#what if her blood sugar drops too low????

[captain039]

PART 6 WASTELAND HEAT (REDONE)

Cooper Howard(The Ghoul) x reader 

Warnings: Violence, blood, gore, AOB dynamics, heat, oral F receiving, smut, swearing, fallout stuff, implied cousin incest, virgin reader, drug usage, needles, plus size reader, sexual assault

Previous part <-

He kisses like a starved man. He has your hands forced above your head and his hips grinding against yours. You’re overwhelmed by everything him, his smell his leather gloves and too clothed body, his leathery lips making yours swollen and achey. He hums softly every now and then as he lets you breathe for a second, chasing air in a rush. One hand has your wrists pinned together above your head while the other is fiddling with the hem of your tank top. Your minds foggy, you’ve forgotten pretty everything right now, all hazy and heat riddled. You struggle to move your hands groaning a little in frustration as his leather covered fingers slide under your tank top and spread over your side. You want to take those damn gloves off, you hate them currently.

“You don’t stop fidgeting I will walk out that door” his warning is a low growl in your ear and you let out a small breath.

“Cooper” you mutter and his eyes snap to yours.

“Gloves” you mumble to him. He smirks slightly removing his hand from under your shirt and holding the tip of his finger to your mouth. You frown and he cocks his head to them. You hesitate but bite down on the tip of the glove and tug, before he moved to the next finger. You tug the glove off with your teeth and he continues his smirk.

“Good girl” he says taking the glove from your mouth and dropping it on the floor. He sits up, back on his knees as he tugs off his other glove and his duster coat, laying them on the floor before staring down at you. You feel like squirming under his gaze before his hands go to your hips. He grips the tops of your shorts, hooking his fingers in and pulling them. You shuffle your hips and lift them up so he can slide them off, not expecting him to slide off your underwear at the same time. You panic a little as he moves your legs to bend before dropping your bottom half clothes on the floor. You can’t cross your legs, not with him between them, your hands were quick to cover yourself though, looking everywhere but him. He lets out a tsked sound and you look to him again. He stares at your hands with slightly raised brows and you gulp. You can feel the heat you’re producing and slick, it makes you embarrassed.

“Omega, my leaving this room still stands” he says with a click of his tongue and your eyes go a little wide. You remove your hands, avoiding eye contact as his eyes stare before he presses himself back against your body. His hand grips your chin to force you to look at him and you do. You stare at his eyes, the little lashes around them too, the feel of him against you. Your need for something you don’t even know how to do or ever experienced. Every time Lucy talked about it sounded so uneventful and meaningless. Not that it had to have meaning but it sounded like most of the time she didn’t enjoy her encounters. You don’t feel him shifting till you feel a finger slide through your slick folds and a gasp leaves your lips.

“Getting in your head sugar” he mutters leaning down to press his lips against yours again. You think back to Ethan and what happened, it makes you tense and press against his chest. You don’t push him away, you grip the shirt he wears, breathe in deeply while he slows his kiss and fingers. He lifts his head frowning and you open and close your mouth a few times.

“I was accepted in the marriage trade, when the raiders came in, a raider named Ethan was supposed to be my husband, we didn’t know they were raiders. He forced his hands on me, his lips too, I don’t-“ you blurt out at the speed of light and watch the his eyes go a little wide. His hand moves from your sex and you let out a whimper.

“No, no please” you beg quietly clenching his shirt. He kisses you a little rougher this time and you sigh in relief at it.

“He didn’t do anything else but that, my father came in and killed him before he could undress me, it was the first time I’d been out of the hospital area too” you say quietly against his lips.

“Please, please I need-“ you don’t know where your begging comes from, the pure need for him to be close, to have him be your entire moment.

“Omega” he says a lowly hand gripping your hip. He flips you suddenly and you almost struggle to move with him as he perches you on his lap, his back against the headboard. You take a small breath hands resting against his clothed chest. You feel the bulge in his pants against your exposed sex and shuffle a little closer to grind yourself against it. His hands instantly grip your hips in a bruising touch and you stop letting out a small sound. You pant softly as his fingers move to the singlet covering your top half. He watched you with eyes like a hawk as you nod a little and he slips your singlet up and over your head. His hands smooth down your sides over the flesh there.

“I’m not hurting you?” You ask and he frowns before raising an eyebrow in question. You glance at yourself, the rolls on your side your chubby belly and thick thighs. He follows your gaze eyes staring hungrily over your flesh before his hands move behind your back to unclasp your bra. You look to the head board instead of his face, your body is flush with a layer of sweat over it, you’ve no doubt soaked his pants from where you sit. You feel his hands slide over your side, thumbs under your breasts before one thumb brushes over your nipple gently. It makes you jolt in surprise and look back to him, seeing him lean forward tongue darting out to twirl around your other nipple while his thumb rubs over the other one. It’s gentle not like what Ethan had done and squeezed harshly, his tongue swirls and flicks before his teeth gently scrap over the sensitive flesh and a small gasp leaves your lips. You glance down to him seeing him staring at you intently again as his full hand covers your breast and gives a gentle knead. He smirks when you make another small noise as he fondles and toys, your hips grind against his hardened cock and you feel a rush of need. You grind a little harder feeling him smirk around your breasts before he leans back.

“Go on” he cocks his head hands leaving your body too. You frown and glance down to his bulge before shuffling back to his thighs. He rests his hands behind his head watching you as you shakily undo his buttons and zip before shuffling his pants down a bit. You move his boxers away and pull him out hearing him sigh quietly, his eyes closing. You stare a little, just like the rest of his body it’s leathery with some ridges, a deeper reddish orange than the rest of him. You swallow silently and shuffle back forward, hips raised, lining him up.

“Easy-“ before he can finish you slowly lower yourself onto him and you whimper. His hands instantly grip your hips and still you and stop you. It’s a stretch and it stings your head hung and your breath leaving you in sharp pants.

“Fuck” he grunts holding you deathly still his tip just in.

“Jesus Christ, omega” he breaths and you let out a small noise in response.

“Sweetheart you gotta prepare yourself” he mutters.

“Sorry” you mutter back.

“Stop fucking apologising” he snarls with a sigh as he lets his bruising grip loosen.

“Just- slowly now” he says and you nod. You slowly lower yourself feeling the stretch, the sting and resistance before your butt meets thigh.

Your minds blank with how full you feel, how warm everything feels. The alpha lets out a low growl from his throat head leaned back.

“Slowly move your hips when you’re ready” he says a little breathlessly and you nod. You grind down on him and let out a small breath before lifting your hips slowly and lowering them. There’s a lot of stinging, and you lean forward a bit, head still hung and rest it against his shoulder. His hand snakes up your back leaving goosebumps in its wake before he massages the back of your neck with his hand.

“I know it hurts sugar” he mutters before he lets out a small chuckle.

“Sort of your own fault” he adds and you whine in response not finding any words to back talk him. His other hand goes to your hip, guiding you to slowly move up and down, and grin against him.

“It’ll feel good” he murmurs as you slowly find a rhythm and the sting begins to fade. Your hands are gripping his shoulders now as you lift your head and find strength to move on your own, the hand on your neck going to your side and squeezing gently. His eyes stare into yours again as you feel yourself quickening briefly then slowing down again, testing how everything feels.

“Fuck” you let out and another rough chuckle leaves him before he hums and guides you to move faster. You feel him inside, roughly gliding against your walls, the feeling of being so full makes you pant and clench slightly.

“Clenching around me already sweetheart” he pants and you nod. Your legs and hips hurt, but you don’t care, tension builds in your stomach like a knot but you can’t find the edge yet. You whine a little frustrated and he moves his hand between you both, two fingers pressing against a sensitive spot before rubbing slowly. You moan eyes closing as you feel your stomach tightening again. His fingers go in time with your hips and you feel yourself clench around him before coming undone. Something snaps inside you, you feel slick going down his cock and between your thighs. He snarls softly, grabs your hips with both hands and holds them up a little before he’s thrusting inside you. The movement makes you moan into his shoulder as he thrusts into you, you feel him swelling and whine softly. You tilt your neck without thought feeling his hot breath against your pulse. He ruts into you, pushing the knot of his cock inside and locking it in. You gasp and pant at the feeling your hips twitching slightly as he rests you back in his lap. He didn’t bite your neck like the teacher said and you feel somewhat unsatisfied by it. You mouth along his neck tasting sweat and dust, his head tilts ever so slightly and you gently scrap your teeth. He moves his hips and you stop with a small moan. You feel exhausted but full, your mind more focused but tired.

“Sleep” he orders and you hum eyes already closed and body sagging against his. You feel him shuffle a bit, hissing softly as he tugs his knot inside you. He reached for the blanket covering the end of the bed, bringing it up around your shoulders and you snuggle in deeper.

[everyfandomever]

how am i not starving rn

[luveline]

Hotch request! Please sir, can I have a Hotch request? I'm trying to follow what you said about comfort but also Hotch being angry. So I get low blood sugars cause of my diabetes and I'd love if you wrote something about them being on a case and BAU!Reader is really busy trying to get stuff done, so she has a bad low blood sugar and sits down but one of the local officers thinks she's slacking off so she tries to keep going and Hotch comes in and defends her, making sure she has everything she needs and doesn't faint. Love you <3

ty for requesting!! hope this is okay <3 fem, 1.3k

“I understand.” You frown, phone pressed to your ear hard. “I totally understand, but it’s really important that I get to talk to her.” 

“She’s on heavy medication,” the nurse replies, unimpressed by your asking, “she wouldn’t be much use anyhow.” 

“I understand, but–”

“Listen, I’m sorry, but we have a lot to do here. I’m sorry we can’t help. Bye.” 

You groan in frustration, bringing your phone from your ear to see the Call Disconnected notification flash across your screen. How are you and the team ever supposed to get answers if nobody wants to help? Your head rushes. You kid yourself into believing it’s annoyance like a hot flash, you’ve been sweaty for ages, but then reality cuts through. What usually makes you sweaty and dizzy?

“Where’s my test kit?” you murmur to yourself. 

The door opens while you’re looking through your bag. 

“Agent,” Officer Debs greets, a stout, sturdy woman with sharp eyes, “any news from Georgetown Psychiatric?” 

You rummage frustratedly through your things. You should know better than to misplace your test kit. Doesn’t matter. You’ll just have to eat something quickly before you get any worse. “Uh, no, nothing they could help me with.” 

“Did you call them?” 

Your eyelids are getting heavier. You sit down on impulse, worried you’re gonna fall if you stay standing. “Yeah, I called them.” You’ve had diabetes for long enough to know what to do, but it’s always harder than it felt the last time when your blood sugar drops. It can be so sudden. 

Realising you might need help, you clear your throat, about to ask Officer Debs if she can get the glucose tablets from your bag. You should’ve grabbed them —your thoughts are starting to thicken like someone’s poured cornflour into your skull. 

“Is now the best time for a break?” Officer Debs asks. 

You focus very hard on bringing your attention into the present. “No, sorry,” you say, standing up. You open your phone and direct to the contacts page, clicking your favourite contact at the very top. 

Don’t know m where test kit is, you text clumsily. Hotch should still be in the precinct. Do u have it ? 

“I hope you’re texting someone about the case,” Officer Debs says sternly. 

You shove your phone into your pocket. “Um,” you say, getting confused now, and not wanting to be shouted at. You grab for the page of phone numbers you’d been making your way through, can’t get your hands to work. “I wasn’t. But I’m getting to it.” 

“We really don’t have time to waste.” 

“I know, but my blood sugar–”

She talks over you. “What’s the point in all our officers working day and night when you FBI agents can’t be bothered to put in the same effort?” Her voice rises. “It’s ridiculous!”

“It’s not ridiculous, we’re trying our best just like you are.”

“Clearly not!” 

“My blood sugar,” you say, more insistently. “Stop shouting at me.” 

The door opens quickly, creaking hard on its hinge. Hotch doesn’t slam it open, he never slams anything, but he doesn’t hesitate either. “I have it, you left it in the car after you tested this morning,” he says, your kit in his hand. He gives Officer Debs a surprised up and down. “Who’s shouting?” he asks, unimpressed. 

You wouldn’t like to be on his bad side. “Hotch, I need a tablet.” 

If he’s shocked at your lethargy, he doesn’t say. He ignores the officer from that point on. “Yes, I think so, too.” 

Hotch is more efficient than you were, grabbing your tube of glucose tablets and shaking one out into his hand. “Can you take it yourself?” 

“You want to chew it for me?” you ask. 

He tips it into your palm. “Very funny.” 

He opens the test kit on the desk and starts to extract the pieces. It’s quite complicated, especially for people unfamiliar with it, but you’re pretty sure Hotch learned how to use it the day he knew you had diabetes. He wipes his hands with an alcohol wipe and presses a test strip into the meter, careful not to touch the end, before wiping your finger with a new wipe, and readying the lancing stick. 

“Gonna stick you, okay?” he asks quietly.

“Mm,” you hum, the glucose tablet like chalk between your teeth. 

He sticks you. Some days it feels more painful than other days, but today it’s like a pinprick in a haze. He squeezes your finger, wipes the first drop of blood with a cotton ball, and dips the test strip into the second bead of blood, careful not to jab your cut. 

In the five seconds it takes for you to get a result on the meter, he kneels down, pressing another cotton ball to your finger to stem the flow of blood. “Good,” he murmurs to you. The meter flashes on the table. “Not so good. Fifty nine, huh? How’d that happen?” 

You shake your head slowly from one side to another. “I’ve no idea.” 

“Okay. Well, that tablet’s not gonna do it, honey. Do you have any gels?” 

“No,” you say apologetically. 

“That’s fine. I’ll get you a drink.” 

Officer Debs clears her throat. You may be foggy, but her awkwardness is palpable. “I’ll get it.”

“It has to be full sugar. Coke, if you can,” Hotch says. She nods in understanding and leaves in record time. Hotch turns back to you, his severity melting away. “She was shouting at you?”

“Tried to tell her about my blood sugar. She told me we’re not here to waste time.” You close your mouth, licking the glucose off of your teeth.

“How did you get so low?” he asks.

“Must have done something wrong this morning. Am I okay?” 

“We’ll see. I think you’ll be alright.” 

“Don’t usually get so dizzy.” 

“When was the last time you were below seventy?” 

“Don’t know,” you mumble. 

Hotch peels the cotton ball from your finger and packs your things away cleanly. “Let’s see how you feel in ten minutes. After your coke. Now… what did the Officer say to you?” 

He’s getting his facts straight. Again, you wouldn’t like to be on his bad side. You relay your conversation, Officer Debs hadn’t even been that bad, just uppity, stuck on her own assumptions rather than willing to listen when you’d needed a hand. Her lack of empathy could’ve really affected you. Low blood sugar is no joke. 

You tell him, savouring in the warmth of his hand on your leg, how uncaring he is to be kneeling in front of you on the precinct floor. He frowns at you long and hard. 

By the time Officer Debs returns, he’s on his feet again. “A word?” he asks her. 

You don’t hear all of what he’s saying through the door as you sip your coke. He doesn’t shout, but he defends you with a heavy gravity. Officer Debs speaks up and he cuts her down, something about understanding, and then a more clear telling off, “I don’t want to hear about Agent L/N’s performance from you again. She’s my agent, and if she needs a break, she’ll take one. It’s none of your concern.” 

“I understand.” 

You feel much peppier when he comes back in, though he appears less so. “You’re nasty,” you say, smiling, happy to be defended, and happier to know you’re not gonna pass out.

He crosses the room. Still frowning, he takes your face into his hands, and he leans down inch by inch, until he’s pressing a soft, soft kiss to your lips. You barely have time to close your eyes before he’s pulling away, thumb pressed into your soft cheek. “Nobody gets to shout at you. Especially over your blood sugar.” 

“It’s usually you telling me off for letting it get low,” you mumble. 

He stands up straight, leaving you wanting for another kiss you won’t get, hands stolen back from your cheeks. “You’re ageing me prematurely. Drink some more coke, please, sweetheart.” 

“What do I get in return?” 

He touches your face briefly, as much of a promise as you’re going to get. 

[iconicstoner]

love bites & apologies

gn!reader x jasper hale

words: 1960

summary: when Jasper accidentally leaves marks on y/n’s neck after kissing them, he has to figure out how to make it up to them and their parents.

“Sugar, you are so sweet,” Jasper’s words came out like a husky southern growl, just centimeters away from your face. Slowly, his hands push through your hair as his icy lips move down your neck. He sends a chill down your spine with the feeling of his cold touch, and yet your whole body feels hot with pleasure. Just as Jasper begins to pin you down, his lips still grazing your warm neck, the sound of someone clearing their throat startles both of you. The two of you turn to face the person quickly, and embarrassment adorns your face when you realize who caught you. Jasper releases the firm grip he had on you and raises his eyebrows at the towering lean figure standing in the doorway.

“Y’know, I can hear all your thoughts, and usually that would be helpful, but I don’t want to hear,” Edward pauses to glance between the two of you, “those thoughts.” Your face flushes with embarrassment, and Jasper’s would too, if he was still capable of it.

“I’ll have you know, from the moment you met Bella, I could feel every emotion you felt about her, and that was ten times worse. Do you know how awkward it is to feel lust emitting from the house, just to find out it’s coming from your brother?” A smirk is still etched onto Jasper’s face as he finishes drawing out the words with his charming Southern accent. Edward tenses with embarrassment, and he doesn’t say anything for a long time, considering what Jasper knows. Then, as he begins to look back between the couple sprawled out on Jasper's bed, he begins to laugh.

“Why is he doing that?” you ask in a low mumble. Jasper gives Edward a look of confusion, before turning to you. The second he sees you, his face drops, no longer smirking, and he is in utter shock.

“Oh, Emmett is gonna love this,” Edward says between laughs. Before Edward even finished his sentence Emmett was standing at his side with just the mention of his name. When he looked into the room, he burst into laughter too.

“Nice one, Jasper!” Emmett exclaims as he pats Jasper’s shoulder with intense force, almost knocking Jasper, who is in a trance-like state, over. “It’s like you’re all grown up. Quite the cowboy,” He says, sarcastically. Your confusion is palpable to the brothers, but before you can even ask, Edward is pointing a small handheld mirror at you, giving you a great view of your neck. It’s almost entirely purplish-red from all the places Jasper had been kissing you. You let out a gasp that causes all laughter to cease.

“I’d love to help you,” Edward said with a smile, almost as if he was enjoying this moment, “but since Vampires don’t have blood, we don’t have this problem.” As his brothers spoke, Jasper stood to the side, continuing to look down at you with a slight horror at the mistake he made.

“We could try makeup? I know Rosalie has a ton somewhere around here,” Emmett suggests, at least trying to be helpful.

“Going home with pasty white makeup all over your neck is almost more suspicious than just letting people see the hickeys,” Edward said to Emmett playfully. “And also, curfew is in fifteen minutes, so I’d hurry home,” Edward says to you, knowing this will only be worse if you also break your curfew.

Before you’d even had time to think of a plan, Jasper was already ushering you to the car. He raced down the slick asphalt to your house in the silver Jeep. The car was completely silent the whole drive, but Jasper kept a firm grip on your thigh with his right hand. Emmett and Edward were in the back, and as you pull into the driveway, you can only hope your parents won’t kill you.

“Hold on,” Jasper says, his cool hand touches your jaw, and he leans in to give you a soft, cold, longing kiss, “just in case it’s the last time,” he mumbles into your ear as he reluctantly pulls away from the kiss.

“They can’t ground me for as long as you're alive,” you remark playfully.

“Yes, but they can ground you for as long as you’re alive,” he says, with a sweet syrupy quality to his voice. His hand slowly and delicately traces down your jaw until it's back in his atmosphere again. You crave to grab his hand or to press his skin against yours for just one last second, but you know you can’t look like this and be late. You climb out of the Jeep, step inside your house, and close the door behind you, but Jasper doesn’t take the Jeep out of park.

“What are we doing, Jasper?” Emmett questions uneasily.

“Jasper wants to know what y/n’s parents are going to feel when they see what happened,” Edward explained, already knowing what Jasper was thinking, which was helpful because Jasper would give anything not to speak right now. No one said anything for a moment, but then Jasper tensed, sitting up a little straighter. Edward slumped back, seeming almost uncomfortable by what was happening. Emmett could tell this meant that your parents had noticed, and things didn’t seem good.

“I can feel their emotions. It’s so strong that I can hardly distort them, at least not from this far.” Jasper paused after the words left his mouth, but he didn’t move. “What are they thinking, Edward?”

“I don’t want to say,” Edward said monotonously. Emmett stiffened, and for someone so hard to miss, he seemed to wash away with the tension of the moment.

“Tell me,” Jasper demanded. The brothers sat very still for a very long time before anyone spoke again. The sound of chirping crickets filled their ears, and the stars shined down on them. However, they didn't notice any of their surroundings, as they focused their attention on what was happening in your house.

“They think you’re a freak,” he paused, for what felt like centuries, before saying, “They want you two to break up.” Before Edward can continue, Jasper put the car in reverse and sped home so fast that even Edward wanted to suggest slowing down.

“What am I going to do?” Jasper asked as he opened the front door to the Cullen's house. Emmett and Edward shuffled in behind him without a word.

“You’re going to have to make it up to y/n’s parents,” Emmet advised.

“You’re going to have to make it up to y/n too,” as soon as the words escaped Edward's mouth Emmett and Jasper were staring at him, waiting for an explanation. “When I was listening to their thoughts, y/n was mad that you weren’t more careful.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Jasper said, his voice full of exasperation.

A week passes, and somehow Jasper finds himself standing next to Carlisle at your doorstep.

“Jasper, I’m surprised you asked me to do this for you,” Carlisle says quietly as he taps his stone-cold hand against your front door. “This relationship must mean a lot to you.” The door opens before their conversation continues, and they’re greeted with your father's presence. Days had passed since Jasper had gotten to see you. After what happened last week, Jasper called your house, but when your father answered, he told Jasper to never call back again. Jasper had hoped he’d be able to talk with you at school, but you anxiously avoided him, and he wasn’t looking to upset you anymore. It was the slowest week of his 160-year-old life.

“It’s great to see you. I’m Dr. Cullen, Jasper’s father. I was wondering if we could have a word?” Your father is hesitant at the question, but allows the two of them to come inside. The three of them sit at the dining table that your mother is already occupying. As they sit, Jasper nervously fumbles with his hands, worried that his plan to involve Carlisle as his ‘father’ wouldn’t work the way he hoped.

“Jasper,” you say as you walk into the kitchen, surprised to see them, “and Carlisle, what’s going on?” You make your way to the table and sit down on the far end, with Jasper on one side of you, and your father on the other. Jasper could feel the nervousness emitting from you, and it almost matched his own. He wanted to grab on to you and never let go as he took in your intoxicating scent and warm skin, but instead, he settled for inconspicuously placing a hand on your knee and hoping your family didn’t notice.

“I wanted to discuss with you all what happened last week,” Carlisle said, looking more serious than you’d ever seen him. When he said the words, almost everyone in the room had their eyes on your (no longer purple) neck. Except for Jasper, who was looking deep into your eyes as if they could heal him or ease his pain. “What Jasper did was irresponsible, and I do not condone that kind of behavior. We have both raised two very responsible, mature, and sensible kids. As disapproving as I am, what they did was not dangerous. Our children had the self-control to stop themselves before things got too out of hand. I know these kids make each other happy, and I believe we should continue to let them see each other.” Carlisle hardly gave anyone time to speak as he felt the disapproval radiate off your parents. “And if it would make you more comfortable, they don’t have to be together at my house anymore. At least not alone.” There was a long pause after Carlisle finished speaking, as if what he said compelled everyone to silence. Jasper gently squeezed your knee and glanced at you hopefully.

“I’ll agree that they continue to see each other, on the condition that they can only be alone together in public, or at our house, with the doors open, while we are home.” It might sound like a big ask, but Jasper knew how secretive and creative Edward was with Bella, and for someone so special to him, he was willing to try and be just as sneaky for you. The idea of sneaking into your bedroom late at night filled him with excitement, and he quickly thought of all the ways he could climb into your bed without your family noticing.

“I think we can agree to that,” Carlisle said with a wide smile and stood up to shake your father’s hand. Jasper smiled eagerly as he stood up, beckoning you to stand too, and wrapped you into a hug. Even if his skin was glacial, he still warmed your heart. You attempted to suppress your excited laugh as Jasper kissed your cheek.

“Hey,” your father called out disapprovingly, causing Jasper to loosen his grip around you.

“What?” you mused, “the doors are open?” Jasper tried to hide his smile in your hair as your parents let out a collective sigh.

“Don’t push it you two,” Carlisle said just loud enough for only you two to hear. He threw the two of you a knowing wink as he made his way back to the front door. Jasper smiled in a way you’d never seen before and slightly adjusted so his back was facing your parents. Gently, he leaned down to kiss you one more time. This time, he let his cold lips meet yours, and even if it was just for a second, you could feel every ounce of his love.

“See you soon, darlin’,” he said with a hushed sultry southern accent. Next time you two were together, he planned on continuing what you never got to finish.

[shanastoryteller]

Merry bday! A continuation of Enola Holmes marrying the viscount of Basilweather would be really cool 😀

a continuation of 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

She wrinkles her nose when Tewksbury passes over her cup of tea with two sugars, unstirred, and she knows.

She puts down the cup too quickly, blood pounding in her ears, and Tewksbury frowns, reaching for her hand. "Enola?"

"Got to go," she says, pushing herself to standing, almost just leaves him sitting there, hand outstretched, but he's her husband and she loves him, so she darts over to smack a kiss on his lips before she's running for the door.

"Enola!" he calls out again, but now he sounds less worried and more exasperated, which is better, which is good. There's nothing for him to worry about.

She wants her mother, who's banned from London and is causing political unrest in Southern France currently, or Edith, who's doing something clever and illegal in Scotland. She'd take Victoria, but Mycroft will be there, and he's the last person she wants to see right now. Sherlock, while beloved, is useless, but his boy is a doctor.

She drops in at 221B Baker Street, picking the lock like always, and is relieved that Sherlock is still asleep and decides not to have any opinions on the various bones scattered about the kitchen table. She assumes there's a reasonable explanation for them.

"Oh, Enola!" John grins and shoves some femurs to the side to make space at the table. "Here, join me, would you like some oatmeal? Are you looking for your brother? I can wake him-"

"I'm pregnant," she blurts out, then bites her bottom lip.

John blinks once, then twice, then says with a gentleness that had made her like him in the first place - because Sherlock wanted to be gentle, but was quite bad at it, so someone had to teach him - "This is what you wanted, isn't it?"

Wanted seems like not the correct word, although of course it is, because she and Tewksbury had been, not trying, but not-not trying, which probably amounted to the same thing, considering how often they - well.

"I can fix it," he says, voice low and serious, "if it's something that needs to be fixed."

Enola lets out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding. "No. No, it doesn't need to be fixed."

She loves that he offered. She loves John, more her brother than Mycroft will ever be, sometimes even more her brother than Sherlock is. If nothing else, her brothers had picked their partners well. Victoria and John are a delight.

John is the functional one between them, explosions and skeletons notwithstanding. John is the one that coaxed her brother into a proper relationship and John is the one that knew they were like parents to all the Irregulars and John isn't normal but he grew up normal.

"Are you worried something's wrong?" he asks. "I can look you over."

"No," she says, although, "I mean, yes, that'd be nice because Tewksbury will go spare, but no, I'm not worried anything's wrong."

He leans back in his chair, looking her over, and after almost ten years of dealing with her and Sherlock and even occasionally Mycroft he can read them almost as well as they can read everyone else.

"It's alright to be scared," he says finally. "Lots of women are when they find out, even when it's wanted, even when the baby's healthy."

"I'm not scared," she says, but for the first time her words feel like a lie. "I shouldn't be scared. What do I have to be scared of?"

She wishes her mother was here.

Will her children miss her like this too?

Sometimes she misses her mother even when she's right in front of her, and if nothing else, she's her mother's daughter.

John gets to his feet, stand in front of her, and opens his arms. She looks away even as she steps forward, like if she doesn't look at him when she does it then it doesn't count as weakness.

His arms close around her. He smells like chai and antiseptic and it's only years of association that make the combination comforting. "I can't wait to be an uncle."

He'll be an uncle. Sherlock will be an uncle. Even Mycroft, and Victoria will be delighted to be an aunt, and to raise her children with Enola's. Of course there's her mother-in-law, and Tewksbury's uncle, who have been angling for her to have a child from the day they married.

There's Tewksbury, who loves her, who isn't going to die on her or leave her if either of them have anything to say about it, who isn't going to leave her to raise their children the way her mother raised her.

Alone.

She's been saying she wasn't going to do this alone from the beginning, but standing here in Sherlock's kitchen, with John holding her steady, she really believes it.

[alotofpockets]

Highs and lows | Lia Wälti x Sister!Reader

Warnings: Reader is a type 1 diabetic and experiences both hypo- and hyperglycemic events. I hope all the medical talk is right!

Woso masterlist | Words: 1.3k

-----

One of the things you loved to do outside of football, was going on walks with some of the girls on your team. When you and your sister Lia made the move to London, you had found a second family in your Arsenal teammates. The friendships you made here went beyond the pitch, and you were forever grateful to have gotten a place amongst them.

Today you were joined by Lia, Steph, Viv, Beth, and Leah. As well as Myle and Calvin, the dogs were both running around the park as the rest of you were talking. 

“Oh hi Myle girl, do you want me to throw the ball?” The dog had dropped the tennis ball into your lap, so you got up to play with her. You made a quick stop to grab your water bottle before you ran back to the dogs. Myle had so much energy, so she kept running up and down the field, while Calvin stayed closer to your side. You throw the ball for Myle again, but your vision goes blurry right after. You knew the feeling all too well, and sat down slowly. Calvin moved closer to you and started barking. Steph looked up at the sudden loudness from her dog, who usually is rather quiet, and notices you on the grass. 

“Hey Lia”, Steph didn’t even have to finish her sentence, the tone of her voice told Lia enough, she looked over to you and rushed to your side when she saw you were on the ground.

“I'm here.” She reaches for your hand, while reaching for her phone with the other. She taps the device to the patch on your arm, letting it read your glucose levels. You had been diagnosed with diabetes type 1 when you were a kid, so the symptoms were very familiar to your sister, and to the team now as well. “It’s low.” By now she didn't even have to tell you what she was going to do, as she was with you for a lot of your highs and lows. She grabs a juice box out of her bag, and tells you to drink up.

“Here, lean into me.” You heard Leah's voice behind you. Her hands on your shoulders guided you into her. The girls knew that there was nothing they could do for you, and that they would just have to wait for your glucose levels to get back up, but that didn't mean that they wouldn't try to make it as comfortable for you as possible. 

Slowly but surely you started feeling better, the blurred vision faded, and you felt a little stronger again. While you had gotten used to the hypo- and hyperglycemic events, they were still a little scary to experience, because you'd never know when one would be more severe.

“Come on, let's get you home.” Lia extends her hands to you, after you let her know you were ready to get up. Once you were up, she hugged you tight, always a little scared of the events herself. 

“Why don't you come to our place?” Beth offers, “We live closer, you can rest there.” You agreed instantly, the less you had to walk right now the better. Back at Beth and Viv’s place you find yourself slowly drifting to sleep cuddled into Viv’s side, with Myle on your chest. 

You’re woken up by the smell of one of your favourite dishes lingering in the air. “Hey, how are you feeling?” Viv asks when she notices that you were awake again. “Good enough for that delicious meal Lia is cooking up.” The girl you’re still laying against chuckles, “Ah good, you’re back.”

You looked around the room to find Leah, Steph, and Calvin had left the home, while Lia was in the kitchen with Beth. Though, you knew your sister did all the cooking, because Viv always loved to tell you how bad of a chef Beth really was. You got up and joined the rest for dinner.

The next few days your blood sugar levels didn’t have any major spikes, there was the occasional high and low, but nothing that wasn’t quickly fixed. 

On game day you were rushing out of the house, cause you forgot to put your alarm. You rolled out of bed, hopped in the shower, and quickly changed into your match day outfit, before you headed to your car. 

You knew it was stupid to skip meals, because it would most likely influence your blood sugar levels later on, but right now the only thought on your mind was getting to the stadium on time. Which luckily you managed to do, you headed into the locker room where everyone was about ready to start warming up. After quickly putting on your cleats, and your training kit, you followed the team out.

“Everything alright?” Your sister asked as she put her arm on your shoulder to warm up her legs. You nod, “I overslept. Forgot to set my alarm, but I’m all good.” You continue warming up together, before running some drills with the rest of the girls. 

On the pitch everything was going great until it wasn’t. You felt very shaky, and were sweating more than during a regular game. Trying to push the feelings aside only worked for a few minutes, with one tackle you were on the ground, and your body fully gave into the high blood sugar. Both Lia and the medics came rushing your way.

“You need to check her glucose levels.” Your sister instructed. The medic already had a phone in their hand to tap it to your patch. “We’ve got her Lia, don’t worry.” The phone quickly gave the glucose levels, and showed they were very high. 

“I’m going to give you an insuline shot, to get your levels down quickly.” You simply nodded, not caring how they would lower your blood sugar, as long as you would stop feeling this way. After the shot, your body started slowly feeling stronger again. The medics walked you off the field, and sat you down on the bench. Steph sat down next to you, and you leaned into her side. She took the bag of nuts the medical assistant handed over, and opened the bag for you. 

When the halftime whistle blew you headed into the locker room, while Steph went to warm up with the rest of the bench. 

“What happened?” Your sister’s worried voice rang out the moment you sat down. She didn’t even let you answer the first question, before she continued. “Why didn’t you say something sooner? You know how bad it can get if you don’t treat your highs and lows on time.” 

“Since I was in a hurry this morning I kind of forgot to have breakfast. I swear I was going to eat something when I got here, but you were all ready to warm up, so I forgot in the rush again.” You knew that skipping meals wasn’t good for your glucose levels, and you really didn’t do it on purpose, and you needed Lia to know that. “I should’ve said it sooner, but it was almost half time. I thought I would be alright until then.”

Lia uncrossed her arms, and the angry facade fell. “Please don’t ever scare me like that again!” She sat down and put her arm around you, happy to know that you were alright again. You listened to Kim and Leah discuss the tactics for the second half of the game, and made your way back to the bench when it was time to head back again. 

The team ended up winning the match. After the second half you felt a lot better again, so you walked the victory round next to your sister, who was happy to have you properly on your feet again.

-----

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[laracrofted]

slumber party kissing

synopsis: after a bachelorette party, you and phoenix have a sleepover.

pairing: natasha trace x fem!reader (c/s: comet)

warnings: minors and ageless blogs dni, explicit smut (oral sex, fingering, praise, condescension, phoenix has dom vibes), alcohol consumption, and language. (wc: 1.8K)

note: you can definitely read this as a standalone, but it's a direct prequel to supernova 💖 listen to naked in manhattan and red wine supernova by chappell roan for the vibes!

a huge shoutout to @sometimesanalice who mentioned a prequel back when i posted supernova and is the only reason i ever started writing this. tagging a few people who might be interested: @theharddeck @sebsxphia @sylviebell @callsignspark @lewmagoo @roosterbruiser @sushiwriterhere

You're a little drunk.

Margarita drunk, which is your sluttiest kind, personally.

You probably wouldn't have been so bold, so clumsily forward otherwise. You wouldn't gone about it a different way, one with less potential to publicly embarrass you.

"How big is your bed?"

A small smirk dances on her pink lips as Phoenix regards you, glowing pink in the magenta lights.

She wipes a lipstick print from the mouth of her own margarita glass. Sugar catches on her fingers, and with a quick and efficient swipe of her tongue, she licks them clean.

Leaning against the bar, Phoenix has to raise her voice to be heard over the music. "Why're you asking?"

You lean on her, dipping your chin over the elegant slope of her shoulder, and Phoenix holds your weight without question.

You slowly blink up at her from under long and dark lashes, jet black.

(You're wearing a new mascara, a waterproof one that promised you sensational lashes through a long night's worth of blood, sweat, tears, and whatever other bodily fluids might make an appearance at a multi-hour bachelorette party.)

"I dunno if I can make it home. Can I sleep over?"

You're being a little bit dramatic, probably a little whiney in all honestly. You could definitely go home. You just don't want to go home alone.

Her brow quirks, cool and calm and frustratingly unreadable. "We live on the same floor, Comet, I can walk you back."

A small pout forms on your lips, bottom lip jutted out and glossy.

"Payback called me with a wedding emergency when I was doing m' laundry..."

Which hadn't been an emergency at all, Payback had just wanted you to back him up on putting a song from The Godfather on the DJ's mix. You'd sided with the bride.

(Any sane person who'd already bought a dress for the rehearsal dinner and the wedding and didn't want to be un-invited would.)

"...and when I get back, I won't have any sheets on my bed."

She laughs. A low and sweet sound. "How about I come over and put your sheets on for you? We could..."

Phoenix is interrupted when the Maid of Honor waves at you both and cups her hands around her mouth and yells, "Uber'll be here in 10. Ten minutes!"

She forms a 1 and a 0 with her fingers, and when Phoenix nods, vanishes in a sea of pink lights and reflective disco balls and bodies.

You're disappointed but do your best not to look too bummed.

How long is 10 minutes, really?

You could stay longer, could find someone else.

Someone who'll dance against your back and kiss your neck and go home with you. Someone who isn't your colleague and friend. Someone who is more interested than Phoenix seems to be.

"You ready?" Phoenix asks, signing her receipt and yours in an illegible flourish. She pushes them back across the damp surface of the counter.

"Ready for what?"

You're so sure Phoenix is dodging your – admittedly, not your best –advance.

Then, Phoenix cups your nape, gentle but firm, and smiles.

You realize that maybe Phoenix hadn't been side stepping your advance at all.

Her dark eyes gleam in the pink and purple as Phoenix leans in close, breath warm against your ear, voice husky. "For our sleepover, of course."

You almost drop your keys at least three times in your effort to unlock the door as Phoenix presses kiss after kiss against your hummingbird pulse.

You push the unlocked door open, impatient, and Phoenix follows after you with a giggle and with a heated look in her eyes, pushes you back against the metal.

Her canine teeth brush against the side of your neck, and you shiver, letting your eyes flutter closed.

"So sweet," Phoenix murmurs, nipping the heated skin once and then again. "Are you sweet all over, angel?"

Angel. You might actually die.

You almost choke on your own saliva, but Phoenix spares you the embarrassment of a fumbled answer and grasps your chin between her pointer and index and kisses you, deep and searching and wanting kiss.

You're a little breathless on the other side, grasping at Phoenix's slender shoulders for balance, for some steadiness.

"You're sweet here," Phoenix muses, brushing the pad of her thumb across your swollen lips, dipping inside your mouth and running it over the sharp edge of your incisor.

You can't help yourself.

You suck her finger deeper into your mouth, running your tongue over the sugar granules and lime that linger on her skin.

She looks at you with such satisfaction, so pleased, like Phoenix is unwrapping a present that she already knows will be exactly what she wanted.

Her wet thumb pulls from your mouth, and Phoenix eases her hand under the short hem of your dress and locates the damp spot in the center of your panties with ease. Presses down.

A half gasp rips from your lips, and Phoenix watches you with half-lidded eyes, lowering her smooth voice, rasping against your neck.

"Are you sweet here, I wonder?"

You should probably say something – anything. You're the one who made the first move here, after all, but hell, Phoenix is fucking mesmerizing. She has you in the palm of her goddamn hand.

Literally.

"So quiet," Phoenix observes. A smirk curls the corners of her mouth, like a ribbon. "Is that the good kind of quiet or the bad kind? You're not drunk, right?"

An emphatic shake of your head.

"Still want to do this?"

You nod. You nod so fucking hard.

Her smirk widens. "Use your words, angel, or I might not believe you."

"Good. Definitely good."

Her lips part as Phoenix smiles a smile as glittering as her eyeshadow. "Good."

She pulls on your hand, pulling you to the bedroom, but you stop short.

"Wait, Phoenix."

She pauses, looking at you over her shoulder, long, dark hair like a waterfall down her back.

"That wasn't a line earlier. I actually don't have any sheets on my bed right now."

She bursts out laughing.

On the clean sheets, Phoenix slides your dress up around your waist and looks at you.

Her own dress has already been shed, up and over her head, leaving her bare from the waist up in her blue panties and no bra.

"You're so..."

Words can't even describe what Phoenix is.

Radiant. Gorgeous. Ethereal.

She smiles, as if reading your mind, and moves to straddle your chest, knees denting the unwrinkled sheets on either side of your ribcage.

"So sweet," Phoenix says again. She kisses and licks at your neck, searching with her warm tongue for the spot that'll make you arch up into her hand, plucking at your nipple through your bra. "So pretty for me, angel."

A whined please slips from your lips, and Phoenix pauses, holding your arms down.

Holding your gaze, Phoenix bends to suck on your pebbled nipple, leaving a damp spot in the lace of your bra. A gasp punches from your lungs, which only makes you bend into her more, push up harder against her soft mouth.

"You're the one who invited me here, angel. Ask me."

Her knee slides between your legs as Phoenix blows a cool breath over your nipples and sucks them into her warm mouth again. You shiver and writhe underneath her.

"Ask me," Phoenix says again. An order. "Or I'll keep doing this – and only this – all night. Anyone ever made you come from this before?"

No, but Phoenix probably could.

Or Phoenix could hold you down and keep you right on the edge.

You actually don't hate the idea.

But right now, you need more.

"Can you...?"

"Can I...?" Phoenix urges. "Can I what?"

"Can you touch me? Please?"

Her expression softens, and Phoenix kisses you once more.

She settles between your legs with a concentrated expression, brows slightly wrinkled, and pulls your damp panties down your legs.

She sponges kisses on the freshly shaved skin of your legs, circling your ankles and pulling your closer with a gentle kiss behind your knee.

"Do you want me to touch you..." She brushes against your wetness with a bent knuckle in the lightest of touches. "...or taste you? Do you want to show me how sweet you can really be?"

That. You absolutely want that.

You find your voice and choke it out.

Smirking, Phoenix starts slow, all light licks and barely there kisses and content breaths and so damn sweet for me sighed against your cunt.

From there, Phoenix delves in deeper with longer open-mouthed kisses, spearing you with her tongue, with her fingers until within minutes, you're close.

So damn close.

She can feel you clench down and seize, can feel how close you are, and rather than ease back and slow down, rather than get you there at a slow and gentle pace, Phoenix pinches your clit between her knuckles, hard and merciless.

You go off like a firework, all over her mouth.

It's one of your most intense orgasms in recent memory and definitely the most intense one you've had with another person in a damn hot minute.

You damn near black out, vision whitening, ears ringing, writhing on the mattress as Phoenix holds you down and licks every drop of arousal from you.

A few minutes later, you come to, and Phoenix is leaning her head against your shaking leg with a smile.

"Have I killed you?"

Her gaze is warm with affection and languid satisfaction, like a house cat on a warm summer afternoon. She looks smug as hell.

You suck in a breath and wiggle your fingers.

You exhale a breathless laugh. "Jesus Christ, Phoenix. I'll get you back for that."

Her brows arches, elegant and mischievous. "Oh? I hope so."

You roll her onto her back on the mattress and lick into her mouth until Phoenix is moaning and gasping and coming so prettily all over your hand.

Nothing will cover the bruise behind your ear, and of course, Hangman clocks you right away on Monday morning.

"Nice hickey, Comet. You get some at the party?"

You're irritated enough to answer, which is a mistake because Hangman loves a reaction. Any reaction.

"None of your business."

His smirk is knowing. "You so did. Good for you. We know 'em?"

"Yeah..."

And Hangman's green eyes go wide with delight.

"Your mom flew in for the weekend. You should call her more."

Rooster howls with laughter as Hangman scowls.

And Bob observes from the back of the room.

He looks sidelong at Phoenix and quietly comments, "You weren't in your room on Sunday morning. I knocked."

Her expression is calm and blank, but Phoenix pauses. "Oh... I went for an early run on Sunday."

"An early run?" Bob asks.

She nods. "Yeah. Like 8-ish."

He'd definitely knocked before 8 – like 7:30 at the latest – but Bob doesn't push.

He nods, and Phoenix might look relieved.

Maverick’s arrival is the perfect distraction.

As Maverick begins his lecture, you look over your shoulder at Phoenix, chancing an oh-so-casual glance, and instead, find Bob Floyd already watching you with a peculiar, kind of curious expression. His blue eyes are wide and intense and searching.

You face forward again, cheeks warm.

note: i'm hoping to do a few more blurbs or short fics in the supernova verse because i'm in love with them 💖 also, oops i wrote most of this like 2 months ago

[littlemissomega]

How Low Can You Go ?

Diabetic!reader x Stucky

Summary: reader’s blood sugar drops in the middle of the night

Warnings: Dangerously low blood sugar, low blood sugar symptoms (head racing, shaky, brain fog), crying, blood, mention of glucose tablets (which is kinda a medication? It helps get your blood sugar up), orange juice, fluff, pet names (Ladybug, princess, sweetie, honey, etc)

Short and sweet enough to give your hyperglycemia (high blood sugar)

For reference, any blood sugar below 70-80- depending on your dr- is considered low

Masterlist

Why is my heart pounding? Y/N wonders groggily as her eyes flutter open. She can tell something is wrong. Her skin feels clammy and her whole body is shaking. Y/N slowly sits up, looking around confused. Her brain feels foggy and she can’t think straight. Tear well in her eyes from the frustration and she put her face in her hands.

“Are you okay, baby?” Bucky asks, voice thick with sleep.

Y/N bursts out in tears and he shoots up in bed.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” he asks, putting a hand on her cheek. Her skin is cold and sticky under his palm, “Steve, wake up,”

Y/N feels Steve sturs and sits up on her other side.

“Ladybug, what’s wrong?” Steve asks, rubbing her back.

“Don’t kn-know can’t think heart don’t know don’t fee-feel good,” Y/N sniffles.

“What’s your blood sugar?” Bucky asks, turning on the lamp.

Y/N squeezes her eyes shut, nuzzles her face into Steve’s chest in the bright light.

“Huh? Don’t know too dizzy,” she whimpers.

“It’s okay, princess, we’ll make it all better,” Steve soothes, wrapping his arm around her and Bucky grabs her phone off the nightstand.

  Bucky goes straight to her Dexcom app.

“Shit,” he mumbles, pushing the blankets off and jumping out of bed.

“What? What is it?” Steve asks, tightening his grip about Y/N

“40.1 (2.2mmol/L) with double arrows down,” Bucky calls as he runs down the hall to the kitchen.

Bucky’s hands tremble as he grabs two bottles of orange juice from the fridge, as well as Y/N’s glucose tablets.

“Let’s manually check, baby,” Steve suggests, gently turning her so her back is against his chest. He grabs her diabetes bag off the nightstand and gets the glucometer (what checks how much sugar is in your blood) out. He quickly puts a strip in before getting the lancet (finger pricker) out. He quickly cleans her shaking index finger with an alcohol swab before pricking this finger.

“Oww Stevie,” Y/N whines.

“I know baby, I’m sorry,” he soothes, wiping the blood up with the strip. Steve lifts her still bleeding finger to his lips and sucks on it gently. 3…2…1…

“39.3, Buck!” Steve calls, releasing her finger with a pop.

“That bad?” Y/N slurs.

“Don’t close your eyes, Ladybug, Bucky will be right back,” Steve tells Y/N, gently tapping her cheek as her eyes start to close.

“Don’t li-like it,” she responds. Steve wipes the tears from her cheeks.

“I know, baby. Here’s Bucky!” Steve points out as Bucky plops down on the bed.

“Here you go, Ladybug,” Bucky voices, opening the orange juice and lifting it to her lips.

Y/N struggles to part her dry lips, still feeling confused. The sugary, tart juice is a shock to her system and she almost chokes on it.

“There you go, baby, think up,” Steve whispers, placing a hand on the back of her head.

“Take this too,” Bucky adds, opening the glucose tablets and getting two out. He gently parts her lips with his thumb and places them on her tongue before lifting the juice back up. She swallows them without hesitating.

“You’re doing so good, honey,” Steve soothes, “Keep drinking it,”

Y/N obeys, swallowing until the last drop is gone.

“Do you think that’s enough?” Steve whispers.

“I think? I don’t wanna overtreat and it goes high. Let’s just wait 15 minutes and recheck,”

“Bucky?” 

“Yes, baby,” Bucky responds, putting a hand on his girlfriend’s leg.

“I’m sor…sorry I woke you up,” she stutters.

“It’s okay princess! I’m sorry you’re feeling icky. You’re gonna start feeling better soon, honey,” 

Bucky places a hand on Y/N’s cheek and she leans into it.

“I love you,” she mumbles.

“I love you too,” Bucky smiles.

“And I love you,” Y/N repeats, flopping her head back on Steve’s shoulder.

“And I love you too, Ladybug,” Steve chuckles, “You’re our best girl. Always,”

Masterlist

Taglist:

@liidiaaag

@flourishandblotts-inc

@aagn360

@smromanoff

@butyoudontlookdisabled

[whatitshouldvebeen]

Hiii! I have been reading your stories RELIGIOUSLY... This is my first time making a request so please bare with me. Could you do something where the reader disobeys johnny and he punishes her in a bdsm way but johnny has his own kinda ideas PLEASE 🙏 I hope this make sense 😅😅

Pain in the Ass

Description: You didn't do your housework, and Johnny isn't pleased (MINORS DNI)

Warnings: blood, bruising, painal

Word count: 1,313

The creak of Johnny's shack door jolts you upright from the couch.

Fuck!!

The house is still a mess, your ‘quick nap’ had somehow devolved into five hours. Johnny's displeasure is clear as he stands in the doorway, his gaze darkening.

"Darlin'," he drawls, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. "I thought I told you to clean all this shit up."

His voice is low and dangerous, causing you to shrink against the couch.

"Sorry, Johnny, I just... I fell asleep-"

"I can see that. I work all day to put meat on the table, and you greet me with this mess," he chides, his heavy boots signaling his approach. Your heart is beating erratically, and when his footsteps pause in front of you, you flinch. 

“You'd been behaving so well, I thought we might go out tonight. But looks like you need a reminder,” he grabs your hair, yanking it back so that you're forced to meet his gaze, “of your responsibilities.” 

As he snarls as he leans in close, cold dread courses through you. 

“I know my responsibilities, I swear! I just fell asleep ‘s all,'' you whine, but Johnny isn't moved. He never is.

“You're a lazy little brat,” he snarls. “Only good for one thing.”

The cold dread that had pooled in your stomach starts to heat, and drops even lower. Greased strands of his dark hair hang over his forehead as you look into his eyes. Your throat runs dry, and you swallow hard. 

A half-cocked grin spreads across his face. “I ain't gonna be gentle, sugar. You've fucked up one too many times.”

His hand in your hair pulls you up painfully before flinging you onto the ground. The floor is gritty and sticky from spilled alcohol and dirt from where Johnny had come home yesterday, belligerent and drunk after having to do work around the house for Nancy. You had stayed up into the early morning, exhausting yourself in an attempt to soothe him, and now you're bearing the consequences.

Johnny presses a knee against your back, holding you down. You whimper as he unsheathes his bowie knife and drags a chilling path between your shoulder blades. 

“I'll make sure you can't forget this time, you little cunt.” As he speaks, he digs the blade just beside your spine, cutting through your shirt. He slips the blade under your bra strap with practiced ease and you wince as it snaps back against you when he cuts it in half. 

He flips the blade over and drags the dull end over your spine, pausing between the vertebrae of your neck. 

“One cut here and you'd lose all feeling,” he says, making your heart skip a beat. 

“But I don't want that,” he says, brushing your hair away from your neck and kissing it gently. “I want to know that you're feeling every last thing I do to you.”

Johnny turns around facing your rear and positions his legs on either side of your back. He yanks your shorts and panties down, throwing them onto the couch and pressing a hand against your butt, the other holding his knife over the fatty flesh of your ass.

“Gonna carve a lil’ somethin’ into your ass so if you try n’ sit down you'll remember you got work to do,” he says, sounding gleeful. “I'll let you pick, what should it be?”

You can't think clearly, your entire body is trembling, both cold from fear and hot from the lust that burns through your veins at having Johnny pressed up against your naked body like this. 

“Ah, I know somethin’ that'll get you off your lazy ass,” he says. You tense, expecting to feel the blade ripping into your flesh, but instead you feel Johnny's hot breath against your left cheek.

He plants a few kisses, and just as you're beginning to relax—he bites down. You scream, writhing, but there's no way you're getting out of this. His bite indents deep marks, and blood pools around his teeth, but he doesn't let go until your screams subside into pained whimpers. 

“There, now was that so bad?” He asks, standing and unbuckling his pants. You stay prone, blood dripping between your butt cheeks and a purple bruise blooming around the shape of his teeth. 

You look up in time to see him remove his painfully hard cock from his pants. Your blood is still all over his hands, and he brings his fingers to his lips, sucking you off him with a wry grin. 

The hunger in his eyes makes you want to melt into the floorboards. No human was meant to take the level of torment that you do, and yet still you find yourself loving every second of it. Johnny owns you and you can't deny it, especially not while his teeth mar your flesh.

“Can't resist when you're all pretty like this,” he says, kneeling with a knee on either side of your legs. You feel him slide his cock in the pool of blood between your ass cheeks, humming in approval.

Then, he pulls your cheeks apart, causing a new wave of pain to rip through your bite mark; but it's nothing compared to the fire that burns as he forces his rock hard cock into your tight ass, with only your own blood for lube. 

Cold sweat breaks out all over your body, and your moans of pain only spur him on more. Johnny grips the back of your neck in one hand and squeezes the bite mark harshly with the other, causing more hot blood to coat his hand. He then wraps his bloody hand around your midsection and pulls you up against his firm torso, and you feel blood smear against your flesh as he brings your neck to his lips. 

In this position, his cock is buried so deeply inside you that you see stars. He sucks hickeys into your neck, and thrusts so harshly that you can't help but blubber out his name helplessly. 

“Does it hurt, sugar?” He asks, nipping at your earlobe.

You nod, tears pouring down your cheeks. 

“Good, maybe this lesson'll get through your pretty little airhead,” he says. He then gathers your wrists and holds them at the small of your back, forcing you to arch against him as he fucks you. He's so harsh that you hear him grunting as he thrusts up to meet your bruised rear. 

The heat in your stomach is unbearable now, and you can't help but to cum so harshly that your voice cracks through your pained screams. 

“That's right, baby, take it,” he snarls. He presses your bundled wrists against the small of your back, forcing you face first onto the ground. Your shoulders burn and your face scrapes on the floor as he hikes your ass up in the air and ruts himself so deeply inside you that when he cums you feel the whole of his cock pulsing from tip to base. He pulls out and lets you drop to the floor, your entire body bruised and sore. 

He sets a boot under your chin and nudges your head up. 

“I ain’t staying in a pigsty. This house better be spotless by the time I get home tomorrow,” he says, rebuckling his belt. “That clear?”

“Y-yes, Johnny,” you rasp, your voice scratchy and broken, just like the rest of you. 

“Better be,” he says, wiping your blood off on his discarded shirt before tossing it at your face. The strong scent of his sweat and your blood mingle, making you feel even weaker. He removes his boot from under your chin and pulls a new shirt on, leaving the shack without a second word. 

You press your cheek against his shirt, still splayed out on the floor, and breathe him in deeply. 

Better get to cleaning.

[aceofwhump]

Hey Ace 👋

Do you have any good Rodney whump fics or Ronan whump fics to recommend

I am only like half way through season 2 of Atlantis but I think I spoiled most of the show for myself through the whumpy gifs and videos I see everywhere lol

(P.S may we see a pic of your cat? 👉👈)

Hiya!! Ooh I love Rodney and Ronan whump. Yeah let me see what I can find for ya.

Rodney Whump:

Desperate Measures By: angw Stuck in a mine shaft Rodney has to make a choice to survive.

Four Times Rodney McKay Got Shot Saving the Day By: LinziDay Four times Rodney McKay got shot saving the day and one time he didn't .

Guppy By: GateBiscuit Rescuing McKay from the lost, leaky Puddle Jumper was the easy part. Tag to Grace Under Pressure. Team fic

Reason #1 Why Rodney Likes Food By igiveup101 “Fine,” Rodney gave in, shoulders slumped. “But you’ll be sorry when I’m dying of hypoglycemic shock.” OR Sheppard and the team agree to sit and reflect for a few hours. It goes, predictably, horribly awry.

Soldiering On By: LilRicki In which Rodney gets severely whumped but is still awesome enough to save the team from certain doom.

Candle in the Dark By: Sholio An accident leaves Sheppard and McKay a little too dependent on each other.

Hypoglycaemia By: Alipeeps Hypoglycaemia or low blood glucose is a condition in which the level of glucose sugar in the blood, drops below a certain point... Special request fic written for McKayRocks! Featuring McKay and Shep whumpage in abundance.

Ronon Whump:

Silent Sacrifice by Daring Duo - John, Rodney, and Ronon try to survive after crash landing on an unexplored planet. Their injuries and lack of supplies begin to take their toll as they wait to be rescued.

Red Sands by kirsten999 - Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.

Finding Home by LadyShelley - Free of the Wraith, Ronon must decide if he is going to stay in Atlantis or leave to seek vengeance alone. While still trying to make up his mind, he and Rodney are trapped in one of the city’s towers, and each starts to learn more about the other as they wait for someone to find them.

A Light In Dark Places by LordVaako - Where was Ronon? Carson’s head felt like a boulder had dropped on it. The low ringing in his ears, coupled with a throbbing headache, made him touch his temple. He removed his fingers and inhaled in surprise at the crimson smears. ** Ronon is sent to bring Carson back to Atlantis, but the good doctor wants to spend more time with a village’s healer. When the village is attacked, Ronon and Carson are badly injured. They must rely on each other to get back to the Stargate.

Red Sands by kristen999 - Stranded on a harsh, desolate world, John and Ronon learn that merely surviving is only half the fight.

Febuwhump Day 1: touchstarved By Yesimevil After living for seven years as nothing more than a hunted animal, settling back into a form of society was… difficult, to say the least. Ronon suddenly became overwhelmed with people and things and safety, and no idea what the hell he was supposed to do with any of it, and from his inability to hold a conversation to the alien feeling of a toothbrush in his hand, he supposed that he had, in a way, forgotten how to be human.

Whumptober 2022 day 31: a light at the end of the tunnel By Yesimevil Takes place after Broken Ties. Ronon struggles to recover from the events of the episode, but his friends are there for him.

And yes I'd love to share a picture of my kitty! Her name is Sable and this pic is from the last time I took her outside

[landosgirl97]

Not Too Sweet- Bradley Bradshaw

Warnings: Talk of diabetes, a little angst, worried Rooster, let me know if I missed anything!

——Reader’s POV

I walked into work late because I had so much difficulty waking up which means I didn’t get to see Bradley for very long before he was up in the air. I went to the locker room to lock my things in my locker and made my way out to talk to him briefly before I walked up to the control tower. Bradley saw me and jogged over before doing his checks on his jet. He leaned down to kiss my head and brushed my hair back behind my ear. His brows furrowed. “Baby, are you feeling okay? You’re sweating and clammy.” I shook my head. “I woke up and my blood sugar was really low so I’m still recovering.” He nods his head. “Tell Cyclone or Mav, baby, they’ll send you home. You have your medical waiver.” He was referring to the waiver I had to get to be in the Navy at all. Most people with Diabetes or hypoglycemia are not allowed in the military. I nodded my head as someone yelled for him. “I gotta go baby, let me know if you need anything.” Bradley said, giving me a quick kiss before going to do his pre-flight checks. I was mad at myself. I am usually really good at keeping my blood sugar under control. I fell asleep without eating last night and this is my penance.

I made my way slowly up the tower and found my spot at the window. Mav had either talked to Bradley or could tell something was off because he made his way over and knelt at my side. “You ok?” I nodded. “I’m okay Mav.” He looks at me questioningly but nods his head anyway and walks away. After they did their pre-flight checks, Bradley checked in. “Dagger Two to Tower, requesting permission to take off.” I cleared my throat before responding, “Dagger Two, the sky’s are clear. Have a safe flight.” I tried to keep my voice from shaking but I know he picked up on it. “ATC, are you okay?” I wanted to deny it but he knew. He knows everything. “I will be fine Lieutenant. You are cleared for take off.” I cut off the radio before Bradley could respond, noticing the way my hands were shaking. I wish I could get regulated but it almost seems impossible at this point. I didn’t realize I had zoned out until someone shook my shoulder.

“Hey,Y/N, your phone is beeping. It won’t stop.” I look up at Mav and put my hand out. He laid my phone in my hand and noticed the alert on the screen. “Y/N, why did you not tell me? I would’ve let you have some time off.” I shook my head. “I’m fine, Mav. I have a break soon.” He just shook his head and stood directly back from me. About 20 minutes later, I knew I needed to eat something or I’d hit the floor. I took my headset off, grabbing my phone and going to stand. After that, everything went dark.

——Bradley’s POV

I had only been in the air about 10 minutes when I heard a voice come in over my headset. “Dagger Two, this is Tower. Come in.” My heart dropped. It wasn’t Y/N, it was Maverick. “This is Dagger Two” “Listen, we have an ATC on the floor and need to know how to handle this.” My stomach dropped. “There are glucose gels and a granola bar in her bag. She always has it with her.” There is silence on the other line. I can hear my heartbeat in my ears as I wait for a response. “Found them. Now what.” “Prop her up and put the glucose gel in her mouth. Can I talk to another ATC and get permission to land?” I listened until I got permission to land, immediately circling back and landing. As soon as I finished everything that was needed, I ran up to the tower, seeing Mav on the floor with Y/N leaned onto his side, still knocked out. I bent down, grabbing Y/N off the floor and carrying her down the stairs, knowing she needed to go to the Infirmary. I laid her on the bed and sat with her until she finally came to. “Brad- you’re supposed to be in the air!” She said groggily. “Well, you’re supposed to be awake so, that makes two of us.” I heard her giggle slightly as color started to come back to her face. I breathed a sigh of relief and handed her the granola bar to start crunching on. “Just so you know, Mav gave us both the rest of the day off. You are to go home and rest. And I’m supposed to help take care of you and report back throughout the day. “But I-“ “Nope. It’s already done. Finish that and we are going home. I want to cuddle up with my girl.” I watched as she nodded and began to eat her granola bar quicker. I felt much more relieved knowing that she is okay and moving.

[mellowsadistic]

Tiffany finished putting on her business suit and hurried down the stairs. She had to resist the urge to roll her eyes when she saw her boyfriend sitting in the kitchen, still in his dressing gown. But she couldn’t complain really, she knew. He worked from home, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t make good money. In fact, more than once he’d suggested she quit her job and be a stay-at-home girlfriend. Tiffany wrinkled her nose in disgust at the very thought. She was a career woman, not some dumb housewife! No matter how much she loved her boyfriend, she couldn’t stand the thought of being dependent on him like that.

She gave him a kiss on the cheek and hastily drank the morning coffee he’d made for her. It tasted a little funny, but she was grateful all the same. Usually she had to stop off at Starbucks on the way to work for her caffeine fix. In fact, now that she thought about it, it was odd for her boyfriend to be up so early at all, especially since they’d been up late last night for Halloween. Most of the time he went right back to sleep after she got out of bed, after cuddling her tightly and preventing her from getting up for at least five minutes every morning. Maybe he was finally developing a proper work ethic… She drained her cup and headed over to the front door.

“Where are you going, little lady?” her boyfriend asked in a bright, syrupy voice.

“What?” Tiffany replied, bristling a little at his tone as she fumbled with her coat. Little lady? She’d have to have a word with him about his condescending attitude when she got home that night. Or at the weekend. Or whenever she had some free time. “I’m going to work, obviously.”

“Silly girl,” he laughed, shaking his head. “Halloween’s over, baby. It’s time to take off your costume.”

Tiffany turned around, looking irritated. “What are you talking about?” Then she blinked. She suddenly felt very dizzy. She looked down at her clothes, at her professional linen suit. Charcoal grey, with a white shirt beneath. That wasn’t a costume. Was it? Her head felt strange and tingly, and she had to put out a hand to balance herself against the wall. Her coat dropped to the floor. What was the matter with her?! She glanced sharply at the empty coffee mug. No. Daddy wouldn’t do that. She must just have low blood sugar or something... Then she blushed hotly. Daddy? Where had that come from?!

“What have…” she mumbled, her words coming out slurred. “What you… done?”

“It’s alright, baby,” her boyfriend sad gently, walking over and holding her steady. “I’ve got you. I think you’re a bit confused, sweetie. This is just a costume, remember?” He brushed his hands over her suit jacket. “You dressed as a big girl for Halloween. A big, smart businesswoman. But it was just a costume.”

“Nooo…” Tiffany groaned. She hadn’t even dressed up for Halloween, had she? Didn’t she think that was stupid? Her head felt so funny, but she could tell something was very wrong here. “Dat’s not… That’s not pwetend!”

“Yes it is, little one,” said her boyfriend, more firmly. “You don’t really go to work, Tiffy. You’re far too sweet and silly for that, remember? You’re just a baby.”

“Baby?” Tiffany echoed, stupidly. Why did her mind feel so foggy? “Nu… Nu-uh! Notta baby! I’m a big giwl!” She glared at her boyfriend. “You… You doing somefing to me!”

“Tiffy,” he said warningly, “Daddy says it’s time to take off your costume. No more playing pretend now. Do you need a smacked bottom, baby girl?”

Tiffany whined. She shook her head. This wasn’t right!

“Then go upstairs and change into your normal clothes,” said Daddy. “They’re in the spare bedroom. Off you go.”

He patted her on her bum to send her on her way, and Tiffany found herself heading back upstairs obediently. Somewhere in her mind, she knew she ought to put up a struggle. She ought to resist. But it was so hard to think properly, and she didn’t want to get a spanking. She walked down the hall and into the spare bedroom. When she saw what was laid out for her on the bed, her face reddened and she let out another whine. But she knew better than to disobey Daddy.

She started with her suit pants first, stripping them off and folding them neatly on the bed. Her big girl underwear went next, and she couldn’t help pouting as her panties dropped to her ankles, never to go up again. She sat her bottom on the thick nappy that lay on the bed and taped it up around herself snugly. Then she stood up, the bulky diaper crinkling noisily between her legs, slipped off her suit jacket, and started unbuttoning her grown-up shirt. Her bra followed quickly, then her shoes and socks, and soon Tiffany was nude but for her nappy. Fully dressed for the day. She felt a bit better after that. She’d done what Daddy told her to do. She smiled. What a good girl she was. The tingles in her head were growing stronger, becoming more and more powerful, and with them came a rush of pleasure inside her skull. Her nappy felt right, even if it was embarrassing. That must be what she normally wore, not the boring old grown-up costume on the bed.

Then Tiffany suddenly became aware of a pressure in her bladder and her bottom. She frowned, thinking hard for a few moments before she remembered what it meant. She had to go potty! She took half a step towards the door, towards the bathroom, before she stopped herself. Because she was being stupid. She was just a sweet, silly baby. She didn't know how to use the potty! Giggling at her own silliness, Tiffany squatted down and started doing her morning poo-poo in her pants, just like she did every day. She did a big pee-pee too, filling her oversized baby pants to the brim with tinkle.

Once she was done, she straightened up, grinning broadly, and waddled off to find her Daddy again, Pampers jiggling between her thighs. She wasn't after a diaper change of course, because she knew it was up to Daddy when she got a clean nappy. No, she’d forgotten to give him his morning blowjob! She was such a little dumb-dumb! How could she forget her only job? Then after that Daddy would feed her breakfast, and they’d have a nice, long cuddle, followed by a full day of playtime. She couldn’t wait!

[1moreoffkeyanthem]

Hey y’all guess what?!? :) it’s time for a new episode of Bedtime Stories With PCE!!!

Who ordered some old man yaoi? That’s right, this one is set right after If Heaven And Hell Decide, with a sick Kyle, worried Stan, the best little immortal cat of all time, adding injury to illness, two middle aged men being massive fantasy dorks, all that goodness. Very sorry to my favorite arthritic ginger it will happen again, very sorry to his extremely concerned husband.

And y’all. I’m dedicating this to the Sickfic Queen herself, @alwaysinstyle who consistently kicks ass and gets stoked about style taking care of each other with me. Ana I love you so much and I’m so proud of you. All the people in your corner, we have you covered.

Also OFC the rest of the RANT homies have been subjected to random snippets of this over the past 2 weeks or so (jesus my sadsack ass needs to get some motivation back how has it been two weeks) but hey I will always be obnoxious when the mood strikes me and this long ass monstrosity is FINALLY done!!! Thank y’all fr for putting up with me.

Here’s •Well, That Would Be Pretty Odd•

A subtle knock at the door drew Stan’s attention and Kyle from uneasy rest. His husband’s head lolled exhaustively in his hand, still drained of energy and, according to the screen displaying his vitals, running a pretty high fever. Stan kept one arm protectively over him and turned to the door. “Yeah?”

The doctor entered, shutting the door behind her. “Hey, guys, how are we doing in here?”

Kyle pulled up slowly, clearly emotional, like he always got when he was sick. “Can I go home yet? Moose needs me.”

“Our cat,” Stan explained. “He’s worried he scared our cat.”

“I did.”

“Scared the hell out of your husband, too, sick as you are. It says on the chart you guys filled out that your blood sugar was low enough to potentially trigger a seizure. If he hadn’t acted as fast as he did, you’d be even worse off than you are.”

Kyle slumped back into Stan. “He always rescues me,” he murmured.

Stan felt like crying. “I’m your knight when you need me, dude.” He took a deep breath. “Okay, what’re we working with here? Stomach flu, dehydration, complications because of the diabetes, all that, right?”

“Right. Kyle, we have you on antivirals and fluids via IV for now, and I know you’re eager to get home-“

“-he hates hospitals-“

“-I hate hospitals.”

The doctor smiled kindly, even after getting interrupted. Stan liked her. “We’re keeping you overnight at least, but if your vitals are still stable and your fever is less than 102, we can send you home.”

Stan knew Kyle appreciated being the one addressed about his own health. This doctor could read the room, that’s for sure. Kyle nodded tiredly, eyes closed.

“How about when we go home? What’s the plan?” Stan inquired, tired as fuck himself but making an exception for Ky, always.

“Fluids, rest, anything with nutritional value that can stay down. Your friend in the waiting room mentioned orange juice as you guys’ go-to when Kyle’s having trouble with blood sugar? And he said you’re always diligent about keeping an eye on his health.” She was definitely addressing Stan now, since Kyle had clearly relinquished responsibility for the time being, knowing Stan had him covered. Hell yeah he did. “Any further complications; if you catch the bug too and can’t take care of him, another bad sugar drop or fever spike, and you guys come right back here. But at this point, it’s looking like this is something manageable from home, fingers crossed.”

And Stan had every finger crossed. He’d take care of Kyle, just like Kyle took care of him. Even if he was kind of scared as fuck, not having seen him quite this sick since maybe college. Or even when they were kids and he needed kidney surgery. He bit the panic down. Kyle was okay.

“Gotcha. I can spend the night? Spousal rights and everything?”

“You won’t convince him not to stay if you say no,” was Kyle’s muffled reply.

The doctor laughed. “I won’t make you leave. The last thing I want is either of you worked up, especially you, Kyle. If you need your husband with you to be comfortable-“

“-mhm-“

“-that’s not a problem in my book.” She tapped her clipboard with long fingernails. “There’s a call button on the bed if you need anything between the nurses checks, and I’ll tell your friend he’s free to go. He isn’t allowed back here, I’m afraid, but I can also let him know he can be the one to pick you up in the morning, if that’s what you two want?”

Kyle mumbled something that sounded like “like a good neighbor, Tucker is there” to the tune of the state farm insurance jingle. The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“Yeah, he’s pretty delirious, alright.” A couple quick checks to Kyle’s IV line and heartbeat monitor, and she was gesturing for Stan to lay his half asleep husband back down. “You boys get some rest. We’ll keep you posted.”

“Thanks,” Stan whispered, letting Kyle nuzzle into his chest as she left the room. Once they were alone in the darkened space, he kissed him softly on the top of the head. Kyle was a space heater. But if the hospital staff wasn’t alarmed, they were okay. “I’ve got you, baby, just sleep.”

The next morning, Kyle improved enough to leave and discharge paperwork done, they faced the problem of actually getting the sick man home.

Stan waved off the nurse’s offered wheelchair and stubbornly picked Kyle up because like hell was he losing even a second of contact. That and he took pride in the fact that he was in his 40s and still able to carry his husband.

“Sir, there’s procedure…”

Kyle snorted from where his head was against Stan’s shoulder, coherent enough to be aware but still too weak to insist on, god forbid, trying to walk on his own. “Believe me, ma’am, there’s no way in hell you’re convincing this guy not to carry me. Losing battle, mark my worms- words.”

Someone needed to be home in bed.

The nurse sighed, clearly deciding it wasn’t worth argument. Thank God, because Kyle could out argue anyone normally, but he was fucking tired.

“Just sing me home again, Orpheus,” he murmured into his husband’s ear.

Stan laughed at the reference. “Alright, ma’am, so if we’re all set….”

“Yes, yes, you can go. Hope you feel better.”

Kyle only had a vague recollection of both Stan and Craig yelling at the hospital staff when they brought him in, which was kind of funny to think about. Craig didn’t get worked up about things easily, and Stan was as gentle as they came. But it was nice to know his friend and his partner were willing to act so out of character for his sake. He muttered a “hey, spaceman” in greeting when Stan lowered him into the back of Craig’s car, mid morning sun forcing him to keep his eyes closed.

Craig barked a short laugh, pulling from the parking lot when both his passengers were settled for the short drive. “Someone’s feeling better.”

“I’ll get him set to rights, kick the plague’s ass,” Stan said, softly kissing his husband’s still too warm forehead. “Thanks for picking us up, dude. And for last night.”

“No biggie,” Craig shrugged nonchalantly. “Someone had to keep a level head and it sure as hell wasn’t gonna be either of you.”

Well, he wasn’t wrong there. Craig was probably the least prone to getting over emotional person Stan had ever met.

Craig’s husband, however, was the exact opposite. Upon getting home and getting up to bed, Kyle could faintly hear the frantic voice of Tweek downstairs, bringing Moose back from spending the night over at apartment two.

Kyle was nauseous, not to the point that he had been, but nauseous all the same, waiting for Stan to be done retrieving their cat and filling Kyle’s water. He felt weak as shit, and sweaty, which was probably a reasonably good indicator of his fever coming down, but it fucking sucked. And he was going to need some soup or something in him soon so his blood sugar didn’t get so bad again, which was another thing that sucked, because why do flesh prisons require so much maintenance? Why did his body require so much to function.

He didn’t realize tears were flowing until Stan entered the bedroom, hands full with the water, a KMBS, and one of those bottled protein drinks that tasted like chalk. Moose was quick to jump up and pad softly over to him, big blue eyes so worried and sweet as he curled up beside him. Kyle’s two blue eyed boys.

The second of whom was setting the drinks on the bedside table. There was a straw in each, so Kyle wouldn’t have to move as much to drink. It made him cry harder.

“Shhh, dude, it’s okay, it’s okay.” Stan climbed onto his side and grabbed the juice, holding it to Kyle’s lips. “I know you don’t feel good, that’s okay. I’ve got you. Go slow, okay?”

Kyle complied, the sharp taste of salted orange juice helping both physically and mentally. Plus, it’s hard to drink something and cry at the same time, so his breathing was a little less sporadic. A few sips were all he managed before his stomach started rolling, and he shook his head. Stan understood, setting the cup down and pulling Kyle’s face into his chest. “Just sleep, baby. I’m gonna have to check your temperature and levels in about an hour, but just sleep until then, alright?”

“Mhm.”

Stan would take care of him. Kyle would put up a fight, when he had the strength to, but Stan knew from experience that he’d be ‘secretly’ loving being cared for.

The husbands had a couple favorite positions to hold each other in. They’d hold the other from behind, arms wrapped around and poised to kiss an exposed nape or shoulder as a reminder of their presence. They would entangle themselves like they were doing now, they’d let the other’s head rest on their legs, Kyle would perch himself in Stans lap or Stan would drape over him like a blanket. Holding each other was safe. And in this moment Stan wrapped protectively around his sick partner like it was his sacred duty, one hand cradling Kyle’s head from underneath, fingers gently rubbing his hair, the other arm tucking him firmly against himself, feeling Moose’s purrs vibrating where the cat had claimed his place against Kyle’s back, right below the place Stan’s arm was wrapped around.

Stan glanced at the nightstand clock, keeping watch for the next time they’d need to wake up for a check in. About an hour and he’d get the thermometer to make sure they were still headed in the right direction, check Kyle’s levels, make them both something for, well, he supposed lunch at this point, and call the clinic to let his coworkers know that he’d be out a few days for a family emergency. He’d have to let Kyle’s work know too, before his husband tried to go into school still unwell.

Fitfully, Kyle dozed, sweating in his sleep, which Stan knew damn well he’d complain about when he woke up, but personally, he didn’t mind holding a miniature sun, because it was Kyle. Overheated, but still Kyle.

It hadn’t quite been an hour, but the warmth was starting to concern him. He gently kissed the top of his husband’s head, encouraging him to stir.

“Dude, hey.”

Kyle let out a tired whine as indication that he was awake.

“I know, baby. I just need to check your temperature and then you can go back to sleep.”

“I can check my own damn temperature,” Kyle protested, rolling over onto his back when Stan relinquished his grasp around his beloved. He scowled. “I’m all sweaty.”

Stan chuckled lowly. Was he right or was he right. “Gimme a second.”

Upon getting the thermometer and finding that they were still going in the right direction, Stan relaxed slightly. He let Kyle check both his temperature and blood sugar by himself, because it wasn’t worth the impending argument and the last thing he wanted was to make his husband feel helpless. Fever was down, but he definitely needed something to eat soon.

“Dude, do you think you can handle something solid, or you wanna keep sticking with drinks?”

Kyle hadn’t puked in a while, so he felt like maybe something simple, easy on the stomach, would be okay. As much as he wanted to keep going with the safe option of juice and a protein shake, he wouldn’t get better without something substantial in him and he knew it. “I can try. No promises.”

“You don’t need to promise anything,” Stan insisted, leaning down to kiss him on the way out of bed. “But I have an idea, if you’re okay by yourself for a few minutes.”

“Moose is with me. I’m not by myself,” Kyle remarked with a sleepy smile.

Stan snorted and went to change into jeans, last night’s pajamas not exactly ideal attire for walking to the BBQ place a block over. Kyle was weird about food sometimes, but Brendan’s mac and cheese was a simple, safe, Kyle approved bet. He’d probably want it to get cold first like he usually did (weirdo), but sick Kyle was sort of a wild card. They’d see.

“I’ll be back in fifteen, dude, drink some water.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Kyle heard the door close downstairs, slowly reaching for his water at the bedside, one hand resting on their cat’s head. Moose was stretched out along his side, fluffy tail dangling off the side of the mattress.

“You sleepy too, young nastyman?” Kyle asked, setting the bottle down and closing his eyes. Moose purred in response.

Apparently he’d drifted off again, waking up to the rustle of a takeout bag and a strong, smoky smell.

Kyle clapped a hand over his mouth. Ordinarily the smell of brisket and ribs wouldn’t bother him, but in his half asleep state, smelling meat on Stan of all people…

“…Dude?”

“FUCKING CHANGE!” Kyle screeched, staggering up to run to the bathroom, tears in his eyes because the bbq place smell all over his vegetarian husband was wrong and disorienting and he hated being sick and fevers made him sensitive and an asshole and-

Falling hard in front of the toilet, he felt his knee go out. The cherry on top of the fucking cake while his stomach tried to escape his body. Kyle cried out in pain, which was cut off immediately by a wave of sick splashing into the porcelain while he attempted to move and take the weight off his left leg, shaking and already crying because he was pissed and it hurt and he couldn’t catch a damn break. Dry heaving and spluttering, he collapsed tiredly into the alcove between the toilet and the cabinets, one trembling arm draped over the seat and the other hand clutching his knee, eyes shut tightly against the light and the nausea and pain.

“Ky, hey, hey, oh, fuck, baby, shit, did you twist your knee? Okay, you’re okay, hold on-“

Kyle leaned over to retch again, choking out “YOU SMELL WRONG” because that’s all he could manage between gasps.

Stan yanked his shirt off and threw it through the open door into the hallway, past where Moose was watching with wide eyes from the threshold. “Okay, I’m sorry, is that better? Here.” He gently eased Kyle’s hand away from his leg, carefully straightening it out. “God, yeah, it’s already swelling.”

“WHY do I have to LIVE IN THIS GODDAMN FLESH PRISON?!?” Kyle slammed his fist against the floor, frustrated beyond belief. Stan caught his hand before he could do it again.

“Shh, Ky, c’mon. You’re okay, it’s fine.”

Seeing his husband like this, sick, aggravating his bad knee mid vomit, broke Stan’s heart. But he had him. He had him and wouldn’t let go. Was that dramatic? Absolutely. But when the fuck was he not dramatic about Kyle’s health?

“THAT FUCKING STUPID ASS NURSE!” Kyle was yelling. “Sending me sick kids, thinking they were just trying to get out of class, that BITCH!”

“Baby, dude, calm down, man, breathe.”

“YOU’RE ONE TO FUCKING TALK!”

Alright, point to Kyle. Stan sighed as Kyle heaved over the toilet again, expelling nothing but water. They really needed to get something in him before he wound up needing the hospital again. Stan gently rubbed his husband’s back as he hiccuped and cried, clearly feeling betrayed by his body. A few minutes of heavy breathing, and Kyle was pulling back up. “I- I think I’m d-done.”

“Alright dude, I’m gonna get you up now, that okay?”

“Mhm”

Very, very carefully, Stan hauled Kyle from the floor, mindful not to move his knee too much and going slow in case of another bout of nausea. Moose trotted into the bedroom after his dads, obviously distressed seeing Kyle cry and immediately curling back up against the redhead when Stan set him down.

Stan was honestly a little nauseous himself, because Kyle’s frustrated tears never failed to make him emotional too. But he knew what to do here, he reminded himself. Fever was coming down, leg flare up was pretty routine, Kyle would rant it out if he had to and Stan would be his yes-man, and liquids were probably going to be the staple for the rest of the day.

He rolled up a throw blanket and propped it under Kyle’s leg, taking some strain off the irritated joint and kissing his husband’s kneecap when he did so. “You want ice, babe?”

“Yes I want fucking ice,” Kyle mumbled, arms draped over his eyes.

Stan could admit to enjoying taking care of Kyle when he fucked up his knee; pissed off Kyle was cute. “Aw, baby, I got you.” He grabbed the takeout bag from the nightstand too, not knowing if the bbq smell was lingering there too. “I’ll stick this in the fridge for when you want something solid, okay? How ‘bout another Ensure?”

Kyle grumbled something inaudible that Stan took as a yes. Poor thing was so upset. But he had every right to be, and Stan would never be annoyed at him for that.

Downstairs, he debated making his husband a smoothie, but the blender was loud, and his head probably already hurt from throwing up. Instead, he just grabbed an ice pack and a shake (strawberry, still gross but the flavor Kyle hated the least), taking the time to scribble out the nutrition information, just in case. That practice was pretty much habit at this point; he’d started ripping off or crossing out the calories on food for Kyle when they were fourteen, when his favorite person was recovering from his eating disorder, and even if he’d been more than fine for a longgggg time, Stan was prone to reverting to the past. When Kyle wasn’t okay, for whatever reason, food lore got crossed out.

“Dude, you up?”

“Mm”

“Shit, babe.” Stan knelt by the bed to carefully apply the ice, reaching a hand up to thumb away a falling tear. “You just mad?”

“Fucking pissed,” Kyle moaned. “It’s not enough that I have the goddamn plague?!? I have to have to fuck my leg up too? My parents are, like twice our age and even they don’t have fucking arthritis!” Kyle pointed two middle fingers to the ceiling as a ‘fuck you’ to god, which was actually pretty funny, but Stan didn’t laugh. That would only make his husband madder.

“Ky, c’mon.” Stan cupped under his head to kiss his cheek, relishing in the subtle smile that action brought. “And your parents didn’t shred tendons and refuse to do physical therapy.”

“I am damn well aware my goddamn arthritis is my own fault, Staniel.” But he sighed contentedly, adjusting the ice pack before leaning back against the pillows. “That helps. I’m sorry.”

Declaring the anger over for now, Stan climbed into bed beside him. “Don’t be sorry, dude. How’s your stomach?”

“I don’t fucking feel good.”

“I know, dude, can you drink a little water? We have to keep you hydrated.”

“It’ll just come back up.”

“Not necessarily.”

Moose crawled up between his dads, small furry head on Kyle’s shoulder, knowing he needed comfort. Kyle rubbed his face on the cat. “Babyman, did I scare you last night? I did, huh?”

“Dude,” Stan started, “he’s fine. You’re fine. We’re all fine. Drink something and don’t move your leg.”

“I didn’t shred my tendons, by the way.” Kyle protested. “I just tore some shit a little.”

“Enough that it’s a problem even now.”

“See, you get it.”

Stan laughed. “Quit being a dick and go to sleep, baby. You know you’ll feel better. I’m right here, dude, whatever you need.”

“I’m not being a dick, I’m being contrary.”

“Same difference.”

“Mm.”

God, poor Kyle, pissed off, sick, having a flare up on top of everything else. “Dude, what do you need?”

“Leg hurts.”

“We have a pack on it, dude. Maybe some ibuprofen? You should take some for the fever anyway.”

“It hurts.”

Stan started to gently rub his partner’s knee. “I know, babe. I know it’s hurting.”

“I hit it on the floor.”

“I know you did.”

“Fuck this shit.”

Kyle knew he was being a total dramatic asshole, but he didn’t care. God had fucked him over; he could be a dick. That made sense. “I’m mad, dude.”

“That’s okay.”

And no he didn’t have the right to be mad. Stan was being so sweet. Always. Any time Kyle’s meat suit betrayed him and he got upset about it, Stan was there, doting and adorable as ever. “I’m sleepy.”

“So go to sleep.”

“Something bad’s gonna happen.”

“Oh, dude.” Stan wrapped around him, carefully. “We’re not OCD spiraling. We’re not. A little rest, alright?”

In actuality, Kyle was too tired to argue.

It had to have been a few hours when Stan felt Kyle stir against his chest, swinging over to get out of bed… and promptly falling with a loud “FUCK!”

“Ky?”

“I FUCKING FORGOT ABOUT MY GODDAMN LEG!!!”

Stan sprang off the bed then too, getting on the floor beside his hyperventilating husband. “Dude, shhh, okay, okay, straighten it out.”

Sobbing, Kyle did. “D-don’t, freak, okay? I moved it weird, that’s all.”

“It’s fine, dude. Look at me. I’m not freaking out.” He was just doing a good job hiding it. Stan hated seeing Kyle cry, emotional, probably still feverish and nauseated, trying to get up in the middle of the night and falling on his knee, just the perfect storm of fucked up shit. But Kyle needed to stay calm, above all else. “What did you need, dude? Let me help you.”

“Water,” Kyle mumbled dejectedly.

“And guess what? You have me for that.” Stan carefully felt around his husband’s leg. “Can I turn a light on?”

Kyle responded by throwing up into the trash can, which had Stan gagging too. Fuck. Honestly, he was surprised he lasted so long without sympathy puking. “Hold on, baby.”

Stan rushed to the bathroom to empty his own stomach, somehow only just noticing that he still hadn’t put a shirt on from earlier. And Kyle hadn’t said anything about him wearing “outside pants” in bed, either, which was probably the best indicator of how sick he was.

Flushing down the panic induced vomit, Stan stood and glared at his reflection while he rinsed his mouth out, gulping a few handfuls of water from the sink. He had to keep it together. He needed a plan. Okay. Get Kyle back in bed, check his temperature and blood sugar, go downstairs to fill up his water and feed Moose, go from there.

Kyle had curled up on the floor back in the bedroom, and Moose had the zoomies. Stan sighed.

“Dude, okay, let’s get up.”

“Moving sucks ass.”

“I know it does, babe, but the bed is better than the floor.”

“Quit being right,” Kyle mumbled, allowing himself to be helped back under the covers. Stan snagged his readers from the nightstand, flipping on the lamp and grabbing the thermometer too.

“Okay, melmë, let’s see.”

Kyle smiled a little. “You look like a dad.”

“I am a dad,” he reminded him. Even if he’d bemoaned needing reading glasses and his body getting softer with age, his sentimental side was happy he had made it this far in life, especially with Kyle at his side. “Our son is bouncing off the walls as we speak. Open.”

Down to 100.3, thank whoever the fuck was up there. Maybe he should be thanking Kyle’s God, not having any attachment to one of his own. When he’d first started AA and found that part of the whole thing was putting things in the hands of a higher power, he had posed the question of what to do if you weren’t particularly religious to his sponsor. Mark had said “hell, put your faith in the doorknob if you want. Got you in here, didn’t it?”

“What’s the damage?” Kyle inquired.

“Definitely better. You want to check your levels or can I?”

Kyle slowly opened his eyes. “I got it, sweetheart, you’ve been doing so much.”

“Because I want to.”

“I’m difficult.”

Stan brought Kyle’s hand up to his lips and kissed it. “It so isn’t your fault that you got sick, or that you hurt your knee, or that you have diabetes. In sickness and in health, right?” Kyle’s fond grin only grew, and Stan decided to let up on the overbearingness. He snatched Moose up quickly on the cat’s next lap around the room. “I’m filling your water and feeding the dragon, okay? Be right back.”

So he had sweat out most of the fever, it seemed like. Judging by how sticky he felt, Kyle was fairly certain he was over the worst. At least in terms of the fucking stomach flu. His leg was a different story.

It was dim in the bedroom with only a sliver of moonlight slipping through the window, and the soft light from the lamp, but he could feel that he’d aggravated his knee pretty bad. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. The cartilage felt like it was grinding when he shifted. Kyle groaned in frustration, debating trying to hop over to the closet for his brace, but deciding against it, because Stan would flip his lid if he saw him standing. And considering what his blood sugar was at, being vertical was a bad idea anyway.

Said husband returned to the room. “I come bearing gifts for the king!”

Dork. Freshly refilled water, a KMBS, sleeve of crackers. Stan presented the juice. “Your elixir, melda târ. And-“ he beelined for the top of the closet, clearly having read Kyle’s mind.

“Thank you, my most dutiful and trusted of knights.” Kyle let him secure the knee brace, watching as those careful, strong, gentle hands worked, as Stan leaned down to kiss his leg when he was done. His Stan. His sweet Sir Marshwalker.

“Oh, shit, dude, are you crying? Does it hurt that much?” Stan was up by his face again. Kyle shook his head.

“It’s not that; I just- I really fucking love you,” he sobbed.

“Aw, baby, come here.” Stan climbed into bed and wrapped around him again, avoiding touching his husband’s stomach or leg. A little jingle of Moose’s collar announced their boy’s return to the bedroom, a tiny *prrrt* as the cat settled back at Kyle’s side. “You’re not as warm as you were, Ky, I think you’re getting better. That’s good, my love, you’re okay.”

“I’m okay,” Kyle murmured against him, damp eyelashes tickling Stan’s chest. “You still don’t have a shirt on.”

Stan laughed. So he had noticed. “You complaining?”

“You know I’m not.”

[kendrene]

avatrice + rescue

Beatrice wakes with a gasp, clawing at the unknown weight that sits across her chest. Her fingers are met with something soft, something quite damp, something that smells of the sort of stuff which can only be categorized as dank.

“Tell your necromancer to lie still.” A disembodied voice growls somewhere above her. “She’s going to give herself an aneurysm.” 

“You tell her.” The second voice, a mixture of worried and aggrieved, Beatrice recognizes. It’s Ava’s. “She never listens to me.”

“Can’t blame her.” At that, Beatrice tries her hardest to sit up. It’s not that Ava is a great cavalier. She’s not even good. Can mayhaps grasp for passable if she stretches. But she’s her cavalier. Hers to command and order about. Hers to bully, too, should Beatrice want to. 

“Hey,” The voice says to her directly, and fingers snap suspiciously close to her nose. “Quit moving or Camila will never be done fixing you up.” 

“There isn’t anything to fix.” With great difficulty, Beatrice opens her left eye. Her right is gummed shut by a substance it doesn’t take a genius to identify as blood. And Beatrice, who’s been acknowledged a genius practically since she could walk (begrudgingly by her parents, with great enthusiasm by the remainder of her House) gets to that conclusion before the world has a chance to get its shit together and come into focus. “She’s just exhausted herself.”

“Stop,” says Beatrice weakly. Her dry lips crack open and blood drips inside her mouth. “Stop talking like I’m not here.”

“Right. Sorry.” Camila, necromancer of the Sixth House, blushes hard. “There’s nothing wrong with you.” She continues, addressing Beatrice directly. A length of wire is coiled tight around her hand, one end of it suspiciously red. “Your blood sugar got dangerously low and your heart rate reads slightly bradycardic, but it’s nothing that fluids and rest won’t remedy.” 

“Can you repeat that in layman terms?” Ava leans in, worry now decidedly more noticeable than aggravation.

“She means idiot terms, Cam.” The owner of the first voice enters Beatrice’s field of vision. The cavalier is taller close up than Beatrice had given her credit for. While Beatrice is indisposed and horizontal she feels positively looming. In the not so pleasant way of an owl regarding her dinner of mice.

“Be nice, Lily.” Camila chastises. 

“Yeah, Lily, be nice.” Ava, sick from birth with an incurable case of foot in mouth syndrome pipes up. “Let the adults talk.” 

Lilith’s hand drops to the hilt of the rapier at her waist. Her eyes narrow.

“Lilith.” 

“Ava, enough.” 

The two cavaliers glare at one another with all the intensity of a pyromaniac-started fire. If a way existed to harness the level of loathing on display and turn it into thanergy, Beatrice would be able to raise innumerable dead. But no such technology exists, and all the mutual animosity accomplishes is an increase in ambient temperature of maybe half degree. 

What a waste.

“It’s unbelievably dangerous down here.” Camila gestures, putting into words what Beatrice is thinking. Beatrice is grateful; she is way too tired to talk. “We shouldn’t squabble.”

“But—!” 

“She started it!” 

“You can bicker once we’re back above ground.” Leaving Beatrice’s side, Camila places herself between Ava and her own cavalier. Next to Lilith she is the kind of diminutive that borders on too short, but Beatrice doesn’t doubt she could have everyone writhing on the floor in seconds. Most consider the Sixth House too bookish to present any real danger. She knows better.

“Fine.” Lilith relaxes, which is to say that her teeth stop their audible grind and merely clench. “Once we’re on the ground floor, I’m punching you.”

Ava shifts her weight to the balls of her feet and grins.

“You can try.”

Beatrice very rarely, almost never wants to bully her cavalier.

Sometimes, she’d like to strangle her.

[ashintheairlikesnow]

okay Ash but older nanda and Jameson comf? If he'd lived? Pleeease? Just a snippet. A headcanon. A crömb. -theo-

@boxboysandotherwhump I totally forgot you had asked for me to do this AU so so long ago. Found this old ask abandoned in my inbox and you were PROPHETIC.

Continuing the AU, the last chapter (plus a link to the first) is right here.

-

CW: Intimate whump, some derogatory language, dubcon, some, uh, choking

For a long time, there is only the sound of each of them breathing. Jameson is ragged, rasping at the edge of a sob as he pulls himself back into control, his fingernails digging into the soft leather of the reclined passenger seat. His heart pounds, blood rushing past his ears.

Nanda's breath is nearly silent, far more even. His chest is warm against Jameson's bare back. Even through his expensive fucking shirt, though, Jameson can feel his heart pounding, too.

"What..." Nanda trails off. Jameson has never heard him sound so stunned. Nanda always plans for every angle.

But he didn't plan for this one.

"... what do you mean, someone else?" His mouth moves against Jameson's hair, sending a shiver down his spine. "Are you fucking the woman you live with, pet?"

My name is Jameson. I just told you that.

He bites the words back before they can make it out.

"N-no, not her. Fuck no. No. Absolutely... Absolutely not." He shifts, managing to get his shirt off the rest of the way, stop it from keeping his wrists tangled. It gives him an excuse for how his voice shakes - just from the effort. Only that. "Someone else. Different house. Someone... Someone else."

Nanda is quiet again. He's quiet for far too long. Then, he shifts back inside the tiny space. "Roll over. I want to see your eyes."

Jameson swallows, obeying the easy command with a little curl of warmth. He tips his head back against the headrest, looking up at Nanda, his beard and the line of his jaw beneath the silver and gray. The way the muscles in his arms seem written even more in stone. Nanda eases himself back down, and his weight feels reassuring and terribly final at once.

"Who is it?" His voice is mild. Spoonful of sugar tinted pink, sweetness and salt on Jameson's tongue. He could drown in the taste of Nanda's voice. Used to feel like he did drown, under voice and hands, tied up in ropes and brought to the good kind of screaming.

"... They're called A-Allyn. They, they ran away like I did. Well, not the-... Their owner died, too. They... They understood that I missed you..."

He reaches a hand up, hesitantly, trying to touch Nanda's face. The older man's big hand snaps up to close painfully tight around his wrist, forcing it back down.

"I wasn't dead," Nanda says mildly.

"I already told you, I didn't exactly goddamn know that-"

"No, you were dumb as rocks the one time I could have used the brains we both knew you had." Nanda's voice stays mild, but the insult stings regardless.

"I'm-... not-"

"Oh, you're not? You didn't know how to check a fucking pulse, but you're not dumb, huh? You ran off instead of waiting or calling for help but you still love me, right? Hell, you fuck someone else, but you're not a slut anymore. Isn't that what you're saying?"

Jameson's wrist feels like it creaks as Nanda tightens his grip further and further. The man's other hand drops down to unbutton and unzip his own pants in quick jerky motions. They're down low off his hips in seconds.

Jameson grits his teeth against the pain, refuses to be seduced by it. Or by the way Nanda punctuates the accusations by rolling his hips, the low warmth remaining stoked back into a flame.

God, he feels so hot.

They're both burning.

"If you were d-dead-... Ah! I would have lost you when they took you out of my head, I already s-said that-Jesus that's fucking good-"

His other wrist is grabbed now. He tries to pull it away, but they both know he isn't trying very hard. Nanda's mouth drops to graze against his. To catch him in a kiss, brutal and firm, until he's whimpering and rocking his hips like some mindless fucking idiot, like he used to do.

Nanda chuckles bitterly, pulls back and listens to Jameson's angry hiss at the sudden loss of connection. "If there's someone else, why did you get in my car when I came for you?"

He swallows, closing his eyes. Nanda's burn too much for him to take. Those hips roll against his again and he meets them with his own, arches his back, lets legs shift apart to welcome Nanda between his thighs. He could come from this, if it goes on long enough. "I don't-... I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No! Fuck you, no I don't know! You were dead and now you're here and I, I forgot who I am for a second, but I'm-... I'm not that anymore, and I want-... I want to-..." God, he feels it so much, his skin is all raw nerves and sensation. "... I want-"

"You want me."

Nanda had let go of his wrist at some point. He only realizes it when that heavy hot hand closes around his neck.

His breath stutters, gets lost trying to find his lungs. His head spins as the hand tightens, he feels his Adam's apple move against Nanda's palm. "Wait-"

" I spent all these years trying to find you, pet-"

"Jameson," He rasps, barely able to force the word out in a whisper. "Use... Use m'fucking name-"

"Fine. Jameson." God, it sounds so good in Nanda's voice, his own name tastes perfect in his tongue when Nanda is the one to say it. His eyes nearly flutter shut at the simple pleasure. "I have been searching for you-"

"Doing a shit j-job of it, could've used your help a couple y-years ago when I was in some asshole's dog cage-"

"Let. Me. Finish." The grip on his throat tightens even more. There is so little room for him to breathe, chest heaving. He never moves his hands to try and push or fight, though. He knows this tone, the look on Nanda's face. "However you feel about someone else... I looked for you. And I found you. I searched every goddamn corner of California trying to figure out where you fucked off to, and I find you all fucked up for someone else, another pet, huh?"

"I... I loved you... I still-" His voice catches, his throat clicks when he swallows. His eyes are wide, and he sees the anger in Nanda's and wonders why it used to thrill so much more to see it than it does now. "But I-... grieved-... Rebuilt, built n-new... life... I, I fucking deserve to l-live-"

Nanda's lip curls. But he doesn't say anything while Jameson fights for enough air to speak again. They're both still hard, still moving together, and the pleasure mixes with the pain in his throat and the dizzy lack of air, crossing all his wires and leaving him squirming in helpless unwanted arousal beneath Nanda's familiar perfect weight.

"I... deserve s-someone... who l-loves me... back-"

He expects mockery, black spots flashing bright like camera lights around Nanda's face as his vision starts to go, tunneling in on those eyes.

He sees, in the center of the closing tunnel, the whites of Nanda's eyes.

"Please-... If you e-ever... loved m-me-... Please, fuck, please s-say-... it..."

Nanda's thumb pushes against his windpipe as he kisses Jameson. Their mouths open to each other, and Jameson's arms move, finally, only to grip onto Nanda's shoulders. An anchor as he drowns on land, fighting for air.

Then the grip loosens.

Jameson's head pounds as he groans, his throat aches as he gulps air desperately. He'll be marked, bruised. He's been bruised there before. "N, Nanda-"

Nanda's head drops to Jameson's shoulder.

"... Nanda?"

A pause.

"You stupid thing. Why would I have looked so long for you if I didn't?"

[lookinghalfacorpse]

I was thinking about butterflies and food. If offered, most will consume blood, waste from corpses, and other such matter. They are very opportunistic creatures, despite being so delicate. Most species are slow, but the skipper skipper butterfly can fly almost 40 mph, about 60 kph

:)

tw for: mentions of death and corpses, insects eating corpses, graphic depictions of injury, character death (c!sam)

--

The pickaxe ripped through Sam's face, a waterfall of blood and teeth scattering across the floor like wet marbles. The flesh offered more resistance than Dream expected it to-- did Techno also have to deal with this carnage? He pulled the tool forward, hard, and when Sam's body dropped, it dropped towards Dream.

Heavy, limp, and still weeping with warm blood, Sam's corpse collided with Dream's torso.

Hooking an elbow beneath Sam's arm, Dream was able to catch him. With his knees failing and his bleeding head resting on Dream's collarbone, Sam seemed more like a drunken man than a dead one. How many times have they held this position, but in reverse? Blood soaked quickly into Dream's clothes, sliding down his armor and absorbing into his cloak.

But it wasn't long before Sam's weight proved to be too much, and Dream let him fall the rest of the way to the floor. He landed in a leap of limbs and metal.

Dream wasn't sure what he expected this moment to feel like. He's been planning it for a few days now, and he knows from many experiences that the actual sight of a body brings next to no personal satisfaction-- rather, the concept and theory behind the death brings its meaning. You have to think about it poetically. But poetry is hard to contemplate when you're looking at a freshly dead body (even harder as it ages), and Dream found himself feeling rather calm. At peace. Satisfied that the plan had worked, glad to see Sam on the ground before him, but far from exuberant.

He let the pickaxe drop from his grasp. It fell with a clatter, spreading more dots of blood across the floor and his boots. His breathe was deep, but steady. Sam, whose breath was usually loud behind the gas mask, was silent.

What do you do in moments like this?

The first butterfly to land on Sam was an elegant white one. Its wingspan was massive; when it perched on his cheek, right on the edge of the wound, it covered much of the injury. A new, lovely, living mask for the warden. Dream watched as her proboscis unfurled and landed on a nearby spot of blood.

More joined her. A cloud of color descended onto Sam, decorating his head and the puddle of blood that spread around him, a stark contrast to the dark lobby around them. As their wings shifted and folded, they'd obscure or present the injury. One landed on a stray tooth, her weight rolling it a bit and making a scraping sound.

His hands were shaking. More than usual, anyway. Adrenaline.

An orange one landed on Dream's forehead, stretching a wing downward and covering his right eye. 'Stop looking.'

He often forgot they could do this. Insects aren't picky eaters-- blood and gore had much of the same sugars and nutrients as they'd find in flowers. A number of butterflies descended onto Dream's armor, lapping at the blood that poured onto him when Sam rested there.

"Are we that hungry?" He asked, his voice low. "I've bled in front of you plenty of times-- you should've told me. I'd let you--" his voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, "I'd let you."

A purple butterfly landed on a rubbery-looking piece of gore. White-ish in color. Part of Sam's eye, probably.

Another landed on Dream's browbone, a white wing reaching down to cover his other eye. 'Stop looking.'