#Doctor Balmis

[12endigital]

Más de un centenar de urólogos se dan cita este viernes en Alicanteen el VII Curso de las asociaciones española y americana de Urología

Más de un centenar de urólogos y profesionales del sector se darán cita este viernes, 20 de septiembre, en el Hotel Meliá Alicante en el VII Curso de la Asociación Española de Urología y la American UrologicalAssociation (AEU-AUA). Se trata de un evento que acoge por primera vez la ciudad de Alicante y que ha sido coordinado por el servicio de Urología del Hospital General Universitario Doctor…

[oneforthemunny]

the apple blurb from the crypt (funsonmunson february 2023 lol) <33 finally recovered and being added to the masterlist for all the janitor!eddie x teacher!reader lovers.

janitor!eddie is always leaving an apple on teacher!reader’s desk every morning.

he gets there early before her to do some extra maintenance- the school had given him a raise to do both so they wouldn’t have to hire someone else. it started as a joke between you two. eddie grinned when you’d brought an apple to lunch one day, playful glint in his eye. “an apple a day, huh?” he asked.

steve snorted. “that’s a doctor, munson.” he rolled his eyes.

you shrugged, biting into your apple. “I like apples, ok?” you giggled. “guess I was made to be a teacher, huh? the stereotype doin’ it for you?”

eddie couldn’t stop smiling. so every day, when he’d stop at the gas station by the trailer park, he’d get his usual pack of camels and an apple. he’d place it on your desk, scribbling on a spare piece of paper a little note that left you blushing when you’d find it.

he’d pass by your classroom, catching your eyes when you’d see him, smiling and nodding towards your apple. later, when he’d take you out, you’d kiss him sweetly on the cheek. “thanks for the apple.” you’d mutter. “it was delicious.” you’d let your bottom lip graze over his cheek, sending a hot blush down his neck and cheeks.

eddie wanted that reaction always, so he’d bring you apple after apple, proudly propping them on your desk each day with a little note.

‘you’re the apple of my eye, sweetheart. have a good day. -ed’

you’d giggle, tucking them into your purse. you’d saved everyone, reading them later when you missed him, heart fluttering in your chest.

one day, eddie walks into his ‘office’- a storage closet with a chair and an old desk, a rack to hang his jacket. there where he put his lunch pail was a small tin of hand balm, ‘for working hands’ it read.

eddie’s heart swelled. he’d complained about the blisters and callouses from working at the school mixed with his guitar making his hands rough, the cold cracking them and making them bleed. when he held his hand in yours, you’d ran a finger over the cracked, raw skin with a sympathetic pout.

eddie picked up the tin, the best folded card on top reading:

‘a little of this cream keeps the callouses away (or that’s what the store clerk told me). hope this helps you my hard working man. xoxo’

eddie slipped it into his front pocket, a dopey grin on his face. he dug his fingers into the balmy substance, rubbing it over his hands before reaching into his lunch pail, grabbing the shiny, red apple out and starting towards your class room.

[lucysgraybird]

Erm i js read ur pregnancy fic, is it possible for u to write an alternative version yk a happy one ??? 😭 it was rlly good tho but that hurttt

YES babe ofc im so sorry 🙏 i saw angst and it got away from me. sorry for losing my head. here is an alternate ending to this fic

warnings: labour/childbirth, blood mention, deeply unrealistic (should've put this on the other one too! i am an 18 year old virgin i know where babies come from and that's it)

The night the baby comes is dark and peaceful: there hasn't been more than a soft fall of rain in weeks, and the spring has brought balmy evenings that have made chores almost a gift to do.

Even more of a blessing is the time after chores, curled up on the porch under Billy’s arm. He's twisting the ends of your hair around his fingers absently, and you twist to look up at his face.

“What's on your mind, honey?”

“Hm?”

“I can hear your thoughts from here, Billy. Are you worrying about something?”

He tucks his chin over your head and you hum contentedly at being wrapped up in him, safe and warm.

“Just thinkin’ about the baby is all,” he says. “What we're gonna name her and that stuff.”

You laugh. “I bet it'll come to us in the moment. We don't even know if the baby’s a girl.”

“I do.” He slides his arm off your shoulder to your waist, placing his hand flat against your rounded belly. “Gonna be the best little girl, and she's gonna look just like her mama.”

"Mm...with your eyes, if we're lucky."

You crane your neck to peck Billy on the lips, coaxing a smile from your husband. Out of nowhere, a cramp twists through your lower back and you cover Billy��s hand with yours, wincing. He shifts you off his chest slightly to look at you.

“You okay?”

The pain passes and you can breathe again – it's not something you've felt before, but you know things get weirder the bigger the baby gets.

“Fine, yeah. I think she was moving around or something.”

Billy gives your stomach a firm look, which coaxes a laugh out of you and chases away your nerves.

“‘s not the baby’s fault, honey,” you say. “She's just getting comfy.”

“You're sure you're alright?” He confirms. “I can ride into town and-”

“I'm good. You don't need to worry, okay?”

He nods and pulls you back against him, his body a shelter from any worries.

As the night creeps on, there are a few more cramps but nothing notable, and you're able to fall asleep almost immediately when the time comes.

That is, until the middle of the night, when you wake up with your entire core on fire.

“Billy,” you whimper, grabbing for his arm.

He groans, still mostly asleep.

“The baby’s coming, Billy, you gotta-” You pause, a bolt of pain too great to speak through wracking your body for a moment. “You gotta go get the doctor.”

That wakes him immediately, and he's rolling out of bed before his eyes are even completely open. He takes in your face, screwed tight and shiny with sweat, and he's trying to get ready and comfort you at the same time.

“It's okay, darlin’, you're gonna be okay,” he says, not even bothering to take off his pajamas before tugging his work clothes over them and shoving his feet into his boots. “I’m gonna get the midwife and she'll take care of you.”

For all his confident words, his voice trembles and breaks at the end of his sentence from seeing you in this much hurt, which sends tears spilling down your cheeks. Billy scrambles for the door, then back to you to press a kiss to your forehead and a hand to your cheek.

“Gonna be fine, darlin'. I'll be back as quick as I can.”

You don't even have time to reply before he's out the door and gone.

The pain only increases while he's gone, time going hazy and strange. You can't figure out how long ago Billy left, or how long it should be until he's back – you can't really think of much besides the ache throbbing from your pelvis to your chest. Noises that don't sound like your own are tearing themselves from your throat as you writhe in bed, trying to find anything that'll ease the pain.

Soon (or maybe not soon at all, you can't say), Billy is bursting back into your room, the midwife hot on his tail. She takes one look at you and turns to Billy.

“I need boiling water and strips of cloth.”

Billy nods wordlessly and disappears out to the kitchen. You didn't realize how desperate you were for him until he was gone, and a new bout of sobs streak down your face.

“Oh, lovey,” the midwife says as she strips back your covers. “Your boy will be back soon, he's just helping me keep you safe while you're in labour. Can you tell me how far you are along?”

She tugs your nightgown up around your hips, and you're in too much pain to feel any shame.

“Baby’s right on time,” you groan. “Just about nine months.”

Your body bows forward with another stab just as Billy walks through the door with a steaming pot of water and strips of a clean sheet, and he nearly drops everything in his haste to get to you. Once he's sure that the midwife has what she needs, he's settling next to you, offering a hand to squeeze and a shoulder to lean on.

“You may want to step out, Mr. Bonney, this-”

“I'm stayin’,” he says, surely putting on a brave face when you grip his hand like a vice. To you, he soothes, “Hold on as hard as you need, darlin’, you're not gonna hurt me.”

“Okay then,” the midwife says. “Get ready to push, lovey, this baby is just about to come out.”

You don't even have to think when the time comes, a baser instinct taking over for you. It hurts like nothing has before and a wail chokes out of your mouth. Billy is still holding you, whispering sweet nothings that you can't quite hear against your temple. His lips are dry on the skin there, and it's grounding in the sea of sticky and hot that you're swimming in.

Suddenly, the pressure in your pelvis changes, but the pain doesn't. Everything is so wet. What is that?

“I'm going to insist you step back now, Mr. Bonney,” the midwife says.

You look up at your husband, whose skin is ash-white against his dark hair.

“Billy…?”

"You're okay, darlin', I'm just gonna let the midwife take care of you." His voice is shaking in a way that makes you nauseated, and the world is swimming around you on top of that.

He goes to step away, just as the midwife requested, and heartbreak rips across his face when you reach out for him. Then there's another gush of wetness and a dizzying wash of pain: the last thing you see before you pass out is the form of a baby in Billy’s arms and the most genuine fear you've ever seen on his face.

When you wake, it's just Billy in the room, cradling a bundle of blankets in a chair he's dragged to the bedside. He's up as soon as you wake, trying to smooth a hand over your head and hold the baby properly at the same time.

“Hey, darlin’, how are you feeling?”

You try to sit up and immediately throw in the towel, groaning. “Tired. And sore. Is the baby okay? What happened?”

“Baby’s just fine,” he says, tilting the bundle to show you a wrinkled, sleeping little face. “The midwife says she's the healthiest baby she's seen in a while.”

A soft smile blooms on your face. There's a relief warming you from the inside-out that you've never felt before.

“You were right about the baby being a girl, then.”

“Mhm.” There's a teasing pride in his hum, and you use a little of your waning energy to nudge his shoulder with your head. “I haven't thought of a name yet, though.”

“Can I hold her?”

Billy hands her to you wordlessly, helping you settle your arms around her.

“She's so small.”

“And she's already caused a lot of trouble for her mama,” Billy says.

He's joking, but when you look up at him, there are tears in his eyes.

“Honey, are you-”

“I'm okay, I'm okay. It was just a lot of blood, and I didn't know what was goin’ on. I thought you…”

The sentence ends there, but you know where he was going, and you lean into him.

“Can't get rid of me that easy, cowboy. We got a little girl to raise.”

The baby stirs a little in your arms, then settles back into a deep sleep. You watch her thoughtfully.

“Billy,” you say.

“Yes, darlin’?”

“How would you feel about naming her Kathleen? After your mother?”

There's dead silence for a moment before Billy presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“I think that's perfect,” he whispers, not trusting his voice to go any louder without breaking. “If that's what you want.”

“It is. Welcome to the world, Kathleen Bonney,” you say, and Billy wraps an arm around you. It is a perfect tableau: mother, father, and baby, and all the love there is in the world.

[floralcyanide]

⊱ 𝑆𝑡𝑎𝑦 𝐺𝑜𝑙𝑑 ― 𝐶𝑜𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑙𝑎𝑛𝑢𝑠 𝑆𝑛𝑜𝑤 ⊰

[ ᴀ ʜᴜɴɢᴇʀ ɢᴀᴍᴇs ᴀʟᴛᴇʀɴᴀᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴜɴɪᴠᴇʀsᴇ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ ]

1960s ᴜs ᴘʀᴇsɪᴅᴇɴᴛᴀʟ ᴄᴀɴᴅɪᴅᴀᴛᴇ!ᴄᴏʀɪᴏʟᴀɴᴜs sɴᴏᴡ x ғᴇᴍ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

𝑐ℎ𝑎𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑜𝑛𝑒: 𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑟𝑦 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑒.

౨ৎ 18+ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀs ᴏɴʟʏ !

⊹ summary: the first time you meet coriolanus snow, you're unsure how to gauge him. but a conversation opens a new door for you politically. ⊹ pairing: young!coriolanus snow / fem!reader ⊹ warnings: consumption of alcohol ⊹ word count: 3331 ⊹ author’s note: I'm so excited to finally post this hehe. I know everyone has been so hype about this series and I'm proud to introduce to you the first chapter. any feedback is welcome. ♡

౨ৎ divider credit: @cafekitsune

౨ৎ sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴛᴀɢʟɪsᴛ | sᴇʀɪᴇs sᴏᴜɴᴅᴛʀᴀᴄᴋ | sᴇʀɪᴇs ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

౨ৎ this fic has been cross posted to ao3.

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ʀᴇᴘʀᴏᴅᴜᴄᴇ, ᴏʀ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀs ᴏɴ ᴛᴜᴍʙʟʀ, ᴀᴏ3, ᴡᴀᴛᴛᴘᴀᴅ, ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴡᴇʙsɪᴛᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴘᴇʀᴍɪssɪᴏɴ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ɪɴ ᴀɪ ɢᴇɴᴇʀᴀᴛᴏʀs ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ ᴡɪᴛʜ ᴀʀᴛɪғɪᴄɪᴀʟ ɪɴᴛᴇʟʟɪɢᴇɴᴄᴇ. ʏᴏᴜ ᴍᴀʏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴜsᴇ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋs ᴛᴏ sᴇʟʟ ғᴏʀ ᴀs ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴏᴡɴ ᴄʀᴇᴀᴛɪᴏɴ

❝A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on.❞ ― John F. Kennedy

It’s a peculiarly warm day in New England despite traces of snow still blanketing the dead grass in Hyannis Port, Massachusetts. A blizzard had blown through the night you arrived, and the remains of the storm are now melting away with each passing moment. A veil of mist hangs in the air by the ocean, the mixture of freezing sea water and balmy air still trickling in from the middle Atlantic lingers. You’re watching the thin fog swirl around in the cool breeze as you stand in front of the formal living room window. The Kennedy Compound is just far enough from the beach that you can see it clearly from the front of the main house where you currently reside. And though a part of you longs to be outside after being cooped up for days due to that nasty winter storm, you’d rather not be bombarded with the still fairly bitter and salty air. Thin, long sleeves cover your arms as they cross over your chest despite the warmth of the fire in the den nearby. The house is still and silent. Everyone seems to be off doing their own thing after dinner wrapped up not long ago.

At 18 years old and beginning your secondary education journey, you never would have believed that you’d be where you are a decade later. You’re now 28, working toward your dual-title doctorate in political science and history at Harvard University. You’re so close to finally graduating, and it’s almost bittersweet. You wish your parents were around to see it. You’re the first in your entire family to go to university, not to mention the first to go to Harvard. Going to such a pristine school is unheard of in your neighborhood. What’s more unheard of, is your privilege to closely study and research your chosen dissertation topic. You decided you would research the life and ongoing legacy of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, the 35th President of the United States. 

Except for the amount of data and information you need, you have to interview and research extensively. Which means having to eventually meet the man himself. 18-year-old you also would never believe that you would meet the President and shake his hand. Or even get to know him past the facade he puts on for the world. But it doesn’t stop there. Due to the difficulty of getting ahold of John F. Kennedy after his passing of the Civil Rights Act of 1963 and the Interracial Marriage Act, a decision was ultimately made. The chaos of Capitol Hill and the citizens of the United States pushed John F. Kennedy to leave for the holidays much sooner than usual. After getting to know you well enough over a few months, the decision was made that John F. Kennedy would invite you to stay with him and his family in Hyannis Port. Just for a few weeks, through Christmas and New Year. It isn’t like you had anything else to do or anyone to spend it with. Besides, this will be your chance to get exclusive information about the man and his family for your dissertation. 

So here you are in the Kennedy family home. In the last week you’ve been here, you’ve gotten to know Jack and his family quite well. You had insisted on remaining professional and calling Jack by his real name, but he refused that. “All my friends call me Jack.”

You’ve gotten the inside scoop on Jack’s childhood and his chronic illness that has carried into adulthood. The military history in the family has also been spilled to you, and not a single detail has fallen on deaf ears. You’ve filled two notebooks already. When you aren’t scribbling down everything, you’re nose-deep in a book Jack has written. Currently, you’re reading Profiles in Courage and have found it quite interesting. You decide you’ve done enough staring out the window and that you’d join Bobby and Ted outside at the bonfire. Once you’re outside, they’re heading back indoors. But they offer to leave the fire going for you. Graciously, you accept their offer and take a seat by the warm flames, opening up Profiles in Courage.

You’re blissfully unaware of how much time has passed, your eyes eagerly scanning each word in each line as if they’d disappear any moment. You almost don’t notice the sound of snow crunching underneath someone’s approaching feet.

“Sorry to bother you, but Jack is asking for you inside.”

You nearly jump out of your skin at the sound of a man’s voice that you don’t recognize. You peer over your book at him and gauge that he must be safe, even if you don’t know who he is, considering the house is crawling with security.

“Alright, then,” you nod, putting your book down before standing up, stretching, and brushing yourself off. 

You look closer at the man before you as the orange flicker of the fire basks him in an angelic glow. His hair is a mess of stark blonde curls, and he’s in a white button-up, the sleeves rolled up his forearms.

“And who might you be, exactly?” you ask, tilting your head slightly in confusion.

“Excuse my lack of introduction. My name is Coriolanus Snow. Jack’s best friend.”

You quirk an eyebrow, exhaling a laugh, “But Lem is Jack’s best friend.”

The blonde man chuckles, taking a step closer to you, “Well, maybe there’s a lot about Jack you don’t know about just yet.”

You narrow your eyes at this Coriolanus Snow, not caring that your shoulder collides with him as you swerve around his tall figure. You walk briskly back to the main house, wondering how this mystery man has yet to be brought up. When you enter the front door, Jackie is holding John Jr. in the foyer. 

“I was just looking for you, dear,” she says, “Jack is asking for you.” 

“So I’ve heard,” you raise your eyebrows at Jackie, and John Jr. reaches for you. You poke the boy on the tip of his nose.

Jackie gives you a confused look, but you’re quick to explain, “Some man outside said that Jack was. He isn’t Secret Service.”

Realization crosses her soft features, “Ah, Coriolanus, I’m guessing?”

“You’d be correct.”

“He’s a long-time friend of Jack’s from Harvard. I’m surprised you haven’t heard of him. His father was a New York senator for years.”

“Can’t say I’m too familiar with the Snows,” you purse your lips together, “But if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go see what Jack needs me for.”

Jackie lifts John Jr.’s hand to wave goodbye to you, and you give him a big smile, waving back. You walk through the den to the staircase, trodding up the stairs until you reach the landing. The office is immediately to your right, and when you approach the door, you knock. When you do, the slightly ajar door opens wide enough to see Jack laughing and conversing with someone in the room. 

“I don’t mean to interrupt-“ you begin as you step inside the office, but you still yourself quickly.

Your eyes meet Coriolanus Snow’s steely blue ones as he leans against Jack’s desk, his forearms bearing his weight. His head is turned to you, his face appearing as if he were shocked by your arrival. 

You clear your throat, fixing your gaze back onto your original point of interest, “But I was told you were requesting my presence?”

“Yes, I was,” Jack smiles at you from his spot in his desk chair, “I’d like you to meet Coriolanus Snow, a great friend and colleague of mine. We attended Harvard way back when.”

Coriolanus stands up, straightening himself out. You notice he has an air about him that oozes confidence and prestige. His presence and towering height would seem intimidating to some upon the first meeting. Not to you, however. With your life focus being on politics, you’re quite desensitized from men and their faux personas.

“Nice to meet you,” you bite back a remark about already meeting Jack’s friend and stick out a hand, face blank and expressionless, “I currently attend Harvard myself.”

“Coriolanus, this is the bright Ph.D. student I was telling you about. She will be here until the New Year,” Jack says, a prideful grin on his face as he motions to you, “Be nice to her, she’s known to hold her ground.”

“I can tell,” Coriolanus gives Jack a close-lipped smile, his eyes averting to you.

You stand by Jack almost protectively, unsure of how to feel about the blonde man before you. The fact he managed to beat you inside and upstairs when you left him outside first made you wonder. Coriolanus’s physique in itself is alluring and piques your interest. He also seems quick-witted and the type to be a few steps ahead of everyone. It’s not hard to gauge this just from a few exchanged words. You’ve been studying and shadowing long enough to know who you’re interacting with. You study political science, for crying out loud. You know a born and bred power-hungry man when you see one. But at the end of the day, they’re just flesh and blood like those outside of the game. That’s the historian part of you trying not to judge Coriolanus so hard. You don’t know all the facts yet. If Jack is friends with him, he may not be so bad, despite the dark vibe he gives off. But you want to figure out why he appears so stiff.

“Coriolanus will be staying with us until New Year,” Jack turns to you, patting your back as he notices your shift in mood, “You don’t mind some extra company, do ya?”

“Not at all,” you smile sweetly at your mentor before turning to Coriolanus, “Besides, there’s still a lot about you that I don’t know about just yet. And I’d love to hear all about it.”

Jack hums in agreement. Coriolanus raises his eyebrows at you, and you raise yours back. He clears his throat, standing up slightly straighter than previously.

“I can always pour us some wine, and we can discuss some lighthearted details before turning in,” Coriolanus offers you, “If that’s okay with you, of course.”

“That sounds lovely. If you gentlemen will excuse me, I must grab my belongings from outside, and then I’ll be available in the den, Coriolanus.”

Jack and Coriolanus watch as you leave the room, closing the door behind you. Jack feels fairly content and is proud of his esteemed shadow getting along with his best friend. Or, appearing to be, anyway. Coriolanus is silent and remains neutral in his facial expression. He carefully turns the idea of you over and over in his head. There’s something to your character that intrigues him. And he’ll be damned if he doesn’t figure it out.

When Jack and Coriolanus wrap up their conversation, you’re getting settled in the den. You’re curled up on the couch in front of the fireplace, continuing your book from earlier. You circle a sentence that catches your attention, gnawing on the tip of the pen as you think of what Jack could have meant by this specific statement. You’re ripped from your thoughts when a hand delicately holds a glass of blood-red wine in front of you.

You abruptly close your book, taking the glass of wine, “Thank you.”

You don’t look at Coriolanus as he sits down, and he does so quietly without breaking his eyes from you. He keeps his focus on you as he sips his wine, and you can feel him do so as you stare into the flames in front of the couch.

“So,” Coriolanus clears his throat, “How long have you known Jack?”

You pause, taking your time to swallow your wine before glancing over to Coriolanus with little to no expression. You flash him a closed-lip smile before setting your glass down on the table, “Don’t ask questions you already know the answers to.”

Coriolanus is taken aback, not showing it other than his raised brows before responding, “I see. And what makes you think I already know the answer to that?”

“Despite what society may think, a woman isn’t as daft as she appears to be. Given a man in her presence is smart enough to know that she isn’t, anyway,” you stare at him, unblinking, “No offense Senator Snow, but I know you’re a man of Harvard. And you know I’m a woman of Harvard, so let’s cut the chit-chat.”

Coriolanus slides his tongue across his teeth underneath his closed mouth before chuckling smartly, “I can see why Jack chose you. And you’re right, I did know the answer. But not every source is reliable.”

You lean down to retrieve your drink, “And why would Jack be an unreliable source?”

Coriolanus shrugs, “Well, as I’m sure you know, Jack knows his way around the ladies.”

“Am I supposed to be offended by this common knowledge, Mister Snow?” you swirl your wine around in the glass, peering up at him warningly.

“Of course not,” he furrows his brows, shaking his head in light disgust, “But you’re not unattractive by any means, miss.”

You scoff, “I’m very well aware. But your suggestion that I would entertain a superior I’m studying for one thing is pretty crass.”

Coriolanus waves a dismissive hand, “You know how Jack is-”

“Yes, I do,” you say sternly, “However, I’d never involve myself in nonsense.”

“And why is that?”

You tilt your head at the man, laughing in awe at his brazenness, “For starters, he has a loving and caring wife. Someone I rather respect and admire, actually.”

Coriolanus nods, sipping his wine without a word. It’s not the only reason, of course. But it takes anyone with common sense to know why you wouldn’t so much as poke Jack with a ten-foot stick. Yet you still decide to take this friend of Jack’s by surprise.

“And besides,” you shrug, “I prefer blondes,” you say plainly, throwing back the remainder of your wine as Coriolanus fights to keep his jaw from dropping.

“Now,” you lean against your knee that’s crossed over your other leg, holding your empty glass out to Coriolanus, “I’m studying the man and have studied him for years already. So, how about you tell me something I don’t know, hm?”

It takes a little while for Coriolanus to warm up to your snarky attitude, given he is the reason you have one. But you also take some time to soften up yourself. You aren’t always so bitey- not unless deeply provoked. And all that Coriolanus Snow has done is provoke you as long as you’ve known him, which has only been a few hours. But the more the two of you talk and drink, the more you both begin to unravel. It takes about three glasses of vintage wine to make Coriolanus crack a genuine smile for the first time in front of you. Which, by all means, was not normal for him, especially around someone he just met. More so around a woman in general. However, just as you know there’s something to Coriolanus, he knows there’s something to you as well. And he has barely even scratched the surface.

“One night during his campaign, he had a little too much to drink at a dinner, and his accent was so thick I had to translate,” Coriolanus says, his chin resting in his hand. His arm is propped on the arm of the couch that you are perched on where he now also sits. Coriolanus is far enough from you to be civil but close enough for you to feel the heat radiating from him. For someone with such a cold demeanor, he could put the fireplace to shame.

You cover your mouth to stifle a laugh, “That’s actually quite funny, considering how thick it is in general. I can’t imagine how it must sound while he’s a few sheets to the wind.”

“Exactly,” Coriolanus lifts his finger from his glass to point at you, “But in actuality, it was a test.”

You look at him confused as you pour a fourth glass for yourself, “How so?”

“Jack wanted to make sure I knew what to say to voters and donors,” Coriolanus says, finishing his wine.

You offer to pour him more, to which he accepts, “Why would that matter?”

“He knew I was planning to run this year.”

You set the bottle of wine down, “To run?” you repeat, openly laughing now, “For what? Cabinet?”

“No. President.”

The burn of alcohol shoots pitifully through your sinuses, nearly exiting your nose as you struggle to cover your obvious laugh. You sniff harshly, covering your mouth and nose with the back of your hand as you swallow the remainder of the wine, recovering the best you can before answering.

“Normally, I’d believe a senator who says that, but before today I had no idea who you were, Coriolanus,” you look at him incredulously, “The election is eleven months away now. You need to, and pardon me when I say this, light a fire under your ass.”

Now it’s Coriolanus’s turn to laugh, “Shocking you’ve never heard of me, considering you’re a political science guru.”

“Shocking that I’ve never heard of you, considering you’re a senator of the United States of America under John F. Kennedy and running for the thirty-sixth President of the United States,”  you bark in response, your initial disliking of this man rising back to the surface.

Coriolanus’s jaw jerks to the side before he looks down in his lap, nodding to himself, “No, you’re right. I do need to light a fire under my ass.”

You shrug, finishing your wine and not bothering for another glass.

“How about since you made me realize this, you can help me out.”

You set the empty glass on the table before sinking back into the couch, crossing your arms as you look straight at Coriolanus, “Help you out with what, exactly?”

“My campaign,” Coriolanus says.

“You’re terribly hilarious, you know. I have too much to worry about right now to help a grown man who should already have a plan if he truly wanted to win the election.”

Coriolanus goes to defend himself, but you interrupt, “Before you give me some sort of excuse, yes, I know you’re a grown man. Yes, I do have too much to worry about. I’m literally writing a book about a man and his entire life. Yes, you most definitely should already have a plan by now if you want to win.”

Coriolanus just stares at you, unsure of what to say, but again you give your two cents, “And yes, as much as I probably shouldn’t, I will help you. But you will owe me big time. Got it?”

It takes a moment for Coriolanus to realize you’ve agreed to help out, but when he does, there’s a slight glow of gratitude in his eyes, “Thank you. I know I’m seriously behind, but I know I can do this. Especially if someone as well-endowed as you is helping me.”

“Yeah, well, I’m well-endowed in more ways than one, but politics is just the icing on the cake, sweetheart. So, let’s continue this tomorrow before I fall asleep here.”

Standing up from the couch after numerous glasses of wine has proven tricky. Your head swims, and you sway slightly from side to side. Coriolanus has to rest a gentle hand on the small of your back in order for you to steady yourself. You glance at him, letting your eyes linger in silent thanks, before collecting yourself and walking out of the den into the hallway. After putting your book and notes away, you strip your clothing and curl up under the soft duvet on your bed. Hopefully, your craving for political experience and curiosity in your interest won’t land you into trouble with Coriolanus Snow. But you’re eager to find out. 

౨ৎ taglist:

@nilletellsstories @noyatv @moonlightstuffs @slytherinholland @dominqueeekk @allcheesemelts @coconut-dreamz @rosewine-5 @hsfallingsky @imasimptoowth @tatumrileyslover  @murdocksdaughter @fauxraven @throughgoeshxmilton @thesullengrrrl @fanfictionismyromanempire @americanprometheuss @prettycove @ilikefictionalmen @etfrin @xyraphine @arzua10 @shadowolf993 @niki-is-a-thing @ashy-kit @snowsgames @impeterporker @randomgurl2326 @tspilled @tonixe @sammythecat7 @nowitsmissing @wearemadeofstardust0 @ebsmind

[tryin2writehere]

Gentlemen Fanfic (Eddie x Susie)

PEOPLE IN GLASS HOUSES

1

Susie Glass’s layers rivaled an onion, but with hardened surfaces like the earth’s own fucking mantle. A polished design of layered wools, tweed, velvets and silks, as though they could literally armor her against a consistent onslaught of fatuity-prone workmates. Eddie spent long moments dealing devilish ideas of unfurling her from these layers. He often soothed himself with the notion that a personal union could be possible without imploding their professional partnership.

 

He found himself seeking signs like a meteorologist to predict her temperature, (cooly aloof with a sixty percent chance of snark.) When she warmed, and her eyes revealed a playful gleam, it could set him on the edge of reason.

Like he called her forth with desire alone, the outline of her body emanated on the decorative glass frame of his study. Before she was even fully in the room, he smiled, “Hello Susan.”

“Evening Edward,” she returned and sashayed across the room in a perfectly tailored blue plaid suit he’d never seen. She planted herself in a chair across from Eddie. 

The low light glinted off the amber bourbon Eddie poured into baccarat tumblers, “did you hear back from Brussels?”

“Our Belgian friends have a different timeline in mind and no sense of urgency. I reckon we’ll hear sometime next week.”

“Do you speak any Flemish?” The most successful way, he found, to get to know Susie Glass, was micro-information obtained in seemingly innocuous questions.  That and surviving nazi twat machine-gun fire.  

“Very little.  Mostly vulgarities, really.  I get by with French.  You?”

“Not a word,” he rounded his desk, sat on the edge, and handed her the drink, eyeing her on-business demeanor. 

She sipped, looking up at him through thick eyelashes and fringe, and his chest tightened slightly.

“Jack is doing well?”

Her countenance visibly lightened with her brother’s name, her azure eyes suddenly balmy, “he is indeed. Fortuitous you mentioning him.”

“How so?”

“I’ve a meeting tomorrow afternoon with an unpleasant but necessary gym owner. Thought you might like to join me.”

“I would like to join you, yes.  A gym owner?”

“I’m looking to acquire a few more locations.”

“For Jack?”

“He isn’t ready to train, and I need to keep him busy, keep his mind occupied while he’s recovering.  GlassKnuckle is a fine place, but his pride…he needs a bit of a fresh start. He’d be a good coach really,” she paused and smirked. “He’d be a shit awful manager, but I can outsource that to a degree. It’s the only environment I reckon will keep him contented until he can train again.”

Eddie nearly asked if fighting again was even a realistic possibility, but thought better of it.  He didn’t want to squash the hopeful glimmer in her eyes or again draw attention to his own culpability in Jack’s condition.

Instead he asked, “who is this unpleasant Gym Owner?”

“Sugar Walsh.  He owns three locations, and rumours abound he’s looking to unload them and retire.”

“What time tomorrow?”

“Two o’clock. You available then?”

“I’m not, unfortunately. I’m taking Chuckles and Junior to the doctor.”

“The doctor?” she leaned forward in concern.

“Just a scheduled check-up for the baby, but she asked me -“

“Of course,” she nodded, “you’re a good brother.”

“Mm. Yes, I try. Can we reschedule?”

“Had better not. As I said, he’s unpleasant as it is.”

She stared into her drink, her posture stiffening slightly, her body weighted again with some unknown problem-to-be-solved.

“Susie?”

She glanced up at him.

“Is there something -”

“- nothing I can’t handle,” she blinked softly.

“Of course,” he nodded again. “We should return around four pm tomorrow; would you like to have dinner with me, and we can discuss some overdue security upgrades?” 

“Dinner with the Duke of Halstead.  What shall I wear?”

“Something blue.  Compliments your eyes.”

“Hm. Blue it is.” She swallowed the last of her drink and was gone before he could conjure a chaste enough reason for her to stay.

[allmoshnobrain]

𝐛𝐨𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐛𝐲 𝐛𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* *:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧

vampire!dave mustaine x reader | word count: 4120 | ao3 link

It was inebriating, how completely surrendered to him you were. How fragile, and warm, and wanting.  How human.

✦ on this fic: NSFW!!!, dave mustaine x female!reader, +18, language, romance, mxf sex, unprotected sex, oral sex, blood mention, blood drinking

✦ a/n: It's October! And in honor of spooky month I came up with this one-shot. It's my first time writing directly in English (I usually write in my language and translate it) so I hope it's written okay. Hope you like it, feedbacks are welcome! ❤

You and Dave had an agreement.

You were close, but not too close. You both knew you could rely on each other no matter what, but you also knew there was something deeper, something you never had the guts to admit. You held onto the hope that one day the stars would align and things would magically fall into place. 

But then came the incident.

You'd always prided yourself on being unshockable, even in the wild streets of '89 LA. So when he showed up at your door looking like he'd been through a meat grinder, your first thought was that he’d probably gone and overdone it with the drugs again. It was becoming a familiar routine, taking care of him when nobody else cared. With a heavy sigh, you let him in, helping him stay on his feet and noticing how cold his skin felt.

"Dave, seriously, this time we might need to call a doctor."

"Nah," he grunted, voice strained. "No doctors. I'm good."

"What the hell happened to you?" You grabbed his hand and plopped down beside him. Whatever he'd taken this time, it was way gnarlier than his usual drug trips, and that's saying something. Dave looked like he was on the verge of sweating bullets even though it was a hot LA night. He was feverish, beads of sweat popping up on his forehead while he shook like a leaf. It should've been balmy, but if you judged by his icy-cold skin, you'd think it was the middle of winter.

"I got goddamn turned, that’s what happened" he hissed through clenched teeth, his whole body convulsing with pain. You took a step back, heart pounding like crazy. Well, that was one curveball you hadn't seen coming. Vampire attacks had become rarer than a sober rock star in the last few decades, but they still happened. You had a cousin who got bit a few years back, but luckily, the doctors managed to suck out the venom in the nick of time. That memory kicked you into high gear as you scrambled to find your damn keys.

"Dave, seriously, we gotta get you to the hospital. Maybe there's still a chance..."

"No, man, there's no damn time!" He yelled, desperate, and you just stared at him, totally stunned. "They made me drink their fucking blood. It's a done deal, I'm a fucking monster now, no way back from this!"

Your heart plummeted. Real-life vampire transformations weren't as simple as the movies and comics made them out to be. You had to get jabbed with vampire venom and guzzle some vampire blood almost right after to make it work. Plus, those bloodsuckers could choose whether to shoot their venom or just chow down on their victims.

So that meant the turnings were pretty much always on purpose.

Once it was done, it was game over.

You inched closer to Dave, your heart heavy as you gazed at the man you'd been secretly crushing on for ages. It was too painful, watching him suffer like this. You'd always held onto that hope that the stolen glances, the way you looked out for each other, and the sheer joy you found in each other's company would someday turn into something more than just friendship.

But right now, it felt like you were on the verge of losing him. Vampires weren't exactly welcome in human society; they were straight-up predators, destined to lurk in the shadows and strike when the night fell. If Dave had gone down that dark path, maybe it was time to say goodbye to the days of you two being together.

But you couldn't let that happen. You couldn't let him suffer, wounded, scared, and all alone.

Because you had an agreement.

You knew you could rely on him; he knew he could always count on you.

Dave's eyes widened as you got closer, extending your wrist toward him. He stared at you, confusion and hunger swirling in his dilated pupils. 

"Drink," you whispered, your voice trembling. He shook his head, looking horrified by the suggestion, but you closed the gap even more. "Please. You need this, Dave. You need me."

You shut your eyes and turned your head away as his hunger took over, and he sank his teeth into your skin.

It was one of those nights, the usual routine. You'd roll in from work, and there was Dave, chilling on your bed in the pitch-black room. You hadn't laid eyes on him for days, but you knew the drill. He hated having to feed, hated hurting people, but he couldn't seem to find any other way around it. Except for one option: you.

Dave had initially refused to feed on your blood ever since he had almost killed you, that night many months ago. You'd tried helping him find some alternative, but turns out, it was a way tougher gig than you'd thought. Animal blood did nothing for his thirst, and he wasn't skilled enough yet to drink from people without going overboard and killing them — or getting dangerously close to it.

The best you could come up with was nabbing a sip from folks who'd just kicked the bucket, but that meant finding fresh corpses without drawing any heat, and that was easier said than done. Maybe for him, it was a walk in the park, but for you, a regular human, helping him sneak into hospitals and morgues after dark was a recipe for disaster. Dave didn't want you caught up in the mess, or worse, in jail, because of him.

In the end, offering up your blood was the easier fix if he didn't want to go full-on vampire and start killing people. It was the one way he could hold onto a tiny shred of his former human self. At the beginning, it was rough on him, no doubt about it. You watched him suffer, saw how terrified he was of losing control.

But with time, he toughened up. After the initial shock wore off, his thirst started to chill out. Nowadays, he only needed a sip every week. You knew that if he was doing things the "old-school" vampire way, he'd be guzzling down a whole human's worth of blood every couple of months, but this was the sanest workaround you could come up with to keep the body count at zero.

You were cool with it, as long as he stuck around. As long as you knew he was okay.

At first, he used to nibble on your wrist for a meal. But after just a few weeks, he upgraded to the neck. It was smoother for him and more comfortable for you, too. Better access, and if you ever got woozy from the blood loss, he could keep you steady. But having him that close? Well, that was... let's say, unsettling. Sure, maybe he wasn't human anymore, but it didn't mean your feelings for him had just vanished. In fact, being the only tie he had to his old human self just made those feelings kick it up a notch.

"Your heart's pounding," he murmured, his eyes locking onto yours. You gulped hard, cursing how damn close you were, and how he could practically read your body like a book. After drinking your blood, his lips and cheeks had acquired a subtle pinkish tint, and his once warm, brown eyes had turned into this oddly beautiful shade of red.

"You freak me out," you fibbed, the excuse tumbling out in a rush but full of stubbornness. He grinned at your words, a playful glint in his eye.

"Do I now?" he teased, giving your hip a gentle squeeze as he pulled you closer. His chilly skin pressed against yours, sending shivers up your spine. He nuzzled your neck, his tongue brushing against your tender skin, making you whimper. "You know, they never spill this secret before they turn you – you can smell fear. And the scent of fear... it's something else. But you, you're not afraid of me, even though you probably should be."

"Why?" you breathed out, doing your best to shove aside the way your heart was practically doing a drum solo now. In the good old days, back when he was just human, you'd daydreamed about this like there was no tomorrow. To be this close to him, to feel his lips upon your skin. But now, with him all changed up, being this near wasn't anything like what you'd pictured.

"I could kill you right here, drain you dry," he growled, and you let out a little whimper as he bit down again, pulling you close and setting you down on the bed. His bite gradually turned into a sloppy, passionate kiss. You had to muffle a moan with your hand when he started sipping from your neck, taking even more of your blood. He backed off, fingers gripping your chin, making you meet his gaze. He studied your flushed face, lips slightly parted, eyes bleary. "And yet you like this. Why?"

"I dunno," you breathed out, shakily. You let out another whimper as he pressed his body against yours, his grip on your hair firm as he locked eyes with you, a fiery intensity in his gaze that revved up your heartbeat. You gasped in shock when he kissed you, his tongue diving into your mouth, the taste of your own blood making your head spin. You tugged at the collar of his shirt, pulling him closer like it was out of your control, and he let out a soft laugh against your lips.

"I can smell desire, too, you know?" he mentioned, his hand sneaking under your pants and tracing along the edge of your panties, sending shivers down your spine. You opened your mouth, caught off guard, your face turning all shades of red, suddenly feeling more exposed than ever with him. How could he read you like a book? You hated this new side of him, the side you didn't know how to deal with, the side that fully understood the power he had over you.

The side of him that enjoyed it.  

"Dave, we shouldn't be crossing this line," you managed to whisper, and he let out a grunt.

"We've already crossed so many lines," he argued. "Plus, I owe you. Tell me what you want, and I'll give it to you."

"I don't want us doing this just because you think you owe me," you frowned, and he huffed in response. You licked your lower lip, a fresh tension building between your legs. Even though you were still pissed at how he could see right through you, it wasn't like you didn't want this. "You can have whatever you want from me, no need to ask. As long as it's you..."

"No," he grumbled. "Don't say it like that, like I mean something to you. I'm a damn monst—"

"Oh, shut up," you whispered, cutting him off, and he gave you a puzzled look. Sure, he might be a whole new version of Dave from the one you used to know, but did it even matter? "You're not a monster. You got turned, yeah, but you're still you . And I'd give you anything, Dave, even if you were still human. That's how it's always been. I just..."

Your words trailed off as his lips crashed into yours again, his chilly hands gripping your waist firmly, and you couldn't help but let out a muffled moan.

"I wanna eat you whole," he groaned. "If you only knew how your heart races when I lay my eyes on you. It's driving me wild. If I'd known you felt like this sooner..."

"You know now," you whispered. His gaze locked onto yours, carrying a mix of anger, sadness, and something else. Something intense and deep that made your stomach twist and your skin tingle. Something that made you feel like he could have his way with you — and you'd let him.

"You're not exactly making this easy," he muttered, his voice low. You let out a nervous chuckle. You'd always pictured this — his body and yours, tangled up in your bed. In your fantasies, he was still human and madly in love with you. Was he in love with you now? Or did he only love how human you still were? How you stood by him even after his life had taken a nosedive and changed forever?

Did any of that really matter?

"I don't want easy," you replied, trailing your fingertips along his collarbone, slow and deliberate. You pulled him closer, your lips nearly brushing against his. You could feel his breath on your skin as he held you, making your heart race faster. "Everything's already a damn mess. If you wanna eat me whole, then just go ahead and do it."

He let out a deep groan as he yanked you closer, urgently, his hands roaming your body eagerly as you both stripped off your clothes. The room was dark, with only moonlight to guide you; his pale skin was smooth, soft against your naked form as his lips trailed all over you. You couldn't help but let out a throaty moan as he peppered you with kisses, drawing you closer and closer to him.

"Dave..." you hid your face in his hair as he teased your breast, biting down gently and leaving a trail of purple marks across your skin. He let out a low groan in response, grinding his hips against yours before pulling back slightly, looking deep into your eyes. He looked beautiful, supernatural; otherworldly strange, and that only made you love him even more. You wrapped your hand around his cock, using his precum as lubricant as you swiped your thumb over the tip in a slow, circular motion. He closed his eyes, grinding his hips against you as he let out your name in a strained moan. “Please, Dave, let me make you feel good.” you whispered. It was all you'd ever wanted, really — to serve him, to give him everything he craved and needed.

To be his, forever.

Dave moaned your name again, his strong arms pulling you close. You tangled your hands in his hair and locked your lips with his once more. His tongue dove into your mouth, kissing you with a fiery intensity. You wondered if it felt different for him now that he could sense the warmth of your blood, hear your heart racing, and smell how he was setting your body on fire.

He sat on the bed, leaning against the headboard as he kept kissing you. He let out a grunt when your lips traveled to his ear and then down his neck. You bit and sucked on his exposed skin while he dug his fingers into your hair, your lips and tongue exploring his chest, his stomach, his thighs.

And then his cock.

You started on his tip, your tongue slowly licking on it, pressing and rubbing it against your lips, tasting him leisurely. You raised your eyes to look at Dave; he looked back at you, his eyes bleary and out of focus as one of his hands grabbed a fistful of your hair. He wrapped his hand around his cock’s base, pressing it against your lips, and you opened your mouth obediently, welcoming him into your mouth.

“You’re so warm.” he whispered, his voice hoarse, his body tensing up as you moved your head slowly, up and down, the taste of his skin invading your mouth. He panted, bucking his hips forward. “You feel so good. Wanna cum inside your pretty mouth, oh fuck…” 

You whimpered as he started moving his hips, tears filling your eyes as he pushed your head down on his cock. He groaned, his grip on your hair growing tighter as he took control of you, pushing it slowly until you had all his length inside your mouth. He then pulled it out, rubbing the tip against your lips before he pushed again, and again, until he was moving in a steady rhythm inside your mouth. 

“Look at me.” he grunted, and you tried your best to raise your teary eyes and look at him. He groaned when his eyes met yours. You were trying your best to keep breathing while allowing him to fuck your mouth harder and harder. Your throat was growing sore as your pussy throbbed. You were such a mess. You were so happy. He needed you. You loved him. He was yours then, his lips parted as he moaned your name and his cock ravaged your throat, all control you both could have had in that moment forgotten as he arched his hips forward and moved faster, and harder, and… “Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna-Oh, shit!” he cried out as he came inside your mouth. You did your best to swallow it, the bitter taste lingering on your mouth as he let go of your hair, his breath uneven as his eyes closed. 

You sat down in front of him, trying your best to clean up the mix of semen and drool that ran down your chin. He gazed at you, his red eyes shining in the dim room, his breath coming in shallow gasps. His ginger hair was like copper against his pale, bare skin; you were never gonna grow tired of how stunning he looked.

"Get over here," he murmured, pulling you closer. You settled onto his lap, legs wrapped around his waist as he nuzzled into the curve of your neck, his breath tickling your skin. He kissed your neck slowly, then moved up to give your earlobe a gentle nip, and you let out a sigh, shutting your eyes.

"Dave..." you whispered, a hint of pleading in your tone. He gripped your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh as he continued to lavish your neck, jaw, and collarbones with kisses.You were miserably wet, your pussy aching as you felt his cock grow hard once more against your thigh.

“Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.”he whispered in your ear, and a soft moan escaped your lips as he grabbed your ass firmly. You pressed your body against his, burying your hands in his hair as you ground your hips together.

“Oh, fuck.” you whispered, tears pooling in your eyes again. Your whole body was aflame against his cold skin, fire and ice melting together. Your heart was pounding as he pressed the tip of his cock against your entrance, holding your ass firmly. He grunted when you moved your hips eagerly, holding you into place and preventing you from sitting on his cock. “Dave…”

"You're gonna have to ask nicely," he whispered, his voice deep and alluring, like a predator who knew his prey couldn't escape. He whispered your name, his tone surprisingly tender, and you let out a sigh, your cheeks growing warm as he gripped your neck, his fingers urging your face to meet his gaze. "Tell me what you want."

“I want you to fuck me.” you pleaded, and he laughed at how easily he could command you. He was having fun, drunk in his power and in you, the sweet smell of your hair, of your blood, the warmth of your skin. It was inebriating, how completely surrendered to him you were. How fragile, and warm, and wanting. 

How human.

"Say please," he teased, a sly grin playing on his lips. You let out an exasperated groan.

"You're messing with me."

"Am I?" he pressed the tip of his cock harder against your entrance, and you whimpered when he penetrated you with his tip for just a bit before pulling out. “Tell me what you want.” he commanded, and you couldn't muster the strength to resist him any longer.

“Please, fuck me.” you pleaded, and he laughed before pulling you closer. You moaned as you felt his cock enter you, adjusting to his size as he pushed slowly. You gasped when he put it all inside, the tip of his cock hitting the sweetest spot inside of you. It felt so, so good. He was going so, so slow. It was maddening, you were on fire, you felt whole for the first time in forever. 

You started moving, slowly at first, but then setting into a steady pace as he held you close, burying your face in his hair. You were sure you were dying, drunk on the smell of his body and the feel of his cold skin against yours, but you couldn’t care less. It was like poison, feeling his cock thrusting deep inside of you as you moved up and down and he whispered your name, his voice strained as he moaned with you and held you so tight it felt almost as if he would break you. 

You didn’t care; you were his now. You were bonded to him. You were his.

You moaned his name as he started rubbing your clit, your pace growing faster as he pushed harder inside you. You were shaking, your legs were burning as you rode his cock; it felt like heaven. You whimpered when he slapped your ass, burying his nose on your neck and then biting on your skin, tasting your blood once again as you bounced on him. 

You knew he was close, too; his grip on your skin tightened as he pulled away, blood trickling down his chin as he looked deep into your eyes and you moaned louder and louder, your tits bouncing up and down as you chased your high, holding on to him like your life depended on it. 

“Dave, you feel so good. Dave, oh fuck, you’re gonna make me cum. Dave… ” you moaned, words growing irrational and senseless as your pussy started contracting slowly. He moaned, praising you, whispering sweet nothings in your ear — how you were such a good girl. How you tasted so good, how you felt so tight around his cock, how good it felt to be inside of you. You cried out as your orgasm took every little bit of control you had left, making your whole body contract and shake. 

Dave grunted, holding you close as he kept fucking you through your orgasm, sweet, lovely words leaving his lips like honey, taking you over the edge again, and again, and again, and now he was coming too, his thick semen filling you to the brim as his thrusts grew sloppier. You buried your face in his hair, allowing him to take his cock out of you, your pussy still throbbing with pleasure, feeling suddenly faint. 

"Oh, God," you whispered, and you could feel Dave's quiet laughter beneath you more than you could hear it as he held you close. "I think I might pass out."

"Fuck, I'm sorry," he whispered, panting, and you weakly chuckled. "You lost a lot of blood. I shouldn't have taken so much."

“I think I’d be okay if you weren’t fucking me while doing it.” you grumbled, and he laughed again. His fingers traced along your back, and you sighed contentedly as he lifted you effortlessly, placing you on the bed and lying down beside you. You opened your eyes, studying his face, taking in everything that made him who he was. He looked more like the old, human Dave than ever before, with the vulnerability he showed, that old beautiful smile on his lips, and a touch of cockiness that only made him more endearing. “What’s making you smile?”

"I love you," he said. You blinked, your lips parting slowly. For someone who prided yourself on not being easily surprised, you found yourself caught off guard by him quite often.

"I love you too," you managed to whisper with a giggle. He smiled and pulled you closer.

"I know. I've known for a while," he said, pressing his index finger against your chest. You blushed when you realized how fast your heart was beating. "See? It's so loud I'm surprised you can't hear it."

"Oh, shut up, you freak," you whispered, and he laughed. You studied his face, running your fingertips softly along his lower lip. "I'm kidding. You're not a freak. But I am. I'm in love with a damn vampire."

"Do you care?" he asked, a slight hint of worry in his voice. You smiled and shook your head.

"Hell no, Mustaine."

"Then it's all good."

"Yeah."

"As long as we're together," he whispered, and you smiled, knowing that nothing had changed after all. You knew you could always count on him; he knew he could always count on you.

You were bonded.

You were his.

[bitchysouljellyfish]

“El día que me quieras”

Rodolfo Parra/Reader

Inspired by this and the incredible writings of @yeyinde because God their writings are to die for! Title is inspired by the song of the same name by Carlos Gardel! The indented writing is done by yeyinde!

Enjoy!

The ocean is a distant roar beyond the sprawling green cut into the fells. The scent of heliotrope and sun-ripened tomatoes is heavy in the balmy air that pulses around you like a heartbeat.

Your finger taps the porcelain mug on the patio table, eyes soaking in the crystalline shore in the distance, basking in the sun. The warmth. The door slides open. Music from inside drifts out. Los Cojolites. He has a fondness for son jarocho. You can smell the sweet mole he's cooking waft through.

He comes up behind you, hands on your shoulders, thumbs rubbing circles on your bare skin. You lean back, head pressed to his tummy as you squint up at him. He's bathed in ochre from the sun: a halo around him that bleeds into your retinas until all you see his the shape of him. Your pulse quickens.

He smiles down at you, lunar white. Love in shades of vermillion leak from the curve of his mouth.

"Want some company, cariño?"

As if you'd ever say no.

Alejandro introduced you to him.

You were the medic, part of the Task Force 141 that had came to Las Almas to assist with El Sin Nombre. You were dwarfed by the other two men who accompanied you, El Fantasma and Soap who had you tucked into the middle of them, protecting you from harm as you protected them from the Reaper.

"This is Seargeant Major Rudolfo Parra, my right hand man. Ghost, Soap, and Bog." He points to you last, and you give him a smile and a nod and he feels the sun on his face like never before. You were radiant, the stress and trauma gracing your eyes but it didn't stop the rays of hope that shined through them. He almost didn't notice the strange call sign.

"Tengo miedo de los fantasmas." He attempted to joke but got nothing but a flat stare in return. "And...Bog?"

You sighed in exasperation, Soap chuckling and slapping his knee in glee. "Feel free to call me Doc instead, Sergeant Major. Soap is terrible with call signs." And that is where it ended, the conversation going serious as he drove through the streets of his home with the gradual realization that eyes were on him, but they were not vicious.

The name Bog stuck much more easily than Doc, to your dismay he could tell, but he had to admit. It fit you. You bounced back from injuries and stressful situations like the soft ground you were named after, yet you could spew acid at those deserving.

"You be safe huh, Darlin'? Can't be too careful with our good ol'doc." Graves's southern drawl cuts through the comms.

You sighed, irritation and anger apparent in your voice. "It's Doctor or Captain, Commander Graves. I give you respect you give me respect."

"What about Bog?"

"Friends can call me Bog."

"We aint-"

"No."

Soap snickered through the ear piece, Ghost telling them to stay focused before the comms went silent again. You were waiting at headquarters with Rudy and the other members of his unit on standby in case there was any medical emergencies while the others went through the cartel compound.

"Doctor?" He asked, because you certainly didn't look old enough to have one.

You turned with wide eyes, doe like he recalled, before smiling and showing your ID card. "Got it while I was enlisted, then I went to Officer Candidate School and the rest is history."

"Your family must be proud, as should your team to have such capable hands with them." He turned his chair so he was resting his arms on the back, one eye and ear out on the cameras.

"Gaz thinks differently, says I'm a torturer with a needle but that's just because he's afraid of them." Then you put a finger to your lips and pursed them, winking at him so slyly that it made his heart leap into his throat. "But I'm not supposed to tell anyone that."

He laughed, resting his head on his hand and tried to keep the admiration out of his eyes. "You have my word, bonita, I won't tell a soul."

You and him spoke like that for ages, only breaking when the on ground team needed something. Your chairs were significantly closer together than when you had started.

He had become so smitten with you in the small time he had known you that when they were relieved of duty he didn't want to end the conversation. He walked you back to a room just for you, female soldiers weren't common in Mexican Special Forces, talking low and walking slow as to prolong his time with you. You had told him about your home in America, somewhere cold that got snow every once in a while and he had watched as you spoke animated about what you would do with your family.

"What about you Rudy? Any experience with snow?"

"Enough to know I am not built for it," he laughed, "No, my home is by the coast, with plenty of warmth for the rest of my days."

"Oh a beach man huh? Am I gonna get the chance to see you in a speedo?" You smirked at him, stopping at your door and peering up at him through your lashes.

"I am Mexican, Bonita, not European, but..." all of the confidence he had managed to keep throughout the night melted away suddenly. Shaking hands reached for your fingers, just enough for them to curl around your knuckles and you held them twice as tightly. "I could take you, some day, when this has calmed down. You would like it. I will make you so much food and drinks you would not know what to do with it all."

You stepped forward and kissed his cheek, feather light and petal soft but it was enough to knock him off his feet. "Its a date. Good night Rudy."

"Buenos noches, bonita."

He had watched you, passing glances through the time you spent with Los Vaqueros and became entranced. You were intelligent, witty, funny, beautiful, and strong, you had to be to carry wounded from the field but it did nothing to rough up the hands you had touched him so delicately with.

Yet those hands, oh those hands, were sculpted by angels he was sure.

You had patched him up after Hassan Zyani left him for dead and Alejandro, his brother in all but blood, saved him from the building, blood running down his head and barely able to walk he was so dazed. He remembered you laying him down, cold water on his face and you soft eyes and gentle hands on his skin and he thought it was heaven. You barked orders to get medical supplies, but made your voice soft and warm when you spoke to him. He noticed then that you always did that, when it was just the two of you or when the attention was away, you spoke to him as if he something soft and gentle to and by God he was.

He was clay in your hands, clay to be molded and shaped to fit into your shape so that your radiance could heat him and bring him back to life so that he may support you and hold you and keep you safe.

"I think a new call sign is in order, hermosa." He whispered, numb to the pain in his head as he raised a hand to hold your face.

"Shh, Rudy, hold still. I'm almost done." You caught his hand, squeezing it tightly as you wrapped the bandages around his head.

"I think Angel is much more fitting. Eres un ángel, esos suaves toques solo podrían pertenecer a una." You smiled and finished the bandages, looking down at him with fondness as you held his hand to your chest.

"I think you have a concussion."

"Perhaps," he shrugged and used his other hand to grasp your cheek. "Or perhaps I have died and the angels had no other choice but to use your face, although I hope that is not the case. I still have to take you to the coast." He struggled to keep his eyes open as the pain medication you gave him started to take effect.

Rodolfo felt something then, firmer but still soft as roses on his lips. "You better." He heard you say, another gentle touch on his forehead that he couldn't recognize before slipping unconscious.

The next time he would kiss you would be just before you left, Valeria in custody and the plane that would cart you away from him waiting behind you. You take his hand and press an envelope into it. "I'm a romantic." You explained, "Write to me?"

He cradled your face and pulled you close, kissing your lips with as much gusto and adoration he could fit into it before he could lose his nerve. The feeling of your arms wrapped around his neck would soon become a favorite of his.

"I will." One more kiss to your lips and you were away.

It would be another six months before he could hold you in his arms again, swinging you around once you came off the airport terminal and committing the sound of your laugh to memory. He wasted no time in taking you to his villa, one hand on your thigh as he drove and you resting against his arm.

And soon the ocean is a distant roar, muffled by the sounds of his Los Cojolites and the sizzling of breakfast he was cooking. The scent of heliotrope and sun-rippened tomatoes is heavy in the balmy air that pulses in time with his heart. His shirt open and revealing the marks you had given him the night before and that morning and he sees you, sitting on the veranda with a cup of coffee and tour own marks on display. Rodolfo smiles and walks out, settling behind you with a hand on your shoulder and another under your chin as he looks at you with nothing but love.

"Want some company, cariño?"

And he knows you could never say no.

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Made for Him I

Warnings: this fic includes dark content including rape/noncon, blood and gore, violence, death, grief, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Peter finds himself alone after the loss of those around him, so he decides to find a cure to his grief.

Characters: Peter Parker

Note: I’m still very sick. I dug this out of my WiPs because I desperately wanna power through it.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.

Love you all like Garfield loves lasagna. Take care. 💖

The Creator

On July 8th, 1822, Percy Bysshe Shelley drowned just off the coast of Livorno. His wife was famous for the resurrection of the fictional monster and the misguided doctor for whom her penultimate novel was named. Peter cradled the very one in his hand, the spine bent and the pages well worn by his habitual delve into the horror of Victor Frankenstein. 

His readings were studious and almost religious in nature as he worshipped the pages alongside the library of textbooks, theses, and medical reports that lined the shelves of his office.

The foamy waters flowed in and wetted the sand around his toes as he sat close in the folding chair he brought out daily to bask in the hot Italian sun. Sometimes he let the book rest in his lap as he closed his eyes to the sun and wondered if it was near that very point that Mary’s husband met his tragic fate. If he lounged on the very sands he was said to have met his rumoured lover and another poet. The fantasy carried Peter away for a time only to send him crashing back down.

One year to the day he left New York and he was growing impatient. He’d waited long enough as his trust only matured on the day he got his final degree, the one with the three vaunted letters below the golden crest. The only remnant of his former mentor, the man who showed him that life could grow in a lab, though he had only ever rendered it in metal and code. 

Peter wanted more than the cold armour and robotic voices, he could take Stark’s legacy and give it true life. He knew he could.

More than creation, he wanted love. He wanted a stalwart he could depend on, not the flaky girl he met in high school who broke his heart. He wanted to take the fiction in his grasp and turn it into fact. He wanted the world to know that he was more than Tony Stark’s pity project, he was a reckoning.

He stood and folded up the chair, carrying it by the cloth handle as he kept the book open and walked blindly across the uneven sand. He was at his favourite part, where the monster hid in the barn and the inherent spark of kindness drove him to complete the chores of the overwrought family. 

Then there came the reality of a harsh and unloving world, one he swore to never let touch his creation. He would only give them love, give them the perfect life he longed to have. The one he could live, just not alone.

The stone steps led up to the open terrace of the beach house that looked out onto the hot Mediterranean shore. The place was isolated but lively as the songbirds nested in the trees and the sun was ever shining above. It was the perfect retreat for the retired Avenger. The world didn’t need him anymore, he was dispensable. That kid, Miles, took up the mantle and the world forgot about Peter Parker.

He set the wooden chair down against the wall as he entered through the slatted door and closed the book at last. He passed through the curved archways and entered the airy kitchen, the open windows letting in the balmy Italian breezes. 

He poured dark grinds into the drip percolator and waited for the strong espresso to seep through. He took his small cup when there was enough to savour and shifted it over to the island at the center of the space. 

He kicked aside the rug and bent to hook his fingers in the indent along the hatch and lifted it with a grunt. He reached for his mug and carefully descended. He sipped as he came to the bottom and flipped on the switch to light up the space.

Everything was laid out in eager preparation. Over a year’s worth of planning resided in his secret space. One wall was lined with the endless texts he poured over between spurts of exhaustion-laced sleep, on the other, a vast array of equipment including beakers, microscopes, surgical tools, a tome secreted from Strange’s panoply of mystic fascinations, and several monitors floating from metal arms drilled into the wall.

At the center of the room was a large metal bed, shining and sterile. All he needed was there, a collection started years before he even considered the Italian retreat. He swore that day when he was through the tears and wrenching heartache of abandonment that he would never be left alone again. Not after his parents, or Tony, or May or MJ. He was ready to give his life away; to give life.

He just needed the proper parts to do so.

🧪

The head was the hardest part. 

Not harder to find than the other pieces, each kept preserved in a special compartment to keep them from mortification. He harvested them quickly, his first few attempts at the morgue proving too late. So he frequented the hospitals, hiding in vents and other tight spaces, using those tricks from his days of heroics to go unseen in his diligent but grim work.

He found a few women he didn’t mind but they just weren’t right. He needed eyes that made him feel fuzzy and a smile that made his heart flutter. He came this far and wouldn’t settle for anything but perfection. 

He knew the moment he saw her; disguised in a set of scrubs and a surgical mask, his reddish brown hair hidden beneath a cap as he watched her wheeled by. He was there when they called it and the machines went silent. There wasn’t time to linger as the doctor and nurses were called to their next patient. 

Peter kept to the back and waited for the rest to disperse to the next code and shut the door. He hopped up and pushed in the ceiling tile, wiggling through to grab the cube hidden within and slipping back down. 

She looked peaceful as he opened the case, the cool fog rising from the top as he set it on the tray and rolled it around the bed. She died of an aneurysm, so sudden she didn’t have time to look petrified. It made him sad to think of a life extinguished in the bat of an eye. Even if it was to his benefit.

As he sterilized the saw he pulled from his canvas kit, he figured it was meant to be. She was gone too soon and he was in need of a pretty face. He placed the teeth of the blade to her neck and paused. He couldn’t wait much longer, he had to get it done or it would be another one for the bin.

He began the grizzly deed, careful to slice through as cleanly as possible. The blood leaked out into the white sheets and onto the pillow and as he detached her head completely, it turned to an ocean, spurting violently from her neck. He cradled her head as he slipped it into a plastic bag and sealed it before placing it in the refrigerated case. 

He closed it and slung the strap over his chest, lifting his arm to string a web to the open ceiling. He hauled himself into the vent and slid the tile back into place. He began the careful crawl, the final piece of the puzzle jostling on his shoulders. 

He would burn his gown, cap and mask when he got out, the iron scent of her blood was starting to make him sick.

🧪

Peter felt the cold even through the thermal layer of his suit. His visor allowed for him to pinpoint his focus on the precise merging of nerve ends and tight stitches of his intent assembly. The laboratory was kept below zero for his work to preserve the parts until he could revive them. 

He turned up the heat in his suit to keep from shivering as he feared a single mistake.

After several scans, Peter found the brain to be beyond repair. He was disappointed but he found an easy solution. He was reluctant to throw away the pretty face; the face that had come to colour his dreams. So he found a new brain instead, young and fresh, without a flaw. 

He found himself distracted by the long lashes as he fit her open skull with its new motor. If he thought of it as just another suit, it wasn’t as repulsive as blood stained the table and his gloves. 

He hunched over and worked at connecting the brain stem, switching out his tools and repositioning to keep from damaging the ridges. It was the most important part of the process and he didn’t want to try again. He couldn’t go through it again. This was it. He knew it by the way he just couldn’t stop seeing that face; in his dreams, in his waking thoughts, and in its case, awaiting rebirth.

He would give her a precious gift but she would give him more. How could she not love her creator? Her saviour.

Peter replaced the top of her skull and forged it back into place, the laser singing a line around her scalp. He had a collection of wigs she could wear until it grew back and he could graft on a new set of follicles if needed. He wanted her to feel as beautiful as he saw her.

Done, he stepped back and admired his work, twelve hours of intent and tedious labour over her. The pieces fit together well and he was hardly disappointed. He didn’t care that the stitches would leave scars like spider webs across her flesh. He thought that made her even more gorgeous. He could hardly keep from trembling in excitement.

He placed the metal band around her brow and the transmitter on her chest. Every nerve, every muscle, every part of her was hardwired with delicate attention. He knew he could bring her back. Victor Frankenstein would blush to see it done right.

Peter went to the computer as the hoop connected to the table scanned every inch of her and showed no error in his assembly. Her neural network looked like a roadmap and her body was still untouched by decay or rigor mortis. It was now or never.

He keyed in the final command and a sudden hum went through the lab. He winced as he felt a force flow through his suit in the frigid room and her body twitched as the transmitter pulsed at her chest and the ring around her head vibrated. He checked the screen as he waited for a response. He dragged his finger over the monitor to increase the power.

“Come on, please,” he begged the universe, “I did it. I know I di--”

The heart rate suddenly jumped from the glowing red zero to an orange forty-three, then sixty, peaking at a blue one hundred, and calming to a steady sixty-seven. The computer began to beep in time with her pulse and her brain turned to a sudden rainbow of activity. He glanced over at her but she remained unmoving.

He felt a squeezing pain in his chest. Did he miss something? Maybe he was wrong? Maybe it would always just be fiction, a fantasy. He would always be alone, always a failure. He came around the desk and went to the table and looked her over.

He touched her chest and felt the beating of her heart beneath the sensors and lifted his fingers below her nose. She was breathing. So why then, wouldn’t she wake up?

[12endigital]

El Hospital Doctor Balmis crea la Comisión de Sostenibilidad y Eficiencia Energética para la reducción del impacto ambiental

El Departamento de Salud Alicante-Hospital General ha constituido la Comisión de Sostenibilidad y Eficiencia Energética para garantizar la calidad en el manejo y gestión del tratamiento de las energías y los residuos, entre otros elementos, y disminuir de este modo la emisión de gases de efecto invernadero (GEI) a la atmósfera. El sector sanitario es responsable del 4,4 % de las emisiones…

[emetoandotherthings]

Medic's Ball

A/N: This fic partially came from this post and partially from @its-a-goddamn-heartbreak who wanted me to write something about Murray. It's taken a bloody long time due to life, but I hope it's enjoyable!

______________________________________________________________

         “Murray? Come on, we have to get going,” Aleks called, knocking gently on his own bedroom door.

         “I’m nearly ready,” Murray answered back, “just another minute!” Aleks checked his watch, they weren’t late yet, but Aleks didn’t want to risk it. The medic’s ball was a big deal, a networking opportunity that could open up potential options for his career. All of the medics were going to be there.

         Aleks tugged at the bow tie around his neck; then compulsively straightened it in the mirror. He still wasn’t sure about it, but he did know that a normal tie always seemed to look odd with his long hair. Murray had picked this one out for him, a deep plum colour that he had to admit suited him. He checked his watch again, his nerves jangling inside him.

         “Mur-” He started to shout again, but his bedroom door squeaked open and he turned to look at his boyfriend. His mouth stayed half open as he stared at him. Murray was in a crisp navy suit, the jacket tailored perfectly and he was grinning sheepishly as he tightened his own necktie. Aleks took a breath in, aware that he was staring but unable to stop. “Murray… you look fantastic!” Pink spots appeared high up on Murray’s cheeks as he stepped towards Aleks.

         “Well, I have to look the part if I’m going to be on the dashing doctor’s arm, don’t I?” Murray said, thrusting his hands in his pockets and subtly showing off the muscles straining through his shirt.

         “I just…” Aleks breathed quietly.

         “Shut up and kiss me,” Murray mumbled, reaching his hand to the back of Aleks’ neck, and pulling him towards him. Aleks’ heart tumbled over inside his chest as he kissed Murray, he wrapped his arms around Murray’s chest and pulled him closer. “We should get going… Don’t want to be late.” Murray spoke when they broke apart, and Aleks was glad to hear that Murray was as breathless as he felt.

         “One condition,” Aleks caught Murray’s hand to prevent him from moving away.

         “What?” Murray asked.

         “You let me take that suit off you when we get home,” Aleks answered; Murray’s face lit up.

         “Naughty…” he grinned, “but yes, of course… Now, come on, we’re going to be late.”

         The night air was balmy and the sky darkening to a dusky blue as night fell. The boys walked in comfortable silence as they approached the university, but Murray could tell just from the pressure of Aleks’ hand that he was nervous.

         “You’re going to smash it Aleks,” Murray told him, giving his hand a gentle squeeze; they could see the lights of the grand hall and hear the chatter of voices. Aleks was tugging at his bow tie again with his free hand. “Come on – just be you. You’re enough.” Aleks looked down at Murray and he felt calmer just by being next to him.

         “Thank you,” Aleks replied; he took a deep breath in and he seemed to grow taller right in front of Murray’s eyes as they stepped forward and entered the hall.

         It was incredibly busy. Trainee medics were decked out in dresses and suits, and dotted around were clearly qualified and experienced doctors. Most were surrounded by eager students, hoping that this would be the night they were noticed/ In among the throngs were waiters, some carrying champagne, wine and fruit juices; others carrying canapes.

         Almost immediately, a waited with champagne stopped by them and they accepted a glass with thanks. Aleks had forewarned Murray that he was going to have one alcoholic drink before switching to fruit juice, he didn’t want to risk triggering an episode. They stood at the edge of the room, Aleks’ height giving him an advantage to be able to see who all was there. Murray felt Aleks stiffen next to him and followed his gaze to see a slightly scruffy looking man with a bright yellow bow tie.

         “He’s here,” Aleks muttered to Murray, taking a rather large gulp of his drink. “Dr. Langston.”

         “The neurologist?” Murray questioned and Aleks nodded. Aleks had been talking about him for ages; he’d been keen on following in his footsteps. “You need to talk to him Aleks.”

         “Yeah,” Aleks agreed, “just, let me work up to it.”

         “All in your time,” Murray said, finishing his own champagne.

         Aleks slowly began to get into the swing of the whole networking thing; he stood on the fringes of conversations, listening in and then somehow managing to become included in them. Instead of the medics being purely self serving, they were all working in tandem, including those nearby with welcome rather than suspicion. Murray watched Aleks out of the corner of his eye; this was the place that Aleks belonged – all of his nervousness and doubt fell away as he discussed medicine.

         “Are you the partner on the arm too?” A girl who was hovering on the edge of the room addressed Murray.

         “Guilty as charged,” Murray laughed, “is it that obvious?”

         “Only if you’re in the same position,” she said, “I’m Elissa.”

         “Murray,” he replied, taking a glass of orange juice from a passing waiter; the room was definitely becoming more warm and stuffy. “At least we get free food and drink!”          “True,” she agreed, “I think that’s what sealed it for me, otherwise who would want to spend an evening being a spare part?”

         “Speak for yourself,” Murray stated, his free hand was tugging at the tie around his neck. The warmth in the room was becoming rather cloying; his cheeks were flushed from it and he could feel sweat beading on his brow and catching the back of his neck. Aleks had floated away into the main body of the crowd, and with a jolt Murray saw that Aleks had somehow managed to engage Dr. Langston in conversation. He could see the doctor’s hands gesticulating as he spoke to Aleks. “I’m gonna get some fresh air.” He told Elissa, turning away from the crowd, towards the doors and the night air.

         Aleks could feel his palms sweating as he hovered around the peripheries of Dr. Langston, who seemed to always be being engaged by a trainee medic. Aleks wished he had the confidence of some of these medics – he couldn’t seem to bring himself to simply launch into a conversation. But the longer he stood, the more he felt that time was slipping past him without any gain. He was trying to think how he could begin a conversation but it seemed he’d been spotted as a voice broke over his thoughts.

         “I must say, that is a particularly fetching bow tie,” it said and Aleks looked up to see Dr. Langston was watching him; he felt his cheeks flush. “It’s almost as nice as my own.”

         “Thanks,” Aleks replied, tugging anxiously at it to straighten it; his mouth had suddenly gone very dry. “I’ve always been incredibly impressed by your work.” Aleks blurted, then felt his face burn from embarrassment.

         “Really?” The doctor’s bushy eyebrows went up. “Is neurology an interest for you?”

         “Very much,” Aleks nodded, glad that his eagerness was not being mocked. “My – my mother died from MND.”

         “I am very sorry to hear that,” he sounded so genuinely sincere that Aleks felt some of the tenseness in his chest relax.

         “And – and, well, I’ve got CVS and I’ve always been intrigued by the reasons why,” Aleks said, then again had a stab of fear – had he just overshared?

         “Really?” He repeated, sounding interested and Aleks noted that he seemed to be surveying him. “What’s your name?”

         “Aleksander Wójcik,” Aleks replied; Dr. Langston stuck his hand out and Aleks shook it, hoping his hands weren’t too sweaty.

         “Well Aleksander,” he smiled, “when you become Dr. Wójcik, I’d be really interested to hear from you.” Aleks could barely believe what he was hearing; his breath caught in his chest. Dr. Langston patted his pockets and produced a business card with his details on it. “Here,” he handed it across, “once you’re an F1, get in touch.”

         “Thank you, I will!” Aleks gripped the card tightly, his heart racing inside his chest. “It was lovely to meet you.”

         “And you,” Dr. Langston nodded and turned away. Aleks slipped the card into the breast pocket of his jacket, feeling like he might just float away onto the ceiling. He made his way to the edge of the room, looking around for Murray. He couldn’t wait to tell him about what had just happened.

         Aleks only felt a little deflated when he had circled the edge of the room and not yet found Murray. He stood at one of the corners, peering over the heads of others in an attempt to find Murray, yet he still couldn’t find him. Maybe he’d gone to the toilet? Aleks grabbed some fruit juice from a passing waiter, drinking it as he circled the room again. When there was still no sign, he rooted around for his phone, looking to see if Murray had sent him a message, but there was nothing. Maybe Murray had found Damian and was in deep conversation with him? Aleks wandered towards the doors that led into the hallway, with the double doors allowing cool night air to flow in. Aleks had taken a good look around, before he spotted a suited figure, there was Murray – leaning against the grey brick of the building.

         “Murray!” Aleks crossed to him in a matter of seconds. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” He could feel his excitement, from the conversation with Dr. Langston, bubbling up inside him.

         “Oh, sorry,” Murray turned towards Aleks, one shoulder still leaning against the wall. “I just wanted to get some air, it was so warm in there!” Murray could tell from the grin affixed on Aleks’ face that it must have gone well. “So…?”

         “What?” Aleks asked non-plussed.

         “How did it go with Dr. Langston? I saw you talking to him,” Murray asked.

         “Murray, he wants me to contact him when I’ve qualified!” Aleks ran his hands through his hair, leaving it tousled.

         “Aleks – that’s amazing!” Murray replied.

         “Oh – he liked the bowtie,” Aleks chuckled, “so I’ve got to give you credit for that!”

         “It does go very well with your eyes,” Murray told him sardonically, but Aleks didn’t seem to notice. Murray felt a wave of heat rushing over him again, and he was surprised the sweat wasn’t dripping from his face.

         “It couldn’t have gone better! He gave me his card, I need to put it somewhere safe so I don’t lose it,” he fingered with the card in his top pocket.

         “I’m so glad,” Murray was desperately trying to inject some enthusiasm into his voice to hide the fact that he definitely knew something was wrong.

         “It was definitely worth standing in that ticket queue for hours,” Aleks agreed, tucking the card deeper into his pocket. “And now, I’ve achieved what I wanted, we can just have some fun! Heck, I might have another glass of champagne!” Aleks laughed; this was him throwing caution to the wind. “Shall we go back in?” Aleks asked, turning away from Murray to look back to the foyer, where other were mingling too.

         “Yeah,” Murray agreed, he was just going to have to suck it up; he moved away from the wall, but almost as soon as his shoulder had left the wall he felt the world around him pitch and white stars began to flash in front of his eyes. Instinctively he put one hand out and pressed it against the wall, but even this didn’t stop the sudden headrush. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his free hand. He tried to take some deep breaths in, as the warmth flooded his body, and he became uncomfortably aware of his knees shaking and his abdomen cramping.

         “Murray?” Aleks’ hand clasped onto Murray’s shoulder, which grounded Murray slightly. “What’s going on?” Aleks sounded concerned, but Murray kept his eyes tight shut, as then he couldn’t see the world swaying.

         “I-” Murray tried to speak, but he felt as though the connection between his brain and mouth had been severed. “Don’t feel – too good.” He managed to get out, though his lips felt like rubber. He leaned harder into the wall, using it to stay upright.

         “D’you feel dizzy?” Aleks asked quickly, and Murray nodded, though this didn’t help. “Hey – you, excuse me?” Murray daren’t open his eyes, but he could hear the movement of people, and Aleks’ hand had moved from his shoulder to his upper arm, almost holding him upright.

         “Here, d’you need a hand?” Murray heard voices he didn’t recognise, before another set of hands clasped around his upper arm and he felt himself being manhandled into a seated position on a chair. Without opening his eyes, he felt a waft of air and then the flapping sounds of something being fanned in his direction.

         “Here’s some water,” another voice came from nearby; Murray suddenly felt a cold shiver pass through his whole body, and even though he was sitting down he felt wobbly all over.

         “Murray?” Aleks’ voice was close to his right side; slowly he opened his eyes, Aleks was kneeling next to him. Nearby he could see some vague figures, one still wafting him with cool air. “What’s going on?” Aleks asked lowly. “Is it a migraine?” Murray shook his head slightly. He still felt fuzzy and was alternating between hot flashes and cold shivers. His midriff felt tight now he was sitting down, as though it was being clamped in a vice.

         “I feel weird,” he mumbled, still not able to get his lips to properly move.

         “Here,” Aleks had taken the glass from someone behind him and he held it up towards Murray’s face, “take a wee sip.” Murray obliged, the cold liquid felt even wetter than it should.

         “S-sorry,” Murray managed to force out after he had swallowed the water.

         “No, it’s okay,” Aleks rested his hand on his leg and squeezed gently. “You’re as white as a ghost!” At least his outside seemed to be mirroring how he felt inside.

         “At least you’ve got all these medics around you to help,” one of the nearby voices laughed.

         “Yeah, thank you all,” Aleks glanced behind him, “I think we’ll be alright from now.”

         “Well, if you need a hand, yell,” the voice assured.

         “Sorry,” Murray repeated; Aleks’ hand gently squeezed Murray’s knee again to reassured him, but Murray kept his head down.

         “How’re you feeling?” Aleks asked quietly, and he gently pressed his fingers into Murray’s cheek. “You’re a bit warm.”

         “It was so hot in there,” Murray muttered, he felt so embarrassed and wished the ground underneath him would open up and swallow him whole.

         “Did you just get a bit light-headed?” Aleks asked; Murray nodded. He couldn’t quite explain why he felt so wobbly, even as he sat on the chair he felt like he might fall off at any moment. He wanted to say yes, but a flash of hot and cold chased through his body, and his midriff cramped tightly. He shrugged eventually. “D’you want some more water?” Murray didn’t really, but he didn’t want to say no, so he held out his hand to accept the water. He took a few sips, but his throat didn’t want to let it down and it felt painful as he forced it. It didn’t help, almost as soon as he’d forced the water down, he felt a lurch in his belly and a sharp jolt shot through him. He straightened up, almost involuntarily, breathing in through his nose as he attempted to quell the sudden wave of nausea. He swallowed quickly, his mouth feeling very wet and the sharp cramping pain in his belly becoming increasingly violent lurches. He was very aware of Aleks kneeling down in front of him and the danger this posed as the pain in his stomach peaked.

         “Move,” Murray found it hard to speak, his mouth filling with saliva that he struggled to swallow. He could have attempted to get somewhere else, somewhere private, but he wasn’t sure his legs would hold him.

         “What?” Aleks seemed confused at this sudden order, but Murray put his hand out and tried to shove Aleks off balance, anything to get him out of the way. “Hey!”

         “Move!” He managed more urgently, his free hand clamping to his stomach as a jerk caused a heave to ripple up. “Brrrhlll!” A thin string of liquidy saliva spilled out of Murray’s lips and onto the ground.

         “Oh…” He heard the recognition in Aleks’ voice. Murray was gulping, hoping that he might be able to stop at that, but more saliva was flooding his mouth.

         “Hic-kurp!” Murray fought down a hybrid hiccup-burp, but he leaned slightly to his side; he didn’t want to throw up on his lap. He’d forgotten how unsteady he was, and as he leaned to his side, he almost overbalanced and fell off the chair. He would have done, if Aleks’ hands hadn’t gripped his shoulders.

         “Whoa!” Aleks held on tight; Murray was still trying to swallow excessively, pushing everything back down into his stomach. “It’s okay – you’re okay.” Aleks could feel him shaking. “God – Murs?”

         “ ‘m sorr – heeulkk!” Another wet hiccup gripped Murray, as the pressure rose in his chest. “Brruuuaaalllp!” The belch reverberated from Murray’s lips and he clamped both hands to his belly, feeling it jerking. “Don’ wanna throw up,” he forced, strained as he gulped down the start of an aborted heave.

         “I don’t think you’ve got much of a choice Murs,” Aleks was moving one hand very gently at the base of his neck.

         “Brrrruuaaarrrrlllpp!” Murray burped gutturally, then his mouth filled with bitter liquid. Before he could even think, his body had reacted. “Brrruuurruuuaaalllchhh!” Murray kept his head bent to the side, and a thick splattering of sick poured onto the ground.

         “Okay,” Aleks rubbed Murray’s back properly. “Get it out Murray.”

         “Bruuarrp!” Murray burped again, his belly lurching and another splash of puke joined the small puddle on the ground. Then, he felt his entire body tense and the charge of liquid that barrelled up his throat, splashing messily and hitting his shoes and trouser legs. “Oh god – huuuarrrk!” Murray barely managed to get the words out before his belly revolted again. His head was swimming as more puke forced out his mouth.

         “You’re okay,” Aleks soothed as Murray breathed raggedly, spitting out the bitter taste from his mouth. “You’re okay…”

         “I feel like crap,” Murray finally managed to get some real words out.

         “Yeah, I realised that,” Aleks said quietly. “Would you like some water to wash your mouth out?”

         “Uuhh…” Murray mumbled, “okay.” He tried to straighten himself on the chair, his hand shaking as he accepted some water and swilled his mouth out. The coolness of the water nearly precipitated the start of a new heave, and Murray closed his eyes and swallowed hard. It paid off for a few seconds, then his chest heaved and the water forced its way out of his mouth and nose. He failed to lean over in time, and sick coated the legs of his trousers.

         “Oh Murray,” Aleks sighed, digging in his pocket to find something to clean Murray up with. He managed to find a tissue to help clean his face, dabbing gently. “We need to get you home.” Murray nodded slightly; he felt miserable. “I’ll call Cain – he might be able to give us a lift.”

         “Sorry…” Murray repeated, he felt very tired and worn out like a deflated balloon. “For ruining-”

         “You didn’t ruin anything!” Aleks stopped him before he could finish. “I spoke to Dr. Langston – that was my goal.” Murray looked up at Aleks, he could see that he meant what he said. “Now my goal is to get you home safe.”

         “Sorry,” Murray couldn’t help it, he just felt so awful. He looked down at his trousers, the splash of sick staining the dark fabric. He groaned, putting his hand up to his face again, and trying not to gag further. “This suit is dry clean only…” He groaned.

         “We can sort that later,” Aleks said. “I’m gonna go phone Cain – see if he can come and get us.”

         “With a – hicculp! – bucket,” Murray commented, one hand reaching back to his upset belly; he didn’t trust that he was entirely empty.

         “I’ll make sure of it,” Aleks put his hand on Murray’s shoulder and squeezed. “It’ll be fine.”

         “Okay,” he sighed. “Not quite how you expected – getting this suit off me.”

         “That can wait,” Aleks gently kissed Murray’s forehead. “Right now, I just need to look after you.”

[oneforthemunny]

​​janitor!eddie is always leaving an apple on teacher!reader’s desk every morning.

he gets there early before her to do some extra maintenance- the school had given him a raise to do both so they wouldn’t have to hire someone else. it started as a joke between you two. eddie grinned when you’d brought an apple to lunch one day, playful glint in his eye. “an apple a day, huh?” he asked.

steve snorted. “that’s a doctor, munson.” he rolled his eyes.

you shrugged, biting into your apple. “I like apples, ok?” you giggled. “guess I was made to be a teacher, huh? the stereotype doin’ it for you?”

eddie couldn’t stop smiling. so every day, when he’d stop at the gas station by the trailer park, he’d get his usual pack of camels and an apple. he’d place it on your desk, scribbling on a spare piece of paper a little note that left you blushing when you’d find it.

he’d pass by your classroom, catching your eyes when you’d see him, smiling and nodding towards your apple. later, when he’d take you out, you’d kiss him sweetly on the cheek. “thanks for the apple.” you’d mutter. “it was delicious.” you’d let your bottom lip graze over his cheek, sending a hot blush down his neck and cheeks.

eddie wanted that reaction always, so he’d bring you apple after apple, proudly propping them on your desk each day with a little note.

‘you’re the apple of my eye, sweetheart. have a good day. -ed’

you’d giggle, tucking them into your purse. you’d saved everyone, reading them later when you missed him, heart fluttering in your chest.

one day, eddie walks into his ‘office’- a storage closet with a chair and an old desk, a rack to hang his jacket. there where he put his lunch pail was a small tin of hand balm, ‘for working hands’ it read.

eddie’s heart swelled. he’d complained about the blisters and callouses from working at the school mixed with his guitar making his hands rough, the cold cracking them and making them bleed. when he held his hand in yours, you’d ran a finger over the cracked, raw skin with a sympathetic pout.

eddie picked up the tin, the best folded card on top reading:

‘a little of this cream keeps the callouses away (or that’s what the store clerk told me). hope this helps you my hard working man. xoxo’

eddie slipped it into his front pocket, a dopey grin on his face. he dug his fingers into the balmy substance, rubbing it over his hands before reaching into his lunch pail, grabbing the shiny, red apple out and starting towards your class room.

[lucysgraybird]

I don’t know if you write pregnancy fics, so if you don’t feel free to ignore this!

I crave pregnancy angst, like maybe child birth going wrong or something but like angst to fluff with Billy the Kid

hey so . i wrote this and missed the memo on the angst to fluff so it's kinda fluff to angst! so sorry. hope you enjoy!

WARNINGS: childbirth, premature birth, stillborn baby, child loss, brief graphic descriptions

The night the baby comes is dark and peaceful: there hasn't been more than a soft fall of rain in weeks, and the spring has brought balmy evenings that have made chores almost a gift to do.

Even more of a blessing is the time after chores, curled up on the porch under Billy’s arm. He's twisting the ends of your hair around his fingers absently, and you twist to look up at his face.

“What's on your mind, honey?”

“Hm?”

“I can hear your thoughts from here, Billy. Are you worrying about something?”

He tucks his chin over your head and you hum contentedly at being wrapped up in him, safe and warm.

“Just thinkin’ about the baby is all,” he says. “What we're gonna name her and that stuff.”

You laugh. “Well, it'll be a while yet, so you've got some time to figure it out. We don't even know if the baby’s a girl.”

“I do.” He slides his arm off your shoulder to your waist, placing his hand flat against your rounded belly. “Gonna be the best little girl, and she's gonna look just like her mama.”

“Mm…with your eyes, if we're lucky.”

You crane your neck to peck Billy on the lips, coaxing a smile from your husband. Out of nowhere, a cramp twists through your lower back and you cover Billy’s hand with yours, wincing. He shifts you off his chest slightly to look at you.

“You okay?”

The pain passes and you can breathe again – it's not something you've felt before, but you know things get weirder the bigger the baby gets.

“Fine, yeah. I think she was moving around or something.”

Billy gives your stomach a firm look, which coaxes a laugh out of you and chases away your nerves.

“‘s not the baby’s fault, honey,” you say. “She's just getting comfy.”

“You're sure you're alright?” He confirms. “I can ride into town and-”

“I'm good. You don't need to worry, okay?”

He nods and pulls you back against him, his body a shelter from any worries.

As the night creeps on, there are a few more cramps but nothing notable, and you're able to fall asleep almost immediately when the time comes.

That is, until the middle of the night, when you wake up with your entire core on fire.

“Billy,” you whimper, grabbing for his arm.

He groans, still mostly asleep.

“Something’s wrong, Billy, you gotta-” You pause, a bolt of pain too great to speak through wracking your body for a moment. “You gotta go get the doctor.”

That wakes him immediately, and he's rolling out of bed before his eyes are even completely open. He takes in your face, screwed tight and shiny with sweat, and he's trying to get ready and comfort you at the same time.

“It's okay, darlin’, I'm sure it's nothing,” he says, not even bothering to take off his pajamas before tugging his work clothes over them and shoving his feet into his boots. “I bet the baby is just growing extra fast.”

For all his confident words, his voice trembles and breaks at the end of his sentence, which sends tears spilling down your cheeks. Billy scrambles for the door, then back to you to press a kiss to your forehead and a hand to your cheek.

“Gonna be fine, darlin'. I'll be back as quick as I can.”

You don't even have time to reply before he's out the door and gone.

The pain only increases while he's gone, time going hazy and strange. You can't figure out how long ago Billy left, or how long it should be until he's back – you can't really think of much besides the ache throbbing from your pelvis to your chest. Noises that don't sound like your own are tearing themselves from your throat as you writhe in bed, trying to find anything that'll ease the pain.

Soon (or maybe not soon at all, you can't say), Billy is bursting back into your room, the midwife hot on his tail. She takes one look at you and turns to Billy.

“I need boiling water and strips of cloth.”

Billy nods wordlessly and disappears out to the kitchen. You didn't realize how desperate you were for him until he was gone, and a new bout of sobs streak down your face.

“Oh, lovey,” the midwife says as she strips back your covers. “Your boy will be back soon, he's just helping me keep you safe while you're in labour. Can you tell me how far you are along?”

She tugs your nightgown up around your hips, and you're in too much pain to feel any shame.

Fear shoots through you. “I'm not in labour,” you gasp. “I can't be, it's only been six months since I missed my period.”

Your body bows forward with another stab just as Billy walks through the door with a steaming pot of water and strips of a clean sheet, and he nearly drops everything in his haste to get to you. Once he's sure that the midwife has what she needs, he's settling next to you, offering a hand to squeeze and a shoulder to lean on.

“You may want to step out, Mr. Bonney, this-”

“I'm stayin’,” he says, surely putting on a brave face when you grip his hand like a vice. To you, he soothes, “Hold on as hard as you need, darlin’, you're not gonna hurt me.”

“Okay then,” the midwife says. “Get ready to push, lovey, this baby is just about to come out.”

You don't even have to think when the time comes, a baser instinct taking over for you. It hurts like nothing has before and a wail chokes out of your mouth. Billy is still holding you, whispering sweet things you can't hear against your temple. He might be crying but you can't tell; everything is so wet and hot and sticky that it feels like your throat is closing and your neck is folding in on itself. If he is crying, there's a small part of you that wants to be angry with him, because how dare he cry when you're the one going through this, but it's overshadowed by how scared and confused you are and how he must be feeling that way too.

Suddenly, the pressure in your pelvis changes and the pain subsides, just slightly. You struggle to sit up even a little, peering down at the midwife, who is cradling something you can't see in her arms. Billy, who has a better vantage, is trying to nudge your face into his shoulder, but you resist.

“My baby…?” You whisper. Your voice is hoarse and you're exhausted, but all you want to do is cradle your newborn child.

“It was very early,” the midwife says gently. “She wouldn't have been long for this world, even if-”

“No,” you say, and you can't quite identify what the feeling is behind your resistance. “Let me see my baby, let me hold her!”

You try to scramble up, ignoring the way it makes everything hurt, but Billy holds you back.

“I'm going to clean and wrap her, and then you can hold her, lovey,” the midwife says, standing. You still can't see the body in her arms. “I'm so sorry.”

You turn to Billy as the woman leaves and shove his chest. His eyes are shining, his face is sticky with tears, but he makes no move to stop you.

“Go after her, Billy, don't let her take my baby! I need to feed her, you gotta name her, we…”

Billy just wraps you in a silent hug, and whatever dam was holding the realization back before breaks.

“I'm so sorry,” you sob. “I didn't mean to, it wasn't supposed to happen like this.”

“It's not your fault, darlin’,” he whispers, stroking a hand over your sweat-matted hair. “It's not your fault.”

You never get to hold your baby girl, exhaustion and grief sending you to sleep before the midwife returns. Billy will tell you in the morning, hesitantly and under much duress, that she was born blue.

[bramble-mouse]

The Faery Doctor

Chapter 1

Tags: G/t, gentle giant, timid tiny, fantasy setting, adventure Content warnings will be tagged appropriately for subsequent chapters. These may include death, gore and vore. They will include no sexual themes. Minors, please do not interact!

The cold north made a necessity of woolen garments- and thankfully, Trish Mctavish rarely traveled without hers. It was a handsome green plaid piece made by her father, a memento of the cold lands he’d grown up in. The Summer Court’s lands which her parents had built their own on made little need for such heavy garments; true to name, the weather was always sunny, always balmy and a far cry from the rest of Alba’s all-year-round grey skies and sheeting rain. As a child, the sun had been welcome, making ease of play and affording her parents reprieve from washing up a muddy child after a romp in the rain. As an adult, however, when her practice took her on the road, Trish had discovered the cold, misty splendor of a rainy day. 

She snuggled in close to the ram she shared the back of the wagon with, a round, woolie fellow the wagon driver had called Samson. He was a welcome companion at present, when the early autumn chill still clung to the dregs of the morning. Trish reached into her pocket and unfurled a bit of parchment. On it, was a hastily drawn map and the name of her destination: Dalrstead.

‘I was told you’d treat anyone.’

The tall, hooded woman spoke, the glow of her golden eyes pinning Trish to rug in her entryway. The strange woman dwarfed her utterly, being a good few heads taller than the tiny, birdlike faery doctor. She nodded to her guest silently, fiddled with the edges of her apron to keep calm.

The hooded woman’s shoulders had sagged in some relief. She flicked her wrist and a pen and paper appeared, which she used to start sketching.

‘You will find him here. Please, he…he needs a skilled hand. I’ll give you any reward you ask.’

Trish felt the weight of the hand drawn map, the urgency of the woman. Just who was her patient to be, she wondered? Faery doctors often treated primarily the Folk, but her mother had taught her how to treat near every type of non-human under the sun (and even those who favoured the moon). She’d helped a mother mermaid give birth to triplets. She’d soothed a naga’s chronic headache. She’d even fitted a goblin with a prosthetic leg. Trish’s patients were all sorts.

So why had this woman been especially secretive about the nature of this one? All she knew thus far about the fellow was that he was a mountain dwelling hermit and his name was Frio Frostfang. She didn’t even know the nature of his illness- especially vexing. Trish had brought a broad medical kit, as many different ingredients as her pack could feasibly carry. All others she would have to buy in Dalrstead, or forage in the surrounding woodlands. “Look just up ahead, lass.” The wagon driver said, starting Trish from her thoughts. He sucked on the end of his pipe.

“Dalrstead, the Sjev Mountains and the northern woods between ‘em.” Trish turned to glance over her shoulder and was rewarded with the sharp, snow capped peaks, the endless brushwork of ancient pine trees and the hodgepodge of buildings up the road crowned by chimney smoke. “Goes without sayin’, I reckon, but, seein’ as you’re no local, I’ll be the first to give you the warning.” The wagon driver said. “Steer well clear of the northern woods. Everythin’ that grows there is old and beyond our ken. Not to mention it’s the frost giant’s huntin’ grounds.” Trish’s throat bobbed. Frost giants. She could remember meeting one giant in her life, a hill giant with a twisted ankle that’d cried like a baby when her mother treated him. He’d been a big lump of a thing with the sensibilities of a child despite being an adult. He’d been so pleased with her mother’s work to heal him, he’d uprooted a tree to give her, like a clumsy bouquet of flowers. Her mother had laughed and thanked the hill giant, but bade him plant it again for her instead. “Tanner’s boy went missin’ last month when he decided he wanted reindeer hide and went huntin’ for it too far past where it’s safe. Damned fool boy.” He shook his head.

Trish frowned and turned back around, staring down at her boot clad feed as they swung with the motions of the wagon. “But…don’t the…the frost giants…” She trailed off. “Don’t come into Dalrstead, not for a good thirty winters now.” The driver interjected

“Raids were somethin’ terrible when I was a lad. Had to hide in cellars for hours, prayin’ the brutes wouldn’t sniff you out. Nothin’ on countin’ the dead and missin’ after, knowing just where they’d wound up. Or freezin’ while you try to rebuild enough to get through the night.” Trish chewed her lower lip. “And…and why did they stop?” The wagon driver took a long pull off his pipe and breathed out the fragrant, earthy smoke. “No one knows. Some say somethin’ worse is livin’ in those woods now, closer to the village. Others say it’s an old god come back to life that’s started protectin’ us again. Far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a rat’s ass which it is. Dalrstead’s peaceful and that’s what rightly counts.” Trish paid the wagon driver for his time and disembarked at the front gates to the town- though it was more a log arch than anything formal.

Many southerners viewed those who lived up north through one of two lenses: pity, for the poor land they inhabited or condescension, because of course they were all nothing but uneducated peasants. That was the mind of those in cities and larger towns, at any rate. Trish’s first experience with a northerner had come in the form of an adventurer named Gudrun who’d accompanied her orcish travelling companion to the Mctavish’s home for an injured eye. He’d walked away with a salve that would prevent complete blindness and Gudrun had grown fond of the doctor’s then young daughter. Trish and Gudrun still exchanged letters sometimes, when either of them were able. 

What Trish knew for certain about northerners was that they didn’t have time to give a damn about most niceties. They were intelligent, resourceful and hearty folks who took care of one another. They were a far cry from the simple, stupid folk others in cozier climes claimed them to be. The food culture of Dalrstead stood as testament to these qualities. While there wasn’t much that grew well in so cold a place with short springs and summers, folk had learned to transform every ingredient they could lay hands on into hearty, flavourful meals. The mead and whiskeys from this region were second to none, boasting deep, complex flavours built upon carefully cultivated ingredients. Trish blinked free from her far away thoughts and back into the town square, where her feet had mindlessly carried her. The late morning market was a bustling place, the hubbub audible all over Dalrstead. A trio of women with children hanging from their skirts swapped stories. A strong dwarven fellow washed a heavy blanket at the laundry pool, scrubbing dirt out along a washboard. A handsome fellow with dark curly hair and curiously rose coloured eyes caught Trish’s attention and he smiled, offering a friendly wave. She blushed and snapped her gaze back down, all but running in the direction of the town tavern, The Crooked Cat. 

The interior of the wooden structure smelled of pipe weed, a wood fire and yeasty bread still baking in the oven. Instantly, the chill began to depart from Trish’s extremities, and her thin, bird-like little body gravitated towards the comfortable heat. As she removed her gloves and walked towards the front counter, she heard a loud, incredulous snort. “Reward’s bloody good, that’s why.” A deep, gravelly voice insisted. Trish jumped at his tone, every muscle in her body tightening. She peered up through her glasses, the errant brown curls that fell into her eyes. 

There were four men at the counter, geared to the nines in all manner of weaponry, from halberds to claymores, and even a heavy crossbow that Trish would have no chance of ever lifting, let alone getting a shot off of. The man who stood at the head of the pack sported dark hair shot through with silver tugged back into a loose ponytail that trailed down his back. His skin was bitter pale, and a nasty set of scars made by a beast’s claws marred the left side of his face, depriving one eye of sight and drawing the corner of his mouth down in a permanent grimace. “Hunting giants is a fools errand, lad.” The barkeep replied firmly. He was a round fellow with a bushy, ginger beard and keen green eyes. He continued to polish a claw mug with a worn cloth. “I’ve other marks much less likely to bring a raid upon us.” The scarred man leaned forward over the counter top. “I didn’t take the folk of Dalrstead for cowards.” “We aren’t.” The barkeep narrowed his eyes “We ain’t fools either. Now step back, boy. There’s a young lady lookin’ for directions, I reckon.” The scarred man’s upper lip formed a snarl. He backed up, turned his attention onto Trish and sauntered slowly over to her. “That so?” He scoffed. He began to circle Trish, and the woman felt her knobbly knees knock together. She dared not look up now, keeping her attention firmly on the floorboards. She winced when she felt him tease the end of one of her braids, hold a moment and let it fall over her shoulder. “Then by all means, let’s not keep the little mouse. Lest she get lost and a cat decides she’s lunch.” Trish gripped her skirts tightly until her knuckles turned white. Her heart pounded in her ears. The scarred man chuckled, whistled to round up his boys and they all trudged over in front of the fireplace, thankfully far away from the bar. Trish felt like crying. Or throwing up. She wasn’t certain which one would arrive sooner when the barkeep’s voice startled her out of her panic. “Now now, lassie, take a good deep breath. Got somethin’ for your nerves.” Trish nodded mutely and claimed a barstool. A warm mug smelling of orange peel and allspice was set down in front of her. “Mulled wine. On the house, on account of the reception you received.” The barkeep said. Trish nodded and managed to get out a near inaudible, shaky ‘thank you’ before taking a first experimental sip. 

She winced at first from the heat but allowed the feeling to ground her. Adventurers of all sorts chattered away in the Crooked Cat. One trio of dwarves looked over a worn map much too large for any of them. A pair of snow elves talked over mugs of something warm- maybe the very same mulled wine Trish drank. A larger group of young adventurers laughed as they swapped stories of their latest exploits in vivid detail. Trish pointedly did not look for the scarred man and his lackeys. “If you’ll beg my pardon, lass…You don’t look much like an adventurer.” The barkeep observed. “What brings you in apart from a drink?” Trish held the mug with her thin fingers, savouring the warmth.

“I’m…I’m looking for someone.” She lowered her voice and leaned in. “A…A ‘Frio Frostfang’. I…I’ve been told to seek him out.” The barkeep paused, his gaze flitting quickly to the four men by the fireplace, silently drinking as they listened to their scarred boss talk. “Why?” The barkeep inquired. Trish pursed her lips together nervously. She reached into her coat pocket and produced the rolled up bit of parchment her mysterious client had given her. She slid it towards the barkeep. “I’m a…a faery doctor. And…a client gave me…gave me the name. And these directions.” The barkeep unfurled the map and scanned over the paper. He let out a little chuckle. “Trust that old worrywart to go about things the complicated way…” He muttered. The barkeep pushed the map back towards Trish and dug about in his apron pocket. He withdrew a stone covered in runes, which he pressed into Trish’s hand as she made to reach for her map. “On the north-eastern outskirts of town, there’s an old road leading out towards the forest. Follow it but be careful not to stray off the path. Keep close to the mountainside. Turn right at the fork and follow the road up into the mountains until you reach a clearing with a lake. You’ll find this,” He indicated to the cave mouth on the drawing “On the opposite side of the lake. You’ve got the key inside now.” Trish turned the stone around in her fingers curiously before stowing it in her coat pocket. She started rolling the map back up. “I…” She started, stopped. “Do you…do you know the woman that…” “Can’t tell you about her, I’m afraid.” The barkeep shut Trish down quickly. “Not in the company of this lot, anyroad. All I can say is she’s worth trustin’.” Trish felt some weight lift. Yes, she’d fully intended to do her work regardless of what type of person that hooded woman had been, because a good faery doctor healed every patient they received without question. But to know she wasn’t walking into some awful trap was something of a relief. 

“Thank you..for…” She trailed off and gestured at the mug when no words would form. The barkeep laughed. “Come by for a mug any time. Best in the village.” He took her empty mug and set it in a basin under the counter.“Call me Filip, lass.”

The faery doctor managed a bashful smile, pushing her large, round glasses up the gentle slope of her freckled nose. “Trish. Trish Mctavish.”

[thoughtsafterdark]

Hospitals and Airports are the closest modernity can come to reaching the Divine

Have you noticed how some places seem immune to time and social conventions. Like airports, those monoliths of now. Harsh lights burning and souls criss-crossing, tongues melting together into a writhing throng of humanity, a steaming cesspit of consciousness. Steeped in camaraderie yet drenched in isolation. The electric blue arrivals sign glares with neon brightness at 3am, a beacon that signals the end of the road.

Here comes a family of 4 on their way home, crossing through automatic doors into the balmy drizzle of a British night, carrying their loot of straw hats and cheap pendants, tan lines and peeling red lobster skin. A girl no older than 5 limps after her parents and older brother. She lugs her bright pink unicorn behind her and hugs the hood of lilac pyjamas close, rubs the sleep out of her eyes whilst her mother shouts at her to hurry. Soon she’ll tuck herself into bed, in the attic of their ordinary red brick London row house, and she’ll watch the sun peak over the trees in the back garden for the first time in her life. It will become a core memory she will think fondly back on for years to come.

By the first class lounge they hurried past, a man in an impeccable suit (Sheep’s wool, the finest money can buy. The grey colour of the Thames on an early morning) paces back and forth restlessly, briefcase in hand, phone in another. Gold amber eyes like a hawk, close cropped black hair and neatly trimmed beard, square pocket matching the deep tan of his shoes (authentic leather). He is barking orders to someone in Arabic, closing deals, building empires. A bloodied napkin he used to stop a nosebleed earlier falls out of his pocket and winks up at the scaffolding exposed ceiling, high and arching like the dome of a cathedral. He’ll make the sale, then visit the airport bathroom again before hailing a cab to the closest 5 star. In the morning, the maid who took the job to send money to her ailing mother in the Philippines will find his cold stiff body and scream. She’ll call the police and be taken in for questioning. She never signed up for this.

At the hospital coffee shop – two streets and half a lifetime away - a 4th year med students sips on a cortado like her life depends on it. Caffeine surges through her veins, bracing her for the day ahead. Unbelievable how exhausting trying to take up as little space as possible can be. She hates the spiel, it’s the same every time. A new dawn, a new face, a new team. The introductions, the smiling, the grovelling, the headache. She’s 5ft flat with bright orange hair, aspirations for Neurosurgery and a bright pink notebook, so why would they take her seriously.

It’s 8:30, and she’s scheduled for 9am clinic, so she has time for a hurried breakfast today. (Eating any earlier makes her gag). Small mercies. The off-red stained scrubs she nicked from the theatre changing rooms cling to her like a second skin preparing to moult. She squirms in them, the comfort undeniable. They make her feel like she belongs. They make her feel like an imposter.

Her table – she comes here so often; she thinks of it as hers - sits right by large windows overlooking the main entrance and staircase. She sees it all from here, her quiet unassuming throne. The doctors and nurses, physios and pharmacists. Rushing rushing, running, stressing. Wishing, hoping, waiting, waiting, waiting. For the shift to end, for the time for bed. For this rotation to change, for the exam to pass. We’ll go on that holiday next month, next year. When money isn’t tight, when things are more settled.  Before they know it they’ve wished their lives away.

Their patients understand, all too well and all too late. The same father with the IV drip and the metal stand comes down here every morning to see his daughters. They run up to him, he holds them close and beams. But his grip is getting weaker, smile is getting thinner. He doesn’t answer when they ask when he’s coming home. It’s funny what we can’t hear when we’re too busy wearing stethoscopes. Next month she (I) will be stationed on the Psych ward. We’ll have to do it all again, but maybe they’ll hear me this time. Maybe it’ll get easier.

Between them all and among them, if you squint and unfocus your eyes during one of those ungodly hours at the Starbacks across from Boots and WHSmith, leaning against a grey white pillar you might see him.

He is the spectre that haunts airport lounges and waiting rooms alike, the handsome stranger with the black snapback and the beats headphones and the khaki shorts. The one who lives out of a rucksack and wears a travel pillow like a crown. With the kind eyes and crows feet, and honey chestnut curls. He is that boy from your high school everyone liked, with a kind word for everyone; the one with a charmers smile and the charisma to bullshit his way through anything. The one who – when pressed for future plans, would laugh and shake his head, looking down bashfully. “I just want to travel for now, see where it takes me. I want to see the world”, he’d say, eyes twinkling with the possibilities. On someone else, the words would likely merit a telling off, they’d be seen as the paper thin excuse to fuck around and get high. But he seemed so genuine, and his teeth were such a dazzling shade of brilliant white when he smiled, even the strictest careers advisers couldn’t resist.

He lives in those moments, the liminal fabric between worlds that’s so hard to put your finger on. Blink and you’ll miss him in the old alleys of Rome, the spark of his cigarette lighter blending amongst the city lights.

You’ll find him among the most remote hiking trails of the Peloponnese, laughing with local shepherds and German tourists alike, sitting on jutting rocky cliffs and admiring the blue Mediterranean below. If you really pay attention, you’ll see his staff isn’t like the others. Something suspiciously like a pair of snake slithers up and down. You could swear you heard them whispering just now, but when you look again it’s just a wooden stick.

He is the patron of us wanderers and travellers, those of us with movement in our blood and restlessness in our hearts. The ones who beget the will of changing winds and shifting tides. The ones who can’t allow themselves to sit still, lest the dust settle and the coffee get cold. The mortifying ordeal of being seen and known. Or the ones that carry a hearth with them, in the bottom of a suitcase, in the heart of a trailer. The ones who move and weave through the Earth not because they are running but because they are coming home. He dances and jokes with the kids amongst campfires, always welcome, always a pleasure. And if he helps them pick the odd lock, swearing solemnly to secrecy, who are we to judge.

His bronze skin smells of cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla and cedar and a thousand other spices. He reeks of incense and market stalls, moles and freckles tell the story of trading routes and old silk roads, of cotton shawls from Alexandria and silk from Pekking. His fingers and eyes twinkle with the good-natured mischief of petty thieves and sleight-of-hand magicians, tricksters and circus performers. He picks apples from behind ears, presents jewel necklaces to his lovers.

She sees him now, amongst the patients. He helps an old lady up the steps, pulls a balloon out of his back pocket to the delight of a sick child. She locks eyes with him and they nod at one another She has been seen now, and known. Perhaps she’ll find him again one day, if either stop running.

[jimcornflake]

Prologue - Mantis

A/N: Hi! I’m Jim! This is the first piece of a long slow burn Asa Emory X Fem!Reader I’m making! If you liked this little blurp, please feel free to stick around for more regularly posted chapters.

🎀

“Y/N, I refuse to just sit here and take this hater-ass behavior from you. I’m coming over at nine and we’re getting ready together. Take a break! You deserve it.”

You nibbled at the peeling skin of your cuticle on one hand while the other pressed your phone flat against your ear, too deep in thought to respond right away. You had so many things to consider, one of the most important things being: was it worth it?

You knew who you were. Where there’s a party, there’s drugs, and where there’s drugs, there’s you. You refused to be ashamed of the fact that you couldn’t even handle being around drugs without giving in and using.

However, Alyssa was right. You’d been working your ass off! You had two jobs and picked up any spare shift you could get your hands on. You had been saving up money for a new car so you could stop walking and taking the bus and you’d reached your halfway point just today.

You had come home from waitressing at your second job at a local diner that was always filled with hungry drunkards. Being harassed everyday did take a toll on your psyche, no matter how used to it you had become over the years of existing as a woman.

“Y/N,” Alyssa spoke softly.

There was a long stretch of silence.

“Fuck it,” you sighed, releasing the breath you had absentmindedly been holding. “Don’t come to my house though. I need to throw everything everywhere to find what I want to wear.”

“Whore.” Alyssa hung up. That meant that you were supposed to meet up with her when she texted you the address three hours later at ten.

You let your phone fall out of your hand and land safely on your mattress as your body followed in its path. You enjoyed feeling the soft mattress mold to your spine and your eyelids began to slip close as soon as you fully relaxed.

“No!” You suddenly cried out, using every last ounce of strength to jerk your shoulder forward and toss yourself off the bed on to the floor. You landed hard on the vinyl wood, definitely feeling an early-stage bruise on your elbow.

You pulled yourself off the ground and forced your legs to carry you to your bathroom to swipe some shimmer across your lids and face, then follow it with mascara and lipgloss.

You were a simple woman. You went to a party to party and have possibly dangerous adventures. That meant that anytime you tried to wear a full-face, half of it would end up on somebody’s shirt or window.

10:35PM (iMESSAGE): asslicka🩷

the dick tator is being summoned

10:36PM (iMESSAGE): asslicka🩷

1 Attachment

When your phone buzzed with the anticipated message, you were ready.

You packed your purse with everything you needed and slung it across your body.

You quietly exited your apartment and tiptoed down the hallway past your neighbor who’d brought home her newborn baby yesterday and quietly exited through the complex’s main entrance.

Once the hot air of the balmy summer night hit your face, you felt free. You skipped your way across the street to where an elderly woman you befriended lived. The poor thing had entrusted you with her car keys once when her son wasn’t available to drive her to the doctor’s. Ever since you had done her that favor on your way to work, she always left the keys in the car so you could borrow it at your leisure.

Once you were in the car and sat at the nearest stoplight. You quickly rifled around in your purse and pulled out a CD Case labeled “MIX 1”. As you watched for cars in the rear view, you opened it and popped the CD in to the disk drive.

You turned on the radio and adjusted the knobs all the way to full blast. As soon as the light turned green, you floored it down the dead street and hit the play button, leaving a trail of the scent of burnt rubber behind you.

🎀

Hi! Did you like this? If so, please check out my other works! Thank you and have a beautiful day! 🩷

[biscuits-of-bagend]

DnDoc, The Mushroom Planet #1 - Mario LARP

Between writing this story and this one, I finished the 'Rogue' novelisation. Sometimes in this story I'll be mentioning the name of Rogue's person, whom we meet very early in the novel so I wouldn't consider that a spoiler. I'm going to proofread each chapter carefully so I can provide appropriate spoiler warnings. This chapter just mentions his name.

Previous stories: DnDoc, Coming Home DnDoc, Space Band DnDoc,A Man's a Man DnDoc, The God of Rock 'n' Roll DnDoc, The Loch o' the Lowes

---

"Ah, been a while since we checked out another planet," said the Doctor, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath as he stepped out of the TARDIS.

   Ruby grinned at him. "Feel good, Doctor?"

   The Doctor opened one eye and smiled at her. "I tell you, Ruby, I love Earth. You know I love Earth. But I was starting to feel travel-sick."

   "Travel-sick?" said Rogue, stepping up alongside them. "You mean like getting dizzy on a boat?"

   "It's his equivalent of being home-sick," Ruby explained as the Doctor continued to bask in the balmy air of the new planet. "It's when he misses the road, or the vortex as the case may be."

   "Ah." Rogue nodded. "I get you, Doctor." He patted him on the butt. "Come on then, let's get moving."

   The three of them started to walk away from the TARDIS. The ground was soft and grassy, though covered in criss-crossing colourful walkways for ease of travel. A little ways off in the distance, there was a skyline of bright multi-coloured blinking lights - Mushroom City. It was the biggest Super Mario recreation in the universe, and it was here that the gang were going to test their karting skills once and for all. They were each wearing slick tracksuits with the badges of their favourite drivers on the breast, and matching designs down the racing stripes. The Doctor's had Rosalina, Rogue’s  had Drybones and Ruby’s had Daisy.

   Ruby was so excited she felt like sprinting forward and running all the way to the city. Above her, little smiling stars like the ones from Super Mario Galaxy twirled in constantly shifting constellations, and much higher up the winding ribbon of rainbow road twisted and turned. Around them on the grass, children were chasing animatronic goombas and adults were playing Mario Golf. Anyone who needed a snack just reached up and punched a box, then grabbed the mushroom that came out of it. The whole place was buzzing.

   Ever since the walk up to Loch Skeen back in the Scottish Borders, the Doctor and Rogue had been swept up in a second wave of romance, a whole new honeymoon period. Ruby wasn't sure if they realised how constantly they were flirting. It could have been annoying, but they somehow did so well at making her feel included that it wasn’t, it was just sweet. Right now they were leaning against each other as they walked and it was impossible to tell who was holding who up.

🍄🍄🍄

   When they reached the entrance to the city, they were greeted by a short man in a giant mushroom-cap hat, whose nametag declared him "Aquamarine Toad.” The hat was covered in a wavy seafoam green pattern, so this name made sense. Most Mario games had the character Toad, a little mushroom man, but some had more than one instance of him and in such cases they were differentiated by colour of mushroom-cap and robes.

   "Hel-lo!" screeched Aquamarine Toad. "Welcome to Mushroom City! How may I help you today?"

   "Hiya," said the Doctor. "We've a Mario Kart rivalry to settle."

   "Ah, yes, and wonderfully dressed for it you are! Well, this way.” Aquamarine Toad nodded.

   Beyond where they stood, about ten metres away, there  was a wall of pixellated fuzziness which arced away both to the left and right, suggesting that it probably formed a ring around the city. There wasn't any clear entrance that Ruby could see. But floating in the air, just over Aquamarine Toad's shoulder, there was a giant painting, about twelve feet by six feet. The painting showed Mario in a kart with a giant 'M' on the front, concentration etched deeply into his face as he dodged shells and bananas on either side of him.

   "We just step through?" said Ruby.

   Aquamarine Toad puffed out his chest. "Just like Mario 64!"

   Ruby grinned. She'd only ever played the DS port of Mario 64, but it was true, to get into any level you had Mario jump through a painting into the world beyond.

   "Wahoo!" Ruby shouted as she jumped through the painting. She heard the others, including Aquamarine Toad, follow behind.

   They now found themselves in the grounds of an enormous stadium. Ruby had been expecting to see all the different courses jammed up against each other, but it seemed the makers of the city had come up with a different solution. The vines and trees of Yoshi's Island were poking out the top of the stadium and Ruby could see them from where she stood, but as she watched and heard the cheers of a race coming to a close, the vines and trees became the bright lights and fireballs of Wario's Stadium, and the next race began immediately.

   "Alrighty, you got your GPs, your battle mode, including balloon and shiney competitions," Aquamarine Toad explained, walking them towards the main stadium but showing them other smaller - but still quite large - stadiums to their left and right.

   "What's that one?" said Rogue, pointing to a tent with a long line of cars leading out of it.

   "Ah, that's the Dealership," said Aquamarine Toad. "They mostly set riders up with their karts for the day but they also buy and sell old cars, buses, boats, spaceships, aeroplanes. And they can do some limited non-lethal upgrades based on the regular course power-ups. But where you are all going to want to go is registration. If you would…"

   Aquamarine Toad stopped in front of a floating holographic blue screen, with many, many lines of initials and scores. He handed Ruby a Wii controller and a keyboard appeared on the screen. Ruby pointed the Wii controller at the screen and clicked her initials 'RS' on the keyboard. The Doctor and Rogue went for TD and RA respectively.

   "RA?" the Doctor said quietly as Aquamarine Toad clicked through to the kart collection screen.

   "I used to use ‘A’ for Art when I needed something for the new boss's forms," Rogue explained.

   They then selected their karts, wheels and parachutes, then followed Aquamarine Toad to the Dealership. It was time to ride.

---

Part 2

@off-traveling-in-the-stars @casavanse @monster-donut @randomwholocker (let me know at any point if you no longer wish to be tagged in each post)