Curious Anonymous would like to know what you think Reaper's reaction would be when his curious cabron boyfriend walks over to him while he's in full horror eyes and teeth everywhere wraith mode and reaches out to stick a gloved finger in one of his less toothy mouths or touches one of his many glaring red eyes? Jack (asking his now loudly swearing boyfriend/wraith): "Why do you have eyes in the middle of your chest? And a mouths on your arms... whats the point, Gabi?"
Omg Jack just being totally unimpressed by Gabe’s spookiness is hilarious
“Really, Gabe? Extra mouths? Is that necessary?”
Then he has to cover his ears as Gabe starts cursing him out with every mouth at once
Hey, I just wanted to mention (for everyone wanting to chew or have rocks in their mouth) that while its really not safe, some rocks/gems are poisonous! Or some would start melting from the heat or moisture in your mouth. So if you need to do it please do a little research to make sure you're being as safe as possible.
woah, this is definitely dangerous. please be careful guys!
New dentist today was very sympathetic but basically said “idk why you’re in pain but there is a LOT of trauma in your mouth so lets get you to a specialist”
So that’s…something I suppose. I mean it’s something I can’t afford because what he’s suggesting is adult braces and completely restructuring my poor jaw, but it’s better than “keep taking 800mg of ibuprofen twice a day and hope to got your ulcers don’t kill you” I guess…
[Prompt: I would like to read a one-shot about one of the girls having a mastectomy, and the other disputing the fears of their lover that they are no longer beautiful due to the scars, emotional and physical. Teary/angsty kinda prompt.]
It started with a raised brow.
You’d pulled off the accoutrements of her station and laid her down on a bed of furs; worshipping the tanned skin over her jutting hips ardently with the hot wetness of your mouth, and with antsy hands that were always longing for your dearest commander and never satisfied with their bounty — you claim the valley that draws down into her gut with tender kisses. You earned a gasp, a singular drawn out breath, your palms scaled the peaks on her chest and that was when you felt it.
“It’s nothing.” she brushed you off for days afterwards.
But you knew better.
“It's… something.” your mother explains with a frown two weeks later.
You glance at Lexa and watch the way her jaw sets and you memorise it perfectly.
You’re sat in the medical bay with clenched fists, shuddering, vibrating, dying, and all you want is to grab that beautiful stubborn idiot and run like your teenagers again; find a bedroom where your kisses are enough to cure cancers and your hands can snuff out the metastasizing shooting stars that are going to shine within the furthest confines of her body until she blooms into a blinding supernova of metastatic cancer.
It’s a common fate for women on the ground, a result of the raised radiation levels you had learned, it doesn’t make it easier; but it helps you pretend you’re a creature of logic because the truth of it is that the universe is an arbitrary evil force that is punishing you and your lover for daring to be happy. Raised radiation levels, you nod along and pretend it’s the truth.
“A battlefield would have been my first choice but this… will have to suffice.” Lexa says in a manacled dour tone, sniffing, blinking the sting out of her eyes. “It’ll have to suffice.” she nods again and swallows.
She’s talking about her death.
“We can remove it.” you blurt desperately.
Lexa grabs your hand and the feeling of her thumb tenderly stroking your knuckles does nothing but infuriate you. It’s her way of saying, it’s not worth fighting, and all you can do is snatch your hand away and slam your fists on the desk in front of your mother because words fail you. “Do whatever you have to do.” you tell her in no uncertain terms.
“No,” Lexa shakes her head and you snap yours to face her.
“What do you mean no?”
“I mean,” she grimaces and swallows the gnawing in her windpipe, “I don’t want to drag out the inevitable until I’m nothing more than death’s puppet. I want good months; I want you in nothing more than my shirt, standing on the balcony, counting starts with me. I want adventures. I want you to be my consort not my doctor, Clarke.”
It takes two days to convince her otherwise—nay—it takes two days to force her hand.
You do it by ignoring her in your best moments and punishing her in your worst with little sentiments of how you’ll have to carve your love into a cliff face because a headstone will never be big enough. It takes the pink that has become your eyes. The sawdust that’s constantly trapped in your throat; leaving you spluttering and gasping for words. The blood in your palms where your nails dig in and cut half crescent moons along the surface of the skin.
They whisk her behind metal doors and you are not allowed to follow; instead, your purpose is to pace the waiting room until your feet have worn out the shine from the tiles whilst Indra and a few select others who make up Lexa’s guard grow exhausted watching you.
Your mother appears, she’s grinning and crying, and in that moment you fall to your knees.
“This bit is the hard part,” she assures you, fingers wrapped around your shoulder, “this is the part where you need to suck it up and hold her together.”
You find her in the recovery bay with wires burrowing beneath her skin and bandages wrapped tight against absent space; she lies there like a crumpled creature that has no business here amongst the living. If you look at her too long it leaves a film inside of your mouth, a bitter and ropeable taste that leaves you wishing you could bury your hands inside her chest and nurse her heart between your hands from one beat to the next.
You now know something of how a library must feel when it looks at a fireplace to see love poems used as kindling.
She awakes nearly a day later and you allow no one within this room save for your mother’s apprentice who comes every couple of hours, nervous and blithering, to check over the most important woman in the world. Indra waits by the door and the boundary is enforced with absolute indiscrimination because you know if one person looks at her with pitying eyes she will certainly evaporate with shame.
“You should have let me die.” she tells you with an absent kind of apathy after a few hours of silence, voice shaking, staunch in her refusal to so much as look you in the eye.
“I could never do that because I’m selfish… I’m selfish and I love you and it’s a poor excuse but it’s the only one I have.” you tell her softly, moving sticky wisps of hair off of her forehead. “I would trade places with you in a moment—”
“Stop it, Clarke!” she seethes with stinging tears in her eyes, “You are not a god.”
The words make you flinch but you anchor yourself because this is your station now, she is your purpose and she always has been.
“You should have let me die.” she rolls away from you and inflicts the words with a poisonous tone.
The next morning your mother’s apprentice appears again, it’s different this time, he has fresh bandages and gauze with him instead of the medication that makes this somewhat bearable. “Leave it there,” you motion towards the bottom of the bed and grab latex gloves from the metal draw beside the morphine drip. “Put it down and get the hell out.” you nearly hiss until he submits.
Lexa raises her brow and looks at you.
“It’s okay,” you nod and temper your waving voice, “it’s okay.” you hush her and press a kiss to the tip of her hairline. “We’re going to get you a hot shower and I’m going to clean you up—”
“No, Clarke, I, I don’t,” she looks around the room with a vibrating bottom lip, “I don’t want you to see me like this.” she sputters the words out like they’re gasoline in her mouth.
It winds you like a fist to your solar plexus as it dawns upon you that she can’t be your dour and sober commander because right now she is just a girl and the juxtaposition between these fractals of your wife are stark and sorrowful.
You take her hands, “What are you afraid of?” you beg.
She doesn’t give you an answer but you know.
“I love you!” you burst and she flinches, “I love you so much,” you cover your mouth and soften with weeping eyes. “I keep looking at you and I know you’re hurting and all I want is to be the person who makes this better. I don’t want doctors or healers scurrying around you. I want it to be me because I love you and nothing could ever change that.”
“And what of it if you can’t bare to look at me?”
“How could you ever say that?” you narrow your eyes in disbelief, “Do you know what I see when I look at the scar on your back or the one along your gut? I look at them and I think, I wish I could have been there to see her win that fight — I wish I could have been there afterwards to take care of her.” you tremble like hummingbirds live in your gut, “I wasn’t there for those ones but I’m here now.” you promise gently.
“It hurts.” she mouths the words.
“I know,” you assure her with a soft ache and stroke her hair and press kisses to every bit of skin your lips can reach along the ridge of her jaw, “I’m going to take care of you, okay?”
She nods tepidly and in turn you shift her out of the bed, her arm wrapped around your neck, shouldering her towards the wetroom that doubled as your proving ground and the entire time her jaw ground itself into a crescendo of hissing manacled noises as she held back pains that she was too proud to claim ownice to.
You get her bandages off without incident and guide her underneath a stream of warm water, your nose pressed into the dip of her shoulderblades, your hands holding her belly. She leans against your body and for the first time in three weeks you know it’s going to be okay.
It’s going to be okay.
It’s going to be okay.
It’s all you can think and all you can hear and you’re filled with a quiet joy; you slip your hands along the wet skin of her belly and shoulder her weight whilst the water washes the smell of antiseptic off of you both. You count the moles on her shoulder. You rub shampoo into her scalp whilst she’s too tender to reach. You kiss the inside of her neck and whisper little promises against the back of her ear.
She’s alive and it’s going to be okay.
You eventually help towel her off but she won’t let you see her chest; her eyes are fixed on the port window so that she doesn’t have to see her reflection in the mirror above the sink. It breaks your heart. You work your way around the valleys and dips of her sinewed body with the towel until you move around her hip and she grabs your hand nervously.
“It’s okay.” you press a kiss to her temple and she tentatively loosens her grip on your hand.
Her chest is angry and bruised with stitches puckering the skin into two jagged pink lines and you want nothing more than to trace your fingers over her skin and reassure her that she’s beautiful and feminine and that this is okay — these are just reminders that death wasn’t man enough to take her home after dinner.
She mistakes your silence for disgust and hangs her head.
“Look at me,” you tilt her chin up with you fingers, “you are so beautiful.” you kiss her and wrap your fingers into the flesh on either side of her hips. It’s the truth; to your eyes she is the most diaphanous creature you’ve ever seen.
She burrows her nose into the dip between your neck and collarbone as you clean her up and all you can do is hold her and allow her to fall apart within your arms in that cathartic way that leaves her trembling and coming apart in a way you’ve never seen her do before.
“You’re still the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen, that will never change.” you promise her with such fervency it borders violence in your mouth. “My beautiful girl.” you tell her again and again with your fingers in her dark unruly hair. “All mine.” you whisper and she heaves in relief.
It takes months for the puckered scars to fade into slithers of silver and you doubt she’ll ever feel absolutely comfortable about the scars across her chest but she doesn’t ever doubt that you love her body ardently; you steal kisses over her chest when she allows it, usually after she’s collapses into the sheets after you’ve fervently used your mouth against other parts of her body.
“I love them,” you always promise her and gently stop her pulling away, “they remind me that you are the strongest woman I’ve ever met.”