#Also suffering from a nasty cold/flu

[caffinatedstory]

Two Oceans

I won't say what date this ask if from... But finally got around to this one at least...

(AO3)

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"What's love?" Iceland enquires with a curious gaze up at his brother.

The question seems to take Norway by surprise.

The previous 30-50 questions Iceland had asked today had been more about why grass was green and the sky blue. Norway wasn't prepared for this sort of stuff.

He'd gotten away with blaming the gods for a lot of stuff too, but he didn't think that would work now.

"I'm..." he started then trailed off. Their walk through the fields came to a halt as well as Norway just could not think of an easy way to explain. "That's a very big question," he finally managed to say as he sat down in the grass.

Iceland happily sat next to him, tiny hand still clinging to Norway's tunic.

"I heard one of the men tell a poem to a lady, and she said she loved it," Iceland smiled.

"Yeah... Love comes in many shapes and forms," Norway nodded. He felt about 3000 years too young to explain this to a child, even if said child was as immortal as him.

"Is love nice?"

"It should be,"

"Is it warm?"

"Usually..."

"So love is like a warm stew?"

Norway laughed and ruffled Iceland's pale hair affectionately.

"Yeah, love is absolutely like a warm stew. Made by someone who really cares about you and want you to grow big and strong," he smiled warmly.

"But sometimes love is hot and scary and almost painful. Like a volcano bubbling up from the ground,"

Iceland nodded wordlessly. He seemed to be grasping the concept.

"Love is wanting to hug someone super close. But also maybe wanting to be left alone a little bit,"

"Like you do with Denmark?"

"Exactly."

"Is love sweet?"

"Sweet as mead and honey,"

"Love sounds nice," Iceland smiled.

"Yeah it is..." Norway nodded. "But it's complicated. You'll probably feel many different version of love as you grow older. We both will..."

"Sounds exciting!" Iceland hummed with a sence of glee that Norway could only describe as childlike.

"Love is absolutely exciting. And a little scary. Imagine wanting to do anything for the person you love! Some people even lose their minds to love,"

"Oh..."

"Love is a strong bond that can be impossible to break, like the fetters of Fenris. However, if done wrong then love can also dissappear as quickly as snow on water," Norway pointed toward the the ocean.

"Love can be as big as the ocean and as small as a raindrop. You can't really run out of love, but you can divide it in unequal parts..."

"So I can love someone a little and someone else a lot?"

"Yeah," Norway nodded, satisfied to some extent with his own wisdom he had now imparted on his brother.

"Well, then I think I love you as much as the ocean allows," Iceland smiled brightly.

"The whole ocean?" Norway grinned. "That's a lot of love..."

"Yes. But you said I couldn't run out of love,"

"And neither can I," Norway's grin turned into a warm smile as he pulled Iceland into a warm hug. "But I think I'm going to need two oceans to show you how much I love you."

Iceland giggled and hugged Norway tightly in return.

—---------------------

"What's this?" Norway points to a giant white plastic bag on Iceland's floor that contained what seems to be a whole lot of fabric, smiling ever so slightly as he does so.

"Nothing," Iceland replies a little too hastily, and shoves the bag behind his sofa. 

"Ah, so you're hiding nothing?" Norway chuckles and takes a step closer to the sofa. "Mind if I look at this 'nothing' then?" 

Iceland's cheeks redden and he appears to be contemplating what to do before he sighs in defeat and retrieves the bag, throwing it a little too violently at Norway.

"Whoa!" Norway laughs as he catches the bag, nearly toppling over at the sheer weigh . "Good thing I wasn't holding coffee! This thing could take even Denmark out. "

"Would have served you right," Iceland grumbles and averts his gaze to the floor.

"Your words wound me so," Norway replies flatly, as he peers into the bag.

His face contorting into a confused expression.

"What is this?" He asks as he slowly starts to pull out a quilted blanket.

"A quilt," Iceland replies coldly. "You've got eyes,"

"Yeah, I can see that but-" Norway's words trail off as he spots some familiar embroidery on one of the patches.

"Is this all your old clothes? The ones I made you?"

"Yeah," Iceland's gaze is still locked to the floor. "Felt wrong to just throw them away," he shrugs. "I've out grown them... But they're still, you know... Memories..."

Norway doesn't say anything else as he starts to unfold the quilt.

A beautiful and intricate image of the ocean lays in front of him, made up of lots of tiny bits of old clothes Iceland has worn though the ages.

Norway runs his hands over the waves in the image.

"Wow," he finally utters.

"Remember when I asked what love is?" Iceland asks softly, cheeks still red.

"Yeah, I do..." Norway smiles softly in return.

"Well... You're still my brother, and the ocean hasn't gotten smaller..." Iceland shifts his weigh from one leg to the other in a slow but nervous manner.

"Think it's gotten even bigger actually," Norway adds, hand still tracing the quilt pattern.

"It's really well made. Made with lots of love..."

"A whole ocean worth," Iceland mumbles.

"I think it might even be two,"

"Yeah," Iceland nods ever so slightly. "Definitely two whole oceans."

[charliemwrites]

Squeeze Me, I Squeak!

While your interactions with Lieutenant Riley started out cold and tense, he's been warming up to your secondary specialty. Apparently, you make for a great stress-toy. (In which Ghost is a brat with authority, but you don't mind. You're a bit of a brat too.)

Original AO3 Link (I posted this a million years ago to AO3 and it was my first ever COD fic, inspired by a Discord chat and Badjhur audios. I figured it's about time I added it to the Tumblr masterlist for ease.)

Content: Dom/Sub Dynamics, Fraternization (therefore power imbalance), Medical Care (non-descriptive), Body Piercings, Safe/Sane/Consensual Intimacy

It starts with one simple catalyst: your cheeks.

You’ve been with the 141 for over half a dozen missions now. Three bullet grazes, two concussions, four sprains, and one nasty cold into your assignment under Captain Price, and quite pleased to be there. He’s a good leader, trustworthy and steadfast, a bastion of experience and skill shielding your unconventional squad from red tape and repercussion.

Time is a little more fluid for you as the combat medic. You’re awake about twice as long as you’re ever asleep. Anxiety tugs you from fitful rest to check on your patients – your boys – if any of them are laid up with more than a dislocation. It makes the days long, nights longer, and you’ve lost track of how many calendar months since you’ve officially been with the task force.

Long enough, though, that you feel like you’ve got a handle on your squad and their personalities.

Captain Price is a grump about medical care. He understands the necessity, but resents the paperwork, time, materials, energy that goes into it. He’s gracious to let you fuss (within reason) and you’re gracious to ignore his old man grumbling. And the cigars.

Gaz is an absolute peach. Sits still, asks for painkillers when he needs them, follows care instructions. The worst he does is whine, but that’s only for the silly little injuries and the occasional flu shot. He’s respectful, sometimes a little bashful, and friendly. He makes you feel welcome, bought you your first drink with the squad after a mission, and generally is a sweetheart.

Soap is fun. A bit rambunctious and fidgety on your table, but he tries, at least. Not as careful as you’d like him to be. He’ll give you a sheepish smile whenever you fuss that he’s pulling his stitches or straining a healing joint. He whines like a banshee over everything except the serious wounds, but paradoxically has to be strong-armed into painkillers for anything. He reminds you a bit of a husky.

His brand of friendliness comes with jokes and teasing, flirtations that he’s careful to never take too far. You’ll indulge him in return sometimes, especially if he’s having a rough go of it, but it’s all in good fun. A lot of your downtime is spent in his and Gaz’s company, chatting about anything and everything, playing video games, or trying (the operative word here) to read. He’s also, unfortunately, the one who came up with your nickname.

Then there’s the lieutenant. You call him “the lieutenant” because you get the impression that he’d toss you out a window if you dared even utter his call sign.

The 141 isn’t your first assignment; you’ve been a combat medic for long enough that you’ve seen the full range of patients in the military. You’re no stranger to the puffed-up hyper-masculine men that practically resent your specialization.

“Like they think I’ll take their Man Card just for getting a plaster,” you’d once commiserated with a fellow medic.

The lieutenant goes a step beyond that. The best you can get out of him on a good day are one-word answers. A good day is if he’s hauling someone else to you. When it’s him that needs the care, well… you two often don’t meet eye to eye. And not just because he’s roughly the size (and build) of a tank.

On your third mission with him, he suffered a knife wound to the hip. You hadn’t been able to judge how deep it was between his gear and his evasiveness and you’d lost your temper.

“Lieutenant Riley, stand fucking still,” you snapped.

“The fuck did you just say to me?” he snarled.

And oh, you regretted every word you’d ever spoken in that moment. Had felt, with some certainty, that enemy combatants were not going to be what did you in. Cursed Price a little too, blaming him for this somehow.

But you were tired and a little pissed and had about a million other things to do that weren’t chase after your lieutenant.

“I said standing fucking still,” you dared repeat, raising your voice.

“I’ll have you booked with insubordination so fast, your fucking head will spin,” he growled.

“Medical treatment outranks everyone, sir,” you snapped back, just as fast. You were already snapping gloves on; he was finally still, after all, even if it was to yell at you. “So if anyone can be written up, it’s you.”

“Lass—” Soap tried, but you were already ducking down, eyes narrowed and gauze in hand.

You were relieved to see that it wasn’t too bad. Slathered it with antibiotic and pinched it closed with butterflies, then straightened. It was done in under a minute and you were even more annoyed than before.

“All that for fucking what,” you grumbled to yourself. Not quietly enough, apparently.

“That’ll do,” the lieutenant barked.

The unholy burning in his eyes informed you that you’d pushed your luck far, far enough.

You shut up and skittered off, had not been written up for insubordination, but received a well-meant ‘cool it’ from Price afterwards.

And Lieutenant Riley was… well, he was himself.

He doesn’t make you bitch at him anymore, though – and you would be lying if you weren’t a bit proud of that. By no means is he jumping to get treated, but he comes to you for the serious injuries and obliges if you manage to catch the non-fatal stuff.

It’s not that you hold it against him. Medics are a sore spot for a lot of people, and Lieutenant Riley is more private than the average soldier. He’s never actively rude, at least, apart from that one spat. Gruff and short maybe, but not mean. And you’re quite happy to have that, at least.

Besides, he watches out for you in the field, where it matters. Has literally hauled you to safety by your straps more than once. Ensures you get into exfil before him. You’ve even caught him giving you a quick, assessing check that all your gear was secure and ready.

You and he bicker at each other still, and you don’t always come out victorious. There have been plenty of instances that he’s just marched away from you, long legs carrying him to some dark corner when he won’t entertain your nagging. Still, there’s growing respect between you two, you sense. He’s a solid CO, if much different from Price, confident and competent without being arrogant. And, well, he can be a bit rude (“abrupt” you demur to Soap, who cackles) but not disrespectful.

On his end, you think things change when he gets injured. Again. You don’t know exactly what’s happened, only that he was a little too close to an explosion. The edges of his balaclava are burnt, one damning edge melted to the skin of his neck. The real issue is the deep laceration that’s sliced through the fabric. From what you can see, it starts behind his ear and slashes around his temple to take a sizable chip from the edge of his hard mask.

His bell has been rung enough that he’s silent when Soap drops him on your cot.

You do a concussion test – thank whatever higher powers there might be that he passes – and reassess the situation. He’s bleeding, he’s burnt, his mask is a hindrance. Most other medics would pry the thing off and treat him regardless of his feelings on the matter.

But you’re not any other medic, you’re the 141’s medic. You have candy for Gaz and fidget toys for Soap and carry nicotine patches or gum for Price. Lieutenant Riley hardly even pulls his mask up to drink in front of you still. He doesn’t trust easily (maybe not at all) but you’ve managed not to fuck up this far and you won’t start now.

“Need to take the skull off,” you inform him, “the balaclava can stay.”

His shoulders drop just the smallest micro-fraction. You’ve made the right choice.

He lets you pull the hard mask away, eyes flickering to yours when you set it within his reach. You blink at him, just once, trying to convey that for all your differences and squabbles before, you’re his squad-mate, his medic, and you’re on his side.

Then you turn to the bleeding.

“Going to cut a bigger hole,” you warn.

You don’t know if he’s listening, if he cares, if he’d prefer you to be quiet. You do this for Gaz and Soap, and you’ll do it for him until he tells you otherwise.

The surgical scissors make a perfect, neat line through the fabric. Blood stains dirty blond hair beneath your gloves, flattening the curls. It’s a nasty wound, deep enough that it’ll need stitches. You tell him as much as you clean it, efficient without being rough. You don’t coddle your boys; they don’t need it. The kindest thing you can do is always to just get it over with.

As you numb his skin and prep the sutures, you begin explaining the care instructions. It’ll cut down the amount of time he’ll have to hang around after you’ve finished treatment.

You fall quiet as you start stitching him up, bottom lip between your teeth to focus on speed and accuracy. On your little rolling stool, you’re trying not to loom over his prone form. Plenty of soldiers have bad reactions to being leaned over like this, and you’d expect it from any of the 141.

Your hand is starting to cramp by the time you get to the sharp cheekbone where the injury ends, but it’s done – possibly in record time. As you sit back to check your work, you catch his eye. His gaze is so heavy that you’re shocked you didn’t feel its weight this whole time. There’s an odd glint to it, the calmest you’ve ever seen from him. Especially on your medical cot.

“All good, sir?” you ask.

“Affirmative.”

“The burn now.”

You don’t touch him, just direct his head at a good angle to treat his neck. You have to numb that too, see more of the tension drain from him when it takes effect. Christ, you hadn’t even noticed. He’s like a statue sometimes, bearing wounds that would have most other people in shambles.

“Burns are the worst,” you agree. “I hate getting them, hate treating them.”

“There anything you like treating?” he grumbles.

You hum. “Common cold. All you big boys get sleepy and nasally and pathetic.”

There’s a little puff of air that you recognize from comm banter with Soap – he’s amused. You’ve managed to get something like a laugh out of him. Buoyed by this, you proceed with the delicate process of treating melted fabric.

“Pathetic, eh? Tell Johnny you said that.”

“I already told him when he got sick,” you gloat. “He pouted. Might have a picture of it somewhere.”

When you chance to look away from your work, you catch his eye again, peering at you from his peripheral. You flash a grin – a little goofy from the high of a positive reaction – and then turn back.

“That legal?” he asks. “Pictures of patients.”

You arch an eyebrow, knowing he’ll see it. “Are you going to lecture me about GDPR, Lieutenant Riley?”

“Not if it doesn’t become my problem.”

You chuckle a little – heartened by your progress and by his unusual talkativeness. “Hasn’t yet,” you point out.

More likely to be Price’s problem, anyway. Probably.

He lets you fall silent again to concentrate. Despite the severity, the affected area is smaller than you initially thought. It’ll be painful and scar like hell, but no skin grafts are necessary. You report this with obvious relief – good news all around as far as you’re concerned.

When you’re finally done, you scoot your chair back and turn to his (heavily redacted) chart, scribbling out the diagnosis and treatment. As you’re signing your initials, he calls for you by last name, tugging your gaze up.

“Was there something else, Lieutenant?” you ask, already scanning him for other injuries.

“Need one more thing from you.”

You hum in question, folding his chart over. His hand comes up, still gloved.

And then he takes your cheek between thumb and forefinger. And pinches.

Your brain spits static, eyes going wide in shock and confusion. It takes you a beat to respond, and then only because his fingers tighten to the point it starts to ache.

“Ow, Lieutenant—” you complain, still too surprised to really snap, one eye closing to express discomfort.

He releases you, staring at the spot he just grabbed. It’s probably already turning red.

“Anyone ever tell you,” he drawls, slow and measuring, “how round your cheeks are?”

Now you’re red for a different reason. You rub at the skin and scrunch your nose, unsuccessfully telling yourself that you’re not pouting like you joked Soap did.

“No,” you huff, “because most people aren’t dumb enough to say that to their medic.”

Your brain still isn’t working right because there’s no way you’d be implying that Lieutenant Riley is dumb if it was. The most personable you two have gotten before now was him buying you a drink after a mission, but he’d been buying everyone else a drink at the time.

“Not afraid of you, Squeaks.”

“I’m aware, Lieutenant.”

You’re hoping he’ll drop it, a little confused but also a little… flattered? It’s difficult to parse what you’re feeling when he’s still staring at you with those dark, glittering eyes. Not that you’re looking. No, definitely not. In fact, you are doing your damnedest not to look at his eyes. Or his face.

Which is why you notice him tugging his glove off. And then reaching for you – for your face – again.

“Hey—” you start, but he’s already squeezing, just before the point you’d fussed last time.

“Want me to stop?” he asks.

… No.

“Want to know what you’re doin’,” you deflect, brows furrowing.

Why are you letting him do this? You shouldn’t let him do this. It’s not that it hurts. It’s just… principle. Military isn’t an especially touchy-feely cuddly career field. Soap and Gaz are fairly tactile, true, but not… like this. But, well, maybe you’ve missed it. This. Touches like this. Haven’t seen friends you’re close to in a long time, don’t have this kind of relationship with your family. Haven’t had a partner in… a depressingly long time, and even then, it always took a while to get to this level of casual intimacy – if you got there at all.

“Thought that was obvious,” the lieutenant replies.

The other hand, still gloved, finds your opposite cheek and pinches that one too. Your eyes are forced narrow as the skin is manipulated, bunched up. You make a noise in the back of your throat, tilting your head to accommodate.

“’S not,” you mumble. “Who are you, my auntie?”

“’M scarier than your auntie.”

You snort, edges of your mouth tugging up despite how he’s pulling your cheeks.

“Never met my auntie, then,” you giggle.

Noticing your grin, he lets one go, only to gently crush both in his ungloved hand. And god, it’s so big that he could span your jaw from middle finger to thumb. Instead, he smooshes your face until your mouth puckers. You must look like a fish – a dumbstruck, awkward fish.

“Sir,” you slur out. He squeezes a little tighter, cutting off your ability to speak. Good thing, probably; you’re not sure what you would have said next.

“Like a little stress ball you are,” he muses, almost to himself.

That does prompt a laugh from you, the absurdity of the entire situation making you a little light- headed. Here is your huge, terrifying lieutenant, practically more legend than man, squishing your cheeks like a particularly long-suffering but beloved pet. You, the team medic, the person who pokes and prods at them more often than not. The one person in the 141 that you always thought he barely tolerated.

“Next time I’m on the edge of tearin’ my hair out, I’ll just come to you for a squeeze.”

He emphasizes this with one last, extra scrunch that makes you humph in mild discomfort. But when he finally lets you go, you grin and shake your head, somehow more amused than annoyed or offended. It seems like you finally might be growing on your lieutenant. That’s nothing to sneeze at.

“Try it and you’ll lose a finger, sir,” you tease.

“Like to see you try it, Squeaks.”

Your mistake was thinking that Simon “Ghost” Riley makes idle threats. (Not that you think that he was threatening you; if he was you know you’d know it.)

He’s been out training recruits by himself – Gaz and Price on a mission, Soap laid up with a twisted knee – a task that already tends to irritate him. Add to that, the weather is fucking miserable. Hot as hell but also a little rainy, meaning that it’s humid as a swamp. Probably has been making his stitches and burn itch beneath the mask.

When he storms into the common room at the end of the day, you and Soap exchange looks. A lot of assassin-soldier to be barreling into a small room – and making a beeline straight for you.

“Uh, sir?” you yelp. Consider a tactical retreat, but even that brief deliberation is too long. He crowds you against the counter you were making tea at and grabs your face.

He still has his gloves on, rough and uncomfortable on your skin. You wrinkle your nose, try to pull back, but his grip is too tight, so you just submit yourself to whatever is happening.

Apparently, “de-stress” is happening.

His smooshes your face just like he had in the infirmary, and some of the tension in his shoulders drops. You blink as his grip relaxes, then tenses. And then again. And again. Again, again, again. It dawns on you that he’s literally treating your cheeks like his own personal stress ball.

You should be insulted. Outraged. You’re not a toy.

“All good, LT?” Soap ventures. Sounds like he’s defusing a bomb.

“Fine, Johnny,” Ghost replies, almost absently. “Long day.”

“Recruits bein’ idjets, then?”

“Fuckin’ muppets,” he agrees, less heated than he’d normally be.

Huh, you think. Is this… actually working?

You make eye contact with Johnny. He looks more blindsided than you, a bit like he’s witnessing your murder instead of being accosted by your strained lieutenant.

“Couldn’t find their way out of a paper bag with a map.”

He squeezes a little tighter as he says it, prompting a noise of protest from you. It doesn’t hurt yet, but your teeth are rubbing against soft tissue. He eases up again and meets your eyes, half-lidded and a touch warmer than you’re used to. The skin around his eyes eases bit by bit, and the line of his jaw beneath the balaclava looks relaxed.

You settle then, resting your weight back against the counter. Nothing untoward is happening, just Ghost being… honestly, a little weird. It’s a nice thought actually, that your big scary LT is a weirdo. The kind of weirdo that would rather squish his medic than a stress ball.

Makes sense in a way, with how he’s always covered up and keeping a safe distance (physically and emotionally) between himself and others. Probably touch starved. Not sure why he’s picked you, but you’re happy that he did.

After a few minutes you pat his wrist, a gentle double tap. Like sparring. He lets you go.

“I’m making tea if you’d like a cup?” you offer.

“Yeah, Sergeant. Earl Grey, left side of the cabinet.”

“Yessir.”

You can feel Soap squinting.

“Since when are you two so chummy, eh?” he asks.

“Since always,” Ghost replies as if Soap is an idiot.

With your back turned, he can’t see the grin that would surely give you away. “Yeah, Soap, where’ve you been?”

“Och, now you’re taking the piss.”

You hand Ghost his tea and sit down to let Soap rant.

It has become a habit. Ghost gets annoyed at recruits, paperwork, bad intel – your cheeks get squished like it’s a family reunion. He starts removing his gloves at least. Warm, calloused hands are much more comfortable than textured gloves. You’re starting to look forward to it, even.

It’s not a long process. He’ll come find you, smoosh up your face until you wrinkle your nose, and then continues with his day, shoulders looser than when he appeared. You usually complain, whine that you’re in the middle of something, that he didn’t even warn you, that his grip is too tight. But you never push him away or pull back. And he always honors your little tap-taps if you need to be freed before he’s ready to let go.

By this point, everyone on the team has seen it. Soap no longer brings it up, but sometimes informs you when Ghost appears with that Look about him. Gaz floundered the first time he saw it, stuttering and stumbling until Ghost told him to spit it out or shut up. Once after that, he asked if he could squeeze you for stress relief. You had to make Ghost let go from how tight his hand went. Gaz didn’t ask again.

Price, shockingly enough, takes in the situation, then settles you with a nonjudgmental look.

“Solid, Sergeant?”

“Yessir,” you manage around your pressed cheeks, adding a thumbs up.

“As you were, then.”

And that was that.

Of course, with jobs like yours, some days are more stressful than others. Some days are hell on Earth. This mission wasn’t quite that, but it did go to shit in a handbasket, and you’re ragged by the end of it. Gaz dislocated a shoulder, Soap is concussed. Price has a nasty road rash across one arm that he was a bit of an ass about tending – not that you’d say as much.

Even you are scuffed up. A hostile split your lip with a nasty jab that caught you off guard. (Ghost, right behind you at the time, stabbed the guy with vicious prejudice. You’re trying not to be flattered and trying not to think about what it means that you’re failing.) Besides that, you’re exhausted, dehydrated, and you’re pretty sure you hurt your back trying to stabilize Soap at some point.

Ghost is the only one that made it out unscathed as far as you can tell. You also know that that’s more likely to put him in a mood than if he’d suffered alongside you all. Cold and detached as he might seem, he doesn’t like seeing anyone in the 141 hurt on his watch.

You’re beside Soap, making sure he doesn’t fall asleep on the transport back to base, but you can feel Ghost’s eyes on you. You make eye contact across the aisle. His shoulders are tight, arms crossed, hands clenching and unclenching. He’s too disciplined to tap his foot or bounce his leg, but you know he would be if he was anyone else.

When you land, you send Soap to the infirmary for observation. Price decides on debrief after breakfast the next morning and slinks off to his office. Gaz follows after Soap to get painkillers and a sling. You shoot Ghost a long, tired look.

“Can’t be a stress ball today,” you tell him, “my mouth hurts.”

“I know.”

But still, he’s standing too close to you at the armory where you’ve returned your weapons. His shoulders are bent slightly towards you, hands twitching at his sides. In all honesty, you wish that you could do your usual destress routine – because as much as he seems to enjoy having something/someone to squeeze, you enjoy having to sit still for a few moments of physical contact just as much.

And after thinking Soap cracked his skull, Gaz lost his arm, your captain got skinned, you need to decompress. And you need to do it with Ghost, who saved each and every one of you today.

“C’mon,” you say and, taking a chance, grab his hand.

He hums in question, but allows you to lead, careful not to grip too tight. The bones there are too delicate, and you need them in working order as their medic. He can’t be so rough with them.

You practically drag him to the common room and put on the kettle. Understanding, Ghost preps the mugs and sachets of preferred tea. When the water is hot enough, you each make your tea, then tug him to the couch. You direct him into the corner – and it’s only then that you hesitate.

Instinct is to climb into his lap. He’s a big man and you want to be cradled, but you also suspect the weight and warmth of another body would be soothing to him too. Instead, you clamber up as close to him as you can get, wedging your shoulder against his rubs and encouraging his arm around you.

It seems like he hesitates for a moment too. This is the most contact you two have ever had, regardless of how close he usually stands when he’s squeezing your face. Right now, you’re pressed together all down one side, your thigh overlapping his a little. After a moment, though, he releases a long breath and curls his arm around you. His hand settles naturally on your hip. 

It’s not long after that that the squeezing starts.

He's still got his gloves on and the skin on your hip is sensitive, usually hidden under layers of clothes, but you’re too snuggled in to disturb the arrangement now. Between the heat he radiates like a furnace, and your steaming tea, you’re quickly cozy and spaced out. The rhythm of his hand kneading plush flesh is soothing, something to drift back to while your mind goes blissfully blank of anything but safe, warm, comfy, quiet.

At some point, your mostly empty cup is plucked from your hand. You mumble a thank you and curl in closer, both legs over his lap now. His other hand rests on your lower thigh, just above your knee, and begins squeezing there too. Almost a massage, if not for the near-rough way he grips you.

“Like a cat,” you mumble, head lolling onto his shoulder.

“Hm?”

“Cat making biscuits.”

There’s a huff of air. You smile faintly and tilt your head away from the suddenly too-bright lights of the common room. Don’t even realize you’ve tucked into his neck until he rubs his jaw over the top of your head.

“’S nice,” you whisper.

He hums. You think it might be agreement. Must be, Ghost wouldn’t be entertaining this if he didn’t. It’s a reassuring thought to drift off with, knowing that no matter what you want, he’ll never do something just to be nice.

You wake the next morning horizontal, something too firm to be a pillow under your head. When you sit up a little, Ghost’s dark eyes are peering at you, heavy as usual, but not as sharp. His chest rumbles beneath your chin in greeting.

“Mine or yours?” you mumble.

“Mine.”

You hum, too sleepy to let the implications of such a big gesture make you anxious right now.

“You’re a bad pillow,” you say instead.

It’s a lie. He’s a wonderful pillow. Jacked as he is, all that muscle is so plush and cushiony when it’s relaxed like this. Helps, also, that he’s still so warm.

“Slept on me just fine,” he grunts. “Drooled a little, too.”

“Did not.”

“Explain the wet spot on my tits then.”

You say the first thing that comes to mind. “Lactating.”

“You’re a freak.”

“Stones in glass houses, sir.”

You close your eyes again for a moment, enjoying the dark room and heat beneath you. The best night of sleep you’ve gotten in a long while, honestly. Especially with so much of the team injured.

There’s a tug at your hair, gentler than you usually get from Ghost.

“Get the fuck up, Squeaks,” he gruffs without any heat. In fact, he sounds like he’d rather you didn’t. “Need to piss and eat.”

“At the same time?” you tease. You’d sound more scandalized if you weren’t still half asleep.

“You’re fucking disgusting.”

 He rolls you onto the mattress and pushes himself up.

“Meet back here in fifteen. Fresh clothes, fresh face.”

“Gonna squish it?” you ask.

“Maybe later, see how the day goes.” He pinches one of your cheeks anyway. Still rougher than most people would be, but for him it’s downright tender. You try not to lean into it, not sure if you succeed. Don’t think either of you cares, really.

You lay there for another moment, listening to him bustle around his quarters, getting new clothes it sounds like.

“How copy, sergeant?”

“Solid, sir.”

“Fifteen.”

“Yessir.”

You haul yourself up and trudge out of his room for a shower. Gonna need all fifteen of those minutes.

Breakfast is a quiet but pleasant affair. Gaz is using his sling and sore as all hell, but in high spirits. Soap is exhausted from two-hour wakeups and the sensitivity the concussion has left him with. The painkillers are helping, and despite all that, he’s in a decent (if slightly subdued) mood.

You snatch up a couple of dry muffins and an orange juice for Price before heading to debrief, plopping it all on his desk when you enter his office. Your efforts are rewarded with a fond smile.

Gaz and Soap take the two single chairs, probably afraid of falling asleep on the couch. That’s where you and Ghost end up, you pressed up against the arm and him… right next to you.

Not that you’re complaining. His thigh pressed against yours is a nice comfort. Reminiscent of how he made you feel the night before. A reminder that he’s here, that he’s solid and safe while you all recount the mission from the day before. If Price is shocked by you two practically nested up together, he doesn’t show it.

Somewhere along the way, your hand reaches for something to fiddle with. You’re not as restless as Soap, but you like something to keep busy while you’re thinking or anxious. Usually you tear up the inside of your mouth biting your lips, but you don’t want to aggravate the healing split. Your fingers land on the pocket of Ghost’s cargos. The material is thick, the stitching an interesting texture, and the pockets have snaps that are quiet enough to play with during debrief.

Ghost lets you fidget in peace, only giving you a slight nod when you glance at him to check. His arm is resting along the couch behind you, and you can feel his fingers twisting into your loose hair. Fair exchange, you figure, and settle in.

There’s a brief call with Laswell to discuss next steps. You listen, but not closely. You’re just a medical sergeant after all. Your opinion is considered when offered, but you’re not much of a strategist or tactician. Mostly, you go where you're directed, do as you're told, and keep everyone in one piece as best you can.

When it’s over, Soap helps haul you off the couch while Ghost stands, clipping his thigh pocket closed again.

“Good to see you two getting along,” Price calls as you’re leaving.

You glance over your shoulder, catch the smirk on his face, and stick out your tongue. And then promptly bolt, lest you be reprimanded for insubordination. It’s a common threat in the 141; you’re not sure if anyone has actually been written up for it outside of a mission. You don’t want to be the one to find out, though.

Soap cackles at you, Gaz calls you chicken shit. Ghost ruffles your hair and steers you towards his office.

“Oi, where are you two off to?” Gaz asks.

“Paperwork,” Ghost replies shortly.

News to you, but sure. Some company would be nice while you fill out forms. That becomes mildly more difficult when he plops you into his lap, but you make do. Ghost keeps his office cold – all those layers, you figure – and the chair across from his desk is purposefully uncomfortable to discourage lingering. His broad thighs make a much better, warmer seat. The fact that he circles an arm around your waist, hugging you like a kid with a teddy bear is just a bonus. For all that, you’d figure out how to do reports on water.

You two should probably talk about this, or something. There are regulations or codes of conduct prohibiting this sort of behavior. Never mind that the interpersonal lines (the ones you actually care about) are starting to blur. But well, you don’t have a problem with all this, and you wouldn’t be breathing if he did. So, well, there’s not much to talk about, is there?

“Hey, LT?”

“Mm.”

You watch him sign the bottom of a report, his signature an efficient and jagged thing, somehow still elegant. Like watching him practice with his knives. He flexes his hand when it’s done. You two have been at it for a while now. He hasn’t said a word, but you know Ghost despises paperwork. You could both use a break.

“You ever seen Halloween?”

“The horror movie?” He pauses, thinks about it. “Yeah.”

“The next one is going to take place in the summer. Guess he’ll be Michael Perspires.”

He goes still behind you. “What.”

“He’s gotten a job as an electrician. Michael Wires.”

You keep your face forward and down, pretending to work, trying to swallow back hysterical giggles.

“Squeaks…”

“He’s into arson now as well. Michael Fires.”

His arm tightens around your waist. You wish you could see his face, but you know you’ll break if you look. “Shut the fuck up.”

“He didn’t tell the truth on his resume. Michael Liars.”

“If you make another shitty Michael Myers pun, I swear to god—”

“You don’t like them?” you ask, grin so wide it hurts. “I’m going to Michael Cry-ers.”

“God fucking dammit, Squeaks.”

You burst into laughter that is quickly cut short by his arm constricting like a snake. Even with your air supply diminished, wheezing a bit, you kick your feet in delight.

“G-Guess… guess you’re…” you struggle to get it out between the lack of oxygen and your giggles. “Guess you’re M-Michael Tires of this joke.”

“I’m going to make you regret breathing at our next sparring session.”

And oh, you believe him. Your LT doesn’t make idle threats. But you’re telling yourself that it’s so worth it this time. Soap is going to give you a fucking medal for this. You know, assuming Ghost doesn’t snipe you when you try to tell the story.

You’re still cackling, but it turns to squeals when you feel sharp pressure on your shoulder.

He’s biting you.

“L-LT!” you gasp, scrabbling to push at his forehead without dislodging his mask. “Fine, fine, I’ll stop!”

He growls, the sound burning through you, straight to the pit of your stomach. You choose to ignore that in exchange for the oddly ticklish sensation of him gnawing through your shirt.

Knowing by now that you won’t be free until he’s ready, you just try to sit still and not spur him on further. After a moment, he unlocks his jaw and speaks in your ear, voice low but unmistakably amused.

“Medic, stress ball, comedian, chew toy – anything you can’t do, Sergeant?” he snarks.

You scrunch your nose at this new designation. “I am not a chew toy.”

“Seem pretty chewy to me,” he muses, sinking his teeth in again. You bark out reactive laughter and squirm, but his hold hasn’t loosened a bit and you’re trapped against him.

“LT,” you complain like usual. “You’re going to leave a mark.”

He doesn’t respond verbally, but you feel his teeth dig in a little harder. Well, that’s new. You still don’t push him away, a not-so-small or secret part of you pleased by the idea of him leaving a bruise. It wouldn’t even be visible. Just something to remind you of the trust your lieutenant has in you, in the bond you two have formed, unorthodox as it is.

You hand him a bottle of water when he finally releases you, to sooth his undoubtedly dry mouth. There’s a wet patch on your shirt (and probably your underwear) but you ignore it to return to your reports. He seems a little less reluctant to join you now, pleasingly.

You’re not so sure about the “chew toy” thing, but you definitely seem to be an effective stress relief.

You’re having a great day. No one is injured, you’re caught up on paperwork. You pinned both Soap and Gaz during sparring earlier, earning a proud nod from Ghost and Price. There were pudding cups at lunch, and you’ve made plans with the rest of the team to watch a movie in the common room tonight. Even your antisocial LT agreed to come.

In fact, he’s the first one there when you arrive in the early evening. You chirp a hello, heading for the pantry for popcorn. Soap and Gaz can’t be trusted to make it without setting off the fire alarms.

Ghost hums in return, but he seems content to scroll on his phone, saving his energy for socializing. You don’t mind his silence, never do. Not like he can chat when he’s biting you like a teething puppy. And he has been. A lot. His new favorite form of stress relief, apparently, apart from squishing your cheeks like usual.

If there’s privacy for it, his teeth have been imprinting your arms, shoulders, even your hands in perfect pinpricked circles. He’s not any gentler about it than he is smooshing up your face, and a couple times now you’ve discovered bruises later on. You suspect that’s his aim, especially when he’s more aggravated than stressed. A way to release aggression without wasting bullets at the range or beating the stuffing out of someone in the ring.

You don’t mind, no matter how you complain aloud. It was a sudden step up in intimacy, but you like the feeling of his teeth on you. A way to get that soothing moment of forced stillness without losing the ability to speak, eat, or look around. And you’d be lying if you said you didn’t like the mark either. Feels like a claim, one you’re not sure is actually being made – but you’re allowed to dream.

That said, Ghost is a bastard about it. If you thought he was pushy before, pinching your cheeks at inopportune times, the biting could almost be classified as a nuisance. Several times now, someone has walked into the common room to your forearm between Ghost’s jaws. You’ve lost count of how many conversations with Soap or Gaz have been interrupted by your lieutenant’s canines sinking into your shoulder or the meat of your thumb, tongue swiping excess saliva from bare skin.

You’re ruminating on this as your fellow sergeants filter in, joking and laughing about something stupid the recruits did earlier.

Ghost has hardly looked up from his phone, only jerks his head in acknowledgement when they greet him. His shoulders are loose; he’s relaxed. You know better than to mistake it for being unaware of the environment, but… well, if there were ever a time for payback…

You leave the popcorn to finish in the microwave and stroll over to the couch. To your delight, Ghost shuffles a little to make room for you, an obvious invitation to cuddle up. It’s almost enough to distract you from your mission. Almost.

You perch on the edge of the cushion, hook a thumb under the edge of his shirt. The break in routine draws his attention but doesn’t seem to raise any alarms. He flicks his gaze up from the screen to catch your eyes. You lock gazes, tug the fabric up just the tiniest sliver. Then dart down and blow a deafening raspberry into the toned skin of his stomach.

There’s a moment of dead silence. Then you scramble up and bolt, yelping when you hear the heavy thump of boots behind you.

“Squeaks, you little shit!” he snarls, Manchester accent thicker than usual. And he gives Soap shit.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” you lie, revealed by your breathless giggles.

“I’ll make you sorry!”

You believe him.

You skitter around Price, calling a frantic “hi, sir” as you stumble to keep your footing. Ghost doesn’t even bother with pleasantries, solely focused on getting ahold of you. Your only saving grace is being able to take corners faster than him, but his long legs eat distance like nothing and it’s only two hallways later that you’re snatched right off your feet.

You squeal, not sure if it’s in terror or delight, as he hauls you up and over one broad shoulder.

“Ghost, wait no, I didn’t mean it!”

“Sure fucking seemed to,” he growls, manhandling a better grip on you.

You put up a bit of a struggle, but there's no question who would win even if you really did fight him. Instead, you press against his chest and arms, laughing as his fingertips dig roughly into your hips and thighs and waist.

“Earning your nickname today,” he mocks as he lugs you back to the common room.

When you arrive, Soap groans in dismay at your failure, Gaz taunts you for thinking you could get away with your stunt. Price just shakes his head, playing at exasperated but unable to hide his fondness. Ghost all but tosses you onto the couch and before you can scramble up, flops on top of you. All the breath is forced from your lungs with a little oof, feeling a bit like those animals that can flatten themselves to squeeze into small crevices.

“LT, I can’t breathe,” you whine. “You’re heavy.”

The cushions on the couch aren’t luxurious by any means, but they’re forgiving enough that you can, in fact, breathe. It’s just a little more difficult than usual. Not difficult enough to tap out, though. You like the weight of him on you.

“Should have thought about that before being a little shit.”

You grumble; don’t really have an argument for that but unwilling to cede the point.

“Oi, you two done?” Gaz calls. “I wanna watch the movie.”

Price snorts. Soap, angel that he is, offers you the bowl of popcorn.

“No one told you to wait, sergeant,” Ghost replies, bland.

“Yeah,” you second, muffled and admittedly pathetic sounding. “Takes you five minutes to figure out the sound anyway.”

“We all know you’re going to put the subtitles on, don’t know why the volume matters,” Soap chimes in.

“It’s only for the Captain’s sake,” Gaz defends.

“Now what are you implying, Garrick?” Price asks, silky and dangerous.

You snuggle in happily, enjoying the moment of peace and companionship. No shooting, no bleeding, no nightmares. Just the five of you, alive and healthy, enjoying this little family they’ve built and brought you into.

You don’t even realize you’ve fallen asleep until the pressure is gone, Ghost wedging his arms between your lax body and the couch. It’s cold without him as a personal blanket, and you curl into his arms with a discontent noise.

“Atta girl, Squeaks. I got you,” he rumbles.

You crack an eye open to check on everyone else by instinct. Gaz and Soap are leaning on each other, lightly snoring. It looks like Price is about to rouse them as well, but he shoots you and Ghost an especially soft look.

“Taking this one to bed, sir.”

“Be good to our girl, Lieutenant,” Price nods.

“As good as she is to us,” Ghost agrees.

You’re half-sure that you’re dreaming, but you smile at them both before tucking in and falling asleep again.

The next morning starts in Ghost’s bed, a place you find yourself often enough now that you recognize it as quickly as your own. You’re all tangled up in each other, more than usual. There are fingers in your hair, scraping across your scalp. You could purr it feels so good, pressing your face into Ghost’s chest to let him get a new spot.

“Didn’t even make it halfway through the movie,” he teases.

“Seen it before.”

“Gaz is going to be cross.”

“He’ll understand – getting chased takes a lot of you.”

“Don’t make me chase you down, then.”

You snort. If you have any say in it, you’ll be instigating games like that much more. Something about the big scary Ghost dashing after you over a stupid little prank – and knowing that the worst you’ll get out of it is a forceful cuddle – is not the deterrent it should be.

Still, there’s a pattern to this little game of yours. You can’t admit that you enjoy the play.

“Not my fault you can’t take what you dish,” you reply, twisting to nip his chest through his shirt, as if to prove your point.

It’s sharper than you would be with anyone else. Ghost, though, hums low and rough in his throat.

“I’ve never done that bullshit you pulled last night,” he grumbles.

“Lack of imagination on your part.”

He huffs, pinches your cheek and chuckles when you whine in complaint, muttering that it’s too early for his shit.

“C’mon, Squeaks, up and at ‘em. Before Soap takes all the blueberry.”

“Yessir…” you groan.

Ghost has been away. Price sent him and Gaz off on a stealth assignment, something that Soap is less suited to. Not that he couldn’t do it if needed, but it’s more Gaz’s specialty, so Price sent him. Soap isn’t too bummed about it, though. He’s been wreaking havoc around base with you casually egging him on from the sidelines, feeding into his chaos without being directly involved.

Not that Price would see it that way if he caught wind. But he hasn’t, so you’re not in trouble yet.

You might be after this though.

One drink too many, Soap complaining that you always play it safe. And, to his credit, you do. He and Gaz are the troublemakers, you just like to watch and occasionally add your two cents to the explosive mix. Price has joked before that you’re the best behaved amongst the group, even over Ghost.

Not only are you the least experienced with combat, but you’re also the team medic. It often leaves you feeling like you have to maintain a certain level of decorum and responsibility alongside your officers. It’s no wonder that you try to stay on the straight and narrow – the occasional snippy comment aside.

But this is beyond anything you’ve dared.

Soap has had enough to point out the parlor down the street and dare you. You’ve had enough to be goaded into spitefully proving a point. If Gaz were here, he might be clever enough to dare Soap into something else to get him to back down. If Ghost were here, he’d scruff you both like unruly kittens and haul you back to base. If Price were here, you’d be running laps until you puke.

Instead, it’s just you and Soap. Ghost and Gaz aren’t due back for a week and half, Price is probably buried waist deep in paperwork as usual. And there’s no one to tell you not to.

And so Soap gets his nipples pierced and you get your tongue re-pierced, and you both wake up the next day a little hungover and a lot sore.

You consider taking it out but… well.

You kinda missed having it.

And you want to see how long it’ll take Ghost to notice if you use your discreet jewelry.

You give Soap painkillers for his nipples and promise to hook him up with a good jewelry store recommendation. Then you spend the rest of the day trying not to talk. The rest of the week, really. If anyone notices, they don’t mention it. Soap is always happy to talk for the both of you.

By the time Gaz and Ghost return, it hardly hurts anymore. Still healing, yes, but it only aches in the mornings now. You fit the flat-topped, clear ring into the piercing and go to meet the boys on the tarmac.

They exit the aircraft together, Gaz chatting about something and Ghost humoring him in characteristic silence. When the latter sees you, though, he makes a beeline. You let out a surprised but pleased noise as you’re scooped up, mask wedging into the space beneath your jaw to press against your neck.

“Welcome back, sir,” you manage, squeezing his shoulders.

He grunts in reply. You shoot Gaz a questioning look.

“It was slow going,” he explains, “And the guys on the transport back were, uh, chatty.”

Ah. Set on your feet again, his gloved hands rise to squish your face like usual.

“Do the thing,” he gruffs.

You wrinkle your nose. Partially out of embarrassment, and partially because he’ll see the piercing if you’re not careful.

“That captain is—”

“That’s an order, sergeant.”

You sigh. Then poke your tongue out as he smooshes your face further. He exhales like the first hit of nicotine for the day. You keep the jewelry hidden behind your teeth and are released a few seconds later.

“That’s the stuff,” he says.

“Christ, LT, don’t say it like that,” you complain.

Unsurprisingly, he ignores you, turning to Price.

“Debrief now?”

“If you and Gaz don’t need medical.”

They both shake their heads, and you make no secret that you’re pleased by this news.

As you head into the building, you find Ghost’s finger hooked into your belt loop, tugging you along to Price’s office. You don’t mention it, only arch an eyebrow when you catch his eye.

At the door, Price pauses, giving Ghost a long, exasperated look.

“You know she’s not actually a service animal, son?”

“The intel isn’t confidential.”

Price sighs, drags a hand down his face. “Suppose not. Get the fuck in, then, Squeaks.”

You get the fuck in.

As usual, Ghost stands, and you’re obliged to stand with him. In front of him, actually, his chin settling on top of your head while his hands settle on your shoulders, squeezing and kneading at the muscle. You tune out most of the conversation, only here for Ghost’s sake, apparently.

Not that you mind. There’s a large, loud part of you that is glowing with the knowledge that he missed you so much.

When it’s over, he doesn’t even bother to stop at the mess hall. He picks you straight up and strides off to his quarters. You complain that he needs to eat, or at least drink water, but he doesn’t even deign your fussing with a response.

He closes and locks the door when you’re both inside, then tosses you on the bed. It smells overwhelmingly of him: metal, gunpowder, standard issue detergent, and something spicy. It’s a scent you’ve become intimately familiar with – could get addicted to, if you let yourself.

You settle in amongst the crisp sheets and thin pillows, Ghost sheds his tac gear like a second skin. When he’s down to his undershirt and boxers, barefoot on the cold ground, you open your arms.

He climbs over you as you giggle, then unapologetically drops all his weight. You make your usual little oof sound, suspecting that he likes it, and tilt your head so he can press his face (without the skull mask) into your shoulder.

“So how was it actually?” you ask.

“Gaz was antsy the whole time. Said he sensed you and Soap up to something without him.”

You snort, relieved that he can’t see the damning expression on your face right now.

 “There isn’t anything to get up to when he’s not here causing it,” you lie.

“Don’t put anything past Soap, the crafty cunt.”

You grin, patting your hands lightly over his shoulder blades. “Nice alliteration.”

He hums, slowly going boneless beneath your rhythmless tapping.

“Mask,” he mutters.

It takes you a second to realize what he wants.

“You’re asking me to pull it up so you can bite me?” you scoff.

“Telling, not asking,” he grumbles.

“Oh for the love of…”

You do it anyway. It’s not long before you feel his teeth, always sharper than you expect, latch onto the base of your neck. You tilt your chin back to give him comfortable access, staring up at the ceiling. How often does he sit here after nightmares, staring at it? Does he do it even when you sleepover, clinging onto him like a koala?

You lay like that for a while, fingers finding the fine blond hair peeking out from his rolled balaclava and scritching. One of his hands wedges beneath himself to find your hip, squeezing you tight enough that his nails scrape across your pants.

“So what did you two get up to?” he asks, detaching eventually.

Your neck is aching pleasantly, mind drifting in peace, and you don’t realize what he’s asking at first.

“What?” you ask.

You try to suppress a shiver as his tongue drags over the saliva he left on your neck. This is a normal part of the process, but that doesn’t mean you’re immune to the pleasure it sends down your spine.

“You and Soap,” he clarifies. “What did you do?”

“It was mostly Soap,” you deflect, forgoing any attempt at innocence.

He snorts. “My problem?”

You consider, humming. “Probably not.”

“Probably?”

You shrug. “Don’t leave me unattended if you don’t want paperwork.”

He nips sharply at the hinge of your jaw. “Didn’t want to. Price said you don’t have enough experience if things went to shit.”

You don’t know how to feel that Ghost would have preferred you on a mission with him. Even over Soap? You know he’s fond of you, but you didn’t realize it was enough to have you partnered with him on missions. It makes your chest warm and fluttery. The bastard.

“He’s right,” you say instead of something unforgivably sentimental.

“Imagine he’ll overlook that when he finds out about your body candy.”

You squeak, eyes closing in regret. Well, it was a nice life while it lasted.

“That fast?” you ask.

“Saw it as soon as you opened that pretty mouth,” he answers.

“It’s clear!”

“Thought I wouldn’t see a piece of plastic in your mouth, sergeant?”

You sigh, barely even noticing the bite he leaves on your collarbone. When he pushes his chest up to look at you, he’s half-lidded, almost lazy looking. But the corner of his mouth quirks up, just that slightest bit you’ve become hypervigilant of. Your hands slide from his shoulders and curl into the front of his shirt.

“How much trouble am I in?” you venture.

“A world of it,” he replies, voice pitching low and rough in a way that’s just not fair.

“Soap did worse,” you complain, not above throwing him under the bus. This is his fault anyway.

“Don’t care what Soap did. Care that you tried to hide it from me.”

He catches your chin between thumb and forefinger, gives it a little shake like a reprimand.

“Wasn’t hiding it,” you argue. “At least not from you. Would have told you by the end of the week if you hadn’t noticed.”

And you really would have. If Price hadn’t been present on the tarmac, you had half a mind to show it off immediately, excited to be breaking the rules.

Ghost hums, eyes roving your face – apparently to determine the truth of your confession.

“Doesn’t mean you’re off the hook,” he warns.

But you know that tone of voice by now. You’re not off the hook yet.

“…Want me to take it out?” you try.

His eyes go from dark to pitch black. “No.”

Oh?

Oh.

“Want… to see it?”

He hums. Not quite confirmation, but close enough. You don’t even think before dropping your jaw, tongue rolling out over your bottom lip. He let out a short, hard breath. You see his jaw twitch.

Then he shifts.

His thumb lands on your tongue, much farther back than you expect but you don’t flinch. He draws a line down the center to the flat top of your piercing and then presses down. You make a protesting noise, a warning because it’s still new and still sore. He doesn’t let up but doesn’t push any harder.

“Squeaks.”

You flutter your eyes open (when did they close?) and meet his eyes. They nearly absorb all the light in the room, twin blackholes drawing you in, inescapable and immutable. There’s a hunger lurking within, one you realize with a jolt you’ve been seeing for a long time now.

Whatever he sees on your face, it makes him run his tongue along his own teeth – pearly white and perfectly straight. Then he ducks down and licks over your piercing, first in neat sweeps, and then in tight little circles around its circumference.

Trapped beneath him and mouth open, you can’t swallow back the whine that peels from your throat. You’d be embarrassed about it; except the noise you make when he stops is so much worse.

“Taste good,” he rumbles.

“This another stress thing?” you ask, dizzy and flushed.

He smirks, chuckles deep in his chest. “If it is, will you let me do it whenever I want?”

You nod, thoughts blurring at the edges. His smirk widens, but he obliges when you tug at his shirt, wanting him close, wanting him to do it again.

It takes a long time for it to evolve into an actual kiss. He spends what feels like a small eternity flicking his tongue over your piercing, around it. It’s an unusual sensation, not quite ticklish, but decadent and erotic. At some point, quiet little noises start spilling from your throat and don’t stop. He doesn’t seem to mind, pressing down when the pitch goes higher – or maybe you pitch higher because he’s closer?

Eventually your jaw tires from hanging open, tongue aching at the stretch. You retract back into your own mouth, but Ghost chases after. It’s like he forgot about actual kissing until that moment. And then he has something new to amuse himself with. His tongue explores your lips, the roof of your mouth, the back of your throat. He drags his sharp teeth over your bottom lip, growls when you return the favor in retaliation for the sting.

“That’s my girl,” he rasps, “my medic.”

You hum, reciprocate the thorough exploration he just gave you. He tastes a little metallic, but mostly he tastes like Ghost, like Simon, and it’s addicting.

“Think it’s a stress thing for me too,” you murmur when you pull away for air.

“Yeah?” He trails his mouth down your jaw, teeth scraping. “Anxious while I was gone?”

You nod. You always worry about the boys when they’re away, when you’re not there for a worst-case scenario. But you thought about your lieutenant especially, wondering at his mood, at his feelings, without your usual daily interactions. His absence left you feeling twitchy, a little unmoored. You wonder – hope – if he felt the same.

“Take what you need, then,” he whispers. “Don’t mind returning the favor.”

You sink your nails into his shoulders, rake them down his back and sides, treating him like a scratching post. He shivers, puffs out a hot breath by your ear. Your mouth finds that strong, sharp jaw and latches on, sucking and biting, worrying the skin until you pull away to a dark bruise.

“Go on,” he urges.

You do, making a trail down his neck, then across. Tug at his shirt when it gets in the way. He leans back to pull it over his head. You nearly tackle him, mapping out the swell of hard muscles, licking over the angry lines you clawed into him.

“Easy now, precious,” he purrs. “No rush.”

You make a disagreeing noise, lips never leaving his skin. One hand tangles in your hair, petting and holding, not guiding. His other drifts down to your ass and grips like a vice. It hurts a little; it feels so fucking good. There will be bruises for days.

When your nails scratch across his hip, he bucks, fingers spasming against your scalp.

“Careful,” he growls. “Asking for something you might not be ready for.”

You hum. “Maybe,” you agree honestly. “I’ve never…”

He goes rigid. Worried, you glance up. His bare chest (marked up by your hands and mouth) is heaving. His jaw is slack, lips wet. You can’t distinguish between pupil and iris anymore.

“You swear?” he asks, rough. “You’ve never fucked anyone before?”

“No,” you say, not embarrassed, not with him. “Got close, but never managed it. Things always got in the way. Used to be a joke with my friends, that I was cursed.”

A fire alarm, an oblivious roommate, police knocking on the door, the roof falling in, once.

“You have experience,” he asserts.

“Definitely.” You quirk a wicked smile his way. “Plenty of practice with my mouth…”

He shudders, tilting your head to a vulnerable angle, neck exposed.

“And my hands,” you add, gasping.

“You keep pushing, pet…” he rumbles.

You whine. “Want to, with you. Want it to be you, Simon.”

His lips crash into yours, messy and filthy, licking all the needy sounds from your mouth.

“Strip, sergeant. Now.”

You scramble to obey, wiggling out of your clothes as quickly as you can while still half under him.

“Always so good for me,” he hums. “Always follow my orders, my good little sergeant.”

“Yours,” you breathe against his mouth.

The last scrap of clothing is barely off when he pounces, hand flattening on your stomach and pressing you down into the mattress. It nearly knocks the wind out of you, the force of it, pinning you. His eyes hungrily lock on your chest, on the smooth and unmarked skin of your breasts.

If you wanted to protest, you don’t get the chance to. He descends on you like a starving man, all teeth and tongue, practically mauling you. You squirm, not sure where you want to go, just that it’s a lot of sensation all at once. He captures a perked nipple between his lips and sucks until you keen, knee bumping his flank like you want to kick him off.

He slots his hips between yours, presses up tight to trap you further. His free hand grasps at your other breast. Kneading roughly, then twisting and plucking at the rosy nipple until you’re crying out, nearly thrashing. When he’s satisfied, he switches his hand and mouth, spinning you up and up until your breasts are aching and the best kind of sore. He finally pulls off with a lewd pop, mouth slick, rosettes left all over you in his wake.

“Trying to kill me,” you pant.

He smirks, drops one last soothing kiss on your sternum. Then extricates himself to remove the last of his own clothing. His dick springs free from his waistband, slapping obscenely against his stomach. You freeze when the dim light glints off bits of metal.

“Is that…?”

“Come find out.”

You scoot to the edge of the bed and brush your fingertips over the hypnotizing ladder of studs along the shaft. Which, now that you’re closer and your hand is there for scale, is huge. Like, almost pornographic. You didn’t know that existed outside of raunchy media. That’s been under you, snuggled up to you, beneath your ass – for months now.

“Oh my god, Simon,” you gulp. “Is that going to…?”

“It will if you can be patient for me.”

“Okay,” you say, eyes never leaving the glittering silver row. You trust him. As rough as he can be, he’s never hurt you. Not in any way you didn’t crave.

His hand catches your chin again, tips your gaze back to his. “Another time, lovely. Give your tongue a break.”

You whine but sit back on your haunches, hands planted between your knees. “Then hurry up.”

His thumb caresses your jaw, presses in warning. “Patient, I said.”

“I’ve been patient,” you argue. “Gimme.”

That coaxes a chuckle out of him. He plants a hand on your shoulder and shoves. You land on your back again, stretch your legs to hang over the side of the bed. He lowers to his knees between them, thick thighs flexing. His hands slide under your hips and drag until your thighs are over his shoulders.

“Fuck,” you breathe, “Simon.”

“That’s it, lovely,” he coos, teeth grazing your hip. “Just lay there saying my name. Let me play with my toy.”

You’re so wet that you can feel it all over your inner thighs, would be embarrassed if not for the absolutely feral noise he makes at the sight.

“Made a mess.” He draws his tongue up your thigh, sucks at the junction where it meets your hip, loud in the quiet room. “You always like this for me?”

“Mhmm,” you whimper out, squeezing your eyes shut. It’s true. You can’t count the number of times you’ve gone back to your room just to change panties.

“That’s my girl.”

He spends an agonizing amount of time licking, biting, and sucking your thighs. Your pleading and whining is met with indifference or absent chuckles. The need has long since tipped over into desperation, muscles twitching with little sparks of pleasure at every graze of teeth and sharp suck.

You’re already both understimulated and overstimulated when he clamps down especially hard, think he’s broken skin for a moment. Frustrated tears have been dancing at the edges of your vision for a while now and they spill over at the blissful burn that shoots through your leg.

“Simon, Simon, please,” you sob, “please, want it. Please, just—”

He shushes you, soothing the hurt with his tongue until your babbling trails off into little sniffles.

“How copy?” he hushes.

“S-Solid,” you answer. “Just a lot.”

“Tactical retreat?”

“No.” You take a shuddering breath. “No, please. Want to keep going, sir.”

His breath is also unsteady as it brushes over your sensitive skin. “Alright, precious. Tap out if you need.”

You snake a hand down the bed and find his wrist, digging your nails in as you squeeze. A promise to honor his command.

He groans low in his throat, eyes smoldering as he looks up your heaving body.

“Pretty when you cry,” he rasps. “Will you do it more if I play with your needy clit?”

“N-no,” you lie.

He calls your bluff, pressing his mouth to your pussy and making a long, slow pass up your slit. You shake and whimper high-pitched, almost hurt sounding. He swirls the tip over your throbbing clit, sucks gently every few passes. You press your eyes shut, too gone to try to stop the reactionary tears any other way.

It’s a quirk of sex you’ve always had. Not prone to crying emotionally or from pain, but when the arousal or pleasure gets too intense, your eyes water like rivers. Some partners have found it off-putting, but the louder you wail and hiccup and cry, the more eager Simon gets. Like he’s got a direct line to heaven’s choir with his tongue.

You’re gripping his wrist so tight that you must be close to drawing blood, but he doesn’t do more than flex his fingers on your ass. Keeps you right there against his mouth, so that all you can do is take exactly what he gives you.

He seals his lips over your clit again, rubbing his tongue against the swollen bundle of nerves as he sucks. It gets you to the edge so fast that you’re seeing stars, nearly kicking him.

“Close,” you pant.

He eases up just that little bit to keep you from tipping into orgasm. You’re devastated. Afresh wave of tears drip down your temples to the sound of pathetic, helpless moans. Blessedly, he doesn’t stop. Just keeps you right there as he slides a hand from your ass to your cunt.

Just one of his fingers is thicker than any of yours; sliding two into your dripping hole almost hurdles you into ecstasy. He pulls his mouth away as you clench around them, trickling down his wrist.

“So tight. Didn’t you ever get off to the thought of me?”

“All the f-fucking time,” you admit.

“Yeah?”

You nod, tongue laving over your bottom lip. “My hands just… yours are bigger.”

He chuckles. “No cute little toys to help you out?”

“Like to imagine it’s you,” you ramble, shame long gone. “Easier without a vibe.”

“Fuck.”

He dives down to your clit again, tongue almost cruel as it tortures you with quick, rough strokes. You might scream; you don’t care if you do. His fingers curl to pet your walls, find that spot as if he had his sniper scope on it. You thrash as he strokes you, steady and unrelenting. He sucks one last time and you’re gone, coming so hard that your fingertips go numb.

You’re definitely screaming now; his name, specifically. He growls against your pussy, the vibration only prolonging that pleasure, writhing on his hand. You swallow air like you’re suffocating, Simon filling every part of you, drenching your senses. He’s all you know right now, your heart beating to his name.

And he doesn’t stop.

“S-Simon, what are – t-too much. It’s too much, it’s too—” His pins your hips down as he fits a third finger inside you, finger-fucking you so hard that the slick sounds almost drown out your sobs. You’re overstimulated, riding the edge of pain in your pleasure, lower back tight and hot.

But you don’t tap out, just fist the sheets hard enough to pop the seams.

Simon is single-minded, insistent, demanding. It’s a quality you’ve always admired in the field, and right now it’s pulling you apart piece by shivering piece.

“Simon, I-I’m gonna – I can’t…” You shake your head, crying freely and loudly, whimpering as much as you’re moaning.

He presses one of your thighs towards your chest, fingertips digging harsh into muscle. The shift gives him better access to that thrumming knot of nerves inside you. He presses against it hard and incessant as his tongue flicks repeatedly over your abused clit. Your second orgasm drowns you in waves, hips rolling, not sure if you want to get away or get more.

Simon strokes you through it until you subside into pathetic, shuddering noises, pushing weakly at him, pleading for mercy. When he pulls away, slick is dripping down his chin to his neck. The bottom edge of his balaclava is dark where it’s bunched over his nose. He surges up to kiss you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.

You stay that way for a while, letting him coax your breathing into something like normal again. A task made more difficult whenever his fingers tease your tender nipples, preoccupied with how your lungs hitch and your body jolts.

Eventually, your mouth strays to clean him up, licking yourself from his jaw and chin, messy but earnest. He captures your mouth again when you’re done, sucking your tongue like he wants to get every last drop. You shake at the thought, almost horrified to realize you’re still ridiculously horny.

He must see something in your face because he smirks a little. “Playtime’s not over, don’t worry.”

His fingertips trace over your pussy, not dipping in far, but the threat of it triggers a new batch of whimpers and tears. He cocks his head at the sight, almost curious, then leans down and follows their paths with his tongue.

A hum, low and pleased, thunders in the heady sliver of air between you. Against your hip, you feel his cock twitch, hot enough to brand.

“Taste good everywhere,” he muses, tongue still lapping at your tears.

“God, Simon,” you keen, squeezing your glassy eyes shut.

“Want you to do it again,” he murmurs. “Cry for me so I can taste how good I make you feel.”

You moan, pussy clenching, feeling horribly empty. The teeth in your neck are an almost welcome reprieve from the overwhelming pleasure, grounding as they bruise delicate skin.

“Want to see you crying on my cock, lovely. Will you do that for me?”

You nod, reaching for him. Curl your arms around his shoulders, wrap your legs around his waist. He shushes you again, cooing when you hide your wet face against his neck. He supports your unsteady body with unfaltering strength; lets you cling as he rearranges you in his lap.

You can feel his cock beneath you, rock hard, the Jacob’s ladder teasing against your pussy. It distracts you a bit, foggy mind obsessing over how it’ll feel inside you, especially now that you’ve come twice.

His hand pats your ass. “Eyes up, doll.”

You emerge from your hiding spot only to stare, wide-eyed and awed, at his bare face. There are scars everywhere, just like the rest of his body, of varying color and size and healing histories. One on his temple, just clipping his cheek, catches your attention. It’s one of the better-healed scars.

You press a gentle kiss, flick your tongue along it. His hands spasm on your hips, but don’t tug you away.

“Handsome,” you sigh, then nip the same spot you just kissed.

You can feel his smile, a small but precious thing, against your cheek. “Can’t even fucking see straight right now.”

“Not that far gone,” you scoff, scritching your nails along his stubbled jaw. You could purr at the way he leans into it.

“Have to fix that, then.”

You prop yourself up with your other hand on his chest. His heart is beating beneath your palm, a little fast, but steady and strong. You adore it instantly.

You make eye contact, the hand on his face drifting to his cheek. Then you stretch to get the other… and squish. Just like he’s done to you countless times.

“Yes,” you agree.

That finally coaxes a proper chuckle out of him, bass deep and a little rough with disuse, but music to your ears. You let his cheeks go, nipping the little red marks your grip leaves behind.

“C’mon, Si,” you whisper. “Want your dick in me.”

And finally, it seems he’s run out of interest in teasing.

You lean your shoulders against him, letting him take most of your weight between his chest and the arm angling your hips. His other hand steadies his cock, drags the flushed, leaking head against your sopping entrance.

He lowers you slowly, encouraging you to dig your nails into his shoulders, draw them down his arms. Even stretched and two orgasms in, he’s big. It’s testing your limits, not quite pain, stinging in a way that makes your mouth water.

And your eyes.

The tears are back and streaming down your hot cheeks. When Simon notices, you feel his cock throb. You choke on a noise, mouth falling slack as he licks at them like a thirsting man in the desert.

“Didn’t take long,” he teases, a little mean. You love it.

“S-sensitive,” you whine, pressing your forehead to his.

“I know, pet,” he croons. “The head’s almost in.”

Just the head. Christ.

The pleasure keeps racking you and so do quiet little cries, your walls clutching every raw centimeter of his cock like he was built just for you. (Or the other way around, a depraved part of you whispers.)

He’s steady and patient as he fills you, keeping your mouth busy with claiming kisses when he’s not drinking up your tears. At the first rung of the Jacob’s ladder, you squeak and have to be held down, gone on how it stretches your poor entrance and grinds against your abused walls.

Each one after that garners a similar reaction, driving you insane as they press against you.

“Can feel your fucking heartbeat,” he groans at one point.

You moan, raking your fingers through his sweat-damp hair. The blond strands are dark and messy, getting messier as you play with them. He grunts and his eyelids flutter every time you tug.

By the time he’s fully inside you, your ass resting on his tense thighs, you’re panting and trembling. He sweeps a hand up your arched spine and curls his fingers around the back of your neck. You lean into his hold, go lax as he guides you through a decadent, devouring kiss.

“There we are, lovely,” he soothes while you whimper. “Hurt?”

“A little…” you gasp, clenching helplessly around the base of him.

“Good,” he growls, teeth on your shoulder.

You moan, falling limp in his arms. He rumbles a pleased hum, squeezing at your hips and ass and thighs in that way you recognize.

“Stressed?” you ask, confused.

He snorts. “I don’t need a reason to play with what’s mine.”

You suck in a breath, the casual (and true) claim making your head spin.

“Relax, pet,” he murmurs. “Just get used to me inside you.”

You mewl, high and soft in your throat. He tilts his head to speak in your ear.

“Your pussy is going to remember the shape of me by the end of this.”

And your lieutenant doesn’t make idle threats.

He guides your head down to his shoulder, his other arm wrapping around your waist. The lewdest hug you’ve ever received. If not for the fat cock stretching you, it would be calming.

“Good girl, that’s it,” he hums, drawing idle patterns along your spine. “Just drift. It’ll be a bit before you can handle a proper fucking.”

He’s so deep and big inside you that you believe it, but a nagging part reminds you of the uneven score.

“What about you?”

He presses an unusually gentle kiss to your temple, though it’s balanced by the tight squeeze to the back of your neck.

“Don’t you worry about me, precious,” he chuckles. “You’ll keep me nice and warm until you’re ready.”

You swallow thickly, can’t help how you flutter around him. It’s a delicious thought, just sitting here with him filling you up for an indefinite period of time, until he decides you can handle how he’s going to fuck you.

“Like that do you?” he muses, too dark to be truly amused. “Like being my personal cocksleeve?”

“’M not,” you mumble, feeling a new sting of tears.

He tuts. “You’re my toy every other way. No point pretending now.”

You whimper into his neck, bite in retaliation but don’t deny it. Well past the point of anything like plausible deniability.

“No more fussing, pet. Be good for me now.”

And you are, settling in with your mouth brushing absent kisses to his marked collarbones. His hands never stop stroking your skin, lulling you into empty-headed bliss. The full feeling of his cock never dissipates, but you become less aware of it, internal muscles accommodating the stretch. You don’t even realize you’ve slipped into a doze, breaths going deep and even, safely cradled in your lieutenant’s arms.

When you wake, watery early-morning light is leaking past the blackout curtains. One of your hips is stiff from sleeping bunched up, but that’s not what calls your immediate attention. No, it’s the absolute puddle that Simon is coaxing from your stuffed hole with his thumb on your clit. He’s hard inside of you again – or maybe he never got soft in the first place.

“Mornin’,” he rasps when he sees you peeking your head up. Calm as you please. Like his cockhead isn’t kissing your cervix right now.

“You bastard,” you wheeze, sinking a mean bite into his shoulder.

“Grumpy thing,” he teases. “Forgot how sulky you are before coffee.”

You grumble incomprehensibly for a moment. Can’t believe he put you to sleep on his cock. More than a little miffed that you didn’t receive the proper fucking you earned yesterday. That you’ve woken up raring to go already, want his cum in your stomach more than breakfast.

“You actually plan on doing anything?” you demand. “Or we going to the mess like this? Risky to have hot tea that close to your balls.”

His laugh is like honey, rich and syrupy. Liquid sunshine when you kiss it from his mouth.

“Remember who’s in charge here, pet,” he warns.

You tilt your head in question, arching an eyebrow.

“You,” he continues, surprising you. Then he keeps talking. “So if you keep acting like a brat, I’ll have to treat you like one.”

You shiver. It should be illegal to be so salacious this early in the morning. To your delight, he allows you to wiggle a little, testing the feeling of his cock inside you. It’s absolutely divine.

“Or, counterpoint,” you say, daring to be cheeky when he’s looking at you like that. Like he’d burn the world just to keep you warm for a night. “I was very good yesterday and deserve a reward.”

“That so, sergeant?” he asks.

“Mhmm,” you chirp. Duck down to bribe him with kisses and nips along his jaw and neck, stubble prickling your bruised tongue. “I’ll even ask nicely.”

He groans, low and rough in his chest. “Yeah?”

You yelp as he tangles his fingers in the hair at the base of your neck, dragging your head back. His teeth scrape over the stuttering pulse in your throat, where there’s a sensitive spot that makes you squirm. His other hand sneaks to your breasts, tweaking a nipple still sore from his treatment the night before.

“Show me how nice you can ask then.”

And, well, not backing down from a challenge is what got you here in the first place.

You straighten up as best you can – have to take a moment when his cock grinds just right inside you – and arch your back. Your nails score lines down his chest, just this side of rough, knowing it’ll work better than any soft petting. Paired with nibbling kisses to the spot beneath his ear, you can already feel the rumble building in his chest.

“Simon, please,” you breathe, “I need you. Need it to be you.”

“Need what, lovely?” he husks.

“Need it to be you that fucks me.” You dare to rock your hips, pleased and distracted that he lets you. His fingers spread your ass wider over his lap. “Need you to break me in. Please?”

Sniper he may be, but his patience must already be gossamer thin from holding back last night and crammed inside your pussy until morning. He snaps at your crooning pleas, rolling you onto your back and grinding into you as deep as he can get.

There have been times in the field that you’ve stared as Simon operates his rifle. It’s his piece, modified and maintained in pristine condition. You’ve watched his clever fingers put it together, dismantle it, clean it, handle it with a deadly competence and precision that you envied. Not him, but the rifle. Probably something wrong with you, that you want to be an instrument, a tool, in your lieutenant’s capable hands, built up and broken apart at his whim.

Now, though… now you know. You’ve got confirmation that it’s everything you imagined and better, his scarred hands on you like he owns you, like you’re his to figure out. You want to be, you are, and you babble as much when he draws his hips back and snaps them forward.

There’s nothing testing or careful about it. Simon knows you’re not fragile, spent all night making sure you could take him exactly the way he wants you. You’ve never wanted him to hold back, don’t want him to now. Crave the way his control seems to slip when it’s you, your body, your voice egging him on.

He rolls his hips every time he bottoms out; his piercings grind deliciously against your twitching entrance with every thrust. You bury your fingers in his hair, tug when he pulls out as if he’s going to leave you empty and wanting. He grunts against your neck, teeth ravenous over skin that already bears their imprint.

It feels like freefall with no parachute, like getting caught in a perfect white-hot explosion. The force of him makes the bed creak, would shove you up the mattress if not for the tight grip on your thighs. His arm loops under the small of your back and angles your hips up.

“Mine,” he growls into your shoulder. “All fucking mine. My sergeant. My medic. My pretty toy.”

You can’t string together more than broken syllables, little noises forced out every time he drives home. He’s not looking for a verbal response though; your body is already singing its agreement, clamping down on his cock like you can’t stand any millimeter not inside you. You’re rocking with him as best you can, knee hitched up by his ribs, pulling him closer, closer, closer.

“I’m right here, doll. Not going anywhere,” he murmurs. Then, almost to himself. “No, not letting you out of my sight ever fucking again. Going to keep you right by my side, within reach.”

You cry out, ridiculously turned on by promises he can’t possibly keep. It’s not the nature of the job, but the fact that that’s what he wants…

“Go fucking crazy when I can’t see you,” he pants, “touch you. Was goin’ fuckin’ batshit all week. Gaz wouldn’t shut the fuck up. Just wanted to get my hands on you. My teeth in you.”

There’s an earnest, desperate edge to his words. Sounds like a sinner praying for salvation, like he’s begging some cruel god for relief. Or, more likely for your lieutenant, threatening to take that god’s place.

You’d worship Simon if he did. Practically do already. Would spread yourself out on his altar and let him devour you mind, body, and soul just to appease his appetite.

“Simon, please,” you cry, head tilting back, bearing your throat. “I’m yours. Your medic, your sergeant, your toy.”

“Fuck,” he hisses. “That’s right, love. All mine.”

He pushes himself up, pressing his hand to the wall over your head. It’s gorgeous, the play of muscle and sinew in his arm. A fucking masterpiece of a man, beautiful and dangerous and right now, all fucking yours too.

The new leverage lets him slam into you faster and harder, frantic now. You have to brace your arms above your head to keep from knocking into the wall, pushing back to meet him thrust for brutal thrust. Could swear you feel him in your guts.

“C’mon, love, let me see those pretty tears.”

His hand slides over your thigh to your clit, thumb rubbing vicious little circles over the nerves. It gives him what he wants instantly, you’re near screaming as you cry. It’s rough and ruthless and has you so close to the edge that you’re almost jolting away.

“Lemme cum,” you beg, “Please, please, Simon, want to cum on your cock. So close…”

His grin is more just a bearing of teeth, eyes glittering in the shadows above you. “Cum for me, precious.”

It doesn’t take much more than that, always eager to please your lieutenant. His hips and finger sync up at just the right moment, just the right way, and you’re gushing over his cock, voice breaking. Your nails scrape the wall as you curl our hands into fists, bucking as he fucks you through it.

You’re not surprised when he doesn’t even slow down, though you reach to push his hand off your screaming clit. His hand darts from the wall to capture your wrists, pinning them over your head. The punishing rhythm of his hips doesn’t even falter, bullying that spot inside you relentlessly.

“I didn’t say you could fucking stop,” he snarls.

You whine and struggle, but that just makes you tighter, makes him rougher, makes it better. You’re not even sure if the cresting sensation is pleasure anymore, if it’s another orgasm or your body reaching max capacity. It’s just whiteout intense and you can do nothing but lay there writhing.

“Gonna cum in you,” he moans, head dropping. “Gonna leave my mark inside you too.”

You contract around him helplessly, his thrusts getting messier, plunging into you at a dizzying speed. Not even sure if you’re making noise anymore, or just sucking in air when you can get it. His fingers flex around your wrists, tight and unforgiving.

And then there's a burst of heat as he moans, sounding gutting. He fucks you through his own orgasm before finally slowing, and then stopping buried deep inside you. His thumb eases off your abused clit, hand landing on the bed beside your hip. Your leg flops down to the mattress, stretched out and still twitchy.

“How copy, sergeant?” he rasps.

“Solid, LT,” you wheeze. “You?”

“Fucking fantastic.”

That startles a little giggle out of you, grinning up at him fucked-out and high on afterglow. His returning smile, small and disused as it is, is better than all the orgasms you’ve had in the last twelve hours.

“Gonna pull out now,” he warns. “Brace.”

Even prepared, you still yelp, beyond sensitive and cored without him inside you. The feeling is only exacerbated by the warm cum you can feel dripping down your ass from your used hole.

“Look at that…” he drawls appreciatively, tilting his head for a good look. “There any part of you that ain’t pretty?”

You groan and cover your overheated face, knock your shin into his hip. But you leave your legs open.

“Shut up, Simon.”

“Insubordinate.”

“Fraternizer.”

“Mm. Gonna report me to Price?”

“Only if you report me.”

“Mutually assured destruction then.”

Your mouth is still hidden under your hands, but you know he can see your body shaking with suppressed laughter.

“Or you could help me clean up, take a nap, and we’ll negotiate terms for a ceasefire.”

He chuckles. “Should have you on a diplomatic envoy, Squeaks. Have the rest of us out of a job. No wars, no soldiers.”

You shake your head, dropping your arms to card through his hair. He lowers himself onto you – not his usual full-force flop, but still by no means delicate about it. You like the weight of him on your tingling body. Feels like he’s keeping you from floating away.

“Only way they’re getting me on protection detail for politicians is if you’re there with me.”

He grimaces. It’s stupidly charming how it makes a scar on his nose scrunch up. “The point is to stop incidents, not start them.”

“Shame, then,” you hum. “Guess we’re stuck here then.”

“Guess so.”

He pats your thigh, then pushes himself up. You protest immediately, but he shushes you with a wry smirk.

“Part of the terms, wasn’t it? To clean you up?”

You grumble but subside, thankful that officer quarters come with an ensuite. It doesn’t take him long to return with a damp cloth and a cup of water. He sets the latter on the side table and kneels between your thighs, wiping you down as gently as he’s ever been.

When he’s done, you make grabby hands until he scoffs and climbs in with you again.

“Nap?” you ask hopefully.

“Yeah. Got you up early. Still an hour ‘til breakfast.”

Not for the first (or likely last) time, you are grateful for Simon’s brilliant tactics.

“You’re my hero.”

He snorts, but when you peek up at him, there’s a fetching pink tint to his cheeks. “Go the fuck to sleep, Squeaks.”

“Yessir.”

[1schadenfreude1]

Boyfriend to Death x sick reader

Yah I know there's a million of these posts, I'm just adding my own ideas to the mix

Also when I say sick I don't mean a common cold, I mean things like the flu, period pain, stomach virus, high fever, etc.

Without further ado, let's get to it!

Strade

At first he laughs at you and pretends that you're lying about being sick

When it becomes obvious how sick you are, he finally gets medicine for you

Only to hold it over your head and make you do degrading things in exchange for the medicine

If you're contagious, he doesn't want to catch it, so he leaves you alone a little more often until you get better

Sano

He's SO excited. He treats you much more delicately than usual

You become the test subject for all sorts of experimental drugs and medications, some of which make you feel better and some that make you feel worse

You start to feel very stiff from being on the operating table for hours on end with all kinds of machines hooked up to you

Sano aggressively sanitizes every surface in his lab so he doesn't get sick himself

Rire

He LOVES your pain and suffering

Makes nasty comments about how weak and fragile humans are

Eventually brings you a strange magical medicine

It helps you feel better, but it also turns your blood into acid

Ren

P A N I C

Human illness is very different from beastkin illness so he has to do a lot of research to get the right medicine

Absolutely smothers you in affection

Barely lets you get out of bed or feed yourself

Cain

Genuinely doesn't believe you, thinks you're lying to get out of punishment

After realizing how sick you are, he just wants to watch the symptoms slowly eat away at your health

Eventually he relents and agrees to get you medicine

You have to tell him exactly what kind though be cause he really doesn't know lol

Vincent

"Suck it up, kiddo"

He thinks you're cute when you're miserable

Lots of hugs and cuddles

Eventually gets you medicine without trouble

Lawrence

Gives you strange herbal remedies that he's made himself

Some of them help you feel better. Some of them make you hallucinate and leave you questioning what is real

He loves when you're weak and dependant on him for everything

He's more sweet and affectionate than usual

Feel free to send asks for writing and headcanon requests!!

[valtsv]

we want to know about your near death experiences, please tell us of your near death experiences

erm. gonna put them under a cut in case it's too much for anyone lol (since it's kinda personal, i'm not going to pull my punches in describing how i felt, and i know not everyone's comfortable with discussions of death and near-death)

- took nearly 3 days to be born because my mom refused a cesarean and was nearly a month premature. don't know if this one counts because i was a baby but apparently they were pretty worried about my chances of survival towards the end and when i was born i was sickly and in a lot of pain for months.

- fell down the stairs multiple times when i was a kid, suffered several concussions and fractures and developed vertigo that gave me a phobia of heights i eventually grew out of. again not sure if this counts since i barely remember it but i do remember the feeling of cracking my head once and boy it's not fun. it's like cracking an egg but the egg is your skull. also remember having a lot of dreams of jumping off the top of the stairs and my consciousness separating from my body and watching it fall because of this.

- nearly drowned because i swam too far out to sea on holiday and got caught up in a massive tidal wave (it was the baltic sea in poland, on a very windy day, and i was 8 years old and an idiot). i'd just accepted that i was going to die stuck in this current i couldn't escape and given up on being afraid, embracing the cold dark tidal embrace of death, when the wave very gently set me down in the shallows and i was so at peace that i almost forgot to sit up and breathe. left a big impression in me. i did not tell my parents what happened because i was okay with it and didn't want to upset them or deal with them fussing over me or giving me hell for taking stupid risks when i didn't need it.

- got hit by a car on my bike and flipped over the hood. was fine except for bruises and scrapes but while in the air briefly freaked out and thought i could see a halo of fire around the driver's head (probably the sun shining through the rear window).

- nearly died of dehydration while infected with a very nasty bout of flu that kept me in bed for 2 months straight. i passed out on the floor of my kitchen while trying to lift a cup to pour myself a drink and would have probably at the very least ended up with severe complications if my cat hadn't wailed over my body until my mom woke up and found me lying there. while passed out i had this horrible nightmare that i was god reincarnated in a mortal body and got really upset because i didn't want to be responsible for the entirety of humanity because it was too much and i was only 15. was extremely relieved when my mom revived me and explained that i was just really fucking sick. ended up in hospital with an iv in my arm to prevent my body from shutting down on itself until the flu burned out enough for my own organs to stop fighting me.

- tombstoned off the lighthouse in the bay with some sort of friends and very fucking narrowly missed a shelf of rock that would have shattered me to pieces if i hadn't twisted out of the way moments earlier. as it rushed towards me i very much saw my life up to that point flash before my eyes and was really disappointed by how little i'd done with it. didn't actually do much about it for a while though because i was a depressed unmedicated teenager in a bad living situation. pretty sure that kid would be amazed by how far i've come since then though.

- pretty sure i only survived a bus crash because moments before it happened i felt this urge to stand up and did. if i hadn't my head would have gone through this metal bar on top of the seats and my neck probably would have been broken.

- got lost in a woodland area by google maps once and got so dehydrated from the heat and blood loss (due to trying to cut through thorn bushes when i got desperate enough to get scared) that i started hallucinating this shimmery figure i couldn't look at directly following me and chasing me every time i started to give up (somehow i just knew that letting them touch me would be very bad, but they didn't feel malevolent? i was scared but i didn't get the impression that they wanted to hurt me, just that it would be a consequence of letting them touch me). got rescued because i screamed so loud that some passing hikers heard and went in and pulled me out of there. again not sure if this one counts as near death but i was wandering in there for hours and felt like i was going to die.

[tarotfairy0919]

✧—⊹ ˖🥟⊹ ˖—✧Health meanings in tarot Minor Arcana edition - Suit of Pentacles✧—⊹ ˖🥟⊹ ˖—✧

©tarotfairy0919 - all rights reserved. do not copy, translate, alter or repost my work.

Please REBLOG if you find this information useful! ༄˖°🪐.ೃ࿔*

The pentacles get their health meaning from their astrological connection to Taurus, Virgo and Capricorn.

Taurus rules the neck, ears, lower jaw, throat, cerebellum, and thyroid gland.

Virgo rules the intestines, duodenum, peyer’s patches, solar plexus, abdomen, and parasympathetic nervous system.

Capricorn rules the knees, bones, teeth, skin, joints, hair, parathyroids, right side of the body.

👩‍⚕🧬🩺💉🦠👩‍⚕🧬🩺💉👩‍⚕🧬🩺💉🦠👩‍⚕🧬🩺💉🦠👩‍⚕🧬🩺💉

⚕️Ace of pentacles ~ Suggest starting a diet, fitness program, and taking supplements.

⚕️Two of pentacles ~ Two of pentacles in a health reading can also be a sign of weight gain and issues with teeth, swollen joints, arthritis. Two of pentacles can also mean the Seeker is run down and easily catches the cold/flu.

⚕️Three of pentacles ~ Three of pentacles in a health reading can also denote the Seeker is stressed at work. Watch out for exhaustion, flues, infections and accidents happening at work

⚕️Four of pentacles ~ Four of pentacles in a health reading can also denote digestive problems due to worrying. Flare up from diseases they suffered as children or childhood diseases plus knee problems.

⚕️Five of pentacles ~ Five of pentacles in a health reading can also mean nasty head colds, respiratory issues, loss of voice, dulled sensory responses, breathing problems, unhealthy weight loss, and malnutrition.

⚕️Six of pentacles ~ In a health reading, Six of pentacles can also denote thyroid issues.

⚕️Seven of pentacles ~ In a health reading Seven of Pentacles can also mean improper nutrition, starvation, eating disorders, neck injuries, stress disorders and depression.

⚕️Eight of pentacles ~ Eight of pentacles can denote digestion problems, constipation, ulcers, irritable bowel syndrome, intestinal issues, appendicitis, and pancreatitis.

⚕️Nine of pentacles ~ Nine of pentacles in a health reading can also denote tapeworm and worms in children.

⚕️Ten of pentacles ~ Ten of pentacles suggest taking a slow and steady pace towards health goals.

⚕️Page of pentacles ~ Over-indulging. Neck problems.

⚕️Knight of pentacles ~ Issues with digestion and malabsorption of food, acute infections, and flues.

⚕️Queen of pentacles ~ A mineral rich diet is suggested.

⚕️King of pentacles ~ Take care of your skeletal system and your teeth, stomach issues.

ʕ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡ ʕ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡oopsie you already reached the end ʕ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡ʕ•ᴥ•ʔﾉ♡

[monratarot]

Health indicators in tarot - Minor Arcana - Suit of Pentacles

Please like and reblog if you find this information useful! 🌸🎀💕

//don’t claim it as your own and/or repost it on other platforms//

The pentacles get their health meaning from their astrological connection to Taurus, Virgo and Capricorn.

Taurus rules the neck, ears, lower jaw, throat, cerebellum, thyroid gland.

Virgo rules the intestines, duodenum, peyer’s patches, solar plexus, abdomen, parasympathetic nervous system.

Capricorn rules the knees, bones, teeth, skin, joints, hair, parathyroids, right side of the body.

✾Ace of pentacles ~ Suggest starting a diet, fitness program and taking supplements.

✾Two of pentacles ~ Two of pentacles in a health reading can also be a sign of weight gain and issues with teeth, swollen joints, arthritis. Two of pentacles can also mean the Seeker is run down and easily catches the cold/flu.

✾Three of pentacles ~ Three of pentacles in a health reading can also denote the Seeker is stressed at work. Watch out for exhaustion, flues, infections and accidents happening at work

✾Four of pentacles ~ Four of pentacles in a health reading can also denote digestive problems due to worrying. Flare up from diseases they suffered as children or childhood diseases plus knee problems.

✾Five of pentacles ~ Five of pentacles in a health reading can also mean nasty head colds, respiratory issues, loss of voice, dulled sensory responses, breathing problems, unhealthy weight loss, and malnutrition.

✾Six of pentacles ~ In a health reading, Six of pentacles can also denote thyroid issues.

✾Seven of pentacles ~ In a health reading Seven of Pentacles can also mean improper nutrition, starvation, eating disorders, neck injuries, stress disorders and depression.

✾Eight of pentacles ~ Eight of pentacles can denote digestion problems, diarrhea, constipation, ulcers, irritable bowel syndrome, intestinal issues, appendicitis, pancreatitis.

✾Nine of pentacles ~ Nine of pentacles in a health reading can also denote tapeworm and worms in children.

✾Ten of pentacles ~ Ten of pentacles suggest taking a slow and steady pace towards health goals.

✾Page of pentacles ~ Over-indulging. Neck problems.

✾Knight of pentacles ~ Issues with digestion and malabsorption of food, acute infections, and flues.

✾Queen of pentacles ~ A mineral rich diet is suggested.

✾King of pentacles ~ Take care of your skeletal system and your teeth, stomach issues.

[lounaticm]

I'm sick in bed with the rona so naturally the next step is to ask you what Damien would be like taking care of a sick S/O. (Whether it's covid specifically or not is up to you)

Oof, I'm so sorry to hear that. Do take care and get plenty of rest. I hope you feel better soon.

The moment Damien notices anything being off about you, you might as well clear your entire schedule and expectations of getting anything done for the next week at least, because he'll be doing the same and making sure whichever sick loved one gets the proper rest and care.

One of Damien's strongest love languages to give is acts of service, and that comes out all the more when someone he cares for is sick or injured or otherwise even the slightest bit out of commission. He enjoys doing things for his loved ones as it is, even when it's not the least bit necessary, so when there's even the smallest bit of due cause, he's going to be waiting on them hand and foot. There won't be even the slightest complaint because he truly has none. He loves taking care of the people dear to him.

Depending on the severity of the illness, he may not let them so much as get their own glass of water, though such levels of worry would only really come out were his S/O suffering a truly nasty fever or horrible nausea or the like. Even with something as simple as the flu or a cold, he's still going to try to insist on doing it for them anyways, but don't let him do everything, because he will end up neglecting to take care of his own needs. A nudge here and a reminder there should keep him on track with looking after himself to, at least, the bare minimum - and again, it depends on how sick his S/O is.

Even when sick with something simple, they're going to be spending a majority of their time sitting or laying down. Damien will put some quiet music on for them - if that would help - or get them something to read, or simply read to them himself, both in efforts to help with inevitable boredom and to hopefully soothe them into falling asleep. (If applicable to how you view the setting/universe Damien comes from, he'll also turn on a tv or provide them the remote to do so themself, but will insist the volume be kept low.)

If they have a terrible fever - especially one high enough to make them sluggish or delirious - Damien's going to barely be leaving their side, and when he does will only be to swap out any sort of wet hand towel to be placed across their forehead or to get a coldpack for them.

Unless the illness is clearly just the common cold, chances are very nearly 100% that Damien made them go to the doctor and went along with them. Whatever instructions were given for them to follow to get better, Damien will be doing to the letter.

All-in-all, Damien would be doting on his Little Monster quite a lot, unless discomfort with such a thing were expressed. He'd need to keep being reminded and pressed to look after himself as well, but there's no one with better bedside manner than him.

@kiwibubbles5

[ichijager13]

Teach me how to be loved

Chapter X

Cause there's a man that's in my past… there's a man that's still right here… he's real enough to touch in my darkest nights

Pairing : Eren Jäger x reader

Characters: Eren Jäger, Annie Leonhart, Pieck Finger.

Tags: Unhealthy coping mechanism, unhealthy relationships, childhood trauma, physical and verbal abuse, self-esteem and trust issues, domestic violence, implied/ referenced cheating, and a touch of sweet, lovable, and non fuckboy Eren Jäger

This fic is brought to you by Lana Del Rey’s songs

Masterlist, AO3,  Playlists: Reader’s POV, Eren’s POV

A/N: Hiiiiii lovelies, thank you for reading my story and for the reactions. this chapter is an angst with a sprinkle of sweet sweet Eren looking after reader.

Please make sure you read the content warning before you read this story and if you suffer from domestic violence or any form of abuse please seek help and know that I’m rooting for you.

Also, the fic is going to have its official playlist, I’m still working on it. It might be ready by the time I update the next chapters. Enjoy reading!!

Likes and reblogs are more than appreciated. Have a nice day/evening

At first, you contemplated not answering the door. Images from last night flashed in front of you. the bars tour, someone flirting with you, grinding against each other on the dancefloor, him screwing you in the parking lot in the backseat of his car, and the walk back home under the rain. You rolled to your side and pulled the cover over your head.

In addition to being sore, you woke up this morning with a nasty flu you caught from last night’s walk. Not having any plans for the day, you spent most of it in bed.

You were about to doze off when the ring bell went on again. Unable to ignore it further, you gathered your remaining force, wrapped your shuddering body in your blanket, and left your bedroom. The effort made the room spin around you. “Whoever is there better have a valid reason to disturb me”. you groaned dragging your feet across your apartment.

Your jaw dropped when you saw who was at your door. “Eren?” You mumbled; voice hoarse.

Dressed in a dark blue three-piece suit, with his hair neatly pushed back, revealing his emerald green eyes, he looked like he was going to a formal dinner. You took your time admiring him.

If you were surprised to see him at your door, Eren on the other hand was frowning. “Are you alright?” He inquired visibly worried.

If you didn’t have a fever and your head wasn’t throbbing, you would’ve felt ashamed of the way you look. Your hair was going in different directions, your face was pale, bloodshot eyes with bags under them, and dry lips and to complete the look you were wrapped in a blanket twice your size. “Just a little sick”. You responded, wondering why he was standing in front of your door dressed like he was going to the Oscars. But mostly, you were wondering how did he get your address.

“Here, I brought you these”. He handed you a beautiful bouquet of pink tulips watching the weak smile that spread across your lips.

“Oh, hm, Thank you”. Still smiling, you reached to take the flowers from him. “Wanna come in?” you hazarded stepping out of the way to let him in. “Want something to drink?” You followed leading him to the living room.

“No, please, don’t bother yourself, I’m alright”. He urged. “I should’ve called before coming over. I’m sorry, I didn’t know you were feeling unwell”. He apologized. You waved his excuse walking into the kitchen when you started coughing.

Worried he followed you and made you lay on your couch. “Damn, your skin is burning”. He gasped when he touched your forehead.

“Don’t worry, it’s alright”. You attempted to get back on your feet.

“Please, relax. Let me handle it”. he smiled at you and made you sit back. Confused, you squinted your eyes trying to read his expression before he left the room. “Where do you keep your medics?” he asked minutes after coming back with a bowl filled with cold water and ice.

“There, second drawer”. You pointed at the corner cabinet. He nodded running the wet cloth across your face before leaving it on your forehead.

“Did you eat today?” He asked going through the content of the drawer.

“A piece of cake and some salad”. You responded.

“That won’t do”. he mused unlocking his phone and typing something. “You need to eat something warm”. Eyes still fixed on his phone, he handed you a glass of water and Ibuprofen. “Here, drink this”.

“There’s a soup left in the fridge. I’ll heat it and eat it when I start feeling the effect of the meds”. You downed the glass of water. “Please, you will be late for your appointment”.

“I’m already there”. He put back the cold fabric on top of your face.

It took you a while to understand what he meant. “Oh, fuck, I’m sorry, I completely forgot it’s today”. panicked, you sat straight looking at him. three days ago, Eren sent you a message asking you to accompany him to a concert at the New Jersey Performing Arts Center and you accepted. “I’m really sorry, Eren. I didn’t mean to”.

“Don’t worry, it’s alright”. He spoke gently cupping your face. “Now, lay down and leave this on. We need to get your fever down”. His thumb caressed your reddish cheeks. “I’ll go heat the said soup and make you some tea so that you can take coughing meds”. He followed, helping you settle.

You laid there, listening to him moving around your kitchen questioning if this was real or if your fever made you imagine things.

You woke up to the feeling of being tucked in bed. you don’t recall when you drifted off, your last memory was of Eren disappearing into the kitchen. Though you were not quite sure if he was even here, you called out his name.

“I’m right here”. he spoke in a hushed tone. “You need to get some rest. Don’t worry I’ll remain by your side”. A feeble smile broke through your face. This must be a pleasant dream, I better not wake up, you told yourself. You felt his hand against your burning skin. “The medicines should start working any minute now”. He added caressing your hair.

“Why?” you mumbled but he didn’t hear you. “Jean never did this to me”. your words caught him by surprise.

You covered your face with your forearm trying to hide from the ghosts from your past.

you took off your glasses and massaged your temple. After two weeks of hard labor, you finally finished your project. You checked one last time if you correctly saved the files on both your drive and laptop before closing it. in order to avoid upsetting your boyfriend, you always work on projects and assignments alone, which makes it even harder to finish in time. “Finally,” you whispered laying on your bed.

an hour later, you stepped into your bedroom, face flushed and wrapped in a fluffy towel. You grabbed a pair of fresh panties and fished for a t-shirt and cotton shorts from a second drawer. It was 9 am, Jean should be home any minute now, you finished getting dressed.

You were drying your hair when you heard the door. “I’m home”. You heard his footsteps approaching.

“I’m in the bedroom, honey”. You called. “Welcome home”. You greeted your boyfriend with a warm smile and arms wide open when you caught a glimpse of him. “Guess who has just finished her project”. You sing sang looping your arms around him.

“My sweet girl”. He responded smiling before pressing a couple of chaste kisses on your lips. “Good job”. He whispered against your lips.

“I can’t believe I’m finally done”. You hummed, sinking into your lover’s embrace. “I’m exhausted”.

“Me neither”. His hand sneaked under your shirt molding your skin and buried his face in the crook of your neck. “I missed you”. he breathed against your skin. Your heart fluttered at the feeling of his teeth grazing your pulse point, biting softly. “It’s been a long week, baby”. He rambled sucking on your skin. “I need you”. he growled rotating his hips against your body.

You needed him too you were drained. Between school, your homework, and the shores, you didn’t have time to rest. Plus, you didn’t get enough sleep last night. Jean’s hands were slowly caressing your asscheeks when you gently pressed your palms against his chest. “Jean, dear, I’m a little tired tonight”. You mumbled. “Can…”. You released a sultry moan when he pressed two fingers to your clothed core. “Jean… Ah, Jean, please, baby, I need to…”. Knowing he was not listening; you stepped back getting away from his grasp.

“What’s wrong, baby?” He inquired frowning.

“Can we… Can we please leave this till tomorrow, I’m knocked out, honey”. You stared back at him with pleading and half-lidded eyes.

“But it’s been a week”. He remarked caging you in place. He tilted his face to kiss you again.

“I know, baby, and I’m sorry, but I only slept three hours last night”. You explained looking down. “I can barely stand on my feet”. You muttered still staring at your feet. “I promise, tomorrow,” you brought your eyes back to his face. “I’ll make it up for you”. you pleaded, noticing his facial expression.

“Get your filthy hands off me”. he slapped you when you reached to cup his face.

This is bad, you told yourself. “I’m sorry, honey, I’m truly sorry”. You breathed. “Tomorrow is Saturday, we can do whatever you want”. You let out trying to hold him back.

“I said get your fucking hands off me, whore”. He nudged you.

Your eyes widened in horror. “But Jean…” you hugged him from behind trying to calm him down. “Let’s get to bed, dear”. you spoke trying to sound as calm and soothing as possible. “I promise tomorrow we’ll…” you yelped when he reached for your hair and pulled you away from him ruffly.

“Are you deaf?” He screamed. “I fucking told you not to touch me”. he threw you against the wall. “A selfish bitch such as yourself has no right to touch me”. he gritted stepping closer. “You think that anyone would want someone as pathetic as you if I ever dump you?” he yanked you from your hair once again and made you get on your feet. “Where would you go if broke up with you? Back to your father’s house? You would stray if I leave you”. he hissed. It hurts, both the impact against the wall seconds earlier and him pulling your hair. But you know better than to make any noise. Just like with your father, it only gets him angrier and more violent if he hears you cry or utter the slightest sound. “No one wants you; you get it?” he waited for a response. “Do you understand?” He shouted, and you nodded frantically. “Didn’t you say you're tired?” He grabbed your jaw forcefully, staring down at you with hard eyes. “Or was it just a lie?” you desperately shook your head. “Then, fucking go to sleep”. He pressed his fingers further against your skin. “I’m going out”. he brought your face closer to his. “And don’t you dare ruin my night with your texts and calls”. He menaced. “I’ll do the world a favor and kill you if you do”. and he pushed you once again before slamming the door behind him.

“Jean would’ve snapped at me”. You whispered burying your face in your pillow. “He would’ve even hit me for forgetting about tonight”. Your voice was muffled by your pillow, so Eren didn’t hear the last part.

You winced at the contact of the ice bag with the bump on your forehead. You were facing the bathroom mirror inspecting your face and body. Jean didn’t come back home last night. He recently picked up the habit of spending the night out whenever you fought. The next morning, he comes home smelling like someone else or marked with either lipstick or hickeys, sometimes both. You left the bathroom wondering what is it going to be this time.

A tired sigh left your chest at the thought of seeing the man you love carrying the marks of another woman. At least, I don’t have any bruises on my face, you congratulated yourself, pressing the bag of frozen chickpeas against your forehead.

Minutes later, you were making coffee when you heard him entering the house. You tried to busy your mind with making breakfast, you did your best to ignore the way your body tensed when you heard his footsteps approaching and to pretend like you didn’t shiver when he cleared his throat.

“I’m sorry for last night, darling”. He patted your shoulder apologizing. “I admit it, I kind of lost it”. he pecked your temple. Unable to look up at him and note the hints of the night he spent in the arms of another one, you continued setting the table. “I brought you some fresh pretzels from your favorite bakery”. He added in a joyful tone. He wrapped his arms around your waist and brought you against him. “I also bought you chocolate and the book you wanted”. He kissed your hair.

“Thank you”. you replied in a hushed tone.

“You know that I love you, right”. at this rate, his voice was desperate.

“I know”. You voiced trying to swallow the lump in your throat. “I love you too”. You took the paper bags from him and set them on the kitchen table.

Helpless, he followed you like a lost puppy. “I spent the night at Connie’s, I swear”. You only hummed in response putting the pretzels in the bread basket. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“I do”. you faked a smile looking at him. your eyes inspected the bite marks behind his right ear and above his collarbone. You swallowed hard trying to block your tears. “Of course, I believe you”. you put all your efforts into trying to sound natural. “Do you want some coffee?” you inquired still smiling.

“Stay with me, please, don’t leave me”. You tucked at his shirt.

“I won’t”. Eren promised, caressing your hair. Your fever was persisting.

“You’re so nice”. You purred nuzzling his hand. “Why are you being nice to me?” you wrapped your arms around his body. “I wish he was as nice as you”. You closed your eyes letting Eren’s comforting warmth envelop you.

Eren dipped the clothe in the cold water and whipped your face and neck. “It’s alright, go to sleep now. I’m here”. he voiced, still overthinking your words. Who was this Jean, he wondered. And mostly, what did he do to you? but what was worrying him the most was your fever. He grabbed his phone and sent another message. A reply came seconds later.

Eren spent most of the night trying to take you down your fever. He didn’t get to sleep until dawn. Feeling his presence next to you, you scooted closer nuzzling his neck. “I’m sorry”. You mumbled half asleep. He pressed his lips to your temple.

Before falling into a deep slumber, he made the decision to not ask you about the guy you mentioned earlier and to not question you about your past. He decided to let you choose whether you want him to know or not.

[softsnzstuff]

When there’s a cold/flu going around the theatre, Nancy is 100% the friend to being everyone tea and vitamins to help ward off any germs. Always having hand sanitizer on her along with carrying a thermometer and medicine <3 also has masks for anyone feeling unwell but unable to leave yet

You’re right and you should say it! This has been in my inbox for actual ages I am so sorry! First fic with the Broadway AU found here. Enjoy! 🤍 KB

It’s assumed that live shows are more important than rehearsals, but any performer would tell you they’re equal if not the opposite of that statement. In the world of theater, practice makes permanence, and that permanence is what keeps the show running smoothly.

It’s by that logic, that Eddie doesn’t like to take days off from rehearsal. They’re pretty early on in the staging for this Christmas time production of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory - at least a month before opening night. Even so, the job is taken very seriously.

“iiXXTchew! H’tscHEW! eh’KSHhuhew!”

“Bless you, Eddie!” Nancy walked over, handing him some tissues.

The older man blew into them, coughing slightly. “Thanks Na’dcy.”

A rather nasty cold had been making its rounds through the cast and crew lately, Steve having just come back from a few days off.

Eddie, of course, had caught it off Steve, despite his precautions. Now he had to pay the price by suffering through these rehearsals.

Nancy was cast as Mike Teavee’s mother; Eddie playing none other than Willy Wonka himself. They were in the process of staging the scene where Wonka takes the golden ticket winners on a candy boat.

“The swaying is a simple movement, but if it’s not all done together it will look bad.” Murray, the director, prefaced.

They were on the hard dance floor of the rehearsal studio, the floor covered in neon X’s to mark prop placement.

“Alright kiddos, come on back!” Steve called over his shoulder towards the green room. Murray wanted to stage the adults before he let the kids join in to practice the number. They all took their positions next to their respective “parent” actor and waited.

“Okay can we please take it from the top?” Murray nodded at Joyce, who started playing the piano.

Eddie tilted his head and stared forward with an intimidating look as he started singing, a wicked smile on his face.

“There’s no knowing where we’re going! There’s no earthly way to know. So we’re simply to and fro-ing, s heh- slowly getting vertigo.. iKTCHew! Hassshu! KTchiew!”

Joyce paused her piano playing as a chorus of “bless you”s echoed from the other cast members.

“Heh.. H’eSHhuhew! IsshEW! HaTSHuhew! snlorff Ugh Christ. Thank you. Sorry Murray…”

“It’s alright Eddie, how about we take ten?”

Eddie nodded, holding the back of his wrist to his streaming nose. Steve got up and walked with Eddie to the bathroom, a calming hand on his back the whole time.

Once inside the mens bathroom, Steve leaned against the counter while Eddie went into a stall to pull some toilet paper. The long haired man gurgled into the thin paper. He grimaced as he folded it over and blew again, throwing it away before washing his hands.

They walked together back to the green room where Nancy was waiting with a paper cup of something.

“I made you some tea! Lavender and chamomile, your favorite.” She announced, holding it out to Eddie.

He took the cup gratefully, “You’re the best Nancy. This cold is kicking my ass.”

“We can tell.” Steve teased, Eddie elbowing him as he took a sip of the tea.

“I’m gonna go read some lines,” she grabbed his hand and squeezed it, “but I’ve got some throat lozenges and tissues in my bag if you need them.”

As the young woman disappeared into another room, Steve turned to his partner, rubbing a hand on his shoulders. “Thank god for Nancy Wheeler.”

[airtamer]

Cold Weather Breathing Issues

Winter Is Here: How Cold Weather Affects Our Bodies

In recent weeks, much of the U.S. has faced extreme weather in the form of record-breaking low temperatures, catastrophic blizzard conditions, and flooding. Even in states like Texas, temperatures have dropped to low single digits. So how do these frigid temperatures and windy days affect our bodies and overall health, and what can we do to protect ourselves?

Cold Weather Issues

First, it is important to note that cold weather can put increased stress on our bodies, particularly our cardiovascular system – when we go out in low temperatures, the blood vessels in our bodies constrict and we experience shallow breathing.

These changes can cause strain on our bodies, and even cause chest pain in people who suffer from heart diseases. Combat the cold by wearing warm, water-resistant clothing. It’s important to not only wear the correct attire but also be mindful of covering up extremities such as our hands and head.

Those living in dry or windy climates may also experience the worsening of existing conditions such as eczema. Even those without eczema may experience increased redness and dryness of the skin due to windburn. That is why it is so important to stay hydrated during the winter months and drink plenty of water.

Winter Breathing Problems

Unfortunately, cold weather can also cause problems for those of us who suffer from breathing conditions such as COPD and asthma. Cold and dry air causes contractions in the airways and passages of the lungs which can make breathing particularly difficult. While it is best to stay inside, it’s also important to make sure everything inside is well-insulated!

For many people, recent weather has caused enormous problems and many have discovered issues with their homes that make keeping heat inside more difficult. If you’ve recently noticed a draft in the house due to windows or doorways not being properly insulated, then it may be time to contact professionals and get assistance before another cold snap.

We all know that colds and flu seem to be everywhere during the winter months, but why does this happen? It is a common misconception that the cold weather causes us to get sick – we get sick due to airborne viruses and germs. However, in a study published in 2007, researchers found that the reason the flu virus spreads so easily during winter is that the virus becomes more stable and can therefore stay in the air for longer when conditions are cold and dry.

A paper from the 1960s showed that at 43°F with low humidity, most of the flu virus was able to survive for more than 23 hours!

Best Rechargeable Air Purifier

To protect yourself against nasty winter colds and the flu, consider using a personal air purifier from AirTamer. Our AirTamer A310 model emits over 2 million negative ions every second from the black brush on top of the unit. These negative ions help keep viruses, allergens, and germs at bay by neutralizing airborne particles – allowing you to stay healthier during cold and flu season!

Shop our AirTamer website today to start breathing cleaner, healthier air – wherever you go – even in winter!

[britishassistant]

From one gut punch to another, but fluff edition: I think Divus hates when Yuu gets sick. Being a test tube baby, Yuu must have missed out on the natural immunities given by typical pregnancy. So when they were really young they would get ill very fast and very terrible. You can’t tell me that first time parents Roger and Anita wouldn’t panic when faced with the dreaded stomach bug. And who else to watch the pup when they run out for supplies then their “Uncle Crew”. At first, Crewel would consider it an triumph that Yuu could get sick since most of his creations have natural immunity, but that immediately changed and suddenly he was panicking too after Yuu had a pretty nasty burst of coughing. After all Yuu is the first creation that he’s ever made that was meant to be fragile, he’s not exactly equipped with how to deal with that. Nowadays Yuu mostly just suffers in silence, but if Crewel happens to hear that a certain reporter is under the weather, The Perfect will mostly likely stumble back into their apartment to find a care package from him with all their childhood treatments and the decent medicine.

@coffee-or-hot-cocoa said: hahaha how about yuu getting sick with a cold, lol the city must be the verge on a civil war with all the villains arguing who takes care of yuu, no crimes where committed but breaking and entering and the occasional medicine theft, they could've had kidnapped a doctor, but nothing says "look i'm husband material" by treating them to get better by helping them themselves. I keep imagining riddle with trey bringing some soup but then being shoved to the side from jade and floyd, with them bringing blankets and medicine, only to be beaten by the savana trio, by them taking a nap with yuu.

Thank you for the ask, dear anon and @coffee-or-hot-cocoa !

And oh. Oh. That makes so much sense and makes me so soft, I declare it canon.

Because Yuu’s lacking in these natural defenses, they tend to be someone who goes all out when they get sick. By which I mean they’re never someone who can have ‘just a light cold’, because their body just goes to the greatest extreme, from 0 to 100 in a matter of hours. They get awful fevers, migraines that leave them hardly able to think, body-wracking coughs, upset stomachs that mean they’re unable to even keep water down, sore throats which quickly devolve into tonsillitis, and that’s if they’re lucky and their symptoms are mild.

And they’ll still try to go to work in this state, because they’re a dumb workaholic.

Yuuken is in charge of turning them around, sitting them back in the car, and driving them home to rest.

It was particularly scary for Anita and Roger when Yuu was small, because chicken pox hit them like a freight train when it went through their class at school, leaving them ill enough for two weeks that they were contemplating taking Yuu to the emergency room so they could at least get the fluids they were losing via IV drip.

Crewel found it fascinating at first, as all of his creations have natural immunity built into them, so nothing can stop them when they rampage. Seeing one of them laid low by a mere disease, it’s a new experience that needs to be documented to its fullest extent to gather valuable data.

Of course it stops being so ‘fascinating’ once it becomes clear how much #Y26 is suffering, how much longer they’ve been bedridden when compared to normal rates of recuperation in children their age, long enough that the idea of them just not recovering at all becomes a viable option.

That’s when Crewel stops collecting data and starts working on a way to cure Yuu or alleviate the worst of their symptoms.

It’s also why he gets so pissy when he finds out what the supervillains are doing while Yuu’s sick. What don’t those numbskull puppies understand about avoiding stressing out the patient and the dangers of weakened immune systems?! Do they want the reporter to stay ill for longer under their antics?? It’s not like they’ll even be able to remember any of the ‘caretaking’ that they’re hoping will earn them brownie points, given how out of it Yuu always ends up!

He usually descends like a fashionable yet wrathful god, chasing the unruly puppies out of the reporter’s apartment with a rolled up newspaper before they can make the situation worse. The best thing they can do is leave their offerings of soup and medicine for Crewel’s perusal and back off quickly. Attempting to force their way in or sneak Yuu out is a fast way to incur Crewel’s cold fury. The Diasomnia, Octavinelle and Savannaclaw supervillain groups learned that the hard way.

Yuuken quickly won Crewel’s favor when they first met by staying as far away as he could when Yuu came down with flu while they roomed together, and doing exactly what Crewel advised him to after he had to leave Yuu in Yuuken’s care overnight, asking sensible questions when unclear about his directives. That at least showed Crewel that Yuuken was willing to do what was necessary to return Yuu to health rather than fulfill a certain ideal of caretaking that’s ultimately more self-serving than actually helpful.

Yuu wakes up a few days later with a can of tuna perched on their chest, grumbling about the remnants of a headache and wondering how much they’re going to need to play nursemaid after Uncle Divvy got done with their supervillain admirers this time.

[zuffer-weird-girl]

A villain is always a villain.

LISTEN. THERE IS SO MANY TRIGGER ON THIS THERE IS NO HAPPY ENDING OR NO FLUFF I SWEAR IS PURE ROTTEN ANGST DONT READ IT.

"I'm sorry sir. But even with your quirk, your wife would suffer immense pain over the procedure and die on the bed.... and... my sincerity apologizes... but she's got only one week."

He couldn't exactly describe what he felt when those words from the doctor left his mouth and arrived to his ears. He didn't had even know when he had overhauled his gloves and the chair he was in making him fall on the ground and come back to his senses...

Everything... was falling apart. If he was only fast enough to get the symptoms appearing... he could have prevented, it would have caused you an huge amount of pain but at least you would've have survived.

Why hadn't he noticed it?

Because he was living his dream.

Because you two married. Had beautiful moments together... and just about one year and a half ago had a son. A health kid.

He was happy. He even talked about it with Pops, and the old man suggested for him to leave the Hassaikai for a while to raise his kid on a peaceful environment, but he refused. Knowing Pops hadn't had any contact with that good for nothing daughter of his neither the possible granddaughter he had. So he could give the man some of his immensely gratitude towards him.

But suddenly... everything was falling apart.

First it was the frequent coughing, even your baby was worried but soon you waved them off saying it was just a cold. Chisaki fooled himself on believing on that.

After all he was so happy.

Then, your voice started to change to a more forced and rough one. He started to worry but no, no... his perfect wife, such a angel, couldn't be on any danger... it was just a flu. He would take care of her.

Despite having germophobia, his love for you was just as strong. He wore masks and gloves, sure, but he still was willing to spend time on the same room and give you the comfort you needed.

Then it happened... one day on his office... he heard the coughing fit and suddenly a loud crying from hsi son made him storm out of his office to find you on the ground, a paper close to your hand covered in blood.

He never drove so fast on his life to the hospital.

And now... there he was, staring at the ground as he clinched on his wife's weak hand on the bed with the machines attached to her. His son, as innocent as ever was playing with his mother fingers.

The chemotherapy wasn't enough. The quirks from teh doctors couldn't help her, he couldn't help her...

The nurses came in and told that visit time was over... he had to drag his sobbing and crying two years old out of the room.

His tears were falling as well, but he had to be strong. He had to be the oen who had to be a pillar for his own child.

Pops had to be the oen explaining to Kan the situation and why his father seemed so sad and distant. The kid entered his office at night, sniffling and looking at his father's eyes with his (E/c).

Kan cried himself to sleep on his father chest, and Kai didn't mind it the snot or tears on his messed up black dress shirt. The documents on his desk were soaked with his own tears anyway.

"You're making a big deal about this." Your weak voice interrupted his memories and he scowled at your weak serene expression and smile.

"Dont. Not with this." He murmured as he watched his son give his painting to his mom... he wiped your tears away as you hugged your Kan, kissing his dark brow hair as the little boy murmured his love for you.

At the next day at the evening you let out your last breath and he cried and screamed on the bed until his voice was gone.

.

.

.

"You have to sleep boss." He heard Chrono as he blinked, the bags under his eyes were huge as he sighed.

"I can't. I need to go after those debtors of the drugs and then take care of Kan. He hadn't been eating very well since..." he couldn't help but almost choke up at remembering.

"... how about this? I go after them? Spend time with my favorite nephew."

"... you have some of my gratitude Chronostasis. Dont let the old man know about this, he would never stop talking about it. We need the money and the respect we need."

"Got it."

"And dont call my son your nephew. Is disgusting." He spoke while exiting the office as Kurono snorted.

"I am his godfather though."

He sighed as he hot upstairs and found Kan with equal sad and depressed eyes as his starting at a frame he held with his tiny fingers.

"Kan." The kid gasped and put the frame back and bowed to his father with a sniffle "... come on. I guess, both of us could use some rest."

Kan simply nodded and followed his father but was surprised to see Kai picked him up and brought him to sleep by his side.

.

.

.

He felt something stiring on his side and saw his son leaving the bed.

"Bathroom." Kan muttered as Kai nodded and got up only to stop at hearing "No da. I go, you sleep."

This kid reminded him so much of you with this goddamn kindness.

He waited a few minutes until he got up and followed the kid, enough to not make a appearance and give his son some confidence but he still had only two years.

... or maybe he just didn't felt like leaving his son alone.

But just as he entered the hall he felt something hitting the back of his head hard enough to make him fall face plant on the ground.

"Restrains his hands! His quirk can kill you with one finger of his on your skin!" He heard a voice and immeditaly recognize one of the debtors, and also someone caging his hands on a manner he couldn't even move them.

Must be some sort of dicease.

"Now, mister sucessor." A man with a missed tooth crouched down to his level and grabbed his hair to lift his head to his eye level "We could use some of negotiating eh?"

He only glared at the man before he muffled his scream of pain when the guy slammed his face on the floor hard enough to make a bruise.

"Cooperate with us and then we will get out of here. You give the drugs and leave us with our money with a bit of yours, and no one gets hurt."

"Go.. to hell-ARGH-!" Something pierced his abdomen hard enough to blood to spill and land on the floor.

This had to happened when Chrono had to get all the guards to collect cash and Pops on a damn convention, of course.

"Wrong answer yakuza. I'm gonna make it simple for ya, where is the money you all have?"

"If you think I will give you information..." he hissed at the knife piercing more "Then you must be just as dumb as your parents on the thought of making you, you sick bastard."

His head was slammed on the ground and it was enough to break his nose... just as the guy was about to slam it again a sound of a door creaking open made his eyes snap wide open and look at the figurine with equal wide eyes and clutching the door at seeing his father layed on the ground.

"K-K..Kan...." he eyed his son in fear as sweat and hives started to appear on his skin.

"Daddy?" Kan muttered in fear and the man was smilling widely at the sign.

"Oh? He is your daddy?" Kai started to throw his body around and tried to move but only could scream at his son to run but it was to late since the guy grabbed the boy by his nape. "My, those eyes you have.. are they from your mother?"

Kan trembled as Kai shouted profanities at the man as his helper held him down.

"..Hm. I heard that your wife died man.. rough. Being a single dad and the future owner of this big hellhole you got here." The man made two of his finger fuse and form into a sharp kinda like knife and cut the cheek of the boy, making the boy flinch and whimper.

"LEAVE MY SON OUT OF THIS. DONT TOUCH HIM WITH YOUR DIRTY AND INFECTED HANDS!"

"Then let's make a deal?" He holded the kid down and aproached the object to the boy's throat. "The life of the son of the woman you loved is more worth than some couple of cash eh?" He chuckled darkly.

He was about to agree until Chrono opened the door with the eight precepts and saw the scene.

"Fuck-"

"KAN GET DOWN!" Kai manage to shout at his son the house was filled with shooting and the eight precepts attacking the subbordinates of the debtor who had held his son captive.

Chrono shot the guy who was holding him down and he quickly activated his quirk to kill the man and get up only to his eyes to widen at seeing his son being dragged down by the debtor and some other muscular guy as the kid screamed for him and kicked his legs to try to get away.

He ran out and was about to slam his hand his hand on the ground without any gloves until he heard the shout to stop and his eyes widen at seeing the man holding a grenade up and his son caged on his arm.

"PAPA!"

"One more movement and your kid gets turned into pieces along with us OVERHAUL!"

He panted in desperation and raised his hand up.

"G... Give my son back." The man laughed as his sunglasses, in the middle of the night using sunglasses what a idiot, fell down.

"LOOK AT THE DESPERATION IN YOUR TONE OVERHAUL! IS PRICELESS!"

The sound of his laughter dissapeared when all four them heard sirens and sounds of heroes coming.

"Boss, I prefer to die than to go to jail." The muscular man mumbled as the debtor gave a little sick giggle before tilting his head at Chidaki, looking him dead in the eyes as he hugged Kan close to his chest and pulled the trigger of the grenade.

"See ya in hell, Overhaul."

"KAN-!" He shouted and ran but teh explosion made him his body slam back on the house, losing his conciousness and hearing only the buzz on his ears and the sound of.. Pops? Kurono? Calling his name as he blacked out.

.

.

.

He woke up with a groan and immeditaly put his hand on his face, feeling a nasty scar but then repairing it but soon widening his eyes.

"KAN!" He screamed and burst out of the room only to be found at the hospital he was starting to hyperventilate until he felt a old and familiar hand grab his shoulder.

"Kai you-"

"WHERE IS HE?!" He grabbed the man's shoulders as tears fell from hsi golden eyes "WHERE IS MY SON?!"

"Chisaki please-" the moment the elder went to speak Kai eyes dropped on a a gurney, small with a sick person dragging her to the morgue... with a tag wrapped around her wrist that looked like a child's... written his son's name on it.

"No... No. no no nO NO NO THAT IS MY SON YOU FUCKING IDIOT DONT!" he was about to kill the poor nurse until Pops grabbed onto him and made him calm down by force as the man howled like a terrible and horrendous beast.

.

.

.

"Kai... stop with this. We dont deal with drugs."

"Chisaki we have rules to follow. That's not how we work around here."

"Have you lost your humanity?"

... yes.

Yes he did lost it. The moment his wife and son were taken away from him...

He wasn't a human anymore.

He had one goal now, and he would make it real.

Even if it meant the yakusa, the heroes, Eri... everyone suffered just as much as he had.

[prof-peach]

This is kinda similar to the previous question about Appletun skin! I have a Sceptile as a partner that's been trying to offer me the orbs from his back since he evolved. I know they're meant to store nutrients in then but I always assumed that they were meant to be put in the ground for plants to grow better? Does he want me to eat them? Also does it change anything that my Sceptile is more deciduous in nature than the standard?

To other Pokemon, the orbs these Pokemon carry is quite medicinal, and yes, full of nutrition. To humans, they’re bitter, and can make your stomach rather upset. To consume them you must boil them up first, and I would advise you do so with plenty of honey or sugar, to lessen the bitterness. They can be very unpleasant to eat, I can attest to this first hand.

Your Pokemon is very comfortable with you, they’re not often caught handing out those balls to many, and those who they do give them too are said to be gifted luck for a whole year. It’s a bit of a folk lore< but none the less very nice of them!

You can bury them as slow release fertiliser, but I find that they’re wasted a bit when used this way, as you could just buy food for plants of the same nature, and get the same result, if not better if you tailor the care to the plant. The orbs when used as medicine however are extremely effective and potent, and can cure a whole host of things. We use shed sceptics orbs in a pinch when we have Pokemon come in with high fevers, chills, and when distilled, they can be utilised as a really potent cure for some of the most nasty poisons. They’re very valuable as a medical thing, but also yeah, pop them in the ground and see your plants go nuts. They do seem to cut the risk of plant sickness too, we popped some near the roses and they have yet to get black spot, which is VERY common here due to the weather conditions. Grass Pokemon with a susceptibility to this issue are often given medicine made form Sceptile orbs to stop black spot. Roselia in particular will suffer this, but also Leafeon, Skiddo, and many others.

I would advise learning how to utilise their medicinal properties, as too much will do harm, and not enough won’t fix any major issues. You can sell them, donate them, or ask a clever friend to distill and turn them to a good tonic. If you pop them in any jam mixes, and fish them out once the jam is finished and ready to be jarred, the jam itself will help stave off colds and flu, and will help you fight many illnesses. Like a little immune system boost.

You can steep the balls in water for a week, and the water you then have is very good at stopping fungal infections, and even keeps the bugs off your crops and plants.

Your partner being deciduous will make the orbs less bitter, but they still will upset your stomach so I don’t advise eating them as is, otherwise there’s not a great deal of difference in their properties.

Your buddy loves you a lot, and wants to share their special items with you, a wonderful thing for sure!

[janeelyakiri]

(this may be a reused ask but sssssssshhhhhhh, we’re not gonna talk about that)

So, the boys’ heat is here once again. No problem, they’ve got their wonderful, amazing, sweet S/O to help, as they’ve done in the past. No problem right? Riiiiiiight?

Well it wouldn’t be, if S/O wasn’t sick. And we’re not talking about a lil cold or a sniffle, oh no, poor S/O is full on nasty flu sick; bedridden until they’re better.

What do the skelly’s do? Do they try to to help take care of their mate? How do they deal with this heat while their mate is unavailable? (Oh, and for the poly ones, they aren’t “allowed” to get help from their other S/O’s because reasons >:3c)

a couple of these boys would just, do what they did in the past without an S/o, buuuut

Macaw- His heats upset his magic pretty bad so he's feeling equally as sick anyway. Lupo's now caring for two really sick people just one's a horny monster. Like before Macaw locks himself away.

Lupo- His is pretty much the same, and he can care for his S/O up until that last day. He leaves Macaw a detailed scheduled list of how to care for his S/O while he hides in his room and handles himself.

Falcon- He's got 3 days of annoying horny levels but his are pretty calm. He's able to care for his S/O pretty easily while taking care of himself on his own time.

Jackal- Naturally high libido means he's able to control himself. He cares for his S/O, and cares for himself when they're asleep.

Jay- Same as Jackal, though he'd get Fox to help S/O too.

Fox- Is unable to leave his room due to frustrations and hating himself, so Jay has to care for both him and his S/O.

Crow- His are short like Falcon's, but he's useless during them. So he'll be whining and suffering in his bed while Hound cares for him and S/O.

Hound- His main thing is making a nest. So S/O will have a comfy ass nest... but also be snuggled a lot. So Crow will have to help actually care for them.

Vulture- Lets say he's healed enough to have one. Uh, Hyena's gonna have him safely nowhere near anyone. Hyena will gladly take care of his brother's S/O in the meantime!

Hyena- Becomes territorial over his mate. Vulture MIGHT be able to drop off food and medicine but it could become a big problem for S/O's health.

Robin- Gets his brother to care for his weak mate while he goes out and finds a temporary target.

Dingo- He's made them a nice nest. They're gonna be so comfy and warm. They're very sick, he feels this. But he's producing a lot of his red haze, that will help them sleep! He'll help them feel better, sleep is better. Sleeeep...

[devinescribe]

You Being Sick

And won't take medicine/you're very snuggly

Arisu

- The first thought he has is 'Is (Y/N) dying?'

- He can't help it, it's just... it's him

- Once you tell him it's just the flu/a cold, he's so relieved.

- Will give you whatever you need. Water, food, hugs.

- Doesn't want to force you to drink the medicine, but also knows it's for the better

- He doesn't know how to make you drink it without making you do it against your will

- "(Y/N)... please drink your medicine."

"Over my dead body."

"I-if you don't drink it... n-no more cuddles till you do."

- It hurt his soul to say that, especially your pouting face

- But it works, because you drink it, no hesitation

- Doesn't even notice the mess, he's used to messy places.

- If you throw up, he hold your hair back, while rubbing a hand in circles.

Chishiya

- But he does help you clean up after.

- Does get sick after, but he doesn't mind

- Mostly because now you take care of him

- And cuddles. Many more cuddles

- Doesn't care that much, as you are both aware it's just like the flu or a cold. Nothing to bad

- Now, the second you don't want to take medicine? Hahahahahaha

- He will shove the medicine down your throat if it's the last thing he does

- "(Y/N), darling, I'm aware it doesn't taste good, but it'll make you feel better."

"How do you know? What if it just tastes bad because it's bad for us, huh? Would you drink spoiled milk? No? Then shut up."

- Uh oh

- Goes off on a rant about how he's knows what it does because he was studying medicine, so you need to listen to him because he knows better blah blah blah.

- You stopped listening when he said a fancy medicine term.

- Says he won't touch you till you drink your medicine. And now we have a pouty, sick (Y/N) and a cocky teasing bastard Chishiya.

- Eventually goes back on his rant, and to shut him up, you drink the medicine.

- Doesn't want to hold you while you're sick because he doesn't want to get sick

- Is aware that he has a stronger immune system, but still

- I have a feeling he hates mess and hates that there's tissues surrounding your miserable body.

- So, he's constantly cleaning up while you're sick.

- If you throw up, he just watches, making sure you don't die. He then proceeds to bring you water, and a trash can

Karube

- if he decides, "Eh, fuck it." He will lay atop the blankets while you're under them, and holds your hand but that's it-

- Doesn't get sick. He doesn't know how, but he doesn't get sick. He just assumes it's because he's used to being around sick people.

- He's so sweet

- Brings you snacks and medicine, as well as whatever else you may need.

- He's worried of course, but constantly reminds himself it's just a cold/the flu.

- Does he give a fuck you're sick? No, he's still going to hold you and cuddle you like the world is gonna end.

- Does he get sick? No, surprisingly. He has a strong immune system, so... he doesn't care.

- Holds your hair back if you throw up

- Has to think of someway for you to drink your medicine. His first aproach was the stern voice, or what I like to call the 'dad' voice.

- "(Y/N), medicine."

"No."

"You need to drink your medicine to feel better. Come on."

"I said no."

"You're a persistent little brat, aren't you?"

- Ahahahaha, you're in trouble later

- His next approach was hiding it in your drinks/food.

- So he buys you a gatorade, juice, whatever it may be and sneaks it in there.

- You haven't caught him. Yet.

Niragi

- Already caught whatever you have

- So you're both in bed miserable

- Curses his anti-socialness as it's the whole reason he's sick

- But, on the bright side, he can hold you and has no fear of getting sick because HE'S ALREADY FUCKING SUFFERING-

- Ties your hair back so he doesn't have to hold it back while you throw up.

- Has his own hair tied back completely. In a tiny ponytail or a tiny bun

- You tease him relentlessly in your state. He's cute in these moments, not hot. Just... cute.

- Out of everything he's seen and done, you puking your guts out in the bathroom is the one thing he gets grossed out by

- Like... if he hears you, he gags because it's just nasty

- He doesn't mind the mess, because he knows you will help him clean after.

- Since a fever can raise your body temperature, he ends up shirtless most of the time, and you've stopped caring at this point

- He just swallows the medicine down quickly, and shudders at the taste

- you don't drink the medicine? Oh no nono

"(Y/N) just drink the fucking medicine so our torture can be over. Just pretend it's a shot of alcohol or something."

"No. I swear I'll throw up if I drink it. And plus, alcohol is fun. Medicine is not."

"Right now is not the time to be a brat, just swallow it quickly and drink juice after."

- News flash: It works.

Chota

- Can't stand the fact that you're sick

- Hates seeing you rolled up in blankets and not being yourself

- But, has 70 blankets ready for you if you need them

- When you do the grabby hands towards him, he doesn't even think about getting sick he just crawls in with you

- The fact that you're extra warm is just heaven.

- Except when it gets to hot for you, because then you start taking blankets off of you two, and eventually you end up needing to be far from him for a bit

- Will hold your hair back if you throw up, but ties it back in a ponytail or something

- Just because he knows you don't like him seeing you in such a state.

- When you won't drink your medicine, he just thinks for a bit on how to get you to do so

- Begging doesn't work

"Please please please drink it?"

"No! It's nasty."

"Please, honey, you have to drink it to feel better."

"No way."

- Gives up, knowing eventually you'll drink it yourself because you don't want to deal with being sick anymore

- He gets sick like three days later

- Does he regret cuddling you?

- Not at all

Last Boss

- Doesn't know what to do

- On one hand, doesn't want to get sick, and he know that his immune system is shit

- On the other, you sound miserable

- So, he ends up trying to help you

- It fails, now you're both sick 😁

- Mess. Mess everywhere. But, he doesn't even notice it, he's used to messy rooms

- Gets sleep, because he's so tired.

- Loves the added warmth of you.

- Starts liking the peace and quiet, because he knows Niragi won't step foot in his room knowing both of you are sick

- He doesn't want to to take his medicine either, how the fuck is he supposed to make you take yours?

"I'm not drinking that."

"Neither am I."

"So we're both in agreement?"

"Yep."

"Good."

- Just makes sure you're ok if you're throwing up. Like... he's heard of people choking because they throw up, so he's just making sure you live

- He's already warm as is. Now, when he's sick, take his body heat and multiply it by 20.

- keeps the blinds and windows closed so you two can sleep

- Will wake up to your coughing fits, and for a second forgets it's you, forgets you're sick, and just goes , "Can you please keep it down?"

To which you respond

"I would if I could. Sorry that I'm dying over here."

- Apologizes, before pulling you close to him

[bellshells]

Splitting Hairs ch. 7

Hello dearies, chapter seven is here. It’s a long one again, so strap yourselves in. As always, thank you so much for taking the time to read this it means the absolute world <3

Severus x OC  Summary: Sad Sev is sad tm. Minerva is brill and Valentine is honest.  Warnings: Angst, mentions of unforgivable curses, bit o’ blood n that.  Word Count: 3586

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It was the final week before the Christmas holidays and Severus was miserable. Now, that’s not to say that Severus being miserable around Christmastime wasn’t a common occurrence; but this year was different. Severus had all but shut off communications with everybody bar Minerva, although their visits to each other were now short and full of long silences. Severus felt like he was constantly treading water, if he were to falter slightly- he would drown. He withdrew himself from everything; Quidditch matches, meetings, his revision groups, until finally he stopped eating in the Great Hall all together; choosing instead to lock himself away in his chambers. It became so rare to see Professor Snape anywhere other than his classroom, and people knew better than to ask questions. But in truth, if anyone were to ask Severus why he was suffering so, he wasn’t sure if he would be able to give a cohesive answer. He felt the weight of the term as it constricted around his neck, what he intended it to be (a tedious bore), and what it transpired to be (anything but), were two completely different things.

He missed Valentine. He missed her with a burning intensity that he was not familiar with, yet it had become as necessary to him as breathing. From the minute he opened his eyes he felt the burning, it started in his chest and by mid-morning it had consumed his very being, it reminded him that he was still alive. That although he was hurting, he was not entirely broken because he had allowed himself to feel. He had not known exactly why it hurt so to think about Valentine, perhaps he was merely embarrassed for allowing her to bewitch him, or perhaps he was rather fond of her and felt betrayed-? Either way, he had neither sight nor sound from her since the night he had visited her chambers, and she had revealed that her father was an acquaintance of Lucius Malfoy’s. Severus winced as he recalled the conversation, she had told him she had pursued him due to boredom and Severus had wept when he had reached the safe confines of his bed. He felt stupid. He felt used, but more importantly, any ounce of sympathy he felt for Valentine had vanished. Yes, he desired her- as any man would. But, after the callous way she had treated him, he cared not for any ‘danger’ she might have found herself in. It didn’t concern him, whatever it was, and Severus was content with that.  

He struggled immensely with the idea of him having a ‘purpose’. Since the Dark Lord had fallen, Severus had to ingratiate himself with his colleagues for fear of being cast out. None of them had trusted him when he had taken up his post and quite rightly too, but it had been ten years- or there abouts, and Severus was still there, trying to compel people to believe his version of the story. But surely, as Severus had thought for several years, Albus had no real need for him anymore. He could understand that, as the dust settled those first few years after what happened happened, he was a necessary evil required to bridge any gaps that surfaced on the road to a social and economic recovery for the Wizarding community. At least, that’s how Albus had worded it and Severus knew better than to challenge him. Severus had played his part in the war, and he had done what Albus had asked him to do in exchange for what Severus wanted.

Almost as if he had apparated there, Severus could feel the cool night air whip around his face as he had pleaded with, no, begged Albus to help spare the lives of Lily and her son. Albus had been indifferent he remembered, almost cold. But now he knew that you don’t get something for nothing with the Dumbledores and Albus was no exception. Did the headmaster forget what Severus had sacrificed all those years ago? Had he forgotten that Severus had been hurled toward a chasm of despair at the loss of his friend and did he just expect him to continue? Ultimately, Severus thought that Albus didn’t care one way or the other what happened to him, or anybody else, so long as they achieved what was right. Severus was just a little pawn in a big boy’s game of chess, whichever side he landed on didn’t matter. He wondered if that was why Valentine had affected as much as she did, of course there was the obvious, the searing resemblance she bared to Lily; but Severus had become almost accustomed to it now. The jolt of pain it used to cause in chest was dulled to a small ache when he looked at her. Or perhaps, it was because she was the first person in years that he felt he had a connection with, that what they shared was something special that he could proudly confirm was his.

It had been three weeks since he had seen her. He was so angry with her still, his mind scoured over every conversation they had had, every nice word she had given him and had scratched them out with a big red line. They were wrong, all wrong and all lies. Now what was left was a yearning for what they shared and an anger that fuelled him to put one foot in front of the other. He had to continue, he had to get to the end of term and get himself home. Home, whatever that meant. Spinner’s End. Cokeworth, the place where dreams go to die. He would usually stay at the castle over Christmas, but this year he didn’t have it in him. He wanted to be as far away from this place as humanly possible and for the first time in his life, his childhood home that was often filled with fear and rage, offered him a solace that he didn’t think possible.

It must have been near seven when there was a knock at the door. Severus grumbled to himself as he opened it a crack, Minerva stood anxiously on the other side, she offered him a small smile. “Severus? May I come in?” Severus grunted in agreement and opened the door wide enough for his friend to enter, he flounced into a chair and gestured for her to join him. “How are you?” Minerva asked cautiously, she tapped her foot nervously as Severus regarded her. She looked worried and Severus felt uncomfortable. “I’m well, and yourself?” He replied after a small silence, Minerva frowned slightly and sat back in her chair. “Fine, thank you.” She paused, “Would you like to accompany me to dinner this evening?” Minerva looked at him hopefully, she knew what had transpired between Severus and Valentine through a hastily written note pushed under her office door. He had requested not to talk about it after the fact, she had obliged, of course she had, but Severus knew Minerva well enough to know she had questions. He wondered whether she would have probed Valentine any further about the letter from her father. Knowing what they knew about her connection to Lucius Malfoy would be enough to arouse suspicions in anybody, but that paired with a mysterious warning from Azkaban was more than worrying. “Before you answer,” Minerva began, “Elizabeth has been on a leave of absence for the last two weeks, so she won’t be in attendance. Also, there’s a nasty flu going around, and the infirmary is fit to burst so, turnout is a bit thin.” Severus sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. He shot Minerva a pained look, he was grateful for his friend, however he was also weary. But he didn’t want to cause her any more distress. “Will you sit with me?” He asked in a small voice, Minerva’s eyes glistened. She rose from her seat and pulled Severus up by his hands. “Of course I will, dear boy. I’ll be by your side.” She pulled him into her embrace tightly, “I’ve been so worried Severus.” He hugged her firmly, he scrunched his nose in order to halt the tears that threatened to escape. Minerva pulled away but held him at arm’s length and Severus smiled slightly.

 When they were seated Severus could really see the effects of the flu Minerva had mentioned in full force, the long student tables were barely half full, and coughs and sneezes were in abundance. Severus flinched as yet another rumbling cough trundled toward him as students passed in front of the high table. “Well this is divine.” Severus muttered slyly to Minerva as she rolled her eyes. “Shall I conjure us a couple of plague masks?” “Your nose wouldn’t fit.” Minerva said with a smirk as Severus spluttered on his drink, a real smile emerged on his face and laugh left his chest. Minerva’s smile suddenly faltered as she gazed passed Severus to the other end of the high table, Severus followed her gaze until it ultimately settled on a dishevelled figure which sat themselves uncomfortably at the very end of the table. “Merlin, would you like to leave, Severus?” Minerva’s words felt miles away as Severus’ eyes met Valentine’s from across the expanse. The redhead looked awful, her eyes were bloodshot and were surrounded with dark circles. She had a large bruise on her cheek and her bottom lip was swollen and red with a sizeable cut. She lifted her hand to push her long hair which hung limply around her face, behind her ear and he could see her knuckles were split and bruised. “What’s happened to her?” Severus whispered to Minerva without taking his gaze from Valentine. “I don’t know, she’s been away.” Minerva sounded concerned as the pair watched Valentine struggle to pick up her goblet, she seemed to be in incredible pain. “Has she broken her hand?” Severus shrugged his shoulders and forced his gaze back to his own plate, his heart thundered in his chest. He could feel it begin to heave shallowly, and his hands gripped onto the edge of the table. Minerva squirmed in her seat; she craned her neck to get a better look at Valentine who now struggled to use her fork. “Oh, she needs to go to the infirmary. This isn’t on.” The deputy headmistress slyly stood from her seat and hurried to the other end of the table and crouched down next to Valentine. Severus watched from the corner of his eye as Minerva whispered into Valentine’s ear and the two stood and exited the Great Hall, Minerva’s hand under Valentine’s arm; guiding her carefully as they walked.

Severus contemplated his options for a moment, he didn’t feel comfortable sitting in the hall by himself so he could either return to his rooms or he could follow Valentine and Minerva. His heart ached for her, she looked like she had taken a brutal beating and Severus felt a quiet rage build in his chest. His affirmations that he didn’t care what happened to her, that she was a liar and not worthy of his time disappeared as he replayed the visions of her injuries in his mind. Whatever was happening in her life was obviously dangerous and for whatever reason she felt like she couldn’t divulge any information to him, but that didn’t alter the fact that she needed help. He stood from his place at the table and followed the same route previously taken by Minerva and Valentine.

They were already in the infirmary when Severus caught up with them, Poppy was fussing with Valentine, ushering her down to the very end of the busy ward and into a room off to the side. Minerva followed hastily, ignoring the lines of sneezing students and opening the door for the nursing mistress as she supported Valentine into the room. Severus waited a moment or two before creeping silently passed the long lines of beds full of students in various degrees of wellness and knocking on the door to the private room. He didn’t wait to be invited in, instead opening the door and slipping inside. Poppy looked over in his direction as she helped Valentine onto the bed and removed her shoes. “She’s had a nasty Cruciatus, Severus,” Minerva whispered as she sidled next to him. “She must have fallen as well.” “It looks like she’s done a lot more than fall, Minerva.” Severus muttered. They watched as Poppy sat Valentine up and tried to remove Valentine’s jacket, the young witch winced with pain as she withdrew her arms from the sleeves. Poppy lifted her shirt at the back and gasped, she looked at Severus, her face pale. “Severus, would you mind?” Poppy hastened, Severus was by her side in two quick steps and felt the bile rise in his throat as he regarded the deep lacerations painted across Valentine’s back. Severus slowly extended a finger and gently traced the outline of one of the bigger ones, Valentine whimpered at the touch and Minerva moved forward to grasp her hand. Poppy looked up at Severus worriedly, pulling Valentine’s shirt further up until it rested atop her shoulders. “What do you think, Severus? Is it-” “Sectumsempra? Yes.” He confirmed stiffly. Poppy only nodded sombrely as she produced her wand and started to chant the Vulnera Sanentur quietly, Valentine groaned, and Poppy nodded at Severus to help. He grasped Valentine’s shoulders to steady her in place as Poppy worked on closing the wounds on her back. How long had she been like this? Whomever had cast the spell, his spell had done so haphazardly, it wasn’t strong enough to cause a haemorrhage and Valentine was able to get away. He whizzed through the names of people who knew about the curse in his head, fuck there were so many. All of them vile too, who on earth had Valentine pissed off for them to do this? Not only had she’d been a victim of the Cruiciatus curse, but someone had really wished to hurt her with the curse of his own devising, you were not supposed to be able to walk away from it.  

Valentine’s face was contorted with pain as Poppy tried to work as swiftly as she could. She writhed under Severus’ grip and he felt sorry for her. “Minerva,” Poppy said quietly, not looking up from her work. “I think it best to fetch the headmaster.” Minerva stood at once and left the room, she closed the door softly behind her and Severus turned his attention back to Valentine who still squirmed on the bed, tears fell her closed eyes and Severus’ heart once again ached for her. “Just try and keep still,” Severus said gently, “Nearly finished now.” Valentine didn’t respond but she nodded and took a deep breath. She seemed to relax slightly as Poppy started on the third incantation, allowing Severus to bear more of her weight by leaning into his hold. Satisfied with her work, Poppy stood back from Valentine and ran her hand over the healed skin. Still tender, Valentine flinched. “I think we’ll just pop this top in the bin, don’t you, Elizabeth?” Poppy said as she tapped Severus’ hands away and carefully lifted Valentine’s shirt over her head and over her arms. Severus’ eyes widened and he turned his back immediately. Valentine let out a weak laugh; “I think we’re passed all that, Sev.” Valentine said feebly, he turned to look at her and she offered him a tired unconvincing smile, her bruised hand covering her breasts. He returned her smile weakly and took a step toward her. She extended a hand to him and without thinking, he took it and perched on the seat next to the bed. “Good job you’re not wearing a brassiere my dear, or that could have been very fiddly.” Poppy said cheerfully as she rustled through the standing wardrobe and pulling out a hospital gown and shaking it in Valentine’s direction. Severus took the gown from the nurse as she helped Valentine stand, Poppy turned her away from Severus giving him a good look at Valentine’s back. Poppy really had done a marvellous job in closing Valentine’s wounds; but she would always have the scars. But you would never guess that they were fresh and bloody only moments ago. Poppy asked Severus to support Valentine’s arms as she unfastened Valentine’s trousers and instructed her to step out of them, which she did unsteadily. Severus presented the young with the sleeves of the gown, careful to not let his body touch hers. She pushed her arms through, and Severus pulled it over her shoulders and worked on fastening the ties at the back.

“We’ve been here before, haven’t we?” Valentine laughed softly followed by a cough. Severus couldn’t help but smile at the memory of the first night they met, zipping her dress after dealing with another of her calamities. After helping her back onto the bed and pulling the covers over her lap Poppy turned to Valentine with a smile; “I’ll be back in two ticks, just need to give one of the Weasley boys a drop of Sleeping Draught.” She made her way to the door and stopped just before she opened it, “Will you be alright with Severus, dear?” “Oh yes, I’ll be fine.” Valentine answered with a smile. “Lovely, I’ll be back to reset the bones in your hand. Won’t be nice, but you’ll thank me for it in the morning.” Poppy offered both a smile as she left, leaving the two of them in silence.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?” Severus spoke first; he brushed his hands over his trousers and placed them neatly in his lap. Valentine bit her bruised lip before she answered. “Not really.” She smiled weakly. “Please don’t feel like you have to sit with me, Severus. I understand if you’re angry with me.” “Whether I am angry or not is of no pertinence. You mustn’t be left unattended, and it seems like I am the only one here.” He said flatly. “Those wounds on your back. Who gave them to you?” “Why does it matter?” Valentine groaned and she studied her broken hand in the dim light. “It matters to me.” “Why?”

Because although he would swear otherwise, he cared for her and he wanted her to be safe. “Because you’re a good friend to Minerva, and she’ll only worry.” He said coolly, Valentine nodded sadly. A silence settled between them, and although it wasn’t necessarily uncomfortable Severus felt he should break it.   “I feel like I should apologise to you, Severus.” Valentine said, startling him. He looked at her then, as she hunched over on the bed. He felt sorry for her, she looked so small and meek. A shadow of the gregarious woman he had met in the summer. “I don’t expect you to forgive me, but I would like to say it nonetheless.” Severus raised an eyebrow and waited. “I’m sorry for what I said to you. None of it was true, I said it to get a reaction from you. It was immature, and I’m sorry.” “So you admit it?” “Pardon?” “You admit it?” “Admit what?” “That you were pursing me?” “What?” “You admit that you were pursing me. And now you attest that it wasn’t due to boredom. That is, interesting.” Severus smirked. Valentine looked confusedly at him, he enjoyed it. He had power in this moment, and he relished in the energy that passed between them. Him, in control of the situation.   “I have a genuine interest in you Severus, why is that a difficult concept to grasp?” She questioned as she tried to lie down on the bed. Almost as if she had forgotten, she yelped in pain as her back touched the mattress. She shot up again and Severus lurched towards her, he pulled her into his arms and tried his best to soothe her. Valentine wept as she clung to Severus with her good hand, he kissed the top of her head deeply.

“Did you try to run?” He whispered into her hair; he traced his fingers ever so lightly over her back. It was an odd place to be hit by the curse, he wondered if she had tried to escape after she had been curcio’d. Valentine nodded and sniffed pathetically. Severus felt his stomach drop, she had tried to get away and someone had hit her with his curse. “Oh darling.”

They stayed that way for a moment or two, Severus gently rocking back and forth with Valentine in his arms. He hummed quietly to himself, he remembered his mother doing this for him when he was a child. It didn’t remember it ever making him feel better, but it was worth a try. When he heard the young witch’s breathing relax he turned her face to his with a finger and thumb.

“So, you admit it.” He said gently, if he wasn’t mistaken he could have sworn Valentine rolled her eyes.

“What am I admitting to this time?” She sighed. “That you are interested in me-” “Are you twelve, Severus?” “Perhaps,” he chuckled. “But I feel it important to share that I-” he coughed, Valentine looked at him with an expectant smile. “I have an interest in you, also. So…there, yes.” He gazed into Valentine’s bloodshot green eyes and smiled.

“Kiss me.” She whispered. Severus of course, complied eagerly.