#Spray for Throat & Cough Relief

[einsatzzz]

nauuurrrrrr i think im abt to get sick orz and im almost finished with this one wip too. i'll just go straight to sleep later after work and wake up early tomorrow to finish it

[aidvita]

AidVita Curcumin Oral Spray: Your Go-To Solution for Health and Wellness

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[grugruel]

His Little Killer

Pairings: Cooper howard x f!reader

NSFW/MDNI

Masterlist

Summary: in reluctant companionship with a ghoul, which turns out to be exactly as dreadful as you'd thought. You find yourself in a shoot-out where–post battle–one of your usual fights end way more pleasurable than usual.

Word count: 2.9k

Warnings: (violence, blood, death, in typical fallout manners), enemies to lovers, choking, pinv sex, rough sex, fingering, creampie, pet names (darlin', honey, killer, sweetheart), praise, a pinch of degradation.

AN: not yet proofread! Hope yall enjoy! (Yes, I'm unwell.'

Wood shattering, explosions booming–and charging footsteps heading straight for me. 'At my right!' I shout, gesturing in the direction of the steps. My voice barely registering above the racket of the fight.

Nonetheless, he heard me, I knew he did. Because bullets suddenly whizz past my makeshift cover in every direction except to my right.

The ammunition creating sick squelching noises as they collide with their targets, bloodsplatter spraying the walls a horrifying deep red. Meanwhile, in my corner. The heavy footsteps were left wide open to plough through the old wooden barrels I was hiding behind, 'Holy shii-' I squeak as im tackled to the floor with enough force to knock the breath out of my lungs. I try to cough, try to make my lungs open up as the man grabs hold of me. I hit my chest hard, desperately hoping it would do something–

He grabs my boots, pulling me toward him and finally- I get a breath of air. 'Stupid, fucking asshole.' I mutter through clenched teeth as I lunge and wrestle my attacker, our quarreling bodies kicking up a cloud of dust to swirl around us.

The man was big and foul-smelling, maybe it would've been better refered to as an it, considering the animalistic growls, snapping teeth, and fraying lips that bit and lunged at my face. He attempted to pin my arms to the ground while aiming its teeth at my jugular, but I was quicker. My knee smashing into his balls before he had a single thought of defending himself. He cried out in pain and I took my chance to roll him over, pinning him down with my weight instead, and I began throwing a wave of punches to his face, over and over again. 'I said MY right!' I shouted over my shoulder, weeks of fury and frustration bubbling up inside me as it fueled me into beating the ugly mut unrecognizable–when a second force slammed into my back, knocking me onto the ground once again. Another man, now climbing on top of me, his dirty fingers slithering around my throat and-

Another splatter, this time it's his blood–the second man's, and its sprayed all over me.

'Finally. . .' I exhale heavily, thudding back against the floor, splaying out with relief.

'Were really polishin' up on our teamwork.' A gruff voice announced, words coming out slow and steady with that self-satisfied tone which never failed to get on my nerves.

I heaved myself up on my forearms, angling my body so what remained of the man slumped off of me, and the source of the voice appeared like a specter from the dead man's shadow. 'You're a real pretty sight when ridin' a man like that.' He said, nodding to the guy with a bashed face.

I rolled my eyes, unbelievable. 'You mean while beating the shit out of him?' I ask, my voice pitching higher as I couldnt quite fathom the nerve of that man, despite forcing myself to get used to it over the past few weeks.

He hummed. 'Mhm, really got me goin' for a sec.'

My face scrunched up in disgust. 'Fucking cowboys.' I spat, renouncing the idea loudly. But, quietly, inside my mind, the thought had my core purring unwillingly.

'I shot right, just like you asked.' He shrugged, stalking closer, the drawl in his voice washing through the barren and now battered bar.

'The hell you did!' I hissed. He stopped at my feet, looming over me with his tall frame, frayed coat swaying around his chins, and that stupid cowboy hat covering half his face just like always. We'd been forced travelling companions for a while now, and I could say a lot of nasty things about him, but it was hard to deny- he was a real fucking apocalypse cowboy. Pretty cool if you cut his personality out of the picture.

'I said my right, what the fuck else do you think I ment with "my"?' I kick the lifeless body with my boot, emphasising my point.

'Well. . .' He shrugged, a smirk playing on his lips. '. . .my, right.' He smirked.

I shook my head, shooting him daggers. 'Not even you are moronic enough to get that wrong, ghoul.'

'Well, you're right.' He admitted, shocking me for a second. But then, the problem I've always had with him, inescapable and always the same–he never shut his damn mouth. 'You need to work om your phrasin', honey.'

I shut my eyes, screwing them together so tight I began wishing I could disintegrate from annoyance and seep through the cracks between the weathered floorboards like a corn of sand. But no, I was stuck with him, and had to lay there listening to his idiocy. 'How–?' I sighed a heavy, exasperated sigh. '–is it possible for a man to be so full of himself, yet- never talk about himself?'

'Tricks of the trade, sweetheart.' He winked, clicking his tongue while those forsaken eyes roamed my body like a predator sizing up it's prey, and extended a hand toward me as if it were no big deal.

Exhausted as I was, accepting his help seemed sorely tempting to my tired body. After a moments hesitation, I decided–once, wouldn't harm my morals. So, I grabbed his hand with reluctance and let him pull me to my feet. 'I could've died, I hope you realise.'

'Yes. . . But you didn't.' His lips pulling into a grin. 'I wouldn't let that happen'.'

'You're a real bastard, y'know that?' the words left my lips with an unintentional drawl, damn that man.

The ghoul cocked an inexistent eyebrow. 'If I didnt know any better, I'd say im rubbin' of on you, honey.'

Another scoff from me. 'The only thing you're rubbing–is me the wrong way.' I spat, this time making a point of speaking as plainly as possible.

His eyes lit up suspiciously, filling with mischief as his widening smile creased them. 'Well, tell me how you like it then and I'll do it the right way.' He smirked, his voice gravely as it scraped along my spine with a shiver. He always did this, He'd call me nicknames, flirt with me. All cause he knew I hated it. But now he's just bordering on harassment. It did however, not, stop the heat from rising to my cheeks, or for a blush to seep through my skin. He'd staggered me, I truly didn't know how to react. What happened next was purely instinctively driven–

The palm of my hand made contact with his cheek, a crisp slap sounding out through the room. I even confused myself for a moment, almost as I was the one who'd been hit. But I would've been furious, how he reacted, well. . .

'There you are. . .' He purred, his tone lethal. '. . .my little killer.' A grin spreading across his face as he took a step closer.

He was pure poison, somehow both hot and cold as he ran through my veins. 'I ain't yours.' He wss the only person- ghoul, who could get on every nerve I possessed, lighting it ablaze with frustration.

'No. . .? You ain't?' He chuckled, 'You're sure startin' to sound like it, sweetheart. I see the way you look at me, the way you blush when I call you pretty little names.' He nodded toward my eyes, his hat tipping with the movement as he took another step, gaining on the precious distance between us. I feared he was right, too, my cheeks burned in a way I'd never noticed before. Had I always reacted like this? Before I knew it–I'd flung my palm for his face a once again-

Only this time, he caught my wrist. 'Tsk tsk tsk, you can do better than that, killer.' He let go off me, forcefully shoving my arm back to my side with a scoff.

But now, I'm the one stepping closer, pushing him away by the chest simultaneously. 'I hate you.' I spit, taking another step and push again, but this time he doesn't budge, and I was left standing mere inches away from him, my hands pressed firmly against his chest as my own heaved with frustrated breaths, strands of hair hanging over my face from the ordeal.

'Good. . .' He whispered, brushing wild strands of hair from my face. '. . .Now, show me how much you hate me.'

I could've slapped him again, pushed him again, done anything else than what I actually did. But my body acted on instinct, again-

I crashed into him, my hands grabbing his face as our lips met in a battle for control. He released a breathy moan, his trigger ready hands finding my waist impossibly quick to pull me flush against him, our bodies clashing together in a thud. He hummed. 'That's right, killer. Show me.' He whispered in the air-swallowing gasps between our kisses.

I put pressure behind my hands, walking him backward while my fingers found the buttons of his vest. Undoing them along with the shirt, then slid his coat and vest down his shoulders in one go, right before his back collided with the bar top. My hands found themselves making their beneath his shirt, feeling the dents of his scarred chest as I sucked his lip between my teeth, and bit down. A sharp hiss escaped him, quickly being replaced by a wide grin. 'Naughty girl.' He breathed.

Smiling, I pushed myself off of him. 'You bring it out of me.' I panted, pulling my shirt over my head and unhooking my bra, letting it fall to the floor.

He leaned back against the bar, bracing himself on his elbows as his eyes roamed over my bare chest and flushed face. 'Those are the prettiest fuckin' tit's I've ever seen. . .' He spoke in a low voice, too filled with lust to allow him anything else. 'Now, would you mind.' His hand gestured below my waist, his index finger sliding through the air as he traced the buttons of my pants from a distance.

And an idea struck me, suddenly feeling like I wanted to indulge myself in a little torture. Turning around, I did as he told me and began unbuttoning them, slowly. Terribly, terribly slowly. Sliding them over my hips and down my thighs, bucking my knees and bending over slightly as I pulled my panties down along with them. Just as I stepped out if them and looked over my shoulder to give him a coy little look, perhaps revel in the feeling of his pained expression–I was in for a surprise.

Turning my head over my shoulder, I came fave to face with him, but he wasn't just standing there- no. He collided with my back, his arms already wrapped around ny front to catch me. His shirt bow nowhere to be seen. 'Enough.' He growled, one strong arm wrapping around my breasts as the other wrapped around my waist. He raised me off the floor, held tightly against his chest. I squeeked, giggling as I pulled my legs up. Completley overcome with the anticipation of what was about to befall me–then I all of a sudden found myself pushed over the bar top, chest against the smooth luke warm surface. The quality off it telling me it hadn't been bought when fitted into this weathered building.

Then, the clanging of metal, leather groaning, friction, and his belt hit the floor. Gruff hands ran over the swell of my ass and down the arch of my back, taking his time to feel all of me. 'Been thinkin' 'bout this, how you'd feel falling apart beneath me, on top of me–' he leaned over me, hand wrapping around my neck as he pulled me flush against him only to whisper in my ear. '–around me. . .' He breathed, dragging the words out. '. . . All wet 'n messy with my cum fillin' you up.'

A moan left my lips. 'Show me.' Was all I could get out, a silent pleading to make all those thoughts a reality–and so he did.

Before I knew it, a hand had disappeared to line himself up with my entrance, pushing inside me without as much as a warning.

'Fuck!' I cried out, my voice breaking as my breath left me. It felt never ending, he was huge. But oh, he felt so good.

He groaned, finally stopping as he'd sunken all the way into my core. 'So wet for me already.' His hand slid over my back and shoulder, molding itself to my throat as the other grabbed my hip. Already flush with my back, he inclined his head, leaving trail of kisses along my spine and neck.

'Fuck me, please Coop-' it was the first time I'd called him by his name, and I realised it the second it left my lips.

His lips curled against my skin, a smile-

He thrusted into me, again and again. My back arching into an angled I had no idea it was capable of, helping him hit my core at every rut of his hips–not that he needed it. The 200+ years of experience really showed, and they were definitely felt.

The bar was dead silent, no noise except for our joint breaths of pleasure and the sound of slapping skin. It was lewd and brutal, and It made me absolutely delerious. His low, pained grunting in my ear did nothing to ease the matter. He'd created an aching so strong within me I wasn't sure It'd ever be able to be tamed.

'Harder, harder, please.' I stuttered, the words barely coming out between my heavy pants. Fuck, he made me feral. Without even trying, that's just what he was capable of. It annoyed me, he managed to annoy me while fucking me senseless. Oh, how I wish I could hate him, but there was no going back now.

Coop left little love bites all along my shoulder, and up the side of my throat, nipping and kissing in equal meassure as his breathing warmed my skin deliciously. Doing it all with such precision I couldnt understand, his thrust were rocking my emtire body, his chest rubbing againdt my back, yet he could be so delicate. I side ive never seen before. 'Little killer ain't so tough no more, is she?' He whispered, placing a kiss behind my ear before biting the lobe, tugging in it gently.

'. . . Mmh- 'm not, I'm not.' I got out. I was whatever he said I was while he delivered this type of pleasure on a silver platter. I didn't care, my morals had been thrown out the window the second his lips touched mine.

'Well, look at that. Admittin' defeat already?' I could feel his stupid grin again, his pace slowing- still ruthless, but it did enough for that feeling of building pressure to wain inside me.

I shook my head, shutting my eyes hard as I tried to focus on his member moving inside me, desperate not to lose that red string that'd lead me to climax.

'Words, sweetheart. Use em'. .'

'Dont fucking care.' I cried. 'J- just- Fuck. Me. Harder.' I ground out, my teeth clenching real hard from a mix of desperation and frustration for the pressure to start rebuilding.

'That'll do.' He groaned, squeezing my throat. All the while his other hand slid down to my cunt, starting condensed circling around my clit. And just like that, he'd made me into a whimpering mess for him to steady, falling apart beneath him just like he'd thought. Then he simply took up right where he left off, without missing a beat he thrusted so ferociously I was sure I'd be bruising on every single part of my body from the vibrations that rumbled through my muscles alone.

The darkness of my lips were specking with white, a wall of pressure building brick by brick in my abdomen. 'Close, so fucking close.' I whimpered.

'Good- Good job sweetheart. Doin' so good for me.' He burried his face in my hair, nuzzling his nose into its scent, inhaling it as he too approached climax. And there it was, that sudden softness. It was almost unsteadying my senses more than his touch, more than his thrusts, but only almost. 'You sound so sweet for me, honey. Let me hear ya'. . .' He moaned, exhaling warmth against the nape of my neck.

I obliged, of course I did. 'Feels so good, Coop- so close. . .' I panted, tears burning my eyes as they began rolling down my cheeks.

He slid his hand upward, keeping it between me jaw and throat, still choking me as he angled my face over my shoulder, enabling him to kiss me properly. And I've never been more thankful because I was about to cry myself dry as the wall broke. Pleasure flooding through my body in tidal waves, my knees bucking beneath me. 'Good girl.' He praised, voice muffled against my lips. Fingers stopping to instead cup my aching cunt. 'My good fuckin' girl, my little killer.' He moaned softly, my lips vibrating from the roughness in his voice as he caught me, delivering a final few ruts of his hips before he too came. Doing just as he promised, filling me up with his cum.

He loosed his grip around my throat and slit, letting me depend on the counter for support while he held me. 'Still hate me?'

'Yes.' I didn't, but it'd be a long time before I admitted that to him.

'Good.' And then there was silence, our lungs catching up with our breaths. 'Still wanna see those pretty hips ride me.' He murmured as he hugged me from behind, his hand sliding lower, pinching my hipbone.

'Ow! Asshole.' I yelped, and he kissed my shoulder to make up for it. But the thought was alluring nonetheless. I wriggled in his embrace, looking around at the destruction we'd caused, at the- dead bodies. And a pang of guilt hit me. 'Fine, but not here.' I agreed, actually wanting nothing more than to get out of there and sit in his lap, maybe ride his thighs too.

We redress, and share a kiss before leaving. 'Can't wait to taste that cunt of yours, killer.' He murmured suddenly. Leaving me staggered once again.

Ugh, I'm done for.

[fairyniceyeah]

🧚🏻‍♀️Emeto cheat sheet

Causes of vomiting:

Alcohol (+Flush gene)

Allergic reaction

Anxiety

Appendicitis   

Bulimia

Cancer (+Chemotherapy)

Coffee on empty stomach

Crohn’s Disease

Cycling Vomiting Syndrome

Exhaustion

Extortion (sports) on empty stomach       

Fevers       

Flu

Food intolerances       

Food poisoning (salmonella, E.Coli …)·       

Gallstones       

Gastroenteritis       

Gastrointestinal Obstruction

Gastroparesis    

Hangover

Heat/Heat stroke   

Indigestion

Kidney Infection

Labyrinthitis (ear infection)

Lactose Intolerance

Medication (Antibiotics, opioids)

Ménières Disease

Meningitis       

Migraines/Headaches       

Motion sickness (cars, buses, boats, planes …)       

Norovirus

Overeating       

Pain      

Panic Attacks  

Poison

Pregnancy

Reflux     

Rollercoasters       

Stomach flu

Ulcerative colitis

Ulcers

UTIs

Vertigo

What happens before:

Abdominal pain

Clutching Stomach

Dizziness/Vertigo

Dry Mouth

Dry-heaving

Gagging 

Hand (Back of hand/Palm) to mouth

Heaviness of limbs

Nausea/Queasiness/Feeling sick

Paleness/Ashen, green or grey face

Panic/Fear

Rapid heartbeat

Reacting to stimulants (sight/smell/taste of food e.g)

Salivia builds up/Mouth waters

Shallow/Rapid breathing

Sour stomach

Stomach cramps

Sweating

Throat tightening

Wanting fresh air

What happens during:

Sound:

Burp/Hiccough

Coughing

Echoing back 

Gagging/Retching/Heaving/Wretching

Gurgling stomach

Rapid breathing

Splattering

Vomit hitting water/receptacle

Sight:

(No) Remnants of previous food

Color (Brown/Depends on previous food) of sick

Liquidly/Chunky/Thick sick

Vomit in corner of mouth

Vomit/Sick/Throw up splattering on floor

Smell:

Acidic

Putrid

Rancid

Sour

Taste:

Acidic

Bitter

Previous food

Sour

Feeling/Misc.:

Back rippling

Burning in mouth/throat/nose

Choking/Feeling like there is no air

Crying

Curling up into themselves/into caretaker

Gagging/Retching/Heaving

Hot vomit/bile/stomach contents

Hyperventilation/Panic

Liquidly/Chunky/Thick sick

Sticky sick on clothing

Stomach contracting/Rolling/Gurgling

Stomach contents sloshing around

Torrent/Wave/Spray/Mouthfuls of sick coming up

Trembling

Vomit gushing/rushing out of mouth (+nose)/up their throat

Vomit seeping through fingers

What happens after:

Being overwhelmed

Blurry vision (from tears)

Changing clothes/Cleaning

Coughing

Cramps

Crying/Sobbing

Cuddling/Soothing

Dehydration

Dizziness/Vertigo

Drinking water

Falling/Slumping forwards against toilet/bucket

Lost/Rough voice/Pain in throat

Medication

Passing out/Fainting

Resting head on toilet seat

Shaking/Trembling

Staying hunched over – not sure if gonna be sick again

Taking Temperature

Wiping away tears/vomit

What the caretaker can do:

Call for help (another caretaker/medical)

Cleaning/Disinfecting

Hold bucket/trash bin/other receptacle

Holding back hair (strands/at the neck)/fringe

Holding sickie upright

Holding sickies hand

Make hot water bottle

Make sickie blow their nose

Make sickie drink to replenish lost fluids

Make sickie lay down (on their side/on caretaker’s lap)

Make sickie take medication/temperature

Make soup

Rubbing circles on back

Rubbing stomach

Soothe sickie (don’t hold it in, you will feel better after …)

Whispering comfort

Wiping away tears/vomit

Other related symptoms:

Abdominal pain/cramps

Bloating

Diarrhea

Dizziness/Vertigo

Fever

Headache/Dehydration headache

Hiccoughs/Burping

Inability to keep anything down

Nausea

Paleness/Grey, green or ashen face

Shaking/Trembling

Possible scenarios:

Bathroom is occupied

Being in public/situation they can’t escape from

Caretaker finding sickie on bathroom floor

Carrying a bucket around wherever sickie goes

Clutching a bucket/bin/plastic bag/toilet so hard their knuckles turn white

Cramps so bad sickie can’t move

Curling up on bathroom floor

Eating something despite knowing they are allergic to it

Eating something without realizing they are allergic to it

Feeling sick all day without relief

Feverish and dizzy

Getting admitted to hospital

Inability to keep anything down

Movie marathon as distraction

Multiple sickies (+ not enough bathrooms)

Rubbing sick tummy

Sick during transport

Throwing up in (empty/full) trash bin

Throwing up in bag

Throwing up in bucket

Throwing up in hand

Throwing up in toilet

Throwing up on blankets

Throwing up on floor

Throwing up on something/someone

Throwing up the medication/pills

Throwing up what they just ate/drank

Unable to leave bathroom

Unable to make it to bathroom

Waking up sick in the middle of the night

If you have any more suggestions, please contact me ✌🏼

[bitten-fruit]

Houndtooth | ⇦ Chapter 6 ⇨

Ghost x f!Reader - tags: slow burn, enemies to lovers, abduction, bodyguard, forced cooperation, smut

18+ mdni - cw: physical violence - 3.9k words

𝐕𝐈. 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞

There should be blood.  

You’d never have thought you could experience such visceral, rib-crushing pain, with so little blood.  

It feels like blood, the hot foam spraying from your mouth as you cough so viciously, forcing as much of it as you can out of your aching lungs. It feels like blood as it pours from your nose, thick with mucus, the delicate skin of your swollen sinuses and closing throat burn like you’ve inhaled blistering steam.  

But it’s only water. Saturating you inside and out, dripping from orifices and off extremities, you shiver violently as if you’d been left in the blizzard – though you don’t feel cold. Your body smoulders with adrenaline, so ravaged by the carnal desperation to survive that your heart still blazes hot and your muscles burn with the acid of exertion.  

Your jittering fingers are weak, barely strong enough to grip the soaked rag from your face and drop it to the plastic floor with a splat.  

Your lungs gnaw for oxygen, too anguished to swallow a breath to sate the need – you only sip at the chemical air as you attempt to roll yourself off the steel table; now that no masculine claws hold you down to it.  

The impact as you land face-down on the linoleum tosses an animalistic squeak from your throat. Purely mechanical; the whine of deteriorated, corroded machinery.  

But you alert the skullhead, all the same. Your hunter turns his head over his thick shoulder, just enough to look down at you, as the other tormentor marches out of the cell and slams the door behind him.  

You’d like to run. You dream of it, as you float in between states of consciousness – you see yourself leaping to your feet, tearing open that door and jetting off down the hall – only to open your eyes again, to blink, and see the speckled vinyl under your nose.  

He simply stares at you. Observes you as if he is intrigued by your suffering.  

You see his boots, hardly able to lift your head enough to see him in his mammoth entirety. The boots take hesitant steps in your direction, heavy and thumping on the floor, you feel the vibrations of his weight across it. Your reaction to his approach is reflex – a shriek, sudden adrenaline giving you the strength to push yourself up just enough to scurry backwards away from him, though still unable to stand.  

“You’ll survive,” he says under his breath, but it sounds more like a promise than an admonishment. You glare up at him. Panting like a trapped rabbit. Vision faded and throbbing.  

“I can’t – I,” your attempts to beg get caught in your swollen throat, wet and desperate, “please, I can’t take – please don’t do it anymore. Not again, please–”  

“There’s not going to be any more water,” he grunts, through teeth, as though irate that you had made him say so.  

A soaked sob escapes you, indeterminable whether out of relief or simply your body shutting down. You attempt to wipe away the wetness on your cheeks with trembling hands. 

“Promise.”

In your utterly fevered mind you cannot not understand the source of your audacity to request such a vow, from a man so plainly without morals, and yet your tongue forms the plea nonetheless. “Please.”  

And after a tense pause, he surprises you. With a beleaguered huff, he answers; “Okay.” 

Your sticky eyes flit across his features, from under your brow, you attempt to thank him with a shaky nod. He crouches slowly in front of you, rests his elbows on his knees. His shadowy eyes seem to catch the light of the glaring overheads, the colour of burnt honey, the first time you’ve been able to see them. Maybe it’s because he’s not scowling. 

“Don’t get your hopes up,” he mutters, muffled by the dense knit of his mask. “You’re not done here.”  

Your appreciation is quick to sour. Your lips curl into a vengeful line, but your eyes betray the cracks that spider through your veneer; brow twisting into an expression of misery despite trying to contain it, you cry. Breaking out in stunted sobs. Sucking in squeaking breaths to fuel the next ones.  

He’s adept in keeping you confused, the fucking beast, not allowing a single expectation to form, a single prediction to prove correct. Rewrites his code just as you begin to translate it. You can beg at him, but only so long as he is entertained by it. You can seethe at him, but not so viciously that he is compelled to punish you.  

Does he want you to submit to him? Does he want you to fight him? Despite your attempts you cannot determine. Up until now you’ve been walking the line between both, careful not to tip too far in either direction.  

Now you are running on pure instinct. Your torture has, for now, rinsed away any mask you have tried to maintain. Leaving only the raw, dripping, desperate organs that you consist of. Burgundy and beaten.  

He reaches forward, calloused hands slipping indifferently under your arms and lifting you up with him as he stands, hoisting you like you’re a limp cat. It’s odd feeling his bare skin on yours. So far only gloved fingers have grazed you. It’s warm.  

“Can you stand?” He asks, monotonously and impatiently, ensuring you interpret no kindness in his concern.  

“Think - so,” you shudder, not yet quite able to create cohesive words.  

He lowers you to your feet, you tap the floor with your toes to ensure you can grip it as he removes his hands from you. Your knees wobble like colt legs as your weight returns to them, you’re rendered dizzy by the sudden verticality. And, wholly unintentionally, your arms jut out on reflex to prevent yourself from toppling over, bound hands landing flat on his upper stomach. You feel his muscles tense rigid with the touch, skin burning hot through the fabric of his black half-zip fleece – for a brief, nauseating moment, you find comfort in it. Heartbeat. Breathing. Human.  

His monstrous hand moves disinterestedly to your wrists, and he clutches them tightly – your stare darts to meet his. His eyes are cautious, scrutinising, blond eyelashes flittering as his glare dances around your face, reading words on a page.  

You expect him to scold you, or tell you that won’t work as if you had done it purposefully to endear yourself to him – but he silently peels your hands from him, pushing them towards you so they sit under your chin.  

“Ready to see your husband?”  

Ghost is well acquainted with terror. Both endured and inflicted. And after years, decades, of suffering his own, he has become a savant in that specialty. Injecting the fear of God into those that cross him, only to remind them it’s him they should pray to.  

But it has never made him feel so sick.  

So nauseated.   

A silent pleading in your touch. Accidental and yet so careful. It turned him to stone, the moment the pads of your fingers landed on him, the resting of your wobbly weight in your hand against him. A gentle and ruthless reminder that despite being a foreign, machiavellian, billionaire warlord;  

You’re just a girl.  

Too scared of him to beg, too frightened to fight, too small to try. 

The bitterness of guilt bubbles at the back of his tongue. Acrid enough to make him swallow. A taste he had long forgotten. Your red eyes gaze at him wetly and nervously, smeared black by the makeup that has been liquefied by your torture and your tears. And he feels guilty. 

Christ. Pathetic.  

He’s got one job to do. One objective. Prevent the mass murder of thousands, hundreds of thousands, millions. Your husband is an orchestrator of death and agony. You are the leech at his ankle, bleeding him of that evil.  

You’re ready for your only purpose here. To be used as leverage, to coerce and extort a terrorist kingpin. To be shaken, tearful, yet still alluring enough to remind him of the cost of his sin – losing the only thing that lets him pretend he’s more human than creature. You.  

Your reaction to the mention of your husband is unreadable. Nervous and yet hopeful. Scornful and yet tender. But you are speechless, only whimpering as your lungs readjust to the ability to breathe, as your fight-or-flight begins to settle back down into dark dejection. You stay quiet as he once again pulls that black hood over your head, not bothering to tighten its fastening.  

With a commanding grip of your upper arm, he guides you with a push, keeping you in front of him so you don’t trip on your feet. And you need that balance, clearly, squeaking and stumbling over your weak legs as he takes you to the door. You land with your back against him, unintentionally using his rigidity to keep you stable.  

Unlocking the door, he nudges you through it, steers you down the clinical hallway; a continual tunnel of plastic, painted cinderblock walls, droning fluorescents, heavy steel doors. He ferries you to one in particular, marked No Entry, and kicks it open – it leads to a steel staircase, spiralling deep into the subterranean basement of the compound.  

The guttural roars are already audible from deep below. They echo through the cement chute, reverberating like the cries of angered spirits from the walls, chattering the rusting stairs as they creak with the weight of him.  

You let out a yelp, tripping over your feet as you attempt to descend the stairs with him; you tumble knees-first onto the steel and cry out from behind your blinding hood. Firm grip not waning, he prevents you from falling any further. Fuck’s sake.  

“C’mere,” he chuffs, disgruntled, lowering himself to scoop you up. Tosses you over his shoulder. You feel different. When he carted you to the helo, you were unyielding, stiff, hot – every muscle, every breath begrudging your abduction. Now you’re damp and flaccid, cold like a wet cloth. You hang from his shoulder like he might be able to wring you out. It makes his job easier. It makes his stomach churn.  

A minute of raucous cries growing louder, Ghost reaches the door, hauling you like a body bag. Thick, steel, no window. He knocks in code. One-two, one, one-two-three.  

Shut up, shut the fuck up – he hears through the door, some shuffling and and the odd thud.  

The door squeals open. Price stands in its frame – bloody, swearing, red on his neck and veins bulging in his temples.  

“Simon,” he greets through his jaw, “good timing.”  

Ghost nods, adjusting you on his shoulder with a jolt, you respond with a squeak.  

Price sucks his teeth, an air of disapproval, he raises his eyebrows. “Glad you’ve kept her alive for us, eh.”  

Fuck off, captain.  

He feels the urge to defend himself, but he bites his tongue. No sense in attempting to prove he’s not as barbaric as they think he is, while you’re wet, half-naked, and near-dead slung over his shoulder.  

Price steps aside to allow Ghost through – the room is dark, lit only by the down-lighting of the bulb hanging from the centre of the ceiling. Raw concrete walls, cement floor, the odd steel shelving housing old tools and electrical paraphernalia.  

In the centre sits your husband. Victor Zakhaev. 

Duct-taped to his chair, hands bound to the armrests, ankles tethered to the legs. Shirtless, dripping with sweat, skin red and purple and speckled with blood. What a fucking sight to behold. Ghost’s mood is lifted just at the vision of his much deserved agony.  

His eyes swollen nearly shut, thick with the blood that pools under the surface of his skin – he looks up, scowling, glare catching on the ass of the woman carried into the room.  

“What the fuck,” he mutters, teeth bared. 

Ghost carts you towards the seat across from your husband. He drops you down into it, too carefully, makes sure you don’t land too harshly. You whimper nonetheless – panting, shivering, negligée still too sheer from the wetness of your torment.  

“Mia?” Zakhaev grunts, squinting, his tone more bitter than concerned.  

Price, having locked the heavy door, strolls to stand behind you and abruptly tugs the hood from your head. You wince in the sudden brightness, head bolting around as you hastily absorb your surroundings. He watches as your gaze lands on the man across from you, chest hitching as you hold your breath.  

“Victor?” You breathe, a whine, he cannot determine if out of fear or relief. “Слава богу, ты жив.” Thank God, you’re alive.  

“Что ты им сказал?” What have you told them? 

Seething. Accusatory. No concern for your wellbeing. Ghost suddenly feels he overestimated your value as leverage.  

“Ничего, малыш, я им ничего не говорил.” Nothing, baby, I haven’t told them anything.  

You little liar. Are you attempting to spare yourself the wrath of your husband? Are you trying to ensure you remain useful by keeping your husband on your side?  

Cleverer than he thought.  

Do you love him? 

You know that face.  

That lour.  

The stare your husband gives you when he hates you. When you disobey him. When you disappoint him. The hatred that reminds you how replaceable you are. How easy it would be for him to leave you in the snow-blown wilderness and let you die, how little he would care if he did so.  

You had at first found it almost amusing, that your militant abductors thought they could use you to extort him. As if he cared about you enough to bother spilling a single secret in exchange for your life.  

But, you now know what awaits you if it doesn’t go the way they want it to. Your usefulness will expire. Your time will be up.  

And now, aching, exhausted, withering, your beaten mind only yearns for comfort. Something familiar. The care of a man that isn’t itching to murder you. You just want him to love you.  

Despite how long, how ardently you scorned him and the life he forced you into – now, you miss it. You long for it. Your heart leaps back mere hours ago, when he kissed you, when he held you, when he whispered his Cyrillic pet names in your ear. Mere hours ago, you hated it. Looks like you got what you wished for.  

“Xерня.”  Bullshit.  

You feel the jagged rock rising in your throat, and you release it with a sob, eyes swelling with tears as you longingly glare at him.  

His wounds upset you. Bruises and slices and welts. You wish you could just float back to the estate with him, put ice on his injuries, apologise for ever wishing that you could inflict those wounds on him yourself. You had everything and you forsook it.  

“Я этого не делал, обещаю. Я тебя люблю.” I didn’t, I promise. I love you.  

The man whose voice you recognised, the one you had named The Captain, steps around your chair, stands in front of you with a roll of duct tape in hand – a shrill tear as he pulls off a piece. You tilt your head to glare up at him, and he takes you in his hand. Sticks the strap over your mouth, silencing you. 

He moves aside, your eyes once again land on your husband. Even more hateful than before. You hope he can see in your eyes how devotedly you love him. It mightn’t even be true, but you cling to it, with nothing else left.  

Your hunter re-enters your line of sight, sauntering behind Victor, leaning against the concrete wall, returning to the shadows. He crosses his arms, spectating it as if it were sport. He meets your eye from under the darkness of his mask. Fucking animal.  

The Captain grumbles from elsewhere in the room, amongst the clinks and clatters of whatever tool of suffering he prepares. “Had no idea your wife was so pretty, Victor.”  

Victor scoffs, as though amused, still harshly disdainful. “Как ты думаешь, почему я женился на ней?” Why do you think I married her? 

Captain chortles. “Mh. Not sure why she married you, though, eh?”  

“Take a guess,” your husband snarls, switching tongues. You know the answer, don’t you? His wallet. His empty promises.  

“Can’t be for your looks,” the Captain jeers. The familiar clicks of a spinning barrel ring out from where he stands. “I expect you lovebirds are familiar with русская рулетка.” Russian roulette.  

Your heart drops like steel.  

Your tongue forms your pleas behind your lips, as if you could speak them, instead you just moan and quiver in your chair, hoping they’ll listen. 

You jerk your head to see the Captain approach you. Behind you, he puts a warm and gentle hand on your shoulder, and you feel the sharply cold point of the revolver’s mouth against your opposite temple. You can only whimper, too terrified to tug yourself away, deathly afraid the gun will go off with the slightest movement.  

Please don’t kill me, you silently beg, entreating eyes land on your hunter. He observes disinterestedly. Please don’t let him kill me.  

“Alright, Victor,” the Captain drones, nudging the pistol at your forehead. “Tell us about London.”  

“Пошел на хуй.” Go fuck yourself. Victor spits, the apprehension in his voice belying the venom in his throat.  

“We know you’ve got WMDs in production. You know you’re only delaying the inevitable, right?”  

“You’re full of shit,” your husband growls. “You think I’m stupid? You have nothing.”  

“You’d be surprised.”  

Click.  

You scream – jolting unconsciously as you feel the gun crack against your temple – chamber empty. One down. Five to go.  

Your husband jumps, glowering at you, then the Captain, shuffling in his chair and out of breath.  

“Иди на хуй! Fuck you. Fuck you,” he roars, neck straining with his intensity. “You’re too fucking noble, Captain. You’re going to murder a woman in cold blood? No, you don’t have it in you, Ты жалкий хуй.” You pathetic fuck. 

“London. When.”  

“You’re stupider than I thought if you believe this will work.”  

Click.  

Your throat burns with the intensity of your crying, shrieking in horror as you survive yet another pull of the trigger – the click as loud as the eruption of a bullet. 

“You’ll really let your wife die for your lost fuckin’ cause, Victor?” The Captain admonishes him, grip of your shoulder firm and bizarrely comforting – your sanity begins to drift away from you, you watch as it fades.  

Victor releases a huff of scornful laughter. “Lost cause? You are desperate, Captain. Desperate enough to bring my wife into this.”  

“She’s one of many options,” the Captain threatens, “not a last resort.”  

“You’re a fool. It might be your first time killing a woman, it’s not mine.”  

Click.  

Your screams turn to whimpers, heart and lungs depleted of all strength, eyes itching with the flood of tears that flow from their swollen glands.  

“Do it. Go on. You fucking asshole.” Your husband goads him, shaking with fury, he averts your gaze even still  

Click.  

“Two left!” The Captain roars, “the odds really are in Mrs. Zakhaev’s favour, eh? Now we’ve got a fifty-fifty chance, don’t we.”  

“Fuck you. I’m not telling you anything. Not for that whore.”  

You sob, head tumbling from your shoulders in defeat and exhaustion – you'll die here. Two chambers left, one containing certain death. Your fucking husband will let it get down to the last round just to prove his obstinance. He’d let a bullet blast through your head just to prove a point.  

“It’s two simple things, Victor. Only two things you need to spill. When your fucking cabal of Soviet pricks is hitting London, and what with. Is that really worth her life, mate?”  

The Captain slips his hand under your jaw, lifting your head to realign it with his pistol. Victor glares at you. Finally meets your gaze. His eyes are small and black, beady like a shark, furious that you’ve put him in this position.  

“I’m not as pathetic as you, Captain,” he shouts, knuckles white, he shakes the steel chair like he might break it.  

Click.  

This time, you shriek, so certain that would be the end – no, another blank shot, another roll of the barrel. Which leaves the last chamber.  

Now it’s an execution. Now, you cry, and writhe, and tug, and kick, and scream – wordlessly begging, anything to plead with your husband to just tell them! It can’t be that horrific. It can’t be worth more than your life. He can’t love you that little.  

“Doesn’t seem like your wife is ready to die for you. Listen to her.” The Captain snarls, his thumb on your jaw, the revolver cold on your forehead. “It’d be such a waste. An awful shame to lose such a beauty. Wouldn’t it?”  

Victor’s skin is burning red, thumping with rage, he glares at you so viciously it terrifies you that he might tear free from his restraints and kill you himself. Something you always feared might happen eventually.  

He snorts loudly, hurling a lump of thick saliva onto the cement floor with a loud spit.  

“Go on, Captain, fucking shoot her,” he roars. “I’m not weak, like you. She’s just a fucking whore. I picked her up from the streets. And I married her for her cunt – and there are plenty of nice cunts out there. You think I give a shit what you do to her? You’ve probably already fucked her, I bet. Did she ask you to put your cock in her? It’s all she’s fucking good for, and she’s not even that good at it. I'm sure she bent over the second you broke into my house, you son of a bitch. Tell me, was she good for you? She’s not very good at listening to me, so maybe not. She’s good at sucking cock, though – did she offer that to you? It’s the only thing she knows how to do. I bet that’s why you haven’t fucking killed her already. You’d be doing me a favour. She spends my money like it’s fucking hers. You’d be saving me money if you put her down like the worn-out bitch she–” 

Bang. 

Wailing in horror, you’re certain that was your demise, that you had just drawn your last breath – briefly wondering if your spirit had already drifted from your filthy body, a death so instant that you were spared the agony of a bullet tearing through your skull.  

But you open your eyes, trembling, sobbing, dizzied by the sudden silence; to see your husband’s head hanging off his shoulders. A fountain of maroon blood. The splash and dribble of it pouring thick from the red crater in the centre of his forehead. It lands on his knees, drips from his fingers, puddles on the concrete floor around his feet.  

Behind him, your hunter.  

Gun raised. Still smoking.  

“Fuck’s sake, Ghost,” the Captain chides loudly, releasing his grip on your head, dropping the gun from your temple.  

You release a heaving breath, almost fainting with the relief, your vision begins to fade.  

“Had to shut him up,” your hunter grunts. Seems nonchalant about his sudden murder. Irritated that he had to waste the bullet.  

“Why? We were just getting him talking.”  

The hunter sniffs, rolling his head on his shoulders, cracking his spine.  

“Just had to.” 

Next chapter ⇨

[zeebreezin]

random generator gave me 40 so, an impulsive kiss with two guys of your choice?? >:3

Okay, so, before I get blown up for this one - I blame Viric. Nothing else to say in my defense though.

#40 - An Impulsive Kiss (Horror Mode!)

Conversation rarely fills the space anymore. Hours would pass aboard the ice-locked ship in near silence, the only sounds being the groaning of the Arctic’s pressure against her wooden hull. The crew spend their days in a mockery of routine, standing at posts half frozen to their boots. There used to be more to this, though that’s hard to remember at this point. Noises. Life. Chatter, in the early days. But the frost had torn such pleasantries away, the frigid air scrapping at throats and social convention for months at this point. Heavy boots on the wooden decks used to disperse some of the quiet. Now, one by one, even those are falling silent. .

Days and nights passed in a blur, the few thin hours of hazy sunlight long since swallowed by perpetual night this late in the season. There was a time where Lt. Grace had tried to keep track of the date. Now, though, there was only one thing that truly marked the passage of time. The ringing of the frost coated ship’s bell cut through his half-conscious pacing like a blade. A summoning of the crew. There was only one reason for those at this point.

That couldn’t be right - it hadn’t been long enough. Had it?

Nevertheless, the crew shuffled onto the deck. A sea of wild hair and blue uniforms, both in varying states of disregard. A few words were passed between them, pleasantries muttered through bleeding lips. Some muttered prayers. Others looked on the brink of tears already, though they kept their gaze low. A few stood near the back, hunger barely concealed in their eyes. Grace surveyed the crowd, doing all he could to maintain the commanding air of an officer even as his stomach churned. There were so few, now. Even if the ice melted tonight, in some grand miracle, there wouldn’t be enough hands to sail a vessel of this size anywhere near a port.

The lieutenant wanted to believe that the cold and the wild had taken most of them. That the many hammocks that now swung empty could be blamed on the wrath of nature, on illness, on winter itself - not hungry, mortal hands. He wanted to believe that, truly. But he couldn’t be sure. Not anymore.

A cold, shivering fist held the straws high. Once, there had been a bit of ceremony to the process. Not anymore. The first draws occurred without incident. Tense men shuffling forwards, breathing the smallest sighs of relief. Collapsing into the arms of the others as they stepped out of line, a thin strip of wood still held in a shaking hand.

Grace was next in line when it happened. An able bodied sailor stood in front of him, his wide eyes nearly swallowed by his ginger curls. Grace barely managed to catch a glimpse of that short, bloodied straw before the sailor screamed. It was a desperate, animalistic sound, dwarfing even the chime of the bell that marked when a man must die.

After hours of frigid stagnation, everything began to move at once.

Grace took a step back as the sailor turned away from the officer holding the straws, eyes wide with terror. A flash of steel under the fading firelight, somewhere far behind him. The sailor lunged for him, that same despairing screech still ringing in his ears as Grace tried to stumble back, losing his footing along the way and sending the two sprawling onto the ship’s deck. A cry of pain - someone stuck a blade deep into the sailor’s back on the way down, hungry eyes baring down as Grace tried to get his bearings. The sailor coughed up a spray of crimson.

Then, with a wild, tearful look in his eyes, the man who drew the short straw pressed a kiss to Grace’s lips. He was muttering something as they pulled him away, a few others of the crew staying behind to check on the lieutenant's condition. The sailor’s last words, a desperate plea to a lover he would never again see. The lieutenant’s clawing hands, a poor substitute for a last embrace. The sounds of butchery covered up anything else he may have screamed to the heavens.

Grace couldn’t hear the name that the sailor had been calling out to, through the footfalls and pain. The taste of iron lingered on his lips for far too long, after the meal that night.

[theclairvoyage]

Centrifugation: Chapter 2

Series Masterlist

Frazzled after your rough day at the center, you head out to your regular bar with the work crew, and see a familiar face there.

Warnings: brief mentions of violence, alcohol consumption, fluff, allusions to smut, kissing, groping, talks of divorce

WC: 4.3k

Friday, October 15th | 1730

After Joel left, the cops showed up shortly after and you gave your statement.  They assured you if Cedric returned, he would be arrested.  Trina permanently deferred him in the system, preventing him from checking in.  You felt some relief at that but were concerned about him waiting for you in the parking lot after your shift.  Keri offers to walk you to your car after you both clock out.

“Love, today was rough… so fucking glad it’s Friday.  Want to grab a drink?”  she asks.  You nod fervently, the idea of a cold beer immediately resurrecting you from the depths of this terrible day.

“McKinney’s?” you offer. 

She smiles brightly and nods in agreement. “I’ll come get you.  Just text me when you’re ready.”

McKinney’s is a local Irish dive bar, and the plasma center staff are regulars.  The bartenders are awesome, drinks are dirt cheap, and horrific karaoke is every Friday.

Once you get to your apartment, you take a hot, hot shower, rubbing off the stress and sweat from the day.  You think about Joel’s soft touch and how comforting he was.  You also think about the way he looked at you, causing arousal to pool in your lower belly.  No time to feen over a stranger, you think, washing the premature fantasy out of your mind.

You do a quick towel dry and style your hair, throw on some low-rise jeans that hug your ass, and a skintight black shirt that’s not quite cropped, not quite full-length.  You put on bare-minimum makeup, spray on some of your favorite musky perfume, step into some sandals, and give yourself a quick mirror check.  Your hipbones are peeking out between the bottom of your shirt and the top of your jeans.  The black shirt dips down low enough to show your collarbones and part of your shoulders.  You’re glowing, which is surprising, given the shitty day you had.  You’re not dressed overtly sexy, but you know how the men at the dive bar will react to a little skin and curves.  Fuck it.  Nothing wrong with a little attention.  You grab your phone and text Keri that you’re ready.

Keri: Sounds good.  I’ll be there in 10.

You open the fridge and grab some small Fireball shooters for the drive.  Not long thereafter, you hear Keri’s honk outside the building.  Keri prefers to drive when you two have outings, which you don’t mind at all.  She’s got a nice house in the Benson area, not too far from work or from your apartment.  She’s divorced and about 10 years your senior.  The two of you have always clicked, and you enjoy spending time with her in and outside of work.

You: Bet. Shooters engaged.

You trot to her car, holding up the shooters and grinning once she’s in view.  She grimaces.  You hop in and crack the shooters open, clink yours against hers and take the shot, the spicy cinnamon liquor trickling down your throat, burning as it travels down the ridges. 

“Ready to get your drank on, bitch?” Keri coughs, and you both cackle.

Shortly thereafter, you arrive at McKinney’s.  The parking lot is jam-packed, meaning you’ll probably have a smorgasbord of awful karaoke singers lining up.  You walk in and take your usual spots at the bar, facing the karaoke stage.  One of your favorite bartenders, Jessica, greets you and Keri.  “Hey, ladies.  Heard there was a ruckus at the plasma center today,” she says, motioning over at Blake and some other employees at one of the tables by the stage, who wave at you both.  You both laugh and wave back.  “Jess, it was fucking nuts.  This one here about got hep C.  Cops got called and everything,” Keri says.

“Jesus… well, the first round’s on me.  Sorry you had to deal with that,” Jess says, bringing over a pitcher of Busch Light.  Not your favorite, but when pitchers are $5, it’s hard to pass up.  Keri pours you both a glass and you clink them together before taking a big swig.

You both join the table with the rest of the employees, putting some tables together and chatting.  You get up to go to the bathroom.  On your way back, you stop by the bar and ask Jess for a couple more pitchers.  She obliges, and you wait at the bar while she fills them up.

“Hey, darlin’.  Can’t imagine why you’d be here on a night like this,” a deep Southern drawl croons in your ear, coating your name in velvet.  You freeze and look behind you to see Joel.  He’s swapped his red flannel for a blue one that hugs his biceps and traps, along with some black jeans and boots.  His hair is slicked back, showing off gray stripes that wrap the front and sides of his face.  What enraptures you most, however, is his scent that you somehow failed to notice earlier today.  He smells of sandalwood and bourbon, spicy and musky at the same time.  You figure it’s probably time to respond to him when you see him smirk and raise his eyebrows at you.

“Hi, Joel!  What are you doing here?”  You say, attempting to stop drooling over him.  Luckily for you, though, he’s making no attempt to stop staring at you.  He takes you in, looking at you from head to toe with that strange look in his eyes you’ve seen for the third time today.  Your stomach does a few back handsprings.  Those low riders that hug your ass were a great idea.

“Keri told me today this is where the cool people in Omaha hang out at, so it’s only natural that I stop by,” he says, grinning at you.  You giggle and lightly smack his arm, the liquid courage giving you balls you thought you never had.  Now it makes sense why Keri suggested you go here this evening.

“Are you doin’ better, sweetheart?  Know today was rough for ya,” he asks, his gaze on you now tender.  Warmth washes over you and you smile at him, putting a hand on his chest.  Joel feels a soft burn where your hand lies and worries you can feel his heart palpitate underneath your fingertips.

“Yes, much better.  I wanted to say thank you for being there for me.  It meant a lot to me,” you say, watching his cheeks curl into a soft smile and a blush creeping up his neck.  Still feeling ballsy, you ask if he wants to sit at the bar or join the group.

“Doesn’t matter to me, darlin’.  You lead the way,” he hums.  You decide you want to spend some alone time with Joel for a bit before returning to the group.  “Sit here,” you say, gesturing to two stools at the bar.  “I’ll drop these pitchers off and come back.”  He nods and half-sits on one of the stools.  You hoist the pitchers and walk over to the table, making sure to swing your hips just in case he’s watching.

Keri grins at you.  You give her a smirk.  “I see what you did there, Ker,” you giggle.  She shrugs, taking a sip of beer.  “Not sure what you’re talking about, girl!”  Uh huh.  You roll your eyes as you drop the pitchers off and return to the bar.

Joel watches you walk back, that half-smile plastered on his face and his eyes flashing black as they travel up and down your body.  You hop up on the bar stool and give him a quizzical look.  “What are you staring at, cowboy?”

“The prettiest woman I’ve seen since I’ve been in Omaha… maybe even ever,” he says in a low voice, getting closer to your ear.  The small hairs on your ear prick up, like his voice is their magnet.  You feel tingles travel down your neck and spine, landing at your core, and clamp your legs together.  Fuuuuck.  He continues, “I feel like I’ve known you a long time… I feel crazy sayin’ that knowin’ damn well we just met today.”

“I feel the same way,” you say, “It really hit me today when we were at the picnic table.”  He nods in agreement.  You stare at each other, and time stops for a moment.  The bar is buzzing, but all you can see and hear is Joel, and he you.  Hopefully this isn’t just the booze and a bad day.

The karaoke host gets on the mic and taps it a few times to let the patrons know karaoke is starting soon.  People travel up to him to put their names in the queue, including some people from your work group.

Joel puts an arm around your shoulders, lightly rubbing the skin on your arm.  “You want somethin’ else to drink?” You turn to him and nod, noticing he’s got a glass of what appears to be whiskey.  He calls Jess over and you order a Dos Equis Ambar.

“Beer girl, huh?” he chuckles.

“Love my beer.  I’ll drink just about anything, though… except whiskey,” you scrunch your nose at his drink, and he laughs.

“It’s not that bad.  Tough thing like you could down it, easily,” he jokes, squeezing your shoulder playfully.  “Here, take a sip and see what ya think.”  You pick up the glass and look down at it, grimacing from the smell.

“So… how do I do this? The expert way of course,” You ask.  One side of his mouth curls up in a smirk.

“Take a smaller sip and swish it ‘round your mouth to get the flavors.  I warn ya, it’s gonna burn a lil’ bit,” he cautions.  You do as he says, trying not to make a face at the sting on your tongue and cheeks.  You taste nothing but pure, smoky alcohol.  He guffaws.

“That’s gotta be straight ethanol with some food dye,” you grimace, smacking your lips a few times and wash the whiskey down with a sip of your beer.  “My tongue is on fire!”

“Told ya.  Just gotta get used t’it,” he says, taking a sip and swishing it around like a champ.

As karaoke starts, you both fall in a comfortable rhythm of conversing and getting to know each other.  You talk about growing up here in Omaha, going to Lincoln, Nebraska for college, and coming back to be close to your family.  Joel talks about growing up in Austin, Texas, and his successful contracting business he runs with his brother, Tommy.  He tells you about his 18-year-old daughter, Sarah, who’s in college in Lincoln, Nebraska at your alma mater, hence the move to Omaha.  He divorced shortly after she was born and has been virtually single since.

“What about you?  Smart, beautiful girl like you gotta be single because she wants to be, not ‘cause she’s short on options,” Joel says, the arm that was around your shoulders earlier traversing across your back, now resting on your opposite thigh.  You look at him wistfully.

“Something like that.  It’s kinda hard for me to connect with people in that way.  I’m… exclusive with my time and energy, I guess.  I just value my alone time and time with my friends,” You say honestly, hoping that doesn’t throw him off.  You really haven’t had a lot of serious relationships and have always preferred being by yourself.  Sure, you had a lot of flings in college, but nobody you wanted to take the next step with.

“I understand.  Seems like a good way to live, if ya ask me.  Can’t be givin’ everybody your time.  I learned that the hard way,” he says, looking away from you, his big, brown eyes shaded in amber melancholy.

“What happened?  If you don’t mind me asking,” you ask, putting your hand on his leg and squeezing lightly.  He reciprocates.

“We had Sarah so young, marriage just seemed like the right thing to do next.  Turns out neither of us was ready nor mature enough for that.  She wanted to go out and be with other men, and I just wanted to raise my daughter and try and make a livin’,” he says, a sad smile playing on his lips.  “Everythin’ happened for a reason, though, can’t say I regret any of it.”  You look him in the eyes and give him a sympathetic smile.  The way he looks at you is so soft, so tender.  Your heart jumps up and down.

“I bet you’re a great dad, I’m sure Sarah appreciates everything you do,” you say, giving him another squeeze.  He turns to look at you, eyes blazing with fondness.

“If you’re interested, I’d like you to meet her.  She’ll be coming up on weekends here and there during school since it’s only an hour away from here.  Oh, and I’d love for you to meet my brother, Tommy.  We expanded the business to some parts of the Midwest, so he and his wife moved up here, too.”

“Wow, that’s great… you guys must’ve made all the right business moves.  I’d love to meet them,” you say, impressed by him.  He snorts.

“Wasn’t always like that.  Our pops helped us out a lot early on… two reckless twenty-something men starting a contracting business with no damn idea how to do it.  We knew how to do the work, but managin’ it is a whole different ballgame.  Plus, I was a single dad not long after we started.  Lotta late nights and caffeine.  We did alright, though.  Got offices in Austin and Dallas, Kansas City, and now Omaha.”  He says, running fingers through his silvery hair.  You feel yourself grinning at him.

This can’t be real, you think.  I just met this man today and already feel so connected to him.  Your face must match your deep thinking, because he asks you if everything is alright.

“Yes, absolutely,” you say, because it is.  His eyes flicker over your face with quiet adoration.  You admire his beard and how his mustache is dark brown, but the hairs littered on his chin and jaw are almost all-white.  You swear you see him lean in ever so slightly and turn nervously to take a sip of your beer.

Karaoke stops for the night, and the jukebox starts playing Eric Claptons’ Wonderful Tonight.  Joel stands from the stool and holds his hand out.  “Wanna dance, pretty girl?”

You blush and take his big, warm hand.  “Of course.”

He leads you out to the dance floor, where most patrons have gathered to sway to the music with someone.  He holds your right hand with his left and pulls you close to him with his right, wrapping his arm around your waist.  You lie your head on his shoulder and let yourself melt into him, wrapping your free arm around his upper back and taking in his scent.  He feels so safe, so strong, so firm.  You could stand here with him forever.

“You know, every man in here wants you, darlin’,” he whispers in your ear.  He feels your smirk on his shoulder.

“Every man?” You ask, taking your head off his shoulder to look him in the eyes.  He knows exactly what you’re asking.  You’re taken aback at how much desire his eyes hold, looking at you like you really are the prettiest woman he’s ever seen.

“Every man,” he whispers.  You’re not sure when he got so close, but you can feel his warm, whiskey-coated breath on your face and your heart starts thumping quickly in your chest.

“I don’t wanna overstep, but I really wanna kiss you,” he says, his eyes traveling from your eyes to your lips and back.  Your heart feels like it’s running hurdles over your ribs, down to the pit of your stomach.

“Please do,” you whisper back, licking your lips.

Time seems to pause indefinitely when he leans in and presses his lips to yours.  His lips are smooth, a lovely contrast from the coarse hair on his beard tickling your skin.  He tastes like whiskey and coffee, and he thinks you taste like beer and heaven.  The kiss is slow and gentle at first, like he’s asking for permission.  You deepen the kiss, lightly nibbling his lower lip and reaching up to tug on his curls.  He groans at that, making your core ignite.  He licks into your mouth and your tongues dance along with the music.  Both of his arms are now wrapped around you, his big hands lightly pulling up the hem of your shirt to feel warm skin near the waistband of your jeans.  He moves his hands up further under your shirt, learning the planes of your back and delighting in the softness of your skin.  The heat of his hands and your growing desire is almost too much, and you have an urging need to cool off before you explode into oblivion.  You both pull away after who knows how long and look each other in the eyes, four pupils jam-packed with lust.

“Wanna step outside?  It’s a little… hot,” you say, still pressed closely to him, and he chuckles while nodding.  He takes your hand and leads you to the outdoor patio, where some torches are lit and the music from inside is playing faintly.  The fall air whistles as it swoops over you, giving you goosebumps.  It’s dimly lit out here, but bright enough that you can see each other in the torch light, the flames dancing playfully over each of your faces.

“Can’t say I’ve ever felt so good from a kiss, darlin’,” Joel says, pulling you into him.  You smash your lips against his like you never stopped.  One of his hands travels to the back of your head, fingers lightly massaging your scalp; the other hand smoothing down your back until he reaches your ass.  A low growl emits from his chest, and you let out a faint moan as he squeezes.  Your hands both find home in his slicked, curly hair, tugging a bit and earning you another growl from Joel.  You know you’re soaked right now, and you can feel his hardening length poking into your lower stomach.

Normally, you would pull back and distance yourself from someone you’ve only known for less than a day, but something about this man has you seeing stars, clouds, and other celestial bodies.  Nothing has ever felt so natural or in sync for you.  He must think so, too, as he breaks the kiss to nip down your jaw and neck, soothing the little bites with his tongue afterwards.  You moan and feel him grip you tighter in response.

“God, ‘m never gonna forget that beautiful sound,” he hums into your neck, sending you reeling.  He licks over to the other side of your neck and kisses his way back up your jaw, back to your ear, where he pulls at the lobe gently with his teeth and sucks it back into his mouth.  You suck in a sharp breath and giggle, knowing that you’ve just given away two of your favorite spots to him.  He chuckles and continues kissing your neck, jaw, collarbone, and ears, simultaneously scratching your smooth skin with his facial hair.  Your skin tastes like vanilla and tangerine, and he marvels at how soft you are and relishes in the sounds he’s pulling from your lips.  “Fuck, Joel,” you whine, “that feels so good.”

“You taste so good, baby,” he says and returns his mouth to yours, hands roaming all over your body but careful to not overstep boundaries.  Your hands do the same, but you both make sure you’re still pressed up as close to each other as possible.  You can feel his rock-hard cock ready to burst through the fabric of his jeans and your wetness pooling in your underwear, threatening to trickle down your thighs.

He pulls away briefly and groans, a look of near-despair clouding his amber eyes.  “I want you so fuckin’ bad, but I wanna do this right.”  You nod in agreement.  Snapshots of Joel taking your clothes off and running his hands and tongue all over your body are racing through your mind, but you know he’s right.  He’s got the same visions of you in his mind and wants nothing more than to make you feel good – physically and emotionally.

“Not like we need to rush anything,” you say, looking up at him.  His smile is so saccharine, and he leans in to kiss you softly on the lips.

“Got nothin’ but time, sweetheart.”  He holds you in his arms for a moment, and the door leading to the patio swings open with a squeak.  Loud music and warbled voices invade your space momentarily before the door shuts.  You look up and see Keri grinning ear to ear.

“See?  I told you you wouldn’t regret coming here, Joel,” she says, pursing her lips at the two of you as she brings her beer up for a sip.  You stick your tongue out and she giggles, turning to go back inside.

Your gurgling stomach makes its entrance, interrupting your sweet moment with Joel.  He chuckles, “Sweetheart, do you wanna go get something to eat?  It’s gettin’ late, and I know you had a long day,” he says, his hands crossing up your back and coming to land on your shoulders.  You hadn’t noticed until now that your stomach felt tense, like you had a hole in it that food needed to fill.  “Probably a good idea… I must’ve forgotten to eat after I left the center today,” you say, rubbing your stomach lightly.  You check your watch.  12:53 am.  Not too late, but the events of the day are starting to drag your body down into the depths of fatigue.  He cups your jaw with both hands and places a chaste kiss on your forehead. 

“Let’s go, then, and I’ll take you home.  Where d’ya wanna go?”  He asks, eyes shifting between yours.  You think of all the places that would be open right now, deciding that something quick and greasy is probably the only option.  You shrug.

“You’re the local, you be the guide,” he says, releasing you from his embrace and taking your hand.  He leads you inside and stops at your work table so you can say goodbye.  You wave at everyone and give Keri a quick hug.  “You let me know when you get home, alright hon’?”  She says, giving you a quick peck on the cheek.  “Yes ma’am, you got it,” you say, hugging her tightly.

You two leave hand in hand and walk to Joel’s black pickup, which looks very expensive and very new.  You attempt to open the passenger door and he stops you.  You raise an eyebrow and give him a confused look.  “Sweetheart, I’m a Southern gentleman,” he trills, opening the door for you and ushering you in with a hand on your lower back.  You smirk and feel the liquid courage bubbling up again.  “Oh yeah?  In more ways than one?”  His eyes flash with desire, moving up and down your frame as you get comfortable in the passenger seat.

“Don’t get me started on all the ways,” he says, voice deep and eyes fixated on yours.  You feel your neck and cheeks heat.  This is gonna be tough.  Joel shuts your door and trots over to the driver’s side.  He pulls out of the parking lot, his free hand reaching over the center console to lace his fingers with yours.  “Decide what you want?”

“I’m thinking classic McDonald’s… I’m a cheap date,” you say, squeezing his hand.  He laughs.

“We’ll see how long that lasts, darlin’… I gotta take you out for a real date soon,” he grins.  Your stomach flips at the thought of going on a real date with Joel.

After you go through the McDonald’s drive through, Joel heads to your place to drop you off.  He approaches the entrance to your building and puts the truck in park.

“Do you want to come in?” You ask.  He gives you a look, almost pained.  “Sure, darlin’.  No funny business, I promise,” he responds.  You tilt your head at him, amused.  “Not sure if we have the same definition of that phrase, but you’re about to find out,” you say, smirking.  He scoffs and moves the truck to a parking spot.

You enter the building and head to your door at the end of the first floor.  Hopefully it’s clean, you think.  You can’t remember the last time a man came over.  You pop in your code and open the door, Joel holding the door beside you.  You set your purse and keys on the kitchen counter and watch Joel’s eyes examine the place.  He looks at the pictures of you and your friends and family hung on the walls.

“Clearly, you’ve always been gorgeous,” he says, pointing to a picture from your 8th grade graduation.  Braces and all.  You smack his arm playfully.  “Shut it.  We can’t all be sexy-cowboy-chico-suave like you,” you gripe, making him burst out laughing.  “Never heard that one before darlin’, but sexy doesn’t cover you,” he says, eyes traveling up and down your frame.  He takes two big steps toward you.  “So, what’s your definition of funny business?” he asks, finger tipping your chin up to look at him.  You smirk and lead him to the couch, grabbing the remote and turning the TV on.

“You’re really gonna regret coming over here,” you giggle, pulling up Hulu.  You scroll down to continue watching The Golden Girls.  Joel groans playfully.  “Yeah… we definitely have different definitions of that word,” he says, putting his arm around you and kicking his feet up as you snuggle into him.

taglist: @burntheedges <3

[alans-snz]

Here it comes. The long-awaited part two to my Ka/veh/th/am fic from a while ago. Featuring a fun little scenario inspired by Gen/shin snzcord last night. Enjoyyy! I'm still having so much fun with this, so I hope you all do as well

Part 1

About Time (Pt. 2/?)

(Gen/shin Im/pact, Al/hai/th/am & Ka/veh)

CW: Light mess

When Alhaitham awoke the next morning, he felt anything but better. His sinuses were filled with congestion, his throat was scratchy, and there was already the persistent tickle of a threatening sneeze in the back of his nose. His eyes still shut, he gave a groggy groan as the tickle feathered through his strong nose. He lazily raised one hand to his nose as he hitched, "Heh'hh, h'hhuh!—"

Teetering on a sneeze, he startled as he felt a soft cloth practically forced into his hand. His breath caught in his throat out of surprise, and he forced his eyes open. In front of him was a familiar blonde figure, sitting directly next to his bed with his long hair neatly tied behind him. His red eyes seemed to show...concern? Sympathy? Alhaitham was too tired to tell.

"K-Kaveh?" Alhaitham asked in shock. His voice was gravelly yet filled with congestion, and speaking was a bit of a chore itself. It took all his might to avoid coughing right then and there. Kaveh had just handed him a handkerchief? Surely, he was dreaming and hadn't actually awoken yet...

"Morning, sunshine," Kaveh teased. "Well don't you look dreamy?" As Alhaitham prepared to snap back at this incessant remark, the buzzing tickle in his reddened nose returned with full force. He clutched the handkerchief to his nose.

"Hh'h...hn'gXt, h'KngXt–chuh...hnKT'chuhh!" Sneeze after sneeze escaped Alhaitham's nose, sending him pitching forward so he was forced to sit up in the bed. The more he stifled them, the more the tickle seemed to build. But Archons forbid he were to embarrass himself even more than he already had this morning with Kaveh directly next to him. He felt a gentle hand on his back. Kaveh was...comforting him? Or maybe he was just supporting his weight. Alhaitham shivered. Although gentle, the hand felt cold after a night of sleeping under the warm covers.

Alhaitham took a quick quivering breath and tightly pinched his nose with the handkerchief once more, "H'hh, h'hheh...hn'Xt, hn'GkT!—chuhh...H'gSxt-uhh, hKgt–uhh!" The stifles were growing progressively more desperate and powerful and continued to give him no relief. Alhaitham's eyes were beginning to tear up, and his nose was slowly beginning to rebel against his stubborn refusal to sneeze freely.

"Haitham..." Kaveh stated calmly, a hint of gentleness and concern in his tone, "Please, let yourself sneeze. You'll feel better."

"I c-can't—" Alhaitham began quickly, "I can't let y-heh-you..." His teary eyes narrowed, and before he could pinch his nose again, Kaveh grasped ahold of the man's wrists. Alhaitham couldn't even process it very well, he was so focused on fighting the sensation to sneeze. But oh Archons, he needed to sneeze, and he needed to sneeze now.

Unable to pinch his nose with Kaveh tightly holding his wrists, Alhaitham clenched his teeth. "Hn'GSs-chhn!" A gentle spray misted the covers. While it wasn't as satisfying as a full sneeze, it was better than the stifles from previously. As a result of this slight release, his nose did not seem ready to stop. "Hn'GnKt—chnn, hn'GsS—chihn! Hh'huuhh!" A desperate gasp escaped Alhaitham's lips, the following sneezes avoiding restraint.

"Heh'GSSchuu, h'YISs–chyuu!" Alhaitham's body convulsed forward with the powerful double. He shivered and took another sharp breath. His nose was far from done. "Hih'hh...heh'AS'shyuu, hah'TIS'schhih! YISs'Shhuhh! Ung...snrfk..." The final sneeze in the small fit was punctuated with a soft groan and a congested sniffle. Kaveh let go of his wrists, and Alhaitham brought the handkerchief up, blowing his nose wetly.

"Bless you," Kaveh said simply and continued to gently rub the scholar's back. As much as he longed to tease the man, that would be saved for another time. As for now, Kaveh was sure to keep Alhaitham company throughout his illness. Alhaitham began to move as if to get out of bed. His movements were clearly groggy and much slower than normal. Kaveh pushed him back down into the bed. "Oh, no you don't."

"I need to work..." Alhaitham stated through congestion and sniffled again. "I have so much to do."

Kaveh sighed and pinched the bridge of his own nose in annoyance. Even while sick, Alhaitham was so focused on his work. He swore even Alhaitham's breaks consisted of working. "Fucking pissant shithead," he grumbled under his breath.

"What did you call me?" Alhaitham had been blowing his nose once more and had his eyes shut tightly, but he opened them and glared at his roommate behind his handkerchief.

Right. Despite his soundproof earpieces, it seemed Alhaitham could always recognize when Kaveh mumbled an insult, even if he was across the room. He'd known Kaveh for long enough to be able to tell without even seeing his face. But well, this slightly snarky remark assured Kaveh Alhaitham was at least somewhat fine despite his continual sneezing and congestion.

Kaveh turned toward Alhaitham with a scowl, returning to his normal demeanor. "Fine, you fucking pisshead, I'll bring you your damn things," he snapped, sighed, and wheeled around.

"That's what I thought," Alhaitham stated, leaned back, and finished blowing his nose as Kaveh left the room. If the doors in their home didn't open and close on their own, Alhaitham bets Kaveh would have slammed it behind him. That is partially why he had them installed to begin with. Anyway...

Alhaitham's sneezes from earlier had surely helped loosen the congestion in his sinuses, but the tickle in his nose nonetheless continued to persist. Plus, he'd likely need a box of tissues, as this handkerchief was proceeding to grow useless. Though knowing Kaveh, despite his expressed annoyance, he'd likely caught on with this before Alhaitham even noticed, so he didn't bother to say anything else. Instead, he closed his eyes and inhaled softly, hoping to get these other sneezes out before Kaveh returned.

"Huhh'hh..." The first sharp hitch followed quickly, and Alhaitham threw the handkerchief to the bedside, pulling up the blanket just in time to catch the first of many sneezes, "Huh'h, heh'hh—heh'ISS'schmp! Heh'TSS'schm!" A quick lull to take a shaky breath. "Hiiihh'hh...O-oh—Ahuh!—Archons...heh, h'hh! Hg'GSSchuu, h'KSS'chyuu, HA'Sschuu! Snnf! Ugh..." Alhaitham was in shock at just how unsatisfying all this sneezing felt. His nose just...still wasn't done.

"Hah'ISSchuu! Heh...h'KSSs—shyuu! H'huh...aht'GSSchuhh! Snf! A-Archons, what th-huh?—Hn'GSSchh-yuu! Fuuuck..." Alhaitham shook his head and rubbed his nose vigorously. It seemed to temporarily help the tickle, but holy shit this was more than he expected. Maybe his nose was pissed of being unable to sneeze overnight that it was making up for it in the morning. Now of all times would actually be a good time for Kaveh to walk back in. He could really use a tissue...or three. He desperately wanted to blow his nose to avoid sneezing even more.

"Bless you!" Kaveh called from the other room. Within seconds, the blonde man showed up at the door with Alhaitham's quills, ink, some parchment, and—as Alhaitham had guessed—a large box of tissues. "I thought you'd need some of these as well, with that sneezy nose of yours," he said teasingly and placed the tissues on Alhaitham's desk with the rest of his supplies.

"Wow. You shouldn't have," Alhaitham stated sarcastically. He sniffled, snatched a tissue, and blew his nose strongly. With a slight groan and a sniffle, he made his way out of bed and stood. "Now if you don't mind, I have much to do. Snrrf! I can't afford y-your..." His eyes narrowed, he paused, and his face contorted with the tickle, yet he still attempted to continue his sentence, "hih'h...dist–hh!–distra-hah-act—" He snapped to the side once more, clutching the tissue over his nose, "haht'TSSchnt, hn'TSSchnn! Hiih, ht'TSSchyuu!" He attempted to muffle them, but these sneezes were too powerful, instead coming out harsh and only half-restrained, as well as pitching him forward at his waist.

"Bless you," Kaveh stated simply as Alhaitham finished sneezing. "As you wish. Just don't spill your ink. I'd rather not have to clean that up for you." Alhaitham straightened up and glared at him behind the handkerchief. Kaveh smirked before leaving the room once again.

Alhaitham sat down at his desk with a sigh. He picked up his quill, dipped it in the ink, and started scratching away at the parchment. He was so lost in his work that he did not notice when another tickle brewed in the back of his sinuses.

"Huh?" was the only warning he got. He couldn't even move his hands before the sneezes overcame his body, "Huh'YSSchhih! Ht'TSSchuu!" Between his sneezes, he heard a snapping sound, but he was so focused on not sneezing on the page that he couldn't discern what it was. When he opened his eyes after the sudden double, he found his quill had snapped from the force of his sneezing. He gave a frustrated sniffle, scrubbed his nose, tossed the broken quill into the trash, and grabbed a new one before pausing. He'd completely forgotten what he was writing, and the broken quill had splattered ink on the page to where he couldn't even try to get himself some context. Plus he shivered, as he just now noticed how cold it was in his room. Speaking of...

Damned cold, he thought. He couldn't do anything without it breaking his train of thought. He leaned back in his seat and sighed. Maybe work would have to wait. At least until the sneezing died down a little. Despite having only been out of bed for a few minutes, being back under those warm covers was looking more and more tempting by the second.

"Heh'ISSs—shyuu!" Another sneeze brought the scribe back to his senses. So finally, he gave in, set down his quill, threw away the trashed piece of parchment (and any others the broken quill's ink bled onto), and hoisted himself back into bed. He was hungry, but another nap was in order. Only after that could he maybe prop open a nice book and settle down with his quill in hand.

"H'hh...hn'TSSchuu!" And hopefully when he awoke once more he'd feel a little better. He sniffled again, laid his head down, and dozed off.

[verdantvulpus]

So I've had a cold for a couple weeks which has since turned into the usual bronchitis. Cough cough bark cough. It's made worse because I can't take most cough medicine/decongestants. But Im miserable and exhausted so once the sore throat phase starts I drag my pathetic butt into my pharmacy to beg for some relief. I expect to be told to make due with nasal sprays and warm beverages but actually my pharmacist gets all excited and does a positively Aziraphalean wiggle as he rushes to show me his "favourite cough syrup".

He assures me of it's efficacy, talks this shut up like it's a miracle elixer and honestly I'm so tired of performing my nightly harp seal impersonations that I'd have bought it with half his enthusiasm.

It's Sirop Lambert by the way. It's "natural" which is to say it hasn't any pharmaceuticals in it and the exhausted part of me figures it's not going to be any more effective than honey but I try it and... It tastes... not great but not outright hostile like Buckley 's.

And my throat feels better in seconds. Cough was definitely lessened.

I look up the ingredients and it's basically pine tar and a boat-load of menthol but anyone who's read a certain fic of mine will already be giggling at "pine tar" .

Demon Catnip for cough and cold!

Crowley was definitely on to something!

[rainwaterapothecary]

A Certain Insecticidal Flower Part 4 (Final)

#serennedyprideweek prompt 6/7 - Flowers/Serenity

[Part 3]

“No…no…” The lonely agent whispered, throat destroyed by plants and grief.

His hands shook where they gripped Luis’, completely wrung out by passing his sickness onto the floor and the lap of his love…but more importantly, his friend. Luis hadn’t gotten the chance to know that Leon considered him such. He didn’t get a chance to show the world that he’d changed.

Ashley would never know the man who saved them.

A blood-soaked fist clenched around nasturtium petals, sap and saliva dripping between his knuckles.

No.

No, damnit.

His hand flew to Luis’ cheek. His eyes flew to the Amber.

He made the call.

Slamming his attache case onto the ground beside them, he yanked out all of his healing items, laying them in a line for easy access.

“Sorry, Quixote, this is gonna hurt like a bitch.” He wheezed, jerking the other man forward and into his lap.

He packed the wound with healing herbs and finished it off with his last spray can, shot directly into the wound.

Alright.

Leon grit his teeth, clamped his hand down over the wound, and laid Luis down.

Then he willed like hell.

-

The first thing instructors tell you when learning CPR is that you will get tired. Chest compressions are exhausting. But, they will save lives.

Leon just hopes he isn’t too late, he has no idea how long he lost to that puta madre plant.  

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6…

29…30…Breath, Breath

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, …

Breathe. Breathe.

17, 18, 19... Crunch 27, 28, 29, 30…

Breath, breath, 1, 2, 3, …

Leon could feel the fire of lactic acid in his shoulders and arms as he pressed rhythmically down, down, down, down on Luis’ chest, reasoning at first that his healing items usually worked instantly on himself, but Luis had been…unbreathing for a little while so maybe they need more time.

Time.

Then he lost himself to the pattern, going through the different songs in his head that worked with the rythmn, pleading in his soul for another chance for the man who tried so hard to change.

Don’t…Don’t take him from me, please.

-

Never let it be said that Leon S. Kennedy was not a stubborn man.

-

Luis began coughing and hacking.

With arms that felt like they had been replaced by worn-out rubber bands Leon let his hands fall to their sides and panted, looking down at the man he had just saved.

Luis looked back.

“Come back, your grace.” Leon offered him a lopsided, blood-spattered smile.

Wide eyes softened before filling with tears.

“What has happened up to now has… been truly… to my detriment.” Tears fell from down the Spaniard’s cheeks as Leon let his head fall onto his friend’s shoulder. “Mi salvador I was dead.”

Leon nodded, his own tears finally flowing over, a wash of relief, guilt, grief, and the burning agony in his chest that illustrated just how close he had truly come to losing this man.

“Don’t you dare do that again, Don Quixote.”

Luis nodded, the motion moving them both slightly.

“I’ll keep that in mind, Sancho.”

Leon chuckled, his voice a mangled wreck of gravel and leaves.

“Wait Leon-!” Without looking, Leon pressed the scientist’s shoulders back into the ground where the animated man had begun to sit up. Luis hissed at the pain in his back and kept still, panting at the effort. The agent let his eyes flutter closed as he breathed, letting the sound of Luis’ heart ease his mind while his body cried out in agony at the compressions…and the running, fighting, coughing, plaga, take your pick… He needed a fucking minute, okay?

He got roughly 20 seconds of quiet.

“You were coughing up flowers, my friend. I take it they, ah…”

Leon nodded tiredly.

“Not a problem anymore.”

“Lo siento, amigo, I…”

Leon shook his head, bangs moving back and forth over Luis’ shirt.

“Not your fault. Besides, I had to bring your ass back so I could tell you.” Luis’ chest stopped moving and Leon punched his chest with the side of his fist. Luis coughed but kept breathing.

“Tell me…?”

Leon looked up tiredly.

“That you’re gonna have a hell of a time getting rid of me, amigo.” He smiled. “I now think of you as my friend, and I don’t have a ton of those.”

Luis blinked. Then smirked. Then chuckled.

“Do Americans get flores de pulmón from friendship?”

Leon’s cheeks pinked.

“How should I know?”

Luis’ eyes danced at Leon’s pout.

“I’m saying friends. It’s none of my business what my weird insecticidal flowers have to say about it.”

Luis laughed as loudly as he could with a grown man sitting on his hips and a broken rib. Leon smiled softly down at him while the man’s eyes were closed, just letting himself look. When he opened his eyes his cheeks had gained some color.

“Friends. I can live with that, Sancho.”

Leon smiled down at him, a lopsided, innocent thing.

Then his vision pulsed and he gripped his head, curling into Luis’ chest when he doubled over.

”Ashley.”

Luis’ eyes widened.

They had work to do.

Somehow Leon got them both standing, Luis mostly leaning on a nearby box but it was good enough. He began stuffing his briefcase with technicolor plants.

“Leon? What are you doing?”

“These fucks are insect killers right?” Blue eyes shot a glance over the metal at the scientist who shrugged and nodded helplessly. “Then we might as well take ‘em. We’re surrounded by bugs, after all.”

The case snapped shut with a decisive click as Luis shrugged like 'can't argue with that'.

*-*-*

A/N

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaand we're finally done!!! The body has 4-6 minutes after the heart has stopped before the brain and body retain more damage than I wanted to give Luis, so Leon started compressions very close to the wire but he did it. They are battered and fucked up but they have a princess to save!

And with that my serennedyprideweek2024 comes to a close. Thank you wisecrackingeric-2 for putting this on and all my fellow contributors for making this week a whole lot of fun. :)

PS - Learn CPR kids! It saves lives <3

[silvercap]

77 + Chreon! 🤩

🥰🥰

"What did you do to him?" Chris growls, weapon trained on the smirking villain of the week, his wrinkled face crinkling in cruel glee. At his feet, Leon slumps in seeming unconsciousness, t-shirt covered in blood both dried and fresh. The man holds him by the hair, golden strands dull and dirty between his fingers.

"I've liberated him," he says loftily, raising his free hand to gesture grandly at the underground room they're standing in. "I have freed him from the pitiful flesh of mortality, and made him something holy. An angel... out of a devil."

He jerks Leon's head upright, and Chris feels his heart lurch at the sight of his husband's glassy eyes, a cut on his forehead trickling blood down the side of his slack jaw. Dark veins surround the pits of his sunken eyes, pupils strangely milky, and Chris lurches forward without thinking. In an instant, the man has Leon yanked to his feet.

"Ah-ah," he tuts, wagging a finger. "I wouldn't try anything if I were you. He's quite loyal, once you break through all that bluster."

Leon sways in place, looking dazed, and Chris's heart twists in his chest. He's trembling, visible convulsions shaking his battered form.

"Such absolute devotion to the worship requires sacrifice," the man continues to muse conversationally, grinning. "The voice of a lark, when he screams, and he bears the pain so wonderfully. An angel brought to earth for me to-"

"You bastard!" Chris shouts, and the man just laughs. He lets go of Leon, who staggers but stays in place, staring blankly into the distance. The man makes another comment, but Chris doesn't hear it over the hum of rage through his blood.

"Leon?" he tries, unable to aim clearly at the gleeful man. "Leon, it's me. Can you hear me?"

Leon blinks, glassy gaze settling on him without a trace of recognition. Chris growls, but the man leans forward, brushing Leon's hair to the side to whisper in his ear. The instant he's done, Leon stiffens, lips moving as if he wants to form the words but can't. Chris's heart sinks.

"Leon?"

Clouded eyes snap to his face, pupils dilated as Leon's chest heaves. His hands clench and unclench---and an instant later, Chris is on his back, the wind knocked out of his chest as Leon clutches his throat in an iron grip. His eyes widen, and he kicks out in shock. Leon doesn't react, face devoid of all emotion, and Chris can't stop the tear that slides down the side of his face.

"Lee-" he chokes, fighting to push Leon away, but even his strength isn't enough to budge a BOW. Black spots dance in his vision, and he sobs without air, reaching up to cradle the side of Leon's face. He wants to tell him he's sorry, wants to say how much he loves him, but as his vision goes black-

The weight lifts from his chest, and Chris curls up on himself, gagging and coughing as air floods his lungs. He raises his head as much as he can, fighting the pain-

Just in time to see Leon tearing out the man's throat, blood spraying as his jaw closes around flesh and veins. The man falls lifelessly, eyes wide and staring, and Leon stumbles. He turns.

He's white as a sheet under all the blood, eyes still blank---but there's a crease on his forehead, the only emotion Chris has seen him display so far, and relief floods his chest.

"Leon?" he rasps brokenly, holding out a hand. "You in there?"

Leon stares. He hesitates, steps forward... and collapses, eyes rolling up in his head.

Chris doesn't know if he should be relieved or horrified.

[sabraeal]

Seven Swipes for Shirayuki, Chapter 6

[Read on AO3]

Obiyuki Trope Madness 2024, Semifinal #1: Bodyguard Crush

“Yuuta.” Names have never been Shirayuki’s forte; she struggles with Sarah and Sara, crosses her fingers when she comes across a Siobhan or a Ciaran, and now labors to decipher whether this is a ‘u’ sound or an ‘oo’ sound— gosh, it might even be a ‘uu’ situation, which is a whole other disaster entirely—

“Does he have a last name to go with that?” Obi murmurs, just loud enough for her to catch it. Well, so she hopes. “Or maybe you could just ask him for his number. Skip the whole swiping song-and-dance and just get down to—”

“Could you spell that for me?” she asks, a hair louder than necessary, hoping her smile doesn’t flicker under pressure the way old fluorescents do . “The patient’s name, I mean.”

“Oh! The…the patient’s…” Her well-meaning visitor shuffles, pink flaring up right under the spray of small freckles across his cheeks. It really is just like being back at the old B&B again, trying to smother a laugh as the sweet retriever from down the street keeps bringing back the wrong ball. “Right, of course. You need the patient’s…god, sorry, I wasn’t even thinking…”

“Happens all the time.” She bites back a smile as pink blooms into carnelian red. “We don’t tend to see people at their most put-together here.”

“Haah, right, makes sense.” His tanned hand digs into the tousles mass of his hair, sending it wild. It's a charming look, she has to admit. Makes her wish there were Beggin’ Strips for people too— he looks like he could use a treat. “Just feels a little stupid, that’s all. Not like you could look me up. In a patient registry, I mean.”

“You got a Tinder, though?” Obi crosses an knobby ankle over his knee, pant leg riding up enough to show the chili peppers on his socks. “OkCupid? Plenty of Fish?”

"Uh." The man blinks, first at him, then at her, as if she might confirm that this line of questioning is somehow part of the official visitor registration process. It's not. “Y-yes?”

"Ooh?" Obi pitches forward, fingers poised over the app store. “Which—?”

“Obi.”

“What?” Having reached the end of his leash, her wayward hound finally comes to heel. With a tug of his coat, he slouches back, not a hint of contrition lingering in that smirk of his. “I was just wondering.”

She lets her glare do the heavy lifting as she repeats, “What was the name again?”

“Ah, my dad’s? Katsu. Katsu Baudin.” The man coughs, clearing his throat. “And I’m, uh, his son. Yuuta.”

“We know,” Obi chirps helpfully as she puts in her login. It shouldn’t work— IT’s supposed to update the registry at midnight, and she’s been legally off payroll for three days— but the system only takes a long, hard think and rolls over, displaying patient information with the same enthusiasm as a dog wagging its tail. “With two ‘u’s?”

“Uh…”

Her visitor— Yuuta— glances at her, but she’s too busy tallying the number of security and privacy regulations violated to give him much more than, “Katsu Baudin, Room 7760.”

There should be some palpable relief on the air, or at least the barest whiff of gratitude, but instead their wayward visitor shuffles awkwardly behind the counter, not flushed but— strained, maybe. “Um, sorry, I don’t mean to be a pain or anything, but do you think—?”

“Two floors down.” Wistal is hardly as labyrinthine as Wirant— built into a hill, each wing designed to be the magmum opus of architects thirty years apart, resulting in atria so beautiful they graced the covers of Architectural Digests and hallways so nonsensical as to be be hostile to human life, with entrances on every floor between the first and the fourth besides the third— but with each level laid out exactly like the last, it’s easy to get turned around. “If you go straight out from the elevators, take your second right. 7760 should be down that hall on your left.”

“Ahh, right, thanks. That’s…a huge help.” He hesitates, gaze fixed down the hall as if it were a thousand yards instead of five. His fingers fingers drum nervously on the counter top. “I don’t want to— I mean, it’s just—”

He hangs his head, dark eyes huge and pleading as they peer up from under that fluffy flop of hair, as helpless as a dog that’s found a door it can’t nose open. “I suck at directions.”

It takes every last ounce of her self control to keep only the corners of her mouth twitching. “That’s no problem at all. Just let me call down to their desk and give them the heads up that you're coming. Then you can go there and have someone take you right to the room.”

“Oh!” His head snaps up, eyes so wide she can nearly see a waggling tail behind him. “You can do that? Er, I mean…I wouldn’t want to put you out…?”

In Wilant there would have been some grumbling, some pointed questions about just how many times his parents had dropped him on his head as a child if he couldn’t go two floors down and take a turn without getting it all twisted, but here—

Shirayuki glances across the hall, catching a flash of pale hair above a designer button-down, of a profile that has graced more covers of GQ than she’s got fingers on one hand. As exceptional as Izana is, she doubts that’s even the most impressive statistics on the floor. There’s a husband just around the corner she’s pretty sure has a collection of Super Bowl rings. Recent ones, considering all the rubbernecking outside their door.

“They’re used to worse,” Obi offers, so helpful as he scrolls. “A little hand holding isn’t going to break the scale.”

Yuuta blinks down at him. “Er, all right. If you’re sure.”

“Please,” he scoffs, slouching further into the ergonomic plastic. “Unless you’re bringing your mistress to watch your wife go through labor, no one's even going to—”

“Just a minute!” Shirayuki smiles as she picks up the phone, refusing to acknowledge anything over her shoulder. “Let me see what I can do.”

*

There may be no phone trees or music on internal lines, but there’s still plenty of waiting, especially with no voicemail for stale calls to be shunted to. Still, it’s only a few minutes before someone picks up— a nurse fresh from shift change, happy to take of ‘that old charmer’s baby.’ Watching Yuuta’s back disappear into the elevator makes a nice ending to an unplanned long night, and Shirayuki—

“What, you aren’t going to go with him?” Obi leans back in his chair, straining the ergonomic claims of those cushions. “Make sure the prodigal son makes it back home? Maybe hold his hand a little?”

“I think he’ll manage just fine.” She blows out her cheeks as she sits, letting her mouth settle into her sternest frown. “Now, I trust you deleted that thing?”

“Me? No. I’ve swiped right on three real studs already. And let me just say” —he presses a hand to his chest, the silk of his tie rumpling under the pressure— “I chose better for you than you choose for yourself.”

“Obi!” It’s a strangled noise, one she just barely keeps to quiet-hours guidelines. “I told you that I wasn’t interested in—!”

“Trust me, Miss,” he soothes, entirely too smug. “You’ll be interested in these guys. Or at least their traps.”

“I thought we agreed that—”

“We didn’t agree on anything.” His eyebrows may twitch up to angelic heights, but his attempts at innocence are ruined by the downright sly curl his mouth takes. “You said I should, and I declined to take your advice.”

All at once, the fight seeps out of her, leaving only the weariest sigh in its wake. “Obi…”

“Aww, come on, now, Miss. No need to go borrowing trouble yet. It's not like you've matched.” His lips twitch. “Yet. But let’s be real, who could say no to a knock-out like y—?”

“You are going to delete that,” she informs him with all the authority of a limp dish rag. “Right now. While I can watch.”

“Aw, Miss,” he whines, using only the most pitiful pitches. “I’m just helping.”

Shirayuki stares. “You think this is helping?”

“Of course.” His shoulders twitch, halfway between a shrug and a shield. “What better way to recover from a bad break up then having someone blow out your—?”

“Ah, no!” Her hand flies up, the flimsiest barrier between them. “Don’t— don’t finish that thought.”

“But, Miss—”

“I appreciate your…consideration,” she informs him, gracious. “Really, I do. But I think that maybe you and I process this sort of thing differently. Very…very differently.”

“I didn’t say you had to jump right into bed.” Though he sounds dubious on that order of operations. “But you could let someone take you out, treat you right. And then maybe on date three, you—”

“Three?” It’d taken almost six months for her to even kiss Zen, let alone even think about the sort of activities that might require the removal of clothes. And by then, it took them three months of planning to even get them in the same room. “Do people really…?”

“You know how it is, Miss.” Obi’s sprawled across the chair, lounging in a way its ergonomic bullet points were never supposed to accommodate, but there’s nothing casual about the way his eyes settle on her. “People are busy nowadays. Not much time to take it slow.”

“I have time.”

Shirayuki nearly jolts straight out of her chair. “Ryuu?”

*

(Shirayuki’s not given to believe in the supernatural— not ghosts, not ESP, not sixth senses that seem to only work in hindsight— but she’ll give Yuzuri this: her ability to locate her anywhere in this rabbit warren of hallways is downright occult.

“Have I got the goss for you, girl,” she squeals, stealing a baby carrot out of her lunch box as she slips into the empty seat beside her. It’s all empty seats in the break room right now, but Yuzuri rolls even closer, voice pitched low. “Word on the street is that Ryuu’s got something going on with the new intern.”

“In Imaging?” It’s hard to picture her— she’s a shy thing, always disappearing behind a white coat as a cart turns a corner, just a blonde ponytail above pink scrubs. “I guess they’re around the same age.”

“Same age,” Yuzuri scoffs, gnawing on her ill-gotten gains. “Is that what you think people care about? The same age? No, this girl is like…his type.”

That doesn’t sound quite right, not to her ears. “I don’t really think Ryuu has—”

“Of course he does. Everyone has a type, Shirayuki, even you.” Her voice drops to mutter something that sounds suspiciously like, “Even if you don’t realize it.”

“I just mean that Ryuu hasn’t shown much interest in…anything like that.” Romance, she means. But if she says it, Yuzuri will probably counter with something about sex, and quite honestly, she’s not sure if she can handle Ryuu and... and that idea in the same sentence. “I’m not really sure he wants to, either.”

“Yeah, yeah, normally I’d agree with you,” Yuzuri says with a dismissive wave. “But this girl is like, smart. And super cute. Like freckles everywhere! And her laugh— seriously, you have to hear it. He like, smiled and stuff.”

Well, the smile is a start. “Is that what his type is? Smart and cute? Freckles?”

“I mean, basically right?” Her hand flop open into something between a slouch and a shrug. “That’s what you’re like.”

It’s a good thing there’s no silverware involved in eating hummus, otherwise it would have clattered to the floor. It’s sad enough that she’ll have to toss out this baby carrot casualty. “Excuse me?”

“Oh, you know how it is,” Yuzuri presses on, as if she didn’t just drop a detail more devastating than an atom bomb. “It’s not about you. It’s just that every guy wants to fuck their mom or whatever. Freudian stuff.”

Shirayuki has opinions on Freud— capital ‘O’ Opinions, as Obi likes to call them, along with, the kind that don’t get us asked back to the country’s finest conferences— but all she can manage is, “I think I’m more like a sister than a mother.”

Yuzuri shrugs. “Same difference.”)

*

“Ryuu.” Her hand slaps to her chest, as if that might keep her heart beneath it better than own her ribcage. Which might be true, from how hard its pounding to get out. Shirayuki can hardly blame it. “What are you…? Ah, I mean, were you…?”

It’s still strange to have to look up to meet his eyes, to see the way his face furrows with the beginnings of annoyance. “It’s now or not until after four. Should I come back?”

“Wha— oh, the ultrasound.” Now that she’s on her feet, she can see the cart at his side, loaded up with one of the mobile units he must have requisitioned from Imaging. “Are you doing it?”

“I said I would.”

There’s no humble shrug to go with his words, no inflection to imply emotion, just a simple recitation of the facts. “Well, yes, but I thought you would have one of the techs on shift come up and—”

“I had time.” His shoulders settle into stern angles as his chin lifts, as imperious as any MD. “Is there a problem with that?”

There’s a half dozen, starting and ending with how he’s the Attending today; someone who has a thousand more pressing responsibilities than doing some investigative ultrasound for her patient. But as much as she might try, the words won’t stick together in her mouth, won’t let her make anything but the most unconvincing sputter. “N-no, it’s only—”

“Aw, come on, big guy.” Obi saunters up to the counter, elbow brushing her shoulder as he furls himself up for a lean. It’s nice; steadying. “You know there’s no one else Miss would trust to do this more than you. But don’t big shots like you have busy schedules? I wouldn’t think you’d have the time to come help little old us.”

A stubborn red that clings to the tips of his ears. “As I said, I do. Is it in that room, there?”

His head bobs toward the door. There’s no one behind the window now, just a straight view from hall to window, blinds strung tight across the glass.

“Yes, 9060.” He’s already wheeling the cart towards it when she adds, “Izana should be with her, too.”

The cart squeals to a stop.

“Oh.” His knuckles blanch so white she can see bone where they grip the handle. “Then maybe I should come back. Later. After…”

He doesn’t finish the thought. Shirayuki frowns. “I don’t see why. Is there something wrong with—?”

“Oh, I get it.” Obi’s smirk stretches long into a leer as he leans toward her, voice pitched to be heard as he whispers, “I think he’s afraid of Her Majesty. Intimidated by laying hands on America’s Sweetheart. Little too famous for his blood, I—”

“I didn’t say that,” Ryuu grumbles, sullen. “I’m not laying hands on her anyway. It’s only the probe that will—”

“So it’s His Majesty then,” Obi amends, so considerate. It’s a struggle to keep her mouth from twitching, giggles straining behind her teeth. “Can’t say I blame you for that one, little guy. That guy makes me break out into a cold sweat.”

“I’m not afraid of Izana Wisteria.” The name snaps between his teeth, cold. “I just thought that if she has a visitor, she might not want to be interrupt—”

“You know, Miss.” It’s hard to call something as languid as Obi’s lounging aggressive, but that’s what it is— weaponized slinkiness, the way a cat weaves through legs at dinnertime. “If Ryuu thinks that this is too rich for his blood, you should really just get someone else to—”

“I’m doing it.” The cart squeals as it angles toward the door, wheels grinding with the same single-minded focus as Ryuu’s teeth. “I— I’m already going!”

He doesn’t so much march as storm over, shoulders hiked like pickets by his ears as he knocks at the door. “Excuse me,” he says, swinging it open. “Name and birth date, please.”

It shuts before she can hear Haki’s answer.

*

“Boo.” Obi doesn’t so much sit as he does slump, a puppet with all his strings cut. “He coulda kept that door open a smidge longer. I've heard that America’s Sweetheart fudged the date on her birth certificate to get that role in Mean Girls.”

“I doubt that.” Shirayuki spares him the flattest stare, fingers striking the keys with a pointed power as she logs out from the system. “Her family’s a big deal, aren’t they? Hollywood Royalty, isn’t that what Yuzuri called it?”

“Miss.” His shoulders shake along with his head. “Only you could ask if the Arleons were a big deal.”

Years ago she might have blushed, might have stammered out excuses about the how cable didn’t run out that far until she was in college, and the combination post office/movie theater in town only ran movies two years out of date, but now— now she simply says, “That proves my point, doesn’t it? There were probably newspaper articles about it. An entertainment Weekly birth announcement? Something. It can’t be much of a mystery.”

“There was also some website that counted down to her eighteenth birthday.” He shrugs, casual, as if that isn’t the most horrifying thing he’s ever heard. Then again, knowing Obi, it probably doesn’t even make the top thirty. “But you know, once you get a thing like that in your head…”

He lets his grin do the rest of the talking. Like all of his outrageous behavior, she simply ignores.

“Thank you for that, by the way.” One of his narrow brows hikes up toward his hairline, and she clarifies, “With Ryuu. You’ve always known how to handle him better than I do.”

“You do just fine.” The seat creaks as he tucks his thigh against its arm, elbow lazily hooking over his knee. “He just needs a little heat to get him into the kitchen sometimes. And you’re not someone who’s comfortable with turning it up. Especially when it comes to Ryuu.”

Shirayuki doubts her interns would agree with that particular assessment, but she simply says, “Thank you anyway. If you hadn’t been here, I think we really would have been waiting until four.”

Obi hums. “Oh, I’m not sure about that, Miss. Seems like you handled it just fine the other day.”

She blinks. “The other day?”

“You know.” His shoulders twitch, the laziest suggestion of a shrug. “Ms. Luteal Cyst?”

*

(The cart wheels catch on the threshold, casters making a nasty ka-crack as they struggle over the metal strip. The noise alone has got her grimacing, but when she sees the close-cropped dark hair, so like Obi’s now that all the curls have been left on the barber shop floor, her mouth pulls thinner still.

“Ryuu.” He’s supposed to be on days this week— at least according to the schedule posted up in the break room— but yet he’s here, wincing as the last wheel wails across the floor. Ah, and he’s gotten the squeaky cart. “I didn’t think you’d be…?”

In, she wants to say, but doing the tech’s job keeps trying to elbow its way out at the same time, and instead the question just hangs, awkward.

“Oh, Shirayuki.” He blinks, first at her, then as he leans out the door, as if—

“This is the right room!” she assures him, a laugh startling out of here. “It’s just a slow shift, so I though I might keep my friend here company while she waited.”

“Oh.” The girl sinks further into her pillows as he stares, withering under the stern furrow of his brows. Shirayuki’s half-tempted to tell her that it’s not personal, that without regular reminders, Ryuu’s face defaults to forbidding. “The gel’s going to be cold.”

“I-I don’t care.” She lifts her chin, defiant; a challenge if he means to make it one. “Anything’s fine as along as my baby’s okay.”

Ryuu shoots her a wary glance across the bed— don’t let this girl have emotions on me, it says, loud and clear— before he turns back to the computer, fingers clacking pointedly across the keys. That leaves her to help the girl lift up her johnny, rearranging blankets and drop cloth so her legs and clothes are covered, terrible mesh underwear and all.

“I’m surprised to see you here.” The words might be for Ryuu, but Shirayuki keeps smiling down at her patient, trying to keep her in the conversation. “Usually we don’t have doctors doing untrasound, but Dr Goldregen sometimes helps out when there’s a bit of a scheduling back up—”

“Or when the tech no-shows.”

Her smile stiffens. “O-or that.”)

*

“Ah…” Shirayuki shakes her head. “That didn’t have anything to do with me. Mihaya was late for shift change—”

“Must be nice to have a wing of a hospital named after your family,” Obi muses, head tilted over the back of the chair. “Then you can just waltz into work at any old time, and everyone just says ‘thank you for your time.’”

“I don’t think anyone says that to him,” she snorts. “And he does a passable job when he’s here, so—”

“So no one can fire him.”

Shirayuki struggles against a smile. “So no one can fire him. Ryuu just got here early for shift change and saw there had been a request pending for over an hour. It had more to do with being efficient than helping me.”

Obi hums, unconvinced. “I think you underestimate just how much that kid likes to please you. Maybe he didn’t know it was your patient or whatever, but I bet he showed off once he knew you were there. Probably had good bedside manner and everything.”

*

(The girl yips at the first touch of gel on her stomach, but Ryuu doesn’t even flinch, already pressing the probe down to spread it around. “It’s cold!”

He sends her a sidelong look. “I did warn you.”)

*

“Not…measurably.” It’s effort to keep her tone even. “Ryuu respects my opinion, but he’s really not the sort of person to give special treatment just because—”

“I’m done.”

“Ryuu!” Zen used to joke about putting a bell on Obi— or at least he did, before Obi sent him an Amazon link to a few human-sized collars— but Shirayuki is beginning to wonder if they might need to find one for Ryuu. Last thing they need is for him to startle someone into coding. “A-already?”

He nods. “One sac.”

Shirayuki frowns. That’s hardly what she expected. “Are you sure? Sometimes it’s tricky to see if—”

“I checked for a posterior placenta too.” His shoulders twitch, the barest shrug. “Sometimes hyperemesis gravidium is just hyperemesis gravidium.”

“I guess.” There’s just something unsatisfying about saying it’s hormones; something that feels dismissive rather than diagnostic. “I just could have sworn…”

“What I said before.” Ryuu clears his throat, looking like he’d rather be anywhere than right here, standing in front of the nurse’s desk. “About not doing it again.”

“I know, I know.” She sighs, waving a hand. “It was already kind of you to do it this time— and personally too. I won’t ask again.”

“No, that’s not…” His lips press tight, a white line cutting across his face. “I mean, I’ll do it, if you really need it.”

She blinks. “Really?”

“In a few weeks,” he tells her, stern, as if she might turn around and tell him to go back in there. “There’s things that might not show up now. Rare things. But…things.”

“That’s really kind of you, Ryuu.” For anyone else, she might reach out— pat their shoulder, shake their hand— but for him, she just smiles. But the way he straightens, it’s enough. “But I’d hate to bother you after—”

“It’s not a bother. If you think something’s wrong, I believe you.” It’s been ages since he was the boy genius, a teenager that trembled when he walked onto the floor. But there’s shades of it now in the way he looks at her, gratitude and trust and affection all tangled up into something that makes it hard to look away from his too-blue eyes. “Garrack always told me that you have good intuition. My own experience agrees. It would be foolish to deny that based on something so subjective as statistics.”

It must be a little too earnest even for him, since he shakes himself, quickly adding, “I have other things to do today. Goodbye.”

He rolls off, squeaky cart wheel wailing, and all she can do is stare at his back.

Obi snorts. “No special treatment, huh?”

She’s not sure how to answer, but she’s saved from having to figure it out when Obi’s phone blings obnoxiously. “What’s that?”

He glances down at the screen, mouth unfurling into a terribly devious grin.

“Why look at that, Miss,” he drawls. “Looks like we got a match.”

[aidvita]

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[accidentalmistress]

Accidental Mistress - Good Things (NSFW)

Hahahaha it's done. I had this idea last night when I remembered something I wanted to do with the story but had completely forgotten to write about. So, here's a sexy sickfic for y'all to enjoy. I just finished writing it, so it may be a little rough in parts, but I couldn't wait to post it :3

(For more Accidental Mistress content, check out the Master Post.)

Please do not reblog to non kink blogs, minors DNI.

Title: Good Things

Word count: 2,755

Content and warnings: snz (male and female), illness, NSFW

In which a sleepless night gives way to an important milestone in Noelle and Oraion's relationship.

--------------------

Noelle tried to hold her breath and avoid coughing again. Her ribs felt like someone had taken to them with a sledgehammer, and every cough made her wince and whine. She felt pathetic. Not only that, but she didn’t want to wake Oraion, asleep next to her in the bed. The past few nights since she’d been attacked on the road, the demon had slept by her side. It was nice. His warmth, the brush of his skin against her own, the gentle rise and fall of his breathing: his mere presence brought her more comfort than any medicine, even Quinns’s elixirs from the Knights’ own healers.

Exhaustion gnawed her bones, but still she couldn’t sleep. She was at once boiling hot and freezing cold, tossing and turning as she alternately burrowed into her blankets and threw them off again. Her throat prickled, begging her for relief, but still she clamped down on the urge to cough. It wouldn’t help to give in, not really, so she pressed her tongue to the roof of her mouth and waited the tortuous seconds for it to pass.

Even worse, her throat wasn’t the only thing that was irritated. Her sinuses were absolutely full of this cursed cold. She was sure she had sneezed more in the past few days than in the entire year since she’d summoned Oraion, and she was so congested she could hardly breathe. Quick on the heels of the tickle in her throat came one through her nose, and she pressed both hands to her face in an effort to quell it.

“hh-hihh-ngxt!”

A stifle was all she could manage, sending a dull ache through her abused ribs. She was so tired. Why couldn’t she just sleep through all this misery?

As she rolled over, a little spark of shame said she very well knew the answer. The unpredictable, featherish fluttering in her sinuses, her struggling attempts to hold back her sneezing, the need to be quiet so as not to wake Oraion—gods, it all got her so damned turned on.

“nnchgt! hng’cht! gshchiew! Ishhiew! Ow…”

Shit. The relentless itch broke through her effort to stifle it, lighting her chest with far sharper pain, yet even so the heat between her legs pulsed with intensity. Behind her, she sensed Oraion stirring.

“Mmm… Mistress?” His voice was muzzy with sleep.

“S-sorry. -snfft- I, um…”

As Noelle fumbled in the dark for something to wipe her nose, she felt his chest press against her back as his hand alighted near her shoulder and traced down her side. Her back arched slightly as his lips found her neck. Perhaps she should have been more concerned about her arousal waking the sleeping incubus, she reflected, rather than any noise.

“Mistress…” Now his voice was a purr in her ear. “You smell so good. I… I, uh… O-oh dear- hih-HEH-HIHHTCHIU! EH-GISHIU! HISSHIU! G-gods- HITCHOO!”

He misted her neck and shoulder with spray as a sudden sneeze fit seized him. He was prone to sneezing when he woke, yet this was particularly intense. Noelle bit her lip as a moan threatened to make her cough again. She could feel his every spasm and hitching breath through his body pressed close to her back. Once his fit subsided, he sniffled and rubbed his nose with a little squelching sound.

“Nnhh… s-so itchy… -snf-”

Noelle turned over to face him as a burning need started to claw inside her, but that damnable cough finally stole its victory, wracking her body with painful spasms. A completely different kind of moan came from her then: a pitiful, whimpering thing. In the darkness, Oraion held her close to him, enfolding her in his sheltering embrace.

“Oh, my poor Mistress. You’re still so ill… yet, you burn bright with such delicious desire.” Conflict was plain in his voice, as though he were at war with himself. “I don’t know how to help you. I know so little about human illness that I’m afraid I’ll hurt you somehow. Please, tell me what I should do, Mistress…”

Noelle licked her dry lips, her voice hoarse. “I want… I want you…”

She was burning all right, with lust and fever both. Trembling, she leaned forward to seek out his lips in the dark. Instead, the first thing she encountered was Oraion’s nose, which she bumped with her own. Almost instantly, he gasped in a shaky breath.

“Ah, c-careful! Hih-HIHGHSHIU!”

He turned his head into the pillows at the last second, so as not to accidentally headbutt her, she imagined, given his ramlike horns. His arms tightened around her with the paroxysm, clutching her against his heaving chest. In turn, Noelle clung to him even tighter, fingertips digging slightly into his smooth skin.

“Mmmh… I do love how sensitive your nose is.”

“-snff- All for you, my Mistress.”

“Makes me want- w-want you even more- ishtchiew!”

His breathing grew heavier, but she could tell it wasn’t for a sneeze this time. The demon’s last feeding had been some days ago, and no doubt she had stoked his Hunger with her arousal and provocative words.

“I will gladly pleasure you, if that’s what you desire…” Oraion hesitated for a moment. “Are you sure you’d be alright?”

“I don’t have much energy, but… Ugh, I can’t stand it! Maybe I’m delirious, but I think I might lose my mind if I don’t sate this- this craving. I-I need this, please. I need you.”

Any further words she might have had were sealed by his lips. He pressed them tight to hers, his hands beginning to roam her body as he slipped them beneath her nightgown. The incubus was no less amorous than usual, but Noelle could also sense an especial care in his touch. His movements were slower, more sensual. In his more impassioned moments, he might pull her across the bed, but now he handled her as gently as if she were a porcelain doll. Perhaps he still feared he’d hurt her.

With a gesture and an infusion of her will, Noelle called on the lamp at her bedside to cast a soft glow into the room. Oraion’s face came into view as her eyes adjusted, close enough that she could clearly see the lovely flush of pink across his nose, even without her glasses.

“There you are,” she whispered, the corner of her mouth curling into a smile, and for a moment she was almost certain his cheeks flushed, too.

Then the sly, roguish grin that suited him so well broke across his face, and he moved his hands to the front of her nightgown with a flirtatious tug at the fabric.

“Some light to see by, hm? That should make handling these buttons easier.”

Despite his words, he needn’t look at all as he swiftly unfasted the buttons, choosing instead to shower her neck with lingering kisses. They both sat up as Noelle shrugged out of the garment, Oraion resting his large hands gently on her shoulders as he pulled her into a soft kiss on the lips. Then she took hold of his arms and leaned back, guiding him down with her. The demon obediently followed until he was perched over her in the bed, cupping her breast with one hand as he kept on kissing her and tracing her lips with his tongue.

Between kisses Oraion sniffled, his breath stuttering with a few soft hitches. When they touched, his nose twitched against her own, until he suddenly pulled back with a gasp, nostrils flaring.

“hhHIHPTSHIEW!”

The outburst hit her across the chest, drawing a sound from Noelle that, in her fever-exhausted state, came out more as a needy whine than a lustful moan. Oraion’s hand trailed from her breast down her belly, coming to rest between her legs, stroking her through her undergarments. For a moment, Noelle thought she might orgasm right then and there, but she didn’t want it to end yet. As she barely managed to contain her pleasure, a shudder ran through Oraion’s body.

“Ooh my… seems we’re both a bit sensitive tonight, eh Mistress?”

“Mmm, it’s not my fault,” she pouted, hips squirming, “It’s this damnable cold that has my nose all itchy… I can’t help that it gets me hot…”

He took her lips with his own again, a suitably devilish grin lighting up his face.

“So then, how might this humble Servant slake your burning thirst, my Mistress? Shall I please you with this silver tongue of mine? Ah, I’m certain a bit of true silver would thoroughly do me in with how terribly ticklish my nose is right now. Would you like that?” He paused to lean in and nuzzle her neck, just below the ear, teasing them both until he stifled a sneeze into her shoulder. “Or, -snf- perhaps I should keep my hand right where it is—minus the clothes, of course. All the better to keep my nose where you can best play with it, hm? Whatever you desire, Mistress, you need only name it and I shall obey…”

He was ever suave and confident in these moments of carnal passion. What flashed into Noelle’s mind, however, was not the various moments of erotic pleasure they had shared, but the small, sad smile he had worn as he bathed her and cleansed her wounds only a few nights ago. And the way he’d blushed so deeply the first time he saw her own sneeze. The worry in his eyes when he’d pulled her from the rubble after accidentally bringing part of the tower down around them. His infectious laughter when they’d nearly gotten caught doing something incredibly naughty by the Head Librarian at Tigate Librarium. And countless other moments, large and small, notable and mundane, that had passed between them over the course of the year they had spent together.

She had yet to remove the crystal pendant he’d fastened around her neck the other night on the anniversary of their meeting, a near perfect match to his crimson eyes and hair. It lay on her chest even now, dimly sparkling in the low lamplight.

“... you.”

He kept kissing her neck. “Sorry, darling, I didn’t quite catch that.”

“You… You’re my Servant.”

“As I live and breathe, my dear Mistress.”

“Then… You’re mine. I- I want… I want all of you.”

Oraion froze, body going tense against hers. He drew back with a start, searching her face with widened eyes.

“You do?”

All that confidence and charm fell away. Noelle reached up to cup his cheek with a soft smile and nodded. These moments of genuine emotion suited him, too, she thought.

“Mm-hmm… I-I’m ready.”

He blinked slowly, like he was still unable to process her request. She would have laughed if she didn’t think it would make her start coughing again. The longer he took to respond, however, the hotter Noelle’s face became, and this time it wasn’t fever.

“Do- do you, um, n-not want to right now?”

Without a word he took her up in his arms, lifting her up as he hugged her fiercely to his chest.

“I… Yes, of course I will share myself with you, Noelle. All of me. I am yours.”

Then she could no longer get a word in edgewise for his lips upon hers, stopping only to allow her breath with how stuffed up she still was. Before she knew it their remaining clothes were gone. Had Oraion made them vanish with magic? Or was it the combined haze of passion and fever that caused her not to notice? The question faded from her mind, unimportant, because all of her attention was focused on the beautiful creature holding her close, his pale gray skin almost glowing in the light. Her fingertips traced the markings on his shoulder, slightly darker patches that ran in dappled bands down his back and tail. The only man to make love to her by her own choice was no man at all, but an incubus, a Demon Lord, who would not even be in her life were it not for a magnificent accident one year ago.

Her other hand, lying on the bed next to her face, he grasped in his, intertwining their fingers. His eyes shone with a scarlet gleam as he took a moment to gaze upon her face, his voice a whisper.

“Are you truly certain?”

Her hand tightened around his.

“Yes… Please, Oraion… I want you.”

He was so gentle with her it made her heart ache. She was afraid, but that fear, her trauma, would always be there. She didn’t need to let it define her, or make her choices.

Now, she chose to seize for herself the enjoyment and pleasure that was denied her past self when her first experiences with sex were instead filled with violence and pain.

A sigh left Noelle’s throat as Oraion pressed into her, slow and easy. This—this was what intimacy was supposed to be. Tender. Caring. A connection between lovers that each fulfilled the other, that gave as much as it took. Her trust in him was absolute, not because he was her Servant, but because that trust was returned, magnified. Everything in the past year had led to this moment when their bodies became united as one, when the contract between them took on a new form, a new meaning.

The pleasure that he ignited within her was unlike anything she knew. Whether it was his nature as an incubus, the bond they shared, or their heightened emotions; nothing could compare with this feeling. His hips moved over her own in a slow, steady rhythm as he made love to her, his rigid member filling her over and over.

“Gods, you feel so good,” he murmured in her ear, his voice low and husky. “Mistress, your pleasure is truly the sweetest I have ever tasted in all my years.”

“It must be because it comes from you,” she whispered back, running the fingers of her free hand into his mane of red hair. “No one else could make me feel… the way you do.”

“Noelle…”

The next few minutes passed in a sweet haze, such that Noelle almost forgot her illness. It did not forget her, however, and in the midst of their lovemaking her sinuses began to prickle.

“Oh… Oh gods… I-I’m gonna…”

The sway of Oraion’s hips sped up ever so slightly, the demon no doubt sensing the feelings stirring within her. Noelle turned her head and brought her free hand to her face as the buzzing itch sweeping her nasal passages overtook her.

“ih-hitschiew! ishiew-ishiew! Mmnh!”

She could hold nothing back now. Her own hips bucked, grinding against Oraion’s as intense pleasure flooded her and drove her mind blank. She was so tired and her throat so raw that she could make only a series of plaintive, moaning gasps as she rode out the climax. Their clasped hands bore a white-knuckle grip, and Noelle realized a moment after the fact that she had raked the nails of her free hand down Oraion’s back.

For some few moments the only sound in the room was their collective breathing in heavy pants and spent sighs. Oraion let go of her hand and instead stroked her cheek with his fingertips. The corners of his lips tugged up into a sweet smile, yet the slight furrow of his brow betrayed some concern.

“Are you all right?”

She returned his smile with one of her own, a soft chuckle whispering past her lips as she reached up and brushed some hair out of his eyes.

“Never better… Thank you.”

His smile widened.

“Well, it’s an important occasion. I had to make sure.”

“No, I mean… Thank you for being so patient with me. For never pressuring me. For waiting so long.”

“Oh, Mistress…” He leaned in and gave her an achingly soft kiss. “Do you remember what I said, all those months ago? I am literally here to please you. That will never change, and it is why your desires and comfort will always be paramount. If you’re not enjoying our time together… well, there isn’t much point, then, is there?”

“I suppose that’s true, but… I still appreciate it.”

The expression on his face was something like adoration, soft and warm that made her heart skip a beat.

“You’re welcome… my Mistress.”

Noelle chuckled again. “I’m only your Mistress by accident, you know.”

The demon grinned and brought his lips to hers once more with a whisper.

“Fine, then. My Accidental Mistress.”

[eepy-whumpee]

cw // choking, language, work drama

Whumpee’s lucked into this job. At least, that’s what they tell themselves as they stare at the day’s pay worth of Italian takeout sitting on their countertop, right next to the bottle of white wine gifted to Whumpee at a white elephant party over a year ago. They’d been saving it for one such special occasion.

Life will go on after this potentially disastrous dinner, and Whumpee will have leftover chicken alfredo for their next two lunches, but it’s difficult to believe that when the three days leading up to this moment have been a cortisol-fueled blur...

One explosive, incriminating email read at 12:04 AM Friday, and the metaphorical shrapnel’s still lodged into Whumpee’s brains 6:14 PM Sunday.

Whumper raps on the door at 6:22 PM. They’re alone… More like three lunches now. God...

Whumper steps into the front doorway which also happens to be the kitchen, “Should I take my shoes off?”

Whumpee blinks as the absurdity of Whumper asking that question– and really this whole situation– hits them– Whumper’s already halfway bent over reaching for their high-end sneakers–

“No! No… You’re good.”

Whumper nods quickly, like that was the correct answer... or the wrong answer… Whumpee can't exactly tell.

Whumper walks past Whumpee, turning and hunching as their impenetrable eyes rove over the meal on the counter and cheap, ceramic plates.

Whumpee can't bring themself to move. The seconds pass interminably slowly, and then suddenly Whumper's looking at them directly, evaluating and re-evaluating. 

"So," Whumper pulls their mouth into a straight line, almost friendly.

"Thank you for coming. I know this is a little… out of the way," Whumpee breathes a laugh.

Whumper's expression somehow becomes even tighter.

Whumpee makes their way over to the food, "I got some Italian. Um… and we can talk. Whatever you wanna talk about first, we can do that. Um…"

Whumper’s face doesn't change much.

"... How's your day been?"

Whumper walks towards Whumpee, "It's been fine."

"Yeah?"

Whumper slaps Whumpee across the face, against the cheekbone– stinging– aching– it's vicious– bruise already forming as Whumpee flexes their jaw in shock.

Whumpee turns away, stumbling, and Whumper catches Whumpee by the nape of their cotton t-shirt, pulling them back and shoving them face-first into painted white cabinet doors.

Whumpee takes a strained breath in as the ribbed shirt collar digs into their windpipe. Swallowing on instinct, the descending bobbing of their throat stops wholesale when it catches on the edge of the fabric, and even that heartbeat of choking is enough to make Whumpee cough desperately, spraying drops of spit.

Whumper twists the fabric in their fist a bit tighter, pulling Whumpee up by the scruff til their heads are close to an even height. Whumpee’s sock-covered toes just manage to keep themselves attached to the hardwood.

Whumper leans over Whumpee's shoulder to listen to the rattling inhale that climbs out of Whumpee’s throat again and again and again, never to meet relief. The musk of cologne on Whumper’s collar fills Whumpee’s nostrils with no air to push it back out.

"Okay, listen…" Whumper starts.

Whumpee grabs the counters, drawer handles, straining for any kind of resistance. Whumper slams Whumpee's head against the cabinet door, producing a resonant thud.

"You're gonna listen to me, you fucking shitheel," Whumper shakes Whumpee again for emphasis, "You're listening?"

Whumpee tries to nod, what with hair smooshed into their face and a nauseating burning flooding through their brow ridge.

"I'm going to ask you some questions, I'm going to let go of you, and then you're going to tell me your answers. Okay?"

Whumper doesn't seem okay. Whumpee nods again weakly, still choking– starting to slip–

"What did you read? And who exactly have you been talking to?"

[11queensupreme11]

i just sprayed hand sanitizer into my throat thinking it was my cough relief spray 😃