Surprising how much he appreciates it. Surprising he even remembers what romance is, after everything he-

Throne. I'm loosing it. Can't keep my thoughts straight.

Must be the blood loss. Catching up with him.

How did it take in the end...

Can't see Severus anymore. Just black. Black and screaming. Blood and steel.

How long has he been here? An hour? A day?

Gadriel doesn't know. He doesn't...

"Gadriel!"

That voice...

It's her.

Ellie.

His Ellie.

Gadriel's smile widens a little. How kind of his mind to flash her memory before him as he dies. It would've been nice, however, to have seen her face one last time.

"Gadriel! Can you hear me? Open your eyes, darling. Please, open your eyes."

Gadriel can't. He knows he can't. He tries- how could he not try for her? But his body, his mind, they are lightyears away. He doesn't even feel the pain anymore.

I'm sorry Ellie, he would tell her if he still had a voice. I'm sorry to abandon you again.

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

"Gadriel!" Ellicent cries. "Gadriel, can you hear me?"

He doesn't look up. Doesn't even move. His head is entirely limp in her hand. Blood is literally lapping at the sole of her boot. His skin is as grey and clammy as a corpse.

"Open your eyes, darling." Ellicent's voice is meek with tears. "Please, open your eyes."

Nothing. Still nothing.

Oh Emperor, please. Please no. Please don't do this. Not again.

Thundering footsteps behind her. Ellicent looks over her shoulder in time to see Titus enter the room. His helm moves sharply between her and Gadriel. "Step aside," he says. Though it is an order, his voice is surprisingly soft. It's enough to coax Ellicent away from Gadriel and do as the Ultramarine says.

Titus exchanges his bolter for his power sword, activating the weapon with a plasmic whine. With one clean slash, he severs Gadriel's chains.

Gadriel collapses to the floor. The pool of blood beneath him splashes up his front. He lands on his knees, slouches forwards. Both hands clutch at his right side and terrible scream tears through his entire body.

Ellicent drops to her knees in front of him. Grabs his tear-streaked face and presses her forehead to his. "Gadriel. Darling, look at me."

He's trembling in her grasp. His breath, barely more than short ragged gasps. But he's alive. He's awake. And at the sound of her voice, he even manages to lift his head a little.

"... E... Ellie..."

Ellicent chokes on a sob. "Yeah. It's me." Throwing her arm around his neck, she hugs him tight.

Gadriel doesn't have the strength the speak. Nor to lift his arms to return her embrace. Even so, he manages to reply by nuzzling his face into her neck.

Weeping openly now, Ellicent kisses his cheek. "I know," she murmurs. "I'm here. I've got you."

To her left, ceramite clangs against the floor. "Can you walk, brother?" Titus asks, crouching beside Gadriel.

Without pulling away from Ellicent, Gadriel turns his head towards the other space marine. "I..." He's cut off by a grimace, followed by a vicious bout of wracking coughs. Titus touches his shoulder. "I'll take that as a no." Sheathing his power sword at his back, he carefully takes Gadriel's arm and slings it over his neck. Ellicent, taking her cue, gives Gadriel one last kiss on the cheek before releasing him and scampering out of the way.

Titus hauls Gadriel onto his feet with a grunt, putting an arm around his waist. Gadriel cries out with the movement and sags heavily against his armoured brother. Titus, however, holds him up with relative ease. Letting Gadriel's arm hang loose around his neck for a moment, he reaches for his hip. Ellicent notices another holster, from which he extracts a weapon. Small, thick and glowing a bright, humming blue.

A plasma pistol.

"Have you used one of these before?" Titus asks her.

Ellicent nods.

He seems to stare at the side arm for a second. Then, he offers it to her. "Take point," he says. Then, in a tone that's slightly softer:

"Keep us safe."

Ellicent is taken off guard. His allowing her to guide him through the ship is one thing, but to offer her a weapon? That's-

Cut it out, Ellicent snaps at herself. No time for that right now.

She takes the weapon from Titus. It's weighty, but we'll balanced. The fact it's projectiles are energy, too, should make its recoil easy to handle despite her single arm.

Looking back up at Titus, Ellicent nods.

"You've got it," she tells him.

Titus returns her nod. Then, he touches the side of his helm. "Squad Talasa, this is Titus. I've got the sergeant. He is alive, but badly wounded. Have an Apothecary on standby to receive him."

A pause.

"Affirmative. Broadcasting my locus now. Inform me when you are two minutes out. Titus out."

He drops his hand from his helm.

"Is that our rescue?" Ellicent asks.

"It is mine and Gadriel's, yes."

His tone is terse, pointed. Thought Ellicent feels her hackles rise, she keeps her own emotions on a leash. "Fair enough," she answers.

Turning away from the pair of space marines now, she steps towards the door. As she does, her metal foot clinks against something. She glances down. Her eyes widen at what she finds.

It's an arm. A bionic arm. Attached to the shoulder of a human man lying on his back. Half his face is gone. Melted, as if by acid. Even so, Ellicent would recognise him anywhere.

Severus.

She crouches beside him. His mouth is agape, but no sound comes out. His left eye is a watery puddle within his skull, and the flesh of that entire side of his face is entirely eaten away. Only bone remains. And even that is pot-holed and blackened. But his chest is moving. Breath still wheezing in and out of his throat. His one good eye also tilts towards her.

A chill runs through Ellicent's body. It is not, however, from fear. "I knew it was you," she murmurs. "If there was one thing you hated more than the idea of me escaping, it was the idea of my being saved."

Severus says nothing. Just wheezes at her. The contempt in his remaining eye, however, is palpable.

"Who is that?"

Ellicent turns to see Titus looking at her from over his shoulder.

Ellicent glances back at Severus. At his still-melting face. Gadriel must've spat on him; it's the only explanation she can think of. If that is the case, then the acid isn't anywhere near done with him yet. Another few minutes, and he'll be either dead or totally vegetated. The thought brings a smile to her lips.

"Dunno," she says to Titus. "Some kinda serf, maybe. He's too far gone though. Not worth saving."

"Perhaps we should give him the Emperor's Mercy, then."

Eyes still on Severus, Ellicent shakes her head. "No," she says. "No, we don't have time. Besides, the gunshot would alert every xenos still here to our location." She gets to her feet. Severus follows her with his eye. She could be mistaken, but she swears she sees a flicker of pleading somewhere behind it.

Ellicent curls her upper lip in disgust. Then, without a second glance, she turns her back on him.

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

"Where are we right now, in relation to the ship's outer hull?" Titus asks.

Ellicent clears the next hallway, sweeping the sights of her plasma pistol across it. Nothing.

By the Emperor, Titus has really aired this place out. "Far," she answers his question. "We're basically in the belly, right now." She looks at him from over her shoulder.

"Can you get us closer? To the outer hull, I mean?"

"Sure," Ellicent replies. "We keep moving down, we'll hit utility. Only walls thinner than those are the hangars."

Titus gives an affirmative grunt. "Take us there."

"Can I ask why?"

"You may. But I'll not be telling you."

Ellicent just smirks at that. Irritating as Titus' continued mistrust of her is, she understands it. And with him being the only one of the two of them who can carry Gadriel, she's not about to antagonise him, either.

With every second that passes, her beloved's condition grows more and more dire. He's slipped out of consciousness again, head lolling against his chest as Titus drags him along. Ellicent has to suppress the urge to go to him. To grab his face and scream at him to wake up.

Stay focused. The best way you can help him is to stay focused.

As they leave the torture chambers behind, the interior's architecture begins to change. Colours shift from black to grey. The rib-like structures lining the walls gain hard, mechanical edges, and the lighting gets significantly brighter. All are signs that they've finally reached the ship's utility levels. Means they're not far now.

It also means they start encountering the enemy.

Titus never made it down here. As such, the Dark Eldar force hasn't been thinned. When they hear the clang of Titus' ceramite and smell the stench of Gadriel's poisoned, thinned blood, they come swarming like flies. But most of the warriors here carry swords and knives. And Ellicent's fire is as ruthless as it is accurate. Alien heads, hearts and throats all explode under the glare of her plasma pistol. Soon, their wake is littered with charred and decapitated corpses.

In Ellicent's hand, the plasma pistol vibrates like an anxious heart. Its grip is becoming warm. The blue light from its chamber taking longer and longer to dissipate after every shot. She keeps this up any longer and the damned thing is gonna explode in her hand.

"Titus!" she shouts over her shoulder. "How far away is your rescue!"

"That depends," the Ultramarine booms. "How far are we from cargo?"

"This is utility!"

"In that case: two minutes."

"Thank the Emperor," Ellicent breathes.

At the next curve in the hall, Titus sets Gadriel down. He draws his bolter, aiming it straight down the corridor ahead. Ellicent, meanwhile, covers their rear. She glances at Gadriel. Throne, he looks like a corpse. Again, the urge to drop to her knees at his side threatens to overwhelm her. But again, Ellicent makes herself suppress it.

"The hell have we stopped for, Titus?" she hisses.

Titus' reply couldn't have been shorter or more curt. "Rescue."

Ellicent looks at Gadriel again. Her heart rages.

"We're in the middle of a Throne-damned hallway," she growls. "I can hear the xenos getting-"

"We hold this position," Titus says.

"Why the f-"

"Trust me, Ellie."

That makes Ellicent pause.

He knows my name; he used it. Not just my name, but the one Gadriel gave me.

Before she can process the implications of that fact, Titus is shouting at her. "Contact! Both sides!"

Ellicent blinks her head clear. Lifts her plasma pistol and stares down its barrel. It's just as the Ultramarine had said. Drukhari. Dozens of them. Sprinting down the hall with blades in hand.

Ellicent sets her jaw; aims and open fires.

At first, she manages well. The hallway is long, with very little cover. It creates a bottleneck; a funnel, that forces the xenos straight into her line of sight. Means Ellicent rarely misses. And every shot that lands is a killshot. But like a storm rolling over a hill, inch by inch the Drukhari start closing in. Ellicent can't keep up. Worse, the plasma pistol is starting to overheat. Won't be long until it's too hot for her to hold.

Heart pounding, she glances behind her. "Titus! Where the fuck is your rescue?!"

Her voice is almost entirely drowned out by the roar of his bolter fire. Somehow, though, Titus hears her anyway.

"Any moment now! " he bellows. "Hold fast!"

"Emperor save me," Ellicent scowls.

A shriek at her front whips her back around. A Drukhari- a wyche- is mere metres from her now. Ellicent raises her pistol, pulls the trigger-

The weapon shudders, spitting blue sparks from its chamber.

It's overheating. About to blow. Shit!

The wyche cocks back her sword arm. A cackling, sadistic grin contorts her thin, scarred lips.

Ellicent meets it with a snarl as she tosses the melting-down plasma pistol at the bitch's face.

It detonates like a shock grenade. Charging the air, flooding it with the stink of ozone and electricity. The wyche tumbles backwards, her head completely vaporised. She didn't even get the chance to scream.

But she isn't the last. More are coming. And Ellicent just lost her only weapon.

"Titus!" she screams. "I know you said to trust you. But-"

The next sentence dies on her lips as the wall to her left explodes.

The air ignites with fire and shrapnel. Swearing, Ellicent drops to the floor and covers the back of her head. Gale-force winds whip through the hole, howling like a thousand banshees, threatening to grab Ellicent and tear her out of the ship. The sudden change in air pressure make her ears pop and throb.

Ellicent squints through streaming, dust-filled eyes. Searching for Titus; for Gadriel; for anyone.

She can hear ceramite clanking, bolters firing-

Bolters. Plural.

Ellicent wipes her eyes on her forearm. Through the haze, she manages to make out Titus, but with him are two figures also clad in Ultramarine armour. On the other side of the hole in the wall, she catches a glimpse of a ship's open door.

A Thunderhawk, she realises. This is... This is our rescue.

Staggering to her feet, she hunts for Gadriel. There he is, slung between the two new marines while Titus covers them. Without a second thought, Ellicent sprints towards the blast hole. Just as she'd suspected, a Thunderhawk is hovering outside with its backdoor lowered and a squad of Astartes braced inside.

Ellicent stands aside as the pair carrying Gadriel's guide him towards it. Her heart skips a beat as they step outside, but the Thunderhawk is so close they barely even have to jump.

She finds Titus. Bolter still in hand, he goes to make his jump next. When he sees Ellicent, though, he suddenly stops.

"Go!" he shouts at her.

Yet again, the order utterly surprises her. But she doesn't argue with him. Steeling her nerves, Ellicent clambers to the edge of the breach, sets her toes on its edge. Before she can think twice, she jumps. Landing hard on the Thunderhawk's deck, rolling over her side and skidding to a halt. Titus leaps after her. His landing makes the entire ship shake. The moment his boots touch the floor, the Thunderhawk is gone. Tearing away from the gouge it had blasted into the Dark Star's side, its rear doors clamping shut. Ellicent's ears pop again. Her skin burns in the absence of the roaring wind. She has so many questions: who these space marines are, how they get here, how in the hell Titus had managed to coordinate such a daring, dangerous maneuver. But right now, such things are secondary concerns. Right now there's on one thing she can think about.

Gadriel.

He's laid out in the centre of the floor, flat on his back eyes still shut. Ignoring the two enormous warriors already looming over him, Ellicent shoves her way to his side. She drops to her knees. Crawls up to his head and jabs her fingers into his neck.

"Come on," she whispers. "Come on. Don't do this to me."

Her heart stammers. Pulses: a pair of them. One for each of his hearts. Both as rapid as they are weak.

Ellicent chokes on the lump that's formed in her throat.

A large hand grabs her shoulder. She looks up to see it belongs to Titus.

"Move aside," he says. "The Apothecary needs space to work."

Numbly, Ellicent does as she's told. Watching through watering eyes as her spot beside Gadriel is taken by yet another Ultramarine. He has his back to her, meaning she cannot see what he's doing. But she can imagine it. Taking Gadriel's bio readings. Injecting him with adrenaline, stimulants and pain suppressants, then pumping his veins full of blood-replacement fluids. Trying to keep his hearts beating, his lungs breathing, until they reach wherever it is they're going.

Walking backwards until her back finds a wall, Ellicent slides down to the floor. She hugs her legs, drops her chin on her knees. Tears are streaming down her face, but she hasn't the energy left to cry.

All she can do pray.

Please, Gadriel, she thinks. You promised you wouldn't abandon me again. You promised.

You promised.

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

Home stretch now, team. Almost time to see if happy endings truly are possible in the 41st Millennium...

Till then, stay safe out there xoxo

Taglist: @solspina @beckyninja @egrets-not-regrets @wolf-feathers12 @jaghatai-khock @lemon-russ @moodymisty @hatsubara-8chan @nereidof40k @yanagikou @fyxestroll @yurihasurunbara @lylakoi @justfreakynothingelse

[camomileapplesyrup]

my father never really behaved like one. he was violent. he beat me and my mother. he cheated on her with hookers every night, and got off on the idea of assaulting them behind my mother's back. after my 4th birthday, he up and left. from then, my childhood with him was meeting a string of women from russia, all claiming to be engaged to him. no one stayed long enough but one woman. who became my stepmother.

we didn't like each other. as a small little girl, who watched her big professor father dancing around in suits all day and then slapping my mom before storming away, i didn't have much faith in my safety with this woman. i saw an evil lady, who was corrupting my father with her evil lady ways, turning him against me to prioritise her son who she brought with her. this illusion dropped one night during an argument that lasted hours.

after hurling an array of expensive china at each other, and slamming all the doors in their big house, my stepmother sat crying in our red armchair, repeatedly murmuring things in russian i wish i would have understood. my father saw me approaching and snarled at me. something along the lines of "don't entertain the attention seeking goose. she is playing the victim." as a young 13 year old girl, the only thing i could conjure up was "well, you hit her, dad. don't you think that's why she's crying?"

whatever happened after that was a blur. he went on a tirade at me, clearly bothered by the correction. he looked like a big, puffed up toad, in my memory. croaking unintelligibly with anger and offence. but, im his daughter after all. i didn't understand a thing, i yelled back at my father, attempting to mimic his emotionless-debate-arguing.

that night i saw my real mother in her.

my real mother, in the same house, who never cowered. never ran away, or cried without a glare. my mother who made sure i saw her slap back. slap back so hard it made my father stagger against the very same doorframe i stood.

amidst my heated conversation with my father, the woman whom i hated so much, called out my name. she looked at me and choked out a sentence i'll never forget. in her thick, russian accent, she said "you are a strong young woman. never cower in front of your dad, or any man who hurts you. thank you."

it was the first and last time she ever complimented me. for the first time, we saw each other for what we truly were. two women victimised by an abusive men, who shrunk into the very thing he wanted to avoid most. two women who respected each other enough, to stand up to him. no matter how far apart our worlds were, in that moment, we became the very core of our beings and forgot everything else.

i'll never forget her defeated voice, and tear stained face. i'll never forget what she gave me that day.

[no1frogfan]

Excuse you it’s not just ****** ******!! What about ******** *** or ********* *******??? PLEASE. LYING TO MY FACE as if I don’t have the receipts!!!!!!! Don’t make me print them out on real paper and start highlighting your transgressions!!

happy iwa's birthday to THE iwa lover <3 even if you have forsaken him recently!!!!

Torn between being recognized by you as the Iwa lover and your casual statement that I have FORSAKEN HIM????

RUDE! 😭😭😭

I told nugget yesterday “It’s your co-husband’s birthday” as a joke and he immediately responded with “Happy birthday, Iwa” because he only recognizes Iwa sasffssd