#and WHOOSH the rug's out from under you

[nereidprinc3ss]

hii i love love how u write spencer omds🥸

uhh i was wondering if you could write sth based off the song “we’ll never have sex” by leith ross? pls dont feel pressured to write this btw😭😭😭 hope ur having a good day lovely💗💗

hello my love i have no self control so this is extremely long and plotty but i love this song and i hope that this is any good at all crying emoji (i'm on a laptop LOL) enjoy!!

warnings/tags: angst/fluff, fem!reader, negative self-talk from reader, mentions of past sexual coercion/feeling used, mentions of past excessive drinking to combat social anxiety, ive been watching a lot of new girl lately and i think it shows, SO FRIENDS TO LOVERS, happy ending

You weren’t expecting to end up on Spencer Reid’s worn-leather couch at two in the morning, clutching a chipped mug of coffee in your hands as you listen to the sounds of the city from the street below. But there you are, sitting with your legs folded under you, in your favorite dress and first date-night makeup (now bleeding and smudged from all the crying.) And realizing that despite considering him one of your closest friends, you haven’t been to his apartment in a long time. There are, of course, good reasons for that—but you try to push those from your mind. 

“I’m really sorry about this,” you sigh, staring at your warped reflection in the glassy black surface of your coffee. Spencer is coming out of the small kitchen, now bearing his own cup. 

“Please, stop apologizing.” 

You glance up, tentatively studying him from behind the safety of your mug. While he may not have been asleep when you knocked on his door ten minutes ago, lachrymose and barely verbal, he must have been getting ready for bed. He’s clad in patterned pajama pants, mismatched socks, and an FBI crewneck that is just big enough to reveal the collar of the tee-shirt underneath. He’s already taken out his contacts, and you were startled by the reminder that he also has glasses. 

“So...” he begins, bringing you back to the present moment, “we don't have to talk about anything, if you don’t want to, but...” 

You sigh, watching coffee bubbles swirl like stars in a galaxy. 

“It’s fine. Honestly, I’m kind of embarrassed. I didn’t really think, I just... ended up here.” 

“Yeah... where did you come from?” he laughs quietly. “Not that I’m complaining. But I recall you not living super close by.” 

“No, no. I was actually on a date. Kind of.” 

“Ah.” There’s a beat of silence, and ostensibly Spencer is waiting for you to say more, but instead you take a sip from your mug. “At two in the morning?” You nod dully, staring at the labyrinthine pattern of the Persian rug.  

“I’m taking it that it wasn’t a very good date...?” 

A whoosh of air escapes from your puffed cheeks. 

“No it was not. Not by the end, anyway. It actually started really well, which made it even more disappointing when he...” you laugh, but there’s not much humor in it. “Well, when he kicked me out of his car on a street corner because I didn’t want to sleep with him.” 

You don’t look to see Spencer’s reaction—only take another long, baleful sip of coffee and ignore the heavy silence.  

“I’m really sorry. You... you deserve so much better than that.” 

An attempt at a jaded scoff from you falls flat. 

“Yeah, well. Tell that to the last three white house interns I’ve gone on dates with. It’s the same thing every time.” 

“Have you considered going on fewer dates with white house interns...?” The nervous humor is a thin veil over genuine critique. You shrug, biting the inside of your cheek. 

“It’s not just them. Every single guy I’ve liked since I was 15 has been like this. Even my past relationships, I felt like I was almost... tricked into, you know? I mean, these guys, they act all understanding and willing to take it slow or whatever, until you’re in a relationship, and suddenly they’re guilt tripping you so hard and making you feel so obligated to...” you catch yourself just in time, glancing up at Spencer. You’re not sure what to make of his expression. The drawn brow and slightly squinted eyes trained so intently on you could be sympathy, or anger, or pity, or apathy—you look away, not sure you even want to know what he’s thinking. “Sorry. You don’t need to hear all about that. Basically romance is exhausting and since I’ll clearly be single forever I’m considering running away to join a nunnery.” 

When he doesn’t respond for too long, you look back up quizically. 

“I’m not sure you know what romance actually is,” he says as soon as your gaze meets his, like the eye-contact activated some kind of hair-trigger in his vocal box. 

You blink, lowering the coffee cup to your lap. 

Says Spencer Reid? 

“...sorry?” 

He flushes, stammering to clarify himself. 

“I just meant—I—I know I’m not exactly fighting women off with a stick—” he interrupts himself with a self-conscious (adorable) laugh— “but... but I have been in love, at least once.”  

“Maeve,” you say, gently—trying to shove down bitter guilt as you remember how jealous you’d been when Spencer had first told you about her. “I remember.” 

He swallows and nods. 

“We never even met—we just talked. All the time. I had no idea what she looked like. But it didn’t matter at all. Because I knew her, and I loved her. Maybe things would have gone further if I hadn’t been calling her from public phone booths, but that wasn’t the most important thing to either of us. We were still in love.” You try to shut out the sharp ache in your chest. Being jealous of the way he speaks about a dead woman is so wrong.  

“What I’m trying to say is that romance isn’t solely about sex, or even physical appearance. It sounds to me like you’ve been with a lot of men who don’t understand that. And it would be such a shame for you to write romance off in general before you even get to experience it. You are... an extraordinary woman. You’re funny, and intelligent, and kind, and so capable of being loved. One day, someone is going to see beyond your pulchritude and prove that to you. I hope you let them try.” 

More tears blur the pattern on the rug, pooling in the rims of your eyes before spilling down your cheeks in fast, fat drops. Shakily you set the cup down, resting your elbows on your knees and hiding your face in your hands. You sniff once. Twice. Shake your head quickly, attempting to wipe the tears away without further smearing your makeup everywhere. 

“Shit, I’m sorry,” Spencer breathes, leaning forward but obviously unsure how to comfort you. “Please don’t cry, I wasn’t--I was trying to do the opposite of this.” 

“No, I’m sorry! You didn’t have to—you didn’t—I’m sorry. That was way too nice.” 

But you're not crying because he was nice.  

Someone will love you, but not me. That’s all you can hear. 

His voice is a mere whisper when he next speaks. 

“I meant every word.” 

You take a shuddering breath, allowing yourself a moment of reprieve behind the peaceful black of your eyelids. You can’t be looking at his face when you say what you’re about to say. 

“I had a crush on you for the longest time, you know.” 

Ringing silence. But it doesn’t last as long as you’d imagined. It’s not as world ending. 

“Had?” 

The little smile in his voice is like a fist around your heart. 

“Yeah. You know what changed?” 

“What’s that?” 

Absolutely nothing. 

“Every time I got super drunk and started hitting on you, you’d just drive me home. And I did it a lot. Like, for months. But you were such a gentleman. It drove me fucking crazy. So eventually I figured you just didn’t like me and I gave up.” 

Another stretch of silence. A breeze comes in from the open window, fluttering the curtains and cooling the tears on your face. His response is sad when it finally comes. 

“You thought I didn’t like you because I didn’t try to take advantage of you when you were drunk?” 

“Pretty much.” You smile ruefully, fingertips still pressed over your eyes. “God, listen to me. No wonder I get treated like garbage.” 

“Stop. Don’t talk about yourself like that. Did you hear anything I just said?” 

You sniff, looking to the ceiling. 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It was really sweet.” 

More silence. 

“But you don’t believe it.” 

A bitter laugh poisons the air around you. 

“I don’t know.  I’m kind of tired of waiting for someone to prove it to me. Just for once, I want someone to be interested in me beyond having sex in the back of their fucking... Range Rover, or whatever. Like, maybe all that stuff you said is true, but there’s no evidence to support it, and I know logically you’re probably right but I can’t help wondering if... if I’m the outlier. Maybe there just isn’t someone for me like that. Maybe I’m just gonna be the sex in the back of the Range Rover girl forever.” 

A noise somewhere between a laugh and a sob forces itself from your throat and you bury your face in your hands again, shaking your head. 

“Wow, I am so sorry,” you say a little too loudly, “I did not mean to be this honest tonight. Did you spike my coffee?” 

“You are not the outlier,” Spencer whispers.  

You sniff, lifting your head haltingly to look at him. 

“What?” 

His voice shakes slightly as he speaks. 

“You said you can’t help wondering if you’re the outlier, and maybe there just isn’t someone for you like that. That’s not true.” 

“Spencer, those are just words. You can’t possibly know that. Statistical probabilities don’t count.” 

“That’s... that’s not how I know.” 

Your heart drops as you study his face.  

No. 

Surely he’s not saying what you think he’s saying. 

Surely he wouldn’t do this to you after you’ve just told him everything you told him. You have been harboring feelings for him for years. Since you met. He can’t just spring this on you one night because you’re a little bummed out. If he felt the same, you would have found out a long time ago; he had ample opportunity to tell you. There was a period of months where you practically threw yourself all over him at every chance you got, and he did nothing. So this... this is just cruel—something you’ve never known Spencer Reid to be. 

You stand up, trembling slightly with rage and grief and humiliation. 

“Don’t do that. Don’t say things that you don’t mean just to make me feel better.” 

“What are you doing? Don’t--” 

You scoop up your purse, trying to get to the front door as fast as your gelatinous legs will allow. More tears are streaming down your face now and you don’t need him to see what he’s done to you—to see how much you care what he thinks. 

“It’s fine. Thanks for the coffee, I’ll see you around—” 

A hand around your wrist stops you in your tracks 

“Stop. Just... please give me a second to talk, okay?” 

With nothing left to give, you turn to him. 

“Don’t be mean, Spencer. Don’t act like you liked me too. That makes me feel... so much worse.” 

He takes a deep, shaky breath, as if steeling himself. Tawny eyes bore into your soul, and you realize that there is so much sheer nervous energy radiating off of him it’s infectious. Your heart begins to pound as he speaks. 

“I’m not doing that. I’m being an idiot, because you just told me that you don’t feel that way about me anymore but... but I do. And I have to tell you now because for six months I tortured myself wondering why you would flirt with me so much when you were hammered and then act like nothing happened the next day. There were so many times I almost told you how I felt but I didn’t and now I am because even if it ruins our friendship you need to know that somebody... that I wanted to be that person for you. I still do.” 

Your heart is like an unmoored zeppelin in your chest, bumping against your esophagus and threatening to either burst or jump out of your mouth. You take your chances, whispering so quietly it’s almost inaudible. 

“You... you like me?” 

“Yes,” Spencer sighs. “I have liked you for a very long time. And I’m sorry—” 

Whatever ridiculous thing he was going to apologize for, you don’t give him the chance. Instead you launch yourself at him, capturing his lips in a kiss that feels so much better than it’d ever been in your fantasies because it’s real. You hear his sharp intake of breath, but it only takes a second for him to respond, cradling your face in his hands like you’re the entire world. For a moment, time bends. Years of longing, of buried dreams crash into the present in a brilliant, dazzling explosion.

And then, as quickly as it started, he pulls away. The absence of his touch is like a vacuum, so much worse now that you know exactly how it feels to have his lips on yours, even if it was only for a few seconds. How the hell did you live like that for so long? How are you supposed to live like that ever again?

“You’re not thinking clearly,” he breathes, tilting his head back toward the ceiling like he’s barely holding onto his self control. “You just want someone to comfort you, I’m not going to take advantage of you when you’re in an emotionally vulnerable state and confided in me which is manufacturing a false sense of attachment—” 

You grab his wrists, which still graze your jaw.

“Spencer, stop intellectualizing for thirty seconds. I promise you I am thinking clearly.” 

“You said you used to like me, past tense—” 

“Yeah, I did. Do you believe every single murderer who says he didn’t do it?” 

“No, but—” 

“Have you ever heard the phrase; a drunk man’s words are a sober man’s thoughts?” 

“Of course I have.” 

“Then what more could you possibly need to be convinced that I really like you? I already kissed you! What is stopping you?” 

Another deep breath is taken by him that seems to suck all the air out of the quiet room. Briefly, you wonder if you’ve made a terrible, terrible mistake. If you really do like him so much more than he could ever like you.  

Until he looks back down, eyes so golden-brown in the dim light, so kind and full of affectionate concern as he carefully assesses every square centimeter of your face, looking for... well, you’re not exactly sure what. It’s like he’s extracting every thought from your head, turning them over like sun-warmed stones until he finds what he’s looking for. He smooths his hands over your hair, brushing strands away from your teary face. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of holding your breath, he speaks. 

“I just want you to believe what I believe about you. But I don’t want you to have to rely on me or anyone else for your own self-worth.” 

“Well, don’t you think very highly of yourself,” you tease with a sniffle. He laughs—it's quiet, but his smile is so bright without even trying that suddenly you can’t remember why you’ve ever been sad. The small miracle of his laughter makes you feel so light, and you realize it has nothing to do with the way he makes you feel about yourself. It has everything to do with who he is. 

Once the giggles die down, you tentatively mirror his hold on your face. 

“Spencer, I don’t like you because you like me. I’ve liked you for an embarrassingly long time. I liked you enough that I gave myself a severe hangover at least once a week for three months just so I could have an excuse to flirt shamelessly with you.” 

A half-sad smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he gently swipes under your eyes. 

“You never had to do that. I would have welcomed your sober brazen flirting with open arms.” 

“Well... do you believe me?” you plead. His amber eyes shine. 

“I do.” 

“Will you kiss me?” 

“If that’s what you want.” 

You nod, rising on your toes to meet him halfway. 

When your lips meet again, it is sweet, and honest, and slow, and deep. Still, there is no desperation--no race to an imagined finish line, no clash of teeth and pawing hands. It is a kiss for the sake of it—as if it were the greatest intimacy. Not a precursor to sharing a bed, but something bigger than that in and of its own. Something just as worthy and important. For the first time, you think you’re beginning to understand romance. And while you wouldn’t mind if things did escalate, you also know that Spencer knows that’s not what matters right now. Because he actually understands you—he actually cares. He will wait until you understand that you mean so much more than that to him.

To that end, he pulls away, gently supplanting his absence with a kiss to the corner of your mouth. 

“It would be polite of me to offer you a ride home, wouldn’t it?” he whispers, like it’s the last thing he wants to do. You bite the inside of your cheek, coming up with reasons not to go. One ridiculous one arises from the depths of your memory that you know he won’t be able to say no to. 

“Or... I could stay here, and we could watch one of those nerdy foreign films you’re always talking about?” 

A slow, perfect, high-watt smile blossoms on his face, and you know you’ve said exactly the right thing. 

“Nerdy? Oh, my darling girl... Soviet-era filmography is far from nerdy. небесная машина will completely defy what you thought you knew about the life of an average Russian villager in the 1950’s.” 

“Oh, good. Because I’ve really been meaning to change the way I think about the average 1950’s Russian villager,” you smile, already closing in to kiss him again. 

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

epilogue

Three hours later, you’re crying because the life of the average Russian villager in the 1950’s was so much worse than you’d previously thought. 

“It was good, right?” Spencer asks as the credits roll over a bleak snowy sepia landscape, leaning back to get a better look at you. You sit up from where you’d been leaning against him, furiously wiping your eyes. 

“It was terrible! Why didn’t you tell me that everyone except the kid dies in the end?!” 

“Because that’s the whole point of the movie!” he laughs, pulling you back into him. “I’m sorry. I probably should have explained how depressing this entire era of film was outside of the US.” 

“And also how long the movies were. I was not prepared for how many five minute long clips of empty fields there were going to be.” 

“You’re right,” he ammends, wrapping his arms around you in a way that gives you butterflies and makes you sleepy at the same time. “Next time we can watch whatever you want to watch.” 

Time passes like that—you in his arms, watching weak light slowly flood the room with half-lidded eyes and listening to the sounds of the city waking up from the street below, underscoring the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. Thoughts float by like leaves on the ever-flowing current of your mind, and you’re happy to let them pass until one in particular catches your attention. 

“Spencer?” 

He hums, like he’d been deep in his own proverbial river of thought. 

“What does pulchritude mean?” 

It takes him a split second to remember the bit of conversation from earlier to which you are referring, but when he does, he chuckles, running his hand over your messy hair. 

“Don’t worry about it.” 

And so you let it float away. 

[voraciousvore]

Giganterra (Chapter 41)

Prologue/ TOC | Previous (40) | Next (42)

Content Warning: None

Word Count: 2k

------ Chapter 41: Nothing to Lose ------

"Let’s go. Now.” 

Millie flinched, flabbergasted. “What?” 

“You heard me.” 

“B-b-but, that’s impossible! We can’t!” 

“Yes we can.” 

“I’ve told you, there’s no escape! Even if we miraculously sneak past Ajax undetected, Chester will hunt us down by scent! He’ll catch us, and when he does…” A shiver coursed from her head to her toes. “We’re done for.” 

“I don’t care, Millie. I’m going to escape or die trying. You may have the will to persevere, but I can’t survive living like this for another second. I’m leaving.” 

“Candy, no! You can’t!” Millie hissed frantically, even as Candy inched forward, shrugging off the weight of the giant’s immense hand. She gradually wiggled free of his fingers and started crawling slowly across his chest, careful not to wake him. “Candy!” 

“Come with me,” Candy whispered back. Both girls froze in place as the giant king shifted in his sleep. He settled back down, breathing steadily, his tremendous chest rising and falling beneath them like the flow of the tide. 

“I…” Millie swallowed hard. “I can’t.” 

“Please, Millie. Can’t you see this is no way to live, groveling and worshipping a demon? You need to try. What do you possibly have to lose, at this point?”  

Millie thought a long moment before replying. My life. All the goodwill I’ve built up over the years. Friends that could’ve been saved, if the fickle king hadn’t been cross in the moment. All of it. Everything. Evaporated into the ether, all because of my own failings, because I was too weak. Her voice dropped to a pitiful whimper, barely audible over the whoosh of voluminous lungs. “I’m scared.” 

“Millie…” Candy looked at her with eyes shining in the shrouded moonlight. “It’ll be okay. Trust me.” 

Millie contracted her throat again, gulping down her fears. She was willing to put her faith in Candy. The allure of freedom was too tempting to refuse, if she dared to wish it. “Al… alright.” Trembling violently, she crept out of the arch of digits and joined Candy. Her fellow human encouraged her along as they crossed the plain of skin. They reached the hillside of the giant’s bicep and carefully descended, keeping their steps as light and soft as possible. Candy sighed in relief when she jumped to the mattress. Millie’s shaking had only increased. Her knees knocked together as they crossed the vast topography of lavish silken sheets, until they finally reached the edge. The two women stared nervously over the precipice, to the impossibly long drop below that would undoubtedly kill them if they fell. 

“C-C-Candy, I d-don’t think I can d-do this,” Millie stuttered. 

“We can’t stop now. We’ll find a way down. We just have to climb.” 

“No, I mean… m-maybe we should just forget this whole thing and go back.” She pointed at the mass of man looming above them on the horizon. “It’s not too late. W-we can just climb up to his chest again, he’ll never know we were gone, we can sweep this whole thing under the rug and he’ll never know, he’ll be none the wiser and we won’t get caught and punished—” Her voice raised in pitch as she started to hyperventilate in her panic, spiraling out of control as she vomited out her words in clumsy haste. 

Candy grabbed her shoulders. “Millie, get a grip!” They both froze when the mattress moved beneath them, as the behemoth stirred in his sleep. He settled in and resumed his snores. Candy let out a relieved sigh. 

“Millie, I know you’re strong,” Candy continued. “Don’t turn back now. We need to get out of here. Both of us. I’m not leaving you behind.” 

Millie inhaled deeply, then exhaled, hugging herself with her arms. “Okay,” she whispered. 

“Let’s go.” Candy had fantasized about escaping every night since she’d been in Giganterra, so she was mentally prepared despite the obstacles in her path. She clasped the purple silk firmly in her hands and began her descent, allowing herself some controlled falls when the folds presented an opportunity. Millie watched for a minute before following. Her hands were quaking so badly that she could barely hold on, but she persevered nonetheless, bolstered by Candy’s boldness. 

The climb was exhausting, and terrifying, and dangerous, but they both made it to the floor without incident. Despite the burning in her arms and the fatigue in her chest, Candy pressed on, pulling Millie behind her with a clammy hand. They crossed the huge bearskin rug, an extensive meadow of brown fur, to the stone bricks of the floor. The stones were rough and uneven at such a scale, and traversing the cracks and rough texture was similar to a hike through rugged terrain. 

The tiny humans slipped through the gap under the door cautiously. King Richard’s suite, besides the bedroom and bathroom, contained a living room area with luxurious couches and a fireplace, along with a small adjacent room for his manservant to sleep. Fortunately, the other giant was deep in slumber, so Candy and Millie were able to scurry across the enormous space undetected. The taps of their small footsteps weren’t enough to reach the distant walls to cast an echo, causing the empty space around them to feel strangely muted. Millie was unsettled, but at least grateful that they wouldn’t wake up the giant servant. 

They made it to the exit door that led out of the private suite. Millie’s breath hitched in her throat when she peered under, only to behold the gigantic heels of Ajax’s boots on the other side. “We’re done for,” she whined softly.  

“What do you mean?” 

“The guard. He’ll see us. He’ll catch us. There’s no other way out.” She buried her face in her hands. “I knew it was a lost cause.” 

“Well, it’s too late to turn back now,” Candy argued. “We must go on.” She peeked out. “Maybe he’s sleeping while standing up, like you said he does. It’s the middle of the night, he can’t be that attentive.” 

Millie shook her head despondently. “I told you already, he’s been enchanted with magic. Something is… wrong with him. He’s not a normal person.” 

“I’m going to try,” Candy declared. “We’ve gotten this far; I’m not ready to give up now. I'll go first, and you can follow me.” 

Millie blanched. Candy grasped her shoulders again. “Listen to me. If I get caught… I want you to promise me that you’ll keep going, and strive with every fiber of your being to escape unscathed. Okay?” 

“Candy, I couldn’t possibly leave you behind—" 

“Promise me!” 

 Candy’s intense gaze burned into her. Millie clinched her jaw and nodded. “I promise.” 

“Look, I’m so small compared to him anyways, I doubt he’ll even notice. I’ll just slink along slowly and quietly. It’ll be fine. Trust me.” She patted Millie’s shoulder and rotated to the door. Millie resisted the urge to grab her and pull her back to safety. She could only watch as Candy crawled under the door to the stairwell. 

Candy’s heart palpitated as she emerged on the other side, Ajax’s huge leather boot dwarfing her. She had lied to Millie. She wasn’t confident that she’d be able to sneak past without being spotted, though she sincerely hoped so. She believed there was a chance of success, however slim. The moonlight pouring in through the window seemed as bright as a spotlight as it illuminated the stoic colossus rising hundreds of feet above her.  

Candy was too scared to look up at the giant guard. She skirted the walls, slipping into the inky shadows to hide her presence. Her feet shuffled forward, inch by inch, as she prayed to whatever deity would listen for the gift of invisibility. Ajax stood in place without any indication of life; all Candy could see from her perspective was his monumental boot and leg, like a solid pillar of stone.  

The stillness was unnerving. Candy’s blood pounded loudly in her ears, drowning out the uneasy silence. The tension became too much to bear and Candy halted in place, struggling not to gasp audibly for breath. The first ledge of the stairs was so close, just a few feet away. She leaned forward to peer over the edge and experienced a rush of vertigo as she saw how far she’d have to go to reach the bottom of the staircase. She turned away and took a deep breath to center herself. 

A prickle of unease darted up her spine, a primordial instinct awakening within her. Candy went rigid as a cold bead of sweat dribbled down her temple. She stiffly pivoted her head upwards, icy fingers of fear encircling her neck in a noose. Her eyes trailed up the body of the fearsome behemoth, over his intimidating oversized weaponry and defined musculature, until she reached his face. An involuntary choked cry emerged from her lips as her eyes met the hard, black, solitary eye of the guard far above, staring directly into her. 

His frigid gaze pinned her to the floor. Her mind screamed at her legs to run, but her limbs refused to respond, as if she were hypnotized. She felt like a fly trapped in a spider’s web, entangled and suspended in place by sticky thread. Time seemed to freeze for an eternity as his gigantic eye bore into her. 

The guard stooped over, his knee crashing down next to Candy. She squeaked with fright and fled as the spell was broken by his disruption, but the massive man effortlessly snagged her with his thick, rough fingers. Candy cried out as she watched the ground drop away beneath her, until she was level with the cyclopean eye. The guard examined her impassively as she screeched with alarm, waving her arms and legs wildly. 

Ajax grunted, closing his fist entirely around her and shrouding her in darkness. Candy pounded her hands and feet into the inner well of his digits, to no avail. The giant surveyed the floor around the stairs before opening the door behind him and lumbering into the king’s chambers. He searched around the couches and tables, lifting them up effortlessly with his herculean strength. He checked under the rugs, along the walls, behind the curtains, in all the cracks and crevasses where a little mouse could hide. Candy’s heart bludgeoned her chest cavity from the terrible suspense. She knew he was searching for Millie, but she couldn’t see anything from the hollow of his fist. She was blind and powerless. 

When Ajax failed to find the other escapee, he entered the king’s bedroom. Hardon was sprawled out on the bed, snoring, with his hand resting on his chest. His guard monitored him with a blank stare for several minutes, as if processing conflicting information. He looked to the king’s cupped hand on his chest, then to the human terrarium, then back to his hand. His hold on Candy loosened enough for her to poke her head out of his gargantuan fist. 

At first, she didn’t understand what he was doing. She could almost see the cogs and wheels turning in his boulder of a head, like he was struggling to understand something. He appeared more like a golem or an animated machine than a man, as if he didn’t have the mental faculties to think properly. She followed his gaze to the king, and the realization gradually dawned on her: He was trying to see if Millie was present, under his hand. 

With the humans being so small, smaller than a single finger on a giant’s hand, it would be easy for her to be concealed there unseen. Ajax knew not to wake the king without good reason. He didn’t wish to invoke his wrath or disturb his slumber. He decided that Millie must be there, where he couldn’t see her. He dropped Candy in the terrarium and resumed his post without a second thought. After all, even if Millie wasn’t in the care of the king, the giant guard understood that no human would be able to escape Chester’s sensitive nose. Without a doubt, she would be found and caught again. 

Chapter 42

Tag List: @tinycoded360 @yummynomms

[livingdeadmlm]

Vampire Midas from fortgay

You know what I want

-🌶️

Vampire Midas: Bitting 5/31

Pronouns: none used 

Physical Sex: reader could be any!

How far are things going?: you both fight and bite at each other

Warnings: Bitting, blood, mentions of a slightly toxic relationship in another universe and fighting. MDNI

Outline: You were sent to elimiate Midas, but being a vampire hunter snapshot of his lover made things a tad complavated.  

What inspired me to write how I did: Chapter Five of Fortnite and Midas leaving and coming back. Also, Fortnitmares twist on it.

The wind tossed your hair around as you focused in on the comically large yacht Midas owned. He finally escaped the depths of Hades's prison, and you were sent to find him, having been very… Close throughout the years. The thick air made your descent challenging. Still, down below, you could see Midas perched atop the vibrant mega yacht as the distant strains of the battle bus faded into the evening. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long shadows that cloaked him in mystery.

Most players avoided the massive boat, knowing the storm would soon engulf it, making it a risky drop. But then, the unmistakable whoosh of a glider slicing through the air reached his ears, followed by the quick, purposeful footsteps that broke the silence. Intrigued, he slipped away from the shadows, narrowing his eyes to spot the newcomer—and to his surprise, it was you.

Your movements stopped for a moment. You were cloaked in a striking black leather coat and thick, rugged hunting boots that shimmered in the sunset light. A flat-brimmed cowboy had crowned your head with a deep red trim. This was unlike your usual outfit, which you often wore a remix of in most snapshots. He took in more of your new appearance, and that's when everything clicked into place: his new deep red outfit, sharp canines, and deep hunger for you. You were a vampire hunter; he was exactly what you were hunting.

Midas nearly lost track of your footsteps as you sneaked around the giant ship because the ocean splashed against the metal exterior. Starting with the wooden-stock shotgun slung on your back, he almost overlooked your brandished crossbow. Most of your snapshots remembered him in some way. The two of you had been messing around for so long that, at the very least, each snapshot of each other would go back to "basics," so to speak.

This version of you was entirely new and almost unrecognizable, evident from your glowing eyes and intense anger. It became clear how hungry Midas was at the sight of you; he was desperate for a taste. He raised his drum gun, keeping you in his sights while you remained on edge, holding your crossbow at eye level.

"Midas!! I know you are here. Come out!" Your voice reverberated across the ship, cutting through the salty air like a knife. It had been ages since you'd last shared such a raw, commanding presence, and a thrill coursed through him at the sound of your call. You had always been fierce and unyielding, but the intensity of your voice now was electrifying, igniting a hope within him that this moment would linger longer.

With a sudden rush of adrenaline, he bolted towards you from the shadows, seizing your arms in a swift, powerful motion and pinning them firmly behind your back. The clang of your crossbow clattering against the wooden deck pierced the silence. You let out a fierce yell, filled with defiance and determination. In a swift, calculated move, you slammed Midas against the rough surface of the wall. Surprise flickered in his eyes, quickly replaced by a grunt of pain as the impact jolted through him.

His heart raced as he felt your strength, the way you wrestled with him, your panic infused with adrenaline. Midas's gloved fingers scrambled at your collar, searching for the buckle that secured it. The fabric felt foreign under his touch, slick and taut. When he finally yanked at it, a searing jolt of heat shot through his hand as though the glove had failed him at that very moment. The pain crackled over his skin, sharp and biting, forcing a grimace that mingled with the frantic energy of your struggle.

"Really (name)? Pure silver buckles?" his voice came out as a whine as you bucked him off your back. He landed with a thud as you pressed your wood steak shotgun against his chest. Midas stayed frozen, chilling down his spice at the mere threat of such a powerful weapon. You took in Midas's new outfit; his vests always fit him just right, and his slacks fit him in a way you were surprised at the leg movement he was able to have. His right hand held onto the gun despite the damage he would take from it being all the same either on his chest or his arm.

You slightly panted as you spoke, "I am supposed to eliminate scum like you by orders of The Underground. You've caused a lot of harm to the island Midas." Midas groaned, "I know you (Name); you wouldn't shoot me." his hand squeezed the body of the gun, puppy eyes almost drawing you in. You cleared your throat. "Your relations with me aren't relevant anymore; they're hardly a whisper in my memories." Midas felt a crack in his chest as he took the chance to knock the gun away from his chest.

Midas jumped to his feet and ripped the surrounding fabric with a moment of weakened grip. The pure silver buckles weren't connected. The tear was loud, and your blood ran cold as you pressed your palm firmly against Midas's forehead. Trying to keep his fangs away from you.

"Let me turn those whispers into a yell; how does that sound?" He murmured, the seductive edge returning to his voice. "Do you remember the enchanting nights we spent together in my mansion? How did we explore each other's abilities, finding new realms of pleasure and danger every time?" His cold hands found the pulse at your neck, feeling the warmth of your blood rushing through your veins. As he opened his mouth to reveal his gleaming fangs, panic surged through you, and you leaped forward, sinking your teeth into his ice-cold skin. You held on tightly, feeling the satisfying crack of his shield beneath your bite. With a cry, Midas pulled you away from his neck. "(Name)! I knew you still cherished our private moments together." His slender frame pressed against yours, urging you to step back.

You swiftly swept his legs from under him and launched toward the water. The splashing grew more frantic against the side of the boat, adrenaline coursing through your veins. Just then, you caught the ominous sound of a jump pad releasing behind you. Heart racing, you glanced back, only to see Midas soaring through the air, zeroing in on you like a predator. You stumbled, desperation clawing at you, but it was too late—he reached out and caught you just as you almost made it into the water.

He mounted your lap and sunk his teeth into your warm neck. Feeling the blood rush made his own start rushing south. His sharp fangs sunk in as they would a tender steak. He was starving for you, everything about you. It had been so long since he'd seen you or even a snapshot he could have fun with.

You had chosen to stay on the island when he escaped, insisting on helping those left behind. He didn't understand why you wanted to, but there was no convincing you otherwise, and since then, two, now three new snapshots of you existed.

You didn't try to push Midas away; instead, you pulled him closer, craving more of his touch. The bite mark you left on his neck throbbed with a mix of pain and pleasure. He whimpered softly, caught between the thrill of the moment and the bittersweet realization that his tattoos would hide the mark, masking the evidence of your relations. But it didn't matter in that intimacy — what you had in this fleeting moment was enough to last him a lifetime.

You were sent to take him out. The Underground revealed all the terrible things he had done, but even then, the thought of it was unbearable. Deep inside, you were in love with him; that feeling resonated through every part of you. Every snapshot loved Midas. Despite the mission, your heart couldn't help but long for what you wished could be. You were sent to take him out. The Underground revealed all the terrible things he had done, but even then, you couldn't bear the thought of it. Deep inside, you were in love with him; that feeling resonated through every part of you. Despite the mission, your heart couldn't help but long for what you wished could be.

You could feel how much he missed you, well, at least one of you. As his gloved hand messaged and grouped your hips. They reminded you of your memories of him in your own universe before you landed at the feet of Jules and Hope. Only in this universe was he needier for your attention. Had you been back home, he would still have been fighting you. You weren't sure why this Midas didn't seem to have the memories of your hours, almost days-long fights for dominance in your own universe, taking blood from you long after you had passed out.

Your eyes began to get hazy as Midas finally pulled away from your neck, the scar clear on your skin. His hips moved against yours, losing track of time, not realizing the last player was looking for you, about to die from storm damage, none the wiser at the tightening in your stomach about to release by a different version of your lover you were sent to kill.

Unknown to you, as players checked the item shop for their new skin, there was a second style players could get by speaking to Midas in a match. One where your shirt was torn from the collar with various bite marks across your body.

[stewardofningishzida]

Chapter 4: Hello!

The meta-fic continues! Enjoy!

TW: Panic attack mention and pandemic mention

*After fixing the things that Cloak had knocked over, I rejoin Trix and Stephen, who are currently sitting on the couch in the living room.  I’m incredibly nervous from all of the activity and about how the situation might continue to develop.  As a result, I’m pacing back and forth, trying to take slow, deep breaths and stay calm.  Though now I’m thinking about what else could possibly happen.*  

Stephen:  Catastrophizing won’t help.  Sit down with us before you wear a hole through the rug.  I’ll think of something and now your group is backing us up.  Relax before you give yourself a panic attack.  

Trix: Seriously, panic attacks are no joke. For now let’s take things as they come. 

Me:  Okay…Okay…It’s just that if you can come through to here, anyone or anything else can too.  

Stephen:  I can still protect us.  The Sling Ring is merely an item used for transport.  

*I sigh and sit down, breathing in deeply before releasing it slowly.  Then, I glance at the door, listening.*

*four quick knocks*

*I open the door and look.*

Fox: Steward, hi! *unsubtly looks over your shoulder* May I come in? I… *face blanks* ...I should've brought something, but I didn't because I have zero working braincells at the moment. Sorry. 

*I let her in.*  

Me:  It’s okay.  We’ll have plenty of supplies coming in soon.

Fox: *awkward thumbs up* Sounds like a party! 

*Stephen looks at Fox and waves awkwardly.*

Stephen:  Doctor Stephen Strange…and you are…?

Fox, noticing Stephen and waving back: Hi, Stephen! Hi, Cloak! *nervous laugh* So, huh. I'm Fox. Nice to meet you in person? 

Stephen:  Thanks.  *He’s not completely sure how to respond yet.  Everything is still new to him.*

Fox: *looks at both Steward and Trix for help in this awkward social situation. "I am not prepared for this send help" look lmao*

Trix:  Listen, I was just as awkward as you are. Don’t look at me!

*The cloak waves back.*

Fox: Oh!! Hi!! *smile* oh my God you look so warm and comfy. The best blanket in the multiverse. Must have your hands full with helping Stephen. *short laugh*

*Stephen curls his lip, slightly amused.  Cloak practically jumps off of the sorcerer’s shoulders to float in front of Fox curiously, almost like a friendly dog.  It reaches out a corner to shake “hands”.*

Fox: *tentatively reaches forward to shake its "hand", but once contact is made and she does not spook the Cloak she's a bit more confident and smiles* You are so soft… 

*Cloak looks “happy” about this…or as happy as an object without a face can look.  It whooshes back to Stephen.*

Trix: God, relics are awesome.

*The doorbell rings.*

*I pause.*  

Me:  Who is it?

Hana: It's me! I brought Crème Brûlée!

Me:  Oh, Hana.  All right.  Welcome!  

*I open the door to let Hana in.  Stephen and the others greet her.*

Trix: Another for the Stephen Protection Squad!

Stephen:  Who else is coming here again?

Hana: *kind of still in shock* Are you sure you haven't like… dispersed some drug in the air, like that hound of the Baskerville episode?

Me:  As crazy as this is, no.  *Tries to make a joke to diffuse the tension.*  Damnit, Jim!  I’m a cell biologist anyway, not a pharmacologist.  *Small, stupid grin.*

Hana: *actually does laugh at that* *looks at Stephen* wow. *Really doesn't know what to say* um… Crème Brûlée?

Fox, under her breath: Eheh… Crème Brûlée… 

Stephen:  Erm…Maybe in a bit when everyone’s here.  *He shifts awkwardly, composing himself.*  I assume we’ll gather some background information about each other and our respective universes first to determine the best course of action.

Hana: Sounds valid. But we already do know a lot about your universe. 

Me:  Though we need to pinpoint which variant you are without messing up your timeline.  I have a few questions to figure that out.

Trix: I don’t know much about the comics but for the MCU, I’m your gal.

Hana: Well. We could start by how you got here. 

Me:  He said that he was fighting Shuma-Gorath earlier.  The monster managed to smack him through a portal with one tentacle and steal his Sling Ring with another.

*Stephen groans.  This was still rather embarrassing for him.*

Fox: That is a pretty big L…

*Stephen gives Fox a look. Fox looks mortified for a moment and quietly apologizes.*

Stephen:  *Sighs*  It’s fine…That was a rookie mistake.  Wong will never let me hear the end of this.

Hana: *looks at him, thinks. Yup, he's definitely real* Can you do magic here? Our universe isn't really big on it.

Stephen:  I can, yes.  

Hana: Huh. There's probably some cult out there that does this stuff. We could look into it. I suppose they have websites? Or Discord servers in the least? 

Me:  Laer’s on the case.  She’s looking via Tor so we don’t attract too much unwanted attention.

Trix: I know more about psychics and tarot and crystals but no one has mentioned any eldritch magic. Though I’m curious to see if they feel a change in the energy after this.

Hana: Good. Well, I had the most ridiculous day. Just spent the whole day standing in the hallway of the dormitory cuz the warden never showed up. *Sits heavily on the couch* *looking at Stephen*

Stephen:  You go to boarding school?  *He’s curious.*  How did you get here, then?

Hana: *smiles* med school actually. I took a flight.

Fox: Yoooooo, fellow med student! High five! *raises hand for high five*

Stephen (slight smirk):  Heh…Which specialties are you both aiming for?

Hana: *high fives Fox* None, yet. It's my first year. Thinking of Gynaecology though. I don't know yet. Subject to change.

Fox: It's my fourth year and to be honest? Everything looks interesting. I'm not sure yet what I'm going to specialize in. Maybe after some more hospital training I'll get a clearer picture. 

Hana: In which year do the postings start in your country? (US?)

Fox: I technically should have started in a blood withdrawal center during the second year, but COVID happened, so that got… you know…*vaguely gestures*

Hana: I don't know if I am pissed or relieved Covid took my high school years tbh. In my country, postings start from the third year.

Stephen:  Huh.  Good luck, you two.  Wait…Covid?

Trix: Ah yes, the pandemic of the century. Hopefully. I don’t trust other humans at this point.

Fox: Sars-Cov-2. Uhh probably keep an eye on the Hong Kong Sanctum. Wouldn't want to start a pandemic by portaling all over the world… 

Me:  It’s a long story, but basically, there’s a global pandemic going on.  We’re all vaccinated here, thankfully.  You, on the other hand, need to get your shots or just stay away from anyone outside.  Wear a mask, social distance, etc.  Seeing as we’re helping you go back home quickly, let’s just make sure you don’t go near other people as much as possible.  Oh, you might also want to isolate yourself for 10 days after getting back just to be safe and not infect anyone if you become a carrier.

Stephen (highly concerned):  Point taken.

Fox, zoning out: Would our COVID tests work in your universe or would the virus be different enough to not be picked up by the test…? 

Stephen:  Our viruses are probably very similar if not the same.  However, the mutations could be wildly different.  So, your virus and tests would work in my universe, but any mutations in my universe might change that.  Honestly, I don’t know for sure.

Fox: Hmmm makes sense. I just wondered if we could give you some tests so you get a head start in finding who's infected if your universe also gets that virus. 

Trix:  I have some at home tests as well. We don’t need to set a plague upon another universe.

Stephen:  Probably a safe bet.  I’ll take them back with me.

Hana: Is the cloak here too? *Is decidedly more excited to see the cloak than Stephen*

*Said Cloak gently flutters on his shoulders to make its presence known.  It’s currently gripping the sorcerer slightly more tightly, as though concerned for his well-being.  Stephen gives it a reassuring pat.*

Hana: *starry eyes* It's real!!!! *Waves* Hi~

*It waves back at her.*

Fox, whispering to Hana: It's so soft. *turns to the Cloak* Everyone's going to want to touch you, I'm pretty sure. So… Prepare yourself? 

*The Cloak nods.  It’s still holding Stephen at the moment.

Fox: Unless that Shuma-Gorath is on his way here, there's no threat at all! *peeks at the closest window to check the curtains are drawn* I hope. So… safe enough. 

*The curtains are drawn.*

Stephen:  For now, but once certain entities figure out where I am, there’s a chance they may either attempt to devastate my universe or break into this one to get at me and subjugate its inhabitants, including you.

Fox: Well. That's… Not great. *turns to Steward* So this is an "eldritch monster might level my house" situation, but worse! 

Me:  It appears so.  Though we don’t know when that could be.

Trix: I mean, look at the bright side though: we still get to meet Stephen and Cloak and know they exist! My therapist said to focus on the positives rather than spiral into a pit of existential anxiety! *chuckles nervously to herself while fidgeting with her hands*

Fox: Trueee… *awkward thumbs up*

Hana: I know this is just me making things up but is there some kind of cloaking spell that exists that can… i don't know… hide your magical signature? 

Stephen:  There is, but then Wong wouldn’t be able to find me either.

Fox: Fair. Hmm… What about creating a sling ring? Or, well, enchanting something to work like a sling ring. Maybe. I don't know, movies didn't go that deep into magic. 

Stephen:  I could attempt it, but I’ll need to do some research first.  If there’s any material on such a relic here.  Even then, it’ll probably take a while for anyone or anything to find me since this universe doesn’t have magic.  That’ll act like a sort of dampener.  So, there’s that, at least.

Fox: *finger guns*

Hana: *thinking* This… reminds me of something. Something like this happens in the comics. Well, not exactly this. But close enough. You *looks at Stephen* wake up one day to find Earth has lost its magic. So you go to Tony. He gives you a lovely speech and a pretty spaceship. So basically, in that segment, you don't have any relics. So you make the relics yourself. You made this sword that can cut portals.

Fox: Is this the, y'know… Spacesuit Stephen? And I might not know the comics, but that one panel of the sword I do remember for… Reasons. *short laugh*

Hana: *fully understanding the Reasons* Yeah, it was good. So, can you make relics?

Stephen:  *Raising an eyebrow*  I’ve never done it before, but if I was able to do it in another timeline, I suppose it’s worth a try.

*They ponder quietly for a moment.*

*the doorbell rings*

*someone knocks on the door* 

Alexis: *yelling slightly* “Hey, it’s me, Alexis! I brought soup and some snacks!” 

*I go to answer the door and let her in.*

Me:  Thanks so much!  Erm…Stephen, Cloak; Alexis.

*They both greet her.  Cloak goes to help her put stuff down.* 

Alexis: *looks at Stephen in amazement* “Huh. He’s actually real. Nice to see you, Stephen and Cloak. Have some soup.”

Stephen:  *To Alexis*  Thank you.  *He turns to me.*  Is that everyone so far?  

Me:  For now.  There are others online and those we’ll need to go visit ourselves.  A total of nine people in the loop.  *I get up to place the various foods on the dining table.*  Thanks, everyone.  Let’s have some food for now.  We’ll need energy to keep our heads and figure stuff out.  *I go to get some plates and bowls.  Stephen and Cloak help me set the table.*

Stephen (to us):  Thank you again for your hospitality.  I don’t intend to stay long if I can help it.

Me (smirking):  Just don’t blow up the house or anything else and we’ll call it good.

Tear: *After a couple hours of inactivity, I finally send a new text message.* Hey guys! The last client has finally left, so the bakery is officially clear of any strangers (heh). I just wanted to check in and see if you’ve decided what to do this evening. I want to know if I should turn off and clean the espresso machine or if I should expect your visit after all. No pressure! Thor knows you all are probably still reeling about what happened ;;;;;

*I feel my phone vibrate and check it, reading the message.  Trix, Stephen, the others, and I had an early dinner an hour or so ago and cleaned up.  I reply.*

Me (text):  Awesome!  As tempting as espresso is, it’s probably a bit late for that.  However, Stephen might want some.  I’ll ask him…He’s okay with it.  Caffeine doesn’t really affect him as much as it used to.  He’d like to meet you.  So, I’ll be there in a moment.  See you in about 20 minutes!

**To be continued**

[dustedmagazine]

Meg Baird — Furling (Drag City)

Photo by Rachel Cassells

Furling by Meg Baird

Meg Baird displays a wonderfully unhurried demeanor on her new album, Furling. Right from the eerie, wordless cadence of dirge-like opener, “Ashes, Ashes,” Baird doesn’t so much sing in a conventional sense, but rather exhales shivering wisps of melody that catch in the updrafts of her songs’ brisk, confident gestures. Though it’s often hard to make out her lyrics, there’s rarely any doubt about the feeling Baird is seeking to invoke at any given moment — you feel it in your gut, in the goosebumps that raise up along your arms. Welcome to one of the first great records of the young year.

For the most part, Baird’s songs are built from common chords you can imagine any guitarist strumming at an open-mic night or around a campfire. It’s the way they’re played, though, and the manner in which Baird and partner Charlie Saufley delicately embellish the arrangements that musters magic. The waltz-time sway of “Star Hill Song” sparkles with bells, the whoosh of delayed guitar, the patter of congas. On “Cross Bay,” it takes little more than 12-string guitar and voice to summon the ghost of Nick Drake. “Unnamed Drives” is carried forward by the shimmer of ride cymbal and the ominous whomp of a well-recorded kick drum. The insistent bass on single “Will You Follow Me Home?” drives the song into a head-nodding groove. The woozy modulation on “Twelve Saints” casts an intoxicating spell, only for a surprising chord change to whip the rug out from under your feet.

 Throughout it all, Baird’s voice is an instrument of rare beauty, simultaneously assured and elusive, like a soft-focus Sandy Denny wandering in a fever dream. No matter how lively the arrangements through which her vocal weaves, Baird sounds both unrestrained and in complete control of her delivery. Though Furling is a fitting title in this regard, in the sense of closing around something, of creating a feeling of being safe and loved, there’s also a sensation of unfurling, of opening out, of expansiveness, of fearless abandon. That’s a rare balance to strike, and one that proves intoxicatingly addictive.

 Tim Clarke

[nothingofvaluewaslost]

STORY: Mattis’ Monster

Supernatural. Horror? A childhood of trying to deal with the very real monster under your bed.

Contains bullying, violence to children.

As usual, if you enjoyed it, check out my Patreon.

Mattis’ Monster, by Christina Nordlander

The days were long, with burning sunlight on the preschool’s red brick roof and mirror-bright slide and an almost unreal blue sky between the flimsy treetops and terraced gables. They were long enough that he could forget what was going to happen.

Supper, yellow light in the terraced flat, watching The Dad Who Doesn’t Want to Grow Up and The Ika Show and The Children’s Book Club on sofa cushions in the living-room while Delila slurped her evening sippy-cup of gruel. Then he had to brush his teeth and go to bed, there weren’t any more chances to put it off. Both the pyjamas and the bedsheets were warm and fuzzy. He had books on the bed-table, he could disappear into them for a few minutes more, but each night came the moment where mum’s shadow-footfalls passed outside the crack of the door to check that his light was out.

He'd tried so much. Mum said you fell asleep faster if you moved a lot in the day, wearing yourself out. He never remembered, not until he was already in bed. Day-Mattis was stupid and careless and night-Mattis was the one who took the punishment. He’d read about sleeping pills, but mum probably wouldn’t buy them for him, and besides, he didn’t want to fall asleep. If he slept he wouldn’t be able to watch it.

Here was how it was. He switched off the light. His bed was in one of the far corners, under the window. At night the blinds were down and turned into just one steely surface, but the light from the lampposts fell through them in two strings of little beads. There was light through the crack of the door, from the hallway, but a couple of times he’d been awake long enough to hear the snap of the switch and see the light disappear. It wasn’t the dark he was afraid of. Was anyone afraid of the dark and not of what was in it?

The foot end of his bed faced towards the door. There was more than one yard of lino floor across. He never thought about running. At night it was a pit.

He lay trying to hear what was outside his dark enclosed room. There must have been things outside: mum watching TV or washing up, traffic. One night he heard rain tapping on the window, and that night it didn’t come. Another time he heard a train rattling past on the other side of the forest, and he could lie there imagining that he was travelling somewhere, far off in the night. It didn’t even last long enough to count to twenty.

Tonight there was no train and no raindrops. He’d tuned up his hearing to the point where he heard the blood pounding in his eardrums and a faint whoosh that might have been the ducts or wires. If he’d been able to do something else, if he could have held his ears shut or filled them with rustling duvet-cover corners – it wouldn’t help.

Now it started, below the whine of the ducts: a low scratching. If they’d lived in an old house, he could have imagined it was rats. There were no rats here, there was no room.

It was always the same pattern of noise: even scratches, then quiet. Sometimes he thought it was trying to get in under his bed from somewhere else, but neither rats nor anything else would have been able to claw through all those hard layers. Sometimes he thought it was just trying to send him a message, that it wanted him to know it was there.

He didn’t turn on the bed lamp, never during these years. If he turned on the light he would see the mint-green rug and the flowery wallpaper and the gentle stuffed toys, and then he would be lying in the soft light of his bedroom and have to hear what was moving under his bed, what was fumbling, fumbling.

He didn’t think it could get into the bed. The first few nights he’d waited for it, but he never saw it over the side. He curled up in the middle of his mattress island with the bear he’d named Tummy-Teddy pressed in his arms, trying to breathe as softly and little as he could. It was dark, and in the dark he was just as hidden as the monster. If it didn’t hear anything, maybe it’d think he wasn’t up here.

He must have fallen asleep there anyway, because he never remembered it getting lighter. He must have dreamt things. He didn’t want to fall asleep, even though it would make the night go quicker, because when he slept he wouldn’t be able to keep his breathing down. He wouldn’t see if anything stood over him.

*

During recess on his third day of school, Joel said:

“God it’s dull to have a little kid following you around every single recess!”

He was half a head taller than Mattis and looked the way Mattis wanted to. He’d thought they were playing together.

“Ignore them if they’re mean,” mum had said when she went with him to roll call. “Pretend they don’t exist.” (Or was that after he told her about Joel?)

He was good at pretending that things didn’t exist. That day he walked off into the scratchy shrubbery that ran along the football field, but it was as if he’d already flipped a switch in Joel, because from that day on he stood at corners and in doorways and called after him, even if Mattis hadn’t done anything. Mattis Poopypants. Are you allowed here at the schoolyard? Are you retarded or just stupid? Then a couple of other kids started yelling “Mattis Poopypants,” too.

He hadn’t done anything. He wasn’t fat or had glasses, he didn’t have anything that made him different from Joel.

“Tell the teachers,” mum said. He told the teachers on their coffee break, but they laughed and misunderstood what he said. When he managed to get one of the bullies to yell an insult with the class assistant present, she just said, “How do you know it was at you?”

During breaks he snuck along the brick wall and vanished into the bushes. It wasn’t Joel and the others who wouldn’t exist.

At preschool, the days had been good. Now he had the classes where all he had to do was work through the boredom, but the last minutes of each lesson he sat glancing towards Joel’s desk and gearing up to head to the cloakroom as fast as he could without running, and maybe get away from him. At the end of the last class of the day, the sun burned golden low over the bus stop, and something else had got in the way of the thoughts about Joel.

*

Sometimes, when he was a couple of years older, the scratching stopped being enough. Then he lay awake, caught in a state of horror that wasn’t enough to paralyse him, and heard the sound of cloth dragging across cloth, or a mechanical shearing, scissors.

Sometimes, after that, came a voice. It was impossible that mum and Delila couldn’t hear it. The other sounds might still have been something that belonged to the real world, a rat in the bricks, but a voice could only come from something human.

It was always the same pattern, like with the scratching. A distant howling, ooo-oooo-ooo, then a break. Sometimes there was a new ooo-oooo-ooo, sometimes just a broken breathing. It didn’t hide its breathing from him. The breaths sounded like it was in pain, but he didn’t know whether it needed air or if the breathing was just to scare him.

He lay with his arms locked around Tummy-Teddy, like when he was a lot younger, but Tummy-Teddy couldn’t defend him, he was just fuzzy cloth and stuffing turned into a face. (Did that make him the opposite of what was under the bed?) When he thought like that, he could have tossed Tummy-Teddy out on the floor – a distraction – and then? Run? It was wet outside, shiny asphalt beneath the lampposts. If he made it to the front door and got his coat on, where would he go?

He might still have done it, made camp in some foggy meadow or under a shelter of fir branches as if he was in a fantasy book, at the start of the adventure, but Dorak hadn’t hurt him yet.

Then he’d given it a name. He didn’t know where he’d got it from, if it was just a couple of syllables from a book. It meant as little as all other names.

If he ran away, maybe it would make its home under Delila’s or mum’s beds instead. Then he protected them by being here. Every night he was like a soldier, standing between Dorak and them.

*

One night when he couldn’t go to sleep, he had the idea of giving Dorak a gift, an offering. If he was more powerful than Mattis, it might pacify him, a little. (And if he wasn’t dangerous, maybe he wanted a gift.)

He could have chosen any of the soft toys, one of the cheap street-market ones with tufted fur and glued-on fabric eyes, but it had to be Tummy-Teddy. If he didn’t get it back, that would mean that he was too old for stuffed animals.

He held the teddy bear in one limb and let go. When he glanced at the pale floor, it wasn’t there. Before he fell asleep he heard the shearing again.

Afterwards he would remember it as something spitting it back up on his bed, reversed like in some slapstick cartoon, but he found it in the door when he got up. It was still the same fabrics, the yellow of the fur and the pink of the belly, but sewn into something that didn’t resemble Tummy-Teddy at all.

If he showed it to mum, he would have proof. He hid it in the lowest drawer in the desk instead.

*

It was the last class of the day and Joel was going to beat him up when he got out. The last time Joel had teased him, he’d replied “You don’t scare me.”

Normally, Joel would have mimicked him and walked off, but this time, Mattis’ voice sounded almost bored, more like a grown man’s. Joel just stared at him with the whites of his eyes showing. Mattis turned his back to him and walked inside, and it was hard, as hard as if he didn’t lie with his back to that every night.

Now the space between the minute hand and the number 12 melted, and he sat facing out the window. It was by the fences around the benches that Joel and the others would wait.

He put on his quilted nylon jacket in the throng of students. If enough went in his direction, Joel and the others might not be able to do anything, but the clump had thinned by the time he was alongside the fences, like it always did.

They were around him. Adam, the tallest, with hair that was closer to grey than any other colour, lifted up his duffel-bag so Mattis couldn’t get to it. It was the bag he’d made in shop class, from red and gold-patterned fabrics he’d picked because they reminded him of fantasy, of old fairy-tale times. He couldn’t run any more. He wouldn’t have run anyway.

This time, Joel didn’t spend any time insulting him. He pushed himself up to Mattis and they started beating. After a while Mattis didn’t try hitting back or getting back up, and they stopped. Perhaps he wasn’t exciting any more, he was something soft and squished on the asphalt.

“Try acting smart again,” Joel finished somewhere above him, “and you know what you’ll get.”

But his voice was unclear, he was heading off. They’d left the collapsed bag on the bench. Mattis got up and sat beside it for a minute. The only thing they’d done was hit him. By the time he got home, most of the pain had passed.

Mum was at work and Delila in preschool, the house was empty around him as he carried the bag to his room. As usual he looked under the bed. As usual there was nothing there that he couldn’t have seen from the stairway, just pale wallpaper and a streak of sunlight across the lino. He could put his arm in and feel the smooth wall. The space under the bed was something different at night. All distances got longer in the dark.

The bag was almost weightless when he set it on the bed. He crumpled it together between his hands as if he was looking for the last Christmas present among wrapping paper. If he didn’t open it, it felt like it still hadn’t happened.

There were no books in there, but something rustled. He opened the zipper and felt inside. It was a sheet from a notebook:

 Want them back?

Come to Murder Forest 10PM.

 He sat on the bed looking at the note for many minutes. The handwriting was easy to read, with rounded As. One corner was crumpled. He didn’t think he’d seen Joel’s handwriting before.

He needed to do it: it was this or not have any textbooks tomorrow. At some point he thought about telling mum, but her gaze was tired and she replied to questions with a voice like she was talking to some other adult. Maybe that was what adults did to get away from people, just leave their bodies sitting.

“Murder Forest” was the name they’d had in preschool for the only big forest in the area, maybe ten minutes from the school if you walked. Even then he’d thought the name was dumb: nobody had been able to say who’d been murdered there, there was nothing to the name other than an attempt to scare younger kids. The biggest problem was leaving that late without mum noticing.

Already after supper it was black outside. He didn’t want to stay in the yellow light in his room, even if that didn’t take shape until he went to bed. Mum and Delila were in the living-room and the TV was on, but if he went downstairs he would nestle into the light and sound and maybe not be able to leave. He tested opening the window and pulling it off the plastic latch. Some cold autumn air slipped in. He’d be able to climb out this way.

He sat on the bed, feeling the thin mattress sink under him.

“I don’t suppose you’re gonna stop me,” he said.

But his legs in the dark purple sweatpants looked odd against the lit floor, cylinders without details. His voice sounded louder and more scraping than he’d meant it to. He pulled his legs up into bed, even though nothing was going to happen yet.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to do anything,” he said again.

A bit past nine fifty he climbed out on the brick roof over the kitchen window, swung himself down to the drainpipe and landed on the footpath.

The air was smoky and so cold it felt like it would rip his flesh where it was unprotected. He hadn’t thought about how cold it’d get after dark. His beanie and mittens were back in the hallway. He couldn’t go back in. If he kept going now, home would be almost as far away as the forest.

Once the cold stopped burning his ears it wasn’t so bad. The lampposts glowed orange, the road wasn’t dark. The darkness lay in the cloudy treetops, but over the horizon he could see a pattern of yellow windows. Cars rushed by now and then somewhere he couldn’t see them, and at one point he heard older voices chatting and laughing, middle-school students maybe. They weren’t heading his way. Out here he could believe what mum said, that ghosts weren’t real. The thing under his bed might be the only one.

He reached the solid black wall of the forest. Nobody was here, but they must have meant inside. A path led within, along the dry-stone wall. He saw the first few yards of it like a strip of pale material between the shadows. Along the edge of the field grew trees so tall he couldn’t see where they ended. In daylight he’d have been able to separate them into aspens and poplars. It was dad who had taught him, or was it a male teacher in day-care?

He took a step inside. After two yards it got so dark, he couldn’t see what he stepped on. The ground was just resistance under his feet. To the left the trees were airier, you could see the lights of the flats glitter between them, but in front of him was just a portal of wooded dark.

Joel was going to wait for him in the clearing. It was the only thing that existed when you talked about the Murder Forest. In daylight it’d been a slippery floor of red-brown leaves where you could hunt for things among the rubbish people had tossed. Now he could see Joel standing between Adam and Linus, in front of the foam-rubber mattress that had lain there when he was in first grade, with his books in their arms. The image was as clear as the night around him.

In the forest he didn’t know where he stepped any more. It was a clearing, he would see it getting lighter. At least you’d see the sky. He put his arm in front of his face because there were twigs, slim twigs that could slide into your eyes and you wouldn’t know you were blind until you couldn’t see the light. His other hand – so frozen his fingers splayed a bit – felt metal-cold trunks, but just at the edge of his fingertips.

He stepped on something he didn’t know what it was. It felt slimy under his shoe, like food that had fallen on the floor. It took a moment before he was aware that he was standing up. He floated in just blackness and cold. Was this how it would feel if Dorak got him? He couldn’t breathe, it was like there was a hand on his throat.

It passed. He saw a bit of sky between the black branches, clouds in a weird smoke-purple. He heard something far away, and it was just a train clattering by. The world went on outside.

Perhaps he would hear traffic. He turned back towards the edge of the trees.

A white form was standing there, a few body-lengths away. He couldn’t see which way it faced.

Is this how? Those were the only words in his brain, moronic.

If this had been a dream he would have woken up now, but he still felt the leaves and path under his feet. The being was in his way. If he threw himself past it might not have time to grab him. His body wanted to, his heart was pounding like he was already running, but what would he do if he reached the road and there wasn’t anyone in sight?

Keep going. Get to the clearing and see if there was a way out the other side. It was a forest, it must be possible to force your way through. A new thought: if it’s Joel and the guys?

That was almost no better, he’d still be here among the dark leaves and have to see and hear everything they did to freak him out, but he needed the books. They couldn’t do anything, nothing worse than hitting him. Let them give him the books, then get out on the bike path and go home.

Something began behind him, a narrow howl that circled towards the sky like it was something other than sound. His gaze flicked to the side. A glimpse of something white, very tall, from the ground up to the edge of his vision.

The first form took a swaying step towards him. It was tall, much taller than an adult, with long long arms. The face was just two big black spots of eye-sockets. Ribs showed on its upper body. It was at the same time ghost and skeleton.

He couldn’t run from it. It could just lean forward and reach for him.

Mattis stayed looking up at it. He had no fear left.

The form took one step closer. It hesitated, then took another one. A low howling came from its throat. It stopped.

Feet scraped on the path. The being leaned to the side at an odd angle, then sagged down.

“Okay, what the hell, we’re not scaring him,” said Adam’s voice.

“Fuck, don’t stop now, Adds.”

Adam unthreaded himself from the outfit. He must have held it high above his head on a broom or something. The outline of his hair was a bit curly and spiky from the cloth. On the other side, in front of the clearing, Joel pulled off his white outfit and let it drop. It must have had a bit different features to Adam’s.

“Give me the books,” Mattis said. His voice had become hoarse and almost hurt his throat.

“I didn’t bring them,” Joel muttered. “You’ll get them tomorrow.”

Twigs snapped under his shoes as he took a swerve out in the undergrowth to get past him.

“You probably crapped your pants when you saw us,” Adam mumbled so that Mattis could barely hear him. “I don’t want to get closer and smell it.”

“Don’t forget your fucking outfit,” Mattis said.

The guys walked from him without doing anything more. Soon he was out in the lit road. Joel and Adam were already gone.

On the way home he thought someone was walking far ahead: a guy, maybe, not much older than he. You couldn’t tell his hair colour, the orange light turned it black. He thought about calling to him and making him turn around, but he didn’t know what he would see. Maybe the guy had turned a corner. He was gone now.

He realised there was something wrong when he rounded the terrace. The light was on in the kitchen. A misty spot of yellow light fell out on the front lawn. When he went past, he saw mum’s black outline inside.

He tried to open the door so softly that nothing would strike against anything else, but he couldn’t get in without passing the window. Mum stood in the dark hallway like a ghost in long folds of dressing gown.

“Oh, little Mattis!” she said. “Where did you go? Did something bad happen?”

“I just wanted to go outside. I wanted to see what it looked like…”

The cold that had almost made his voice drop made it thick and snotty now, a five-year-old voice.

She hugged him, her arms warm as if from fever. It was as if he’d forgotten the cold until now.

“But you must never do that again,” she said, resting her chin against his hair. “Never run away without telling me.”

As he headed for the dark stairway he almost asked her if he could sleep in her room like after dad left, or get to stay up a while longer, so that maybe he would go flat-out the moment his head hit the pillow. He was ten years old, and if mum looked under the bed she wouldn’t see anything.

Mum’s face had been red, but it was a long time before he understood what it meant. He’d never seen an adult cry.

He lay in bed. The sheets were warm around him. Everything was dark except the glitter of orange outside the blinds.

He waited until the scraping started.

“I thought it was you, you evil asshole,” he said.

Swearing made him feel a bit more like a threat, but his voice drew out and faltered on the last words. Perhaps “evil” was the only word that could describe it, even if it couldn’t describe any people. Hell and the devils were real, because it was real.

His throat hitched and he held his breath, as if he could get away if he held his breath, as if it hadn’t heard him already. The scraping had stopped.

He lay stiff for a while, staring at the simple boxy shape of the bedpost, the only thing he could look at without turning his head.

Did that mean that it was over? Like in some wholesome children’s TV show, all he had to do was show a bit of backbone and the monster would go away?

Shortly before falling asleep he thought he heard the scratching again, but maybe it was some animal out in the bushes trying to get in.

*

That spring, mum got a new job at the museum where she didn’t have to finish so late. While it was still getting dark early, she took him and Delila out wandering through the suburb when the only signs of life were the yellow light in windows. Delila, almost seven now, ran in to play on playgrounds and kindergarten yards. Mattis clambered and wrestled with her, even though he wasn’t going to be a child for much longer.

He learned that night air smelled good, it had scents that weren’t there in the day.

He would have liked to tell mum how much he liked the night walks, but it would just have been cutesy overflowing words. Mum understood, because she kept going with them.

 He lay under the quilt again. The little light in the room wasn’t orange, it was white. Something stretched from under the bed.

He pulled himself up towards the headboard, squatting next to the pillow. He’d started growing, legs getting long and bony. It was easy to forget when he lay on top of that world of darkness. From here he had the best overview. If anything reached across the quilt, he would see it.

Dorak pressed itself out under the bedframe and got to his feet like something that couldn’t walk well. He wasn’t facing Mattis. He was big, adult big, and his body was so swollen and white it shone. He walked hunched, almost on all four, with some long black hair hanging straight from his head and the back of his neck. Perhaps this was the creature that childish pictures of ghosts were trying to depict: not a cute bell-shape of sheets.

It was heading towards the hallway, towards mum’s room, or Delila’s. He’d imagined a boy, pale, very dark-haired – like a black-and-white reflection –, maybe so frail that he was only safe under the bed.

He couldn’t bring himself to move towards it. He twisted his gaze left and right for something to throw. The old Tummy-Teddy lay in the drawer where he couldn’t get it, but he had a row of other stuffed animals on the shelf.

He fumbled above him in the shadows and grabbed the leg of one. He hadn’t meant to see which one it was, but it was a scruffy tiger that mum had given him before this began. He swung it and let it fly.

It thudded into Dorak’s shoulder, he thought he could hear it. It was no ghost, nothing you could slip through.

It reacted. It turned, first its head, then its neck, not the way humans turned. Mattis had to look at it, its white face where the features had been gnawed down to almost nothing, its long hunched neck.

It picked up the tiger, turning it in its hands.

“Throw it,” Mattis said, raising his hands like a younger kid.

His voice sounded alien.

Dorak hesitated, then he threw it, hard enough that it stung when one paw hit Mattis’ cheek. He remained standing in the doorway, hands flung out.

“Let’s play, then,” Mattis said, throwing the tiger again.

The next night he had lined up more stuffed toys and a ball. The night after that, he brought a boardgame where the point was to place pieces in different colours to create paths across the board. The next night he’d thought about throwing things again – anything that used up time –, but Dorak had brought a game of his own, with pale glass beads. Everything about him was pale and glowing. They played it on the floor. The rules were so simple and fun, he was surprised he hadn’t played it before.

Sometimes they played Super Nintendo with the sound off. Sometimes they went on their own night walks, after mum’s.

*

He became too old to believe in ghosts and bogeymen. He remembered the nights with Dorak so strongly, but they couldn’t have happened.

Dorak was gone and he couldn’t even remember the first night he hadn’t been there. It must have been before he moved to the student village. (Could you believe in ghosts when you were over eighteen?) At first he was just relieved, like after an attack of fever that had lasted too long for you to think it would pass.

In the memories, Dorak came to be shaped a bit more like a boy, a bit thinner, veiled by his black hair. Dorak became his real name – Mattis couldn’t remember that he’d ever used it. If it had all been his imagination, he got to change it however he wanted.

One time when mum and Delila came to see him he took Delila aside, going through the supermarket, and asked if she remembered one time when she’d gone downstairs in the morning, after one of the nights when he’d played video games with Dorak, and thrown a fit because the King Arthur’s World cartridge lay outside its cover. She just stared at him through her glasses where she’d glued tiny glitter stickers.

“How the hell am I supposed to remember that?” she exclaimed.

That night, maybe, he looked under the bunk in his dorm room. There was only marbled green lino flooring and a couple of transparent dustbunnies. If Dorak was real, it wasn’t any more illogical that he would be under that bed than in the terraced flat on Lötvägen.

But when it was dark he went to bed, and the room was silent around him.

*

Ten years later he was back in Kalmar for a reunion with his class from secondary school, thirty-year-old guys, loud talk and bragging about what they’d done since they were eighteen, concentrated amber-coloured whisky. When he’d tasted the whisky he too bragged about his start-up and the money he was making from his game.

Joel was there. He invited him for coffee early the next day before he was leaving. Mattis said yes, to test that he had no fear left.

Joel lived on his old street, in an identical terraced house. When he came through the door, he had an impulse to run up the stairs and into the bedroom at the end of the hallway.

Joel’s wife made tea for him and coffee for herself and her husband. He stared, sometimes out at the street beneath the mild grey sky, sometimes into Joel’s eyes. There was nothing there that folded. Joel was talking about good times back in school when they’d been part of the same group. The memory threatened to displace the ones he had. Mattis chugged a mouthful of tea, too hot. He let his body focus on the heat.

Light steps padded in the hallway. A girl stood in the doorway: eight, nine years old, in a long tee over bike shorts and with her mum’s straight fair hair. Her gaze didn’t fasten on any of them.

“Dad, can I restart the router?”

“I’ll sort that,” Joel said, getting up. “Mattis, this is our daughter Missne. Mattis is daddy’s old classmate.”

Mattis tramped out into the living-room behind them. While Joel knelt on the mirroring hardwood floor and fiddled with the router, he glanced at Missne. Little pieces fitted together: her hard straight posture, the grey pallor around her eyes. Maybe it needed to get more obvious before her parents would notice it.

After going to the bathroom on the silent first floor, he took a detour past Missne’s room. Her bed with its white coverlet stood in the same angle as his, you could see in underneath it.

He saw something else in there. A drawing was thumb-tacked to the wall over her bed. A hunch-backed lump of something white was prowling down a nocturnal road.

He wouldn’t have got a chance to talk to her in private, and he didn’t know what he would have said.

He went out on the drive and back to his car.

THE END

[verfound]

WIP Wednesday 11/20/19: CSS Preview (MLB, Lukanette, Couffaine Sibs)

Y’all know how I keep saying it’s “angst with fluff sprinkles”?  And how sometimes it’s whiplashy?  So this is shortly after Jules dumps water on Luka and Mari in bed.  Mari’s in the shower and they’re picking out something for her to wear, since Juleka ruined her only clothes.

“As much as I’m enjoying this, I believe she said I only have twenty minutes to shower and dress,” she said.  She groaned and dropped her head against his chest. “Ugh.  I don’t have a change of clothes, and there’s no way these’ll dry in time.”

“You can borrow something,” he said.  He dropped a kiss against her hair before he removed his arms from around her.  They both sighed at the loss of contact.  “All right.  Go get your shower.  Warm up. I’ll have something for you when you get out.”

He felt her smirk against his neck.

“When I get out?  You want me to come back here in a towel?  Or –” she started, and he was just starting to imagine the possibilities – just starting to really enjoy the idea – when Juleka slammed the partition open, grabbed her arm, and yanked her off of him.

“Nope!  Nope, nope, nope,” she said, shaking her head firmly.  She pushed Marinette towards the bathroom, making an over-exaggerated gagging noise as they went.  “I’ll bring the clothes to you!  God, you two are gross.  Rose and I aren’t even this bad, you horny –”

“Oh, you definitely are,” Marinette laughed. She tossed a kiss over her shoulder, making Juleka groan again as she shoved her into the bathroom.  She slammed the door shut between them and turned towards him, a grimace on her face.

“We need separate rooms,” she sighed. “Like…actually separate, not just fake-wall separate.”

He fell back against his bed, yanking the blanket over his head as he laughed.  She definitely wasn’t wrong there.

After a moment, and without Marinette’s warmth to distract him, he became aware of just how wet – how cold – his bed now was, and with a longsuffering groan he pushed himself up.  He drug his hands across his face, shoving them up into his hair as he walked over to where she was rifling through their closet.  She shrieked when he flopped against her, pressing his soaked front into her back.

“Luka, you ass!” she cried, shoving him off of her. She huffed as she rolled her shoulders, squirming in her now-damp shirt.  “Ugh, I have to change now!”

“You brought it on yourself,” he said with a chuckle.  He tossed his own shirt back towards his bed.  He’d have to wash the lot later, anyway.  “You’re a real bitch sometimes, Jules.  Definitely not my favorite sister anymore.”

She snorted as she continued to sort through her half of the closet, looking for something for Marinette (and now herself, stupid jerk brother) to wear.  She didn’t look back at him as she said, “I’m your only sister, dumbass.  That makes me the favorite by default.”

His hand froze halfway to the closet.  Her words were like another bucket of ice water, chilling him and making his entire body freeze up.  Of course she was his only sister.  Of course that would make her his favorite.  By default.  Except…she wasn’t anymore, was she?  Not that she knew.  Not that he could let her know.  But it didn’t change the fact that, somewhere in the city, another little girl with her eyes (Andrew’s eyes) was probably fighting with a blonde stranger, begging for five more minutes, Maman, please as she burrowed deeper into her blankets.  Or was she more like Juleka, already up and ready to go?  Bouncing around the kitchen, already dressed for school, as she waited for a croissant or fresh-fried egg?  Or did she stick to cereals, some prepackaged convenience to scarf down on the way out the door?

In another life, in another world – one where Andrew Couffaine wasn’t an asshole, where their parents still talked, maybe even had stayed together – he would know the answers to those questions. They would see CeeCee for birthdays, and holidays, and they’d know if she liked mornings or was a classic Couffaine night owl.  They’d get to argue over who would teach her how to play guitar and which major chord she should learn first.  Juleka would dye streaks through her hair – and what color would CeeCee even like? Purple, blue, pink, green? – and he’d teach her the fastest, easiest way to paint her nails.  Her beloved Ladybug doll would be a MDC original, and she’d even have a custom Viperion doll to keep her company.  In another life, Juleka would pull her stupid pranks and he’d get to tell her CeeCee was his favorite because she didn’t dump ice water on his bed, and CeeCee would giggle and say Juleka was her favorite because sister solidarity.  And he’d just smile, and ruffle her hair, and pretend like her words crushed his soul while sharing a smirk with Juleka (because Jules was older, so she was obviously his favorite, too – but he loved the heck out of both of them, so it was cool). In another life, CeeCee wouldn’t just be a Couffaine – she’d be a Couffaine, and –

“I said move, dumbass,” Juleka grumbled, snapping him out of his thoughts as she shoved him aside.  He blinked at her, shaking his head slightly to clear his mind.  She rolled her eyes as she grabbed a plaid shirt from his side of the closet.  She held it up for inspection and nodded before glancing back at him.  “Mari still needs a shirt.”

She frowned when she saw the glazed look on his face.  It wasn’t his normal, stupid, Marinette’s Wearing My Clothes glazed look, and it made her pause.  She tossed the shirt over her arm and reached back into her side for a belt.

“You ok?” she asked, her voice more serious. “You kinda zoned out there for a minute. I’m just being a brat, Lu.”

“I…I know,” he said, rubbing his face again as he shook his head.  He forced a grin back on his face as he looked up at her.  It was stupid to think of what could have been in another life, anyway.  CeeCee wasn’t a Couffaine, in the end.  Not a real one.  “Go on – she’s probably ready by now, and you two don’t want to be late.”

[frankcastlescumslut]

hey queen can i request a matt (obvi) thigh riding?🤤 i know you’ll do me justice

actually squirtming in my seat as I wrote this…. like i’m h word

Thigh Riding w Matt

word count: 1.8k

warnings: 18+! MINORS DNI! obvious smut, thigh riding, body worship, language, daddy kink, dom-ish!matt, fluff, this is actually sweet lol

DO NOT STEAL MY SHIT!!!!!

comments/feedback/reblogs/likes are always welcomed <3 ily

————

it was calm in the apartment. the bubbling of boiling water created a steady rhythm in the small kitchen that Matt lingered in, but your heartbeat was what kept him grounded. he basks in the easiness of your presence- calm, warm, inviting, and relishes in the simplicity of your relationship.

he’s pulled out of his trance when his attuned ears pick up a whoosh from a few feet away; the scent of honey and vanilla encompasses him and he eases into the familiarness of you.

your fingers interlace with tendrils of soft hair, sending sweet notes of your shampoo into his direction. escaping pieces of hair tickle your cheeks and jaw as they fall against your face. his eyebrows perk as he notices a light tug followed by a groan.

the hair on Matt’s neck prickles as your mint flavor breath infiltrates the shared space. fuck. the profanities are a stark dichotomy between your typical reserved nature and abrasive diction. the sound of your arms falling against your sides and a small groan warn Matt of your frustrations.

“everything okay, sweetheart?“ he gently pries, head cocked towards your direction. “no.” you grumble from the living room. your cheeks are flushed and beads of sweat gather in your hairline. your arms feel like lead, and you’re emotionally spent.

“anything I can do to help?” he asks gently, turning to find remove the boiling water and find a mug in the cabinet.

“unless you can magically regain your sight, I don’t think so.” the mirror on the coffee table is pushed a few inches to the right, and you dramatically throw yourself to the floor. your hair splays against the rug like rays of sunshine as you lay on your back, your eyes falling shut in defeat.

“well,” the sound of Matt shuffling into the living room brings some relief. “I don’t see that happening any time soon.” his smile is radiant. you can’t help but slip a small smirk at the joke.

the leather couch squeaks under his weight. “what’s wrong?” he asks gingerly. you huff in frustration at the insignificance of your emotional distress.

“you’re gonna laugh at me.” you mumble through closed lips.

“try me.” you can feel his smile.

the sight above you nearly chokes you. you’re settled between Matt’s bare legs; the bulge is hard to miss. blood rushes to your cheeks and in between your legs, causing you to warm. your reaction doesn’t fail to make Matt feel accomplished.

“I was trying to french braid my hair.” you shyly admit.

you expect a sweet coo or gentle words of encouragement but are surprised when you’re met with a hearty laugh. the crease between your eyebrows and way your mouth hangs open in a frown should leave permanent wrinkles. you twist your body and push yourself up so that you’re resting on your knees and facing him.

“really? that’s what you were doing?” his laugh is infectious, but you can’t help the way your arms cross against your body.

“it’s not funny!” you huff with a pout.

“I’m sorry sweetheart,” his hand gently finds your face and eases you into his touch.

“it just seemed like you were trying to prove the existence of God.” you can’t help but chuckle with him.

“there’s no reason for it to be that hard!” you exclaim, trying to save yourself some embarrassment.

“c’mere, get off the floor” he orders through a smile.

his hands hook underneath your arms as he hoists you onto one of his thighs. you attempt to adjust your weight, but sparks of pleasure rip through you as your heat innocently grinds against him. you desperately attempt to stifle the moan in your throat, but Matt catches the way your breathing falters and your heartbeat increases.

“y’know…” your hair is pushed from your shoulders as Matt’s hands trace lines up and down your back. your eyes close at the familiar touch and your body relaxes into his hold.

“all you had to do…” fingertips lightly press into the tightness of your back. an automatic moan escapes your lips as he soothes the muscles, but your breathing falters as his grip slightly tightens and drags you against him. his fingers play with the seam of your underwear.

“was just ask…” gentle caresses of his fingertips trail up your waist, and your arms raise automatically, shirt landing somewhere on the floor. you moan into his touch as his fingers dance across your collarbones, over your sternum, across your breasts and pebbled nipples, down your soft stomach, and graze your inner thighs. your hips automatically grind into his thigh, desperate to relieve the ache in your core.

“for help.” a soft kiss is placed just below the middle of your neck, in between your collarbones. you shiver at the sincerity of it. your chest heaves as wet, open mouth kisses litter your neck.

“matt” you sigh and your body twitches as he sucks the sweet spot below your ear. your arms hang limp by your side and you pant into him as his arms hold your weight. you aren’t aware you’re grinding yourself against him until he brings it to your attention.

“look at you,” he places a kiss on your sternum.

“just grinding that sweet pussy against me, hm?” your head falls back with a silent moan at his words and he takes the opportunity to suck on your neck.

“does that feel good, baby?” he coos.

you nod your head incoherently, chasing the pleasure as your sensitive clit rubs against his muscular thigh. you’re attention is broken as a hand brings your head forward. “look at me.”

your eyes flutter open and immediately shut at the erotic sight. Matt desperately searches your face as he strokes a thumb against your cheek and lands on your lips. you open your mouth in invitation. his thumb finds its place on the flat of your tongue. you swirl your finger around it gently, before lightly sucking it.

“god, look at you, princess.” his mouth falls into an open frown as he moans. you can’t help but moan with him as your pussy clenches around nothing.

“such a good girl for me. you look so pretty with my fingers in your mouth” you moan into him.

“and even prettier rubbing that pussy on me.” he bounces his thigh, causing you to fold in on yourself at the added pressure against your clit.

“daddy” you pant.

“that’s it, sweetheart. good girl. make yourself feel good on daddy” his lips meet yours before gently sucking on your bottom lip.

you’re completely blissed out as his hands trail over your body. it’s as if you have no control over your body- completely captive to its natural urges. a warm mouth and graze of teeth over your nipples bring you back to reality.

your small hands fervently make its way up Matt’s chest and shoulders, holding on for extra support. he feels your urgency as your nails lightly dig into his soft skin. a moan leaves his throat and his arms rake around your waist, pulling you closer to him.

“oh fuck!” you moan into the small space between your bodies. your panties are soaked against his bare thigh.

the smell of your arousal falls on his lips and he darts his tongue out to collect any bit of you.

“you’re making such a mess, angel” he desperately slides a finger to swipe up excess arousal from his thigh before bringing them to his lips, moaning at the taste of you.

“taste so fucking sweet, baby. I can’t wait to taste that pretty pussy” you moan at his confession.

“fuck, Matty, I’m so close” your thighs shake from exhaustion. one large hand sweeps up your back and lands on the nape of your neck, pushing your head towards his, while the other remains tightly wrapped around you. your foreheads meet and you exchange breaths.

“c’mon, princess. rub that sweet little pussy against my thigh and cum for me” you whimper against his lips, tears threatening to spill from the intensity.

“it feels so good daddy” your eyes slam shut as you feel your release forming, a sudden tear falling between your bodies. your bottom lip shakes and you whimper in pleasure.

“shhh, sh. I know, I know it feels so good. you’re doing so good for me, angel” his fingers caress the back of your head, lightly scratching your scalp as you near your climax. he lightly tugs at the root of your hair, the added sensation pushing you over the edge.

“cum for me, sweetheart. be a good girl and cum for daddy” he moans into your mouth.

your hips chase and chase and chase and suddenly your vision is compromised with stars. your orgasm is white hot and you feel it in every part of your body. no sounds leave your open mouth- you are too entranced in pleasure. your hips begin to falter and your abs contract as your overly sensitive clit nudges against your soaked panties. you roughly buck your hips into Matt’s thigh when you become aware of your surroundings again- completely engulfed in his embrace, foreheads melting into one another, open mouths exchanging the same breath.

you gasp for breath as the aftershocks of your orgasm wear off.

“there you are, pretty girl” Matt runs his hands through your hair, lightly pushing stray strands out of your face as you catch your breath. your eyes close and you nod, forgetting that Matt needs verbal confirmation.

“‘mhere.” you huff a final breath and collapse into his chest. he gently scoots against the couch, leaning back so you can easily nestle into him. you sigh in content as he adjusts you, your arms wrapping around him effortlessly.

he rocks you gently while placing sweet kisses into your hairline. the sound of his heartbeat and steady breathing acts as a guideline for you to follow, easing you into relaxation. his fingers find their way into your hair, lightly scratching as he pulls heavy sighs from you.

maybe it’s the way you are so relaxed that you don’t notice the way pieces of your hair disappear from your face, or maybe it’s the sheer exhaustion of your orgasm. either way, it’s not until you shiver that you realize you’re missing a shield of warmth.

your eyebrows knit together and you slowly sit up against Matt’s solid frame. your fingers reach behind your head to reveal a perfect french braid.

“matthew murdock,” your voice is stern.

“are you telling me, this whole time, you knew how to braid?” sleep no longer remained at the forefront of your mind. a shit eating grin is plastered along his face.

“maybe, but- hey!” whack. a pillow to the face interrupts his confession.

“I’m gonna kill you!” you attempt to get another blow in.

“I was literally dying and you knew this whole time!” you're laughing together, now. his hands find your wrist and stop you from landing another hit.

“maybe next time you’ll ask for help” whack.

————

I have not edited this, I literally don’t think I can read this again without needing to be hosed off. this was kinda fun to write something without angst LOL

also, I have a serious vendetta against people who can french braid their own hair. literally how????? someone teach me pls

thank you for the request, ily <3

[misspearly1]

The Witch at Cairn Lake

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 |

Pairing: Arthur Morgan x Fem Reader (y/n)

WC: 1.2k

Warnings: Threatening behaviour from Arthur, you know... outlaw shit. He’s cool though, don’t worry 😀. Enjoy the read my friends, I will be adding more to this one. NO MINORS 🔞 Eventual 18+ Content.

Synopsis: Arthur gets caught in a snowstorm up in the mountains while escaping the law and heads for a a lodge beside the lake. Seemingly an empty and abandoned home, he surprised at meeting a witch residing there.

! I do not own the images that I’ve used !

“C’mon girl, that’s it. Keep going.” Arthur called out to his horse Dalia, over the howling wind scraping against his cheeks.

Stranded in the town called Colter after escaping the Pinkertons, he decided to go out into the wilderness and explore, to pass the time as his gang wait for the thaw. However, the light snowfall at the beginning of his journey has very quickly turned into a blizzard and now he is lost.  

Galloping along to find someplace safe, he snuggles deeper into his blue winter jacket while spurring his horse to trot faster as a lake with a small lodge comes into view, “Almost there, Dalia. Keep going girl.”  

After jumping down and leading her into a sheltered stall to rest, he enters the abandoned lodge and closes the door behind him, bellowing out a cold, shuddered sigh.

Moving himself towards the small table in the middle of this wooden house, he sits himself down and digs into his satchel to find a light for the fire.  

Striking the match across the bottom of his boot, he throws the stick into the fire and it whooshes alight. Roaring out towards him, he jerks back in his seat, muttering “what the...” and then relaxes as it reduces to a calm flame, “Jesus. That’s some fireplace.”

“Thank you.” a soft feminine voice whispers behind him and he turns abruptly, looking. There is no one else here with him, he knows there isn't. it’s a small building, Arthur would have seen if there was another person here and so, looking around the room, he wonders if they’re hiding, asking the voice “Who said that? Show yourself.”

“Nu-huh. You came into my home, uninvited.” the women retorted with a snarky tone. Sitting back in his chair, Arthur places his hand behind his head and leans, jibing “I am sorry lady, but I ain’t staying out there in this weather.”  

“Well, I'm not staying here with a stranger and this is my house” Arthur stands now to investigate, walking up to a tall cabinet and opening the doors, the woman speaks again, “I'm not in there.”

Moving himself to the bed, he looks underneath and growls at the voice taunting him, “not there either.”  

Looking to the wooden floor and seeing a thin rug, he goes to pull it but she protests sarcastically, “oh no, please mister cowboy. Leave me be”

Ripping back the rug, he finds a trap door, “a-ha, I got your ass now.” Opening the latch and ducking his head inside, he shot up and grabbed his gun, demanding “Alright, where are you? Show ya goddamn self, or else.”

With no one under the door but the snow on the ground from outside, Arthur begins to worry where in fact this voice is coming from. Scratching his head in bewilderment, he thinks he might be going crazy... Until it talks again.  

“Or else what, huh?” cackling to him, he stills upon hearing the floorboards creaking, like as if someone is walking towards him but no one is there. Then, Arthur flinches when the voice speaks directly into his ear, “You can't even see me”

Snapping to his right and swinging his gun around with him, he fires two shots into the wall then walks away, but the voice follows “What’cha going to do now? Shoot the ceiling?”

“I'm gonna sleep, then tomorrow, I'm gonna burn this place to the ground.” Arthur replies with finality in his voice.

Suddenly, he is thrown forward and pushed into the chair, with his gun catapulted to the floor and his arms tied down by an invisible force, exclaims angrily. “How in god's name are you doing this? Let me go!”

The walls around him begin to transform before his very eyes, the once lonely and abandoned lodge now turning into a cosy, respectable and furnished home.

As he is looking around his surroundings and witnessing it change, he sees a figure standing in the corner of the room in is peripheral vision. Unable to turn around fully but he can see a woman standing there.  

She walks up behind him, placing her hands atop of his shoulders and leans down to his ear, “Say what now? Your gonna burn my house down?”  

Arthur chuckles arrogantly, and tries to turn but is stopped in doing so by two small hands holding his head in place, so he answers “Was thinking bout it, before ya tied me to this chair. How are you doing that without rope?”  

The woman playfully slaps his cheek twice before keeping her hands there and twirls his beard around a finger, teasing him “Now why would you go do that to a vulnerable little lady like myself?”

“Vulnerable? Heh! You ain’t vulnerable, girl.” Arthur spits while nudging his head to get rid of her hands and so, she loosely wraps them around his shoulders instead, patting his peck “What's the matter? Not used to a woman getting the drop on you?”

As Arthur begins to ramble, a chair is brought forth in front of him and he stops when she walks around to sit. With eyes like a deer in headlights, his brows raise and he stumbles to form words, for the woman that is sat in front of him is beautiful.

Actually, beautiful would be an insult, she’s a goddess. With long, healthy hair and angel like skin, her eyes twinkle in the light as she smirks, sitting opposite him, his eyes begin to roam down her body.

Small and petite adorning voluptuous curves, he stares in awe at such elegance. Then, she clicks her fingers in his face to get his attention, “Your mama ever tell you it’s rude to stare?... Now, why are you in my home?”  

“Got lost in the blizzard, thought I'd stay here the night.” Arthur answered honestly and she nodded, then he added more “I'm Arthur by the way. Arthur Morgan and you’re the prettiest gal I’ve ever seen.”  

“Alright cowboy, that's enough” she lowered her hand and he snapped out of it. furrowing his brows and looking to her, he asks “Why did I say that? What are you doing to me?”  

She holds her arm out, with her palm upwards and a ball of green fire forms in her hand, contorting her fingers to transition the fire into different shapes and simply explaining, “Magic.”

“Magic? What like a wizard?” Arthur inquires, watching the flame in her hands disperse as she drops her arm, giggling to him. Hearing her laughter, he adds more to his question, “What's so funny?”  

“Wizard. You're a comedian Arthur Morgan, I'm no wizard. I am a witch, the prettiest one too, apparently” She wiggles her brows and laughs more about his earlier statement.

Arthur tuts and pulls on his restraints, asking to be set free. She looks to his hands and warns, “Try anything and it will end badly for you mister, ok?”  

Nodding his head, she waves with her hand and loosens the grip, using her eyes to pick up his weapon and holstering it for him. Arthur watches in amazement at her abilities and states, “Now I know not to mess with a witch.”  

She smiles at him and then introduces herself with a hand held out, hesitant to accept it at first, she reassures “You can stay the night so long as you don’t try anything, I will not hurt you. Deal?”  

Taking her hand in his, he shakes it and replies, “Deal. Nice to meet you Y/N.”  

Next chapter, here

——————————————————————————-

@marydjarin

[glowing-blue-feathermage]

Writing prompt: “you’re welcome to stay here, for as long as you need.” from the enemies to lovers list, for Fenders?

eyyyy thank you for the prompt! Warnings for excessive fluff, I can't help myself.

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

Anders did his best not to watch the elf. 

It was difficult. This was the first time Fenris had hosted card night at the mansion, and the elf was in high spirits–in more ways than one. Something about the rare, easy smile on his lips and the easier laughter was utterly charming, a thing Anders wished they all saw more of. 

The card table only had three legs. It had taken an empty crate and six randomly selected tomes from the mansion’s collection to keep the thing mostly steady. It was small, too, made smaller by Fenris’s one set of glassware–wine bottles. 

The elf was, at this moment, just returning from the wine cellar, three bottles tucked under one arm and another in his hand, open. Anders couldn’t help but be impressed at the man’s dexterity despite the fact that he was clearly three sheets to the wind.

That, too, was a good look on him–green eyes slightly hooded, silver-white hair tousled from running his hand through it, bronze cheeks flushed. 

Varric hopped up from his seat to pluck the full bottles out of the crook of Fenris’s arm. 

“Need a bigger table,” Fenris mumbled, almost like he was speaking to himself. He picked up one of the bottles from the table at random, held it up in the firelight to gauge the contents, and finding it empty, hurled it at the hearth. It shattered over the iron grate, glass glinting in the flames. 

“Let me help you with that,” Anders said, trying to contain laughter. Fenris’s expression, so briefly, had been cat-like and full of mischief. Snatching another bottle off the table, Anders threw it. 

It went nowhere near the fireplace. Instead, it sailed to the right of it, landing squarely in the center of the cushioned armchair Fenris kept by the fire. It rolled off slowly onto the rug.

Fenris snorted. “You have a poor aim, mage,” he said, teasing rather than heckling.

Anders smiled, narrowing his eyes. “Not with a lightning bolt.” 

Fenris actually grinned. It made his nose wrinkle in an absolutely delightful way. Still hovering over the table, his usually nimble fingers did their best to straighten the clutter–stacking up empty snack dishes, plucking peanut shells off the table and flicking them to the floor. 

Something seemed to cross his mind, because he suddenly turned his head to look back toward the kitchen.

“We need more food,” he said, snatching up the empty bowls and taking a step back from the table. 

Anders yelped as Fenris’s heel ground into his toe and barely had time to flinch before Fenris tipped backward. Alcohol had robbed him of his characteristic grace, and he toppled unceremoniously into Anders’ lap. 

The air left Anders’ lungs in a whoosh, and he instinctively caught Fenris’s hips in his hands. Fenris seemed momentarily stunned, clutching his open wine to his chest and holding the empty bowls in his other hand. The seconds that passed seemed unnaturally long, leaving Anders terribly aware of every detail–Fenris’s body heat, his heavy weight on Anders’ thighs, the way he suddenly squirmed forward to try to set the bottle on the table. 

Anders bit his bottom lip against a grin, his cheeks hot with something not entirely embarrassment. “You know,” he said, “you’re welcome to stay here for as long as you need. But…” Anders squeezed one of the elf’s hips teasingly. “…everyone’s watching.”

“Fasta vass,” Fenris said, vibrating with laughter, finally managing to grip the table with one hand and pull himself up. He wobbled briefly, then looked over his shoulder at Anders. Pointing at the table, he said, “Mage. Help me with this.”

With that, he spun about and picked his way clear of Anders’ feet and strolled toward the kitchen. Anders stared dumbly after him for a moment until Isabela’s low whistle startled him out of his stupor. 

“Not sure it’s the dishes he wants help with, Sparklefingers,” she giggled. 

Anders laughed, gathering the bowls and empty wine bottles. “That’ll be the day,” he said, following the elf. He wondered, as he walked, whether that day might, indeed, ever come, and when he'd started thinking that he might like it if it did.

[katareyoudrilling]

Dive

Series: A Picture is Worth a Thousand Words

Pairing: Original characters, OMC x OFC

Summary:  I can’t stop staring at the rugged stranger across the bar.

Word count: 1,000

Rating: Mature (18+ only. NO MINORS)

Content Warnings: extreme handsomeness

A/N: Just look at him…  The inspiration for this story is a photo is from a shoot with John Balsom.  I took a slightly different approach with this one.  I hope you like it!  I would love to hear from you!

Masterlist

Taglist

The first time I saw him was across the hazy expanse of a bar.  I had been dragged along on my cousin’s bachelorette party.  She wanted to go to a dive bar on her last night of singlehood.  A place of tattoos, piercings, and pitchers of beer instead of her usual collared shirts, khakis, and cosmos.  I suppose she was trying to seek out some idea of danger absent in her vanilla life.

He was sitting at a table against the far wall – head turned to the side listening to someone talk nearby.  He had the most striking profile I had ever seen.  Angular nose, strong jaw, patchy scruff.  The lines on his forehead and around his eyes only added to his breathtaking ruggedness.  Then there was his mouth… plump, pouty lips caught in a half-smile completely at odds with the hardness of the rest of his features.

I could study that profile for hours.  My fingers itched to trace along each curve and line of his face.  My eyes slid down his neck.  Cords of muscle disappeared under the white t-shirt that stretched across his broad chest.  His leather jacket hid his shoulders and arms from me.  Frustrated, my eyes retraced their path back up.  Neck… jaw… mouth… nose… eyes.

As if sensing my gaze on him, he turned his head and his eyes connected with mine.  I jolted as though shocked.  Warmth bloomed in my chest and tingles spread through my limbs as we stared at each other across the room.

His eyes narrowed slightly as he brought his drink to his lips.  The lowball glass looked puny gripped in three of his large fingers.  He sipped the amber liquid slowly.  I couldn’t look away.  My heart pounded, breath quickened, and a telling dampness gathered between my legs.  Without my consent, my tongue slipped from my mouth to wet my lips.  His mouth twitched in a nearly imperceptible grin.  I tore my eyes away in embarrassment.

.           .           .           .           .

The second time I saw him, I was leaving the restroom after taking a break from my cackling cousin to splash some cold water on my face.  I had studiously kept my gaze from the stranger across the room, but the heat from the moment our eyes had locked had not left my body.

He was stalking down the hall, all confident swagger and rugged handsomeness, but when he saw me, he stopped.  There was no menace in his stance.  This man did not need to take anything that wasn’t offered freely.

His broad shoulders nearly filled the width of the hall.  My eyes skated down his powerful frame.  His leather jacket fell open revealing a tantalizing slice of his firm chest.  Tight jeans hugged his slim hips and long legs.  I couldn’t help but notice a sizeable bulge and I swallowed hard as the implication invaded my brain.  I quickly raised my eyes to his, but he had already noticed my perusal.  His perfectly pouty lips quirked up at one side revealing an unexpected dimple in his cheek.

I unstuck my feet and made my way toward him, eyes bouncing from my feet to the ceiling, looking anywhere but at the gorgeous man in front of me.  I could feel his eyes on me though.  A searing fire burned from my head to my toes completely negating my attempt to cool off.  He stepped to the side to let me by, but the size of the hall and the size of him forced us close.  His scent invaded my nose as I neared him – musk and spice.  My mouth watered.

My eyes betrayed me and I looked up at him as I passed.  He winked and my insides clenched, breath leaving in a whoosh.  The world went quiet for a moment.  There was only his chocolate brown eyes, heady smell, and the heat rolling off his body.  I somehow kept moving, fighting his gravitational pull. I made my way to our table, entire body aflame, feeling his eyes on me the whole way.

.           .           .           .           .

The third time I saw him was outside as I helped load a dozen tipsy women into several Ubers.  He was leaning against a motorcycle under a streetlight.  Long legs crossed at the ankles.  The golden glow highlighted his chiseled features, bathing him in timeless beauty.

He was watching me.  I once again found myself aching to run my fingers along his angled nose and strong cheekbones.  Images crashed into me unbidden.  His large hands on my hips, fingers digging into my flesh.  His lips dragging along my neck, nipping at my jaw.  His muscled back under my fingernails, firm and smooth.  Shared breath.  A shared bed.

We stared at each other across the street.  Each caught in our own imaginings.  My cousin called to me from the car, but my feet did not move.  I couldn’t tear my eyes away.  He cocked his head towards his bike.  An invitation if I wanted to accept.

My body knew my decision before my brain.  I waved off my cousin and walked towards him.  His mouth quirked into that secret smile.  As I neared, he held out a helmet.  I stepped up to him to take it from his hand.

“Hey,” he said in a deep raspy voice that sent a shiver down my spine.  That one word holding all the promise of the night ahead.

.           .           .           .           .

The first time he touched me, he wrapped his large hand around my knee, deepening the delicious ache building in my body.  His palms were warm and his fingers deliciously calloused.  I shivered.

I had slid behind him on his motorcycle, slipping my hands under his jacket and around his waist.  His body flexed in response.  My skirt rode high on my legs as I pulled up close behind him.  The chill of the evening air was nothing compared to his warmth pressed against my front, seeping into my chest, my center.

He squeezed my leg to ask if I was ready.  I was.

________________________

Masterlist

Taglist:

@neddrollsdice​

[pedros-mustache]

bestie……. I’d kill to know what was the conversation between din and karga in the last chapter + what were din’s thoughts and feelings in that moment……. just saying

series masterlist || extra from chapter 8

He’s never seen Karga like this. In all the years he has worked for the guild, dumped bounty after bounty at the old man’s feet, come hell or high water, Din has never seen Karga so… angry.

His back thumps against the wall of the guild leader’s cramped living room. Glass bottles of aged liquor rattle on the shelf beside his helm, and Karga’s forearm presses Din’s chest plate tight against his ribs. Beneath the helmet, Din’s eyes widen, lips parting in surprise. What the ever-loving—

When Karga beckoned him away from the dinner table, leaving you with the chore of cleanup, he expected to be asked about your progress, to give a report on what you have and have not achieved in your thirty days aboard the Sunder. He thought Karga would want to review his investment in the future of the guild. But having his back shoved against the wall and the base of his throat constricted by the one person he has considered an ally for more than a decade? No, he never anticipated that. And Din prides himself on expecting the unexpected.

He’s getting careless. Too comfortable with those who know—who saw—him buckle under the round, pleading gaze of a singular child.

He grabs Karga’s wrist with one hand and the handle of his blaster with the other. “What are you doing? Let go.” 

A harsh whisper in response: “No.”

Though he knows it would be relatively easy to overpower Karga and force him to the floor, Din resists the urge. Even from his place around the corner, he can hear you putter around the kitchen: dishes clattering in the sink, a gentle lullaby sung beneath your breath, partially drowned out by the splash of water. He grits his teeth. You don’t need to be privy to this... discussion, whatever it may entail.

And Karga must agree. At Din’s tense question, his gaze flicks to the side, in the direction of the other room. Okay, so he wants this to be private too. Din can work with that. He removes his hand from his blaster, lifting it in surrender. 

“Can we talk about this? Peaceably?”

Karga’s nostrils flare. His stare returns to the visor, pupils narrowed in anger. “You make her sleep on the floor.” 

As the words fall past Karga’s mouth, they drag the air from the room in a freezing whoosh. Din inhales sharply, and his gut twists, something akin to shame churning the acid in his belly. Kriff—did you tell Karga? Tell him about the shitty bedroll you had to steal for yourself? About the time he bent you over his knee? Called you a brat, pressed his blaster into the small of your back, or bit your shoulder just to get you to shut the fuck up?

How much of his ugly actions and unkind words—the things he hoped would slide under a heavy rug coated in dust—did you reveal?

Though the old man can’t see it, Din holds Karga’s eyes. His fingers tighten around the forearm squeezing the breath from his lungs. “Yes,” he says—and Karga leans in, arm driven harder against his breastbone, enough that Din grunts in discomfort and angles his chin toward the ceiling.

Eyes dancing back and forth, upper lip curled in disgust, the guild leader jabs his arm forward without warning. The motion knocks Din’s head against the wall for the second time, and he glances toward the dimly lit hall at the sound. No sign of you, thank the Maker.

“Fix it.” Karga speaks through clenched teeth, his words cold as ice. “You’re better than this.”

Karga releases his hold and abandons Din in the domed, circular living room—the place Din once slept before the fire with Grogu on his chest, when the Crest was out of commission and his burdens light. The fire in the hearth now mocks Din’s embarrassment with pointing, flamed fingers; no longer to a friend to father and son, but an amused onlooker to his decay into something gnarled and heartless.

Fix it. You’re better than this.

Din cringes. Perhaps he used to be...

Shaking his head, he gathers what remains of his pride and steps into the hall. He needs some air, maybe a drink. God, maybe he needs to fuck someone other than you. He doesn’t know what he wants. All he knows is he needs to get out of the house before he tears it down.

But he hesitates at the doorway of the kitchen when he hears your quiet conversation with Karga. He presses himself to the wall and fades into shadow, straining his ears to hear.

“I’ll talk to him,” Karga says.

You are quiet, thoughtful, until: “Don’t bother. The floor is fine for a girl like me.”

Din’s hand clenches to a fix. He pushes away from the wall, slipping out of the front door on a whisper. He finds a cantina in the far part of town, slouches in a corner booth with his arm slung around a woman who trails her finger over the curved metal covering his body. He does not fuck her—he considers it, but he doesn’t; he lets her pet him, giggle in his ear, and find pleasure in his poorly tuned attention. He lifts his helmet over his chin to drown his frustration, his confusion, in a strong drink.

His heart hammers to a single beat: Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.

[jessiebanethedragon]

White Sands Warm the Cold Sea

Star Wars, The Bad Batch Pirate!au (Hunter x Reader

Summary: the reader, betrothed to a disgusting Coruscanti Lord flees her home world and lands herself in a plethora of trouble, a ship of clones, and one pirate captain whose cold exterior needs much more than the tropical seaside sun.

Warnings: Swearing, takes place in time periods where women have dowery's and suchlike. The readers dad and bothered are asses.

Chapter one: The Sentencing

Fate, you had decided, fucked you over. Which in itself, was not only a very unladylike statement, but was also very ironic. But how fitting for a woman of your time, to want something her whole life only to be told she couldn’t have it by the most infuriating of men. For passion to be pushed into a corset and cinched into fake smiles and batting eyelashes.

Everyone has a value, never mind how little or much, everyone is worth something. And you are worth a great deal to me.

At the time you’d thought your fathers words were a statement of affection, love brought to light by goblets of rum only to settle in your lap as you tended to the fireplace and did your best to lead him into his bed, staggering every step of the way. It was now that you understood his words. The choice of word may have been valuable, but the more accurate synonym, dowry explained his true intentions.

Enter one Lord Volim Nython, a pretentious man with a mind that was far more shallow than his pockets and a reputation to match. What Lord Nython did not already possess, he bought. And what he was without currently, was a wife. He was a man with a personality inked in gunpowder and steel, crushing his enemies in the war that made his predecessors and your fathers fortunes.

A very fitting match. Oh how quaint, the wedding would be so grand, and the children, oh they will be beautiful. The distinct lack of sincerity infuriated you, older women with tea parties akin to that of toddlers and the gloved hands they rest on their chests as they shake their heads at the utmost ridiculous things. While the tautly curled hair stays perfectly in place, rage resided in you at an unfathomable height. But, it was not without its reins, and as its rider, you had to lead your rage onto a path that would result in your success.

You chose this night carefully, knowing that it was on the last of every month, when the money came in from gambling, debts and the crown, that your father quite literally liquified his earnings. You shiver in your nightgown, every fireplace in the house was still burning, and the oil lamps were flickering away, though the household was asleep save for yourself. The main doors shifted open as the intoxicated man made his way in. And you steady yourself before greeting him.

“A good night, I'll take it then?” You ask with a breath of a laugh, wrapping a shivering arm arm around his shoulders and leading him over to the plush sitting chairs by the fire. He waves you off when you offer him water and so you sit on your knees by his feet. Grasping his hands on your own. He regards you with a suspicious look.

“I… I wanted to ask you something.” You start carefully, eyeing his look. The rug is warm from the flame and the way it illuminates his face, you wonder how many times your mother sat with him like this, or how often he looked at her in such confusion.

“Well? Get on with it then.” He slurs leaning further back into the red velvet. Causing you to shift and bunch your nightgown.

“I wanted to ask if, if you thought, the lord...”

“Lord Nython.” He confirms, watching you jump as the fire crackles, your nerves electrified by what you mean to bring up next. And it gives away your intentions before you can ask them. After all, your father may know you better than you had originally thought.

“Do not tell me what I think you are about to do.” he warns tilting his head down so the orange light reflects the way he regards you through his brow.

“I think we could make a better match.” You try and appeal to his motivations. “I think we stand to make a better-”

“I’ve been given offers.” He interrupts, the liquor making him less angry and more level headed as you had intended it to. “No one will wed you for the price Lord Nython will.” He moves to stand, the conversation finished, but you are not, having given yourself a stern word of not settling until you are free from the man's clutches.

“There are richer men outside of Coruscant.” You say with more force than you had intended. The translucent fabric whooshing as you stand. Your father pauses at the helm of the stairs, like a Blurg righting itself after an unsuccessful charge, he is listening.

“Naboo royalty, even a low Alderanian Lord would double Nythons offer.” You take cautious steps forward, hoping that his underestimation of your intelligence works in your favor.

“Those men are oceans away, Nython will wed you tomorrow if the crown gave its blessing.” He counters, but it is not a dismissal.

“Consider this an investment then, the payoff would surely be worth it.” You press carefully, like a healer tending to an inflammation, you palpate the area with caution looking to avoid the most sensitive of the inflamed tissue. Your father huffs.

“Providing you could snag a suitable man.” Hope flickers within you, and it warms you more than the fire ever could, it makes you feel power, and control. And hope, like it does with most, makes you foolish.

“Love is a powerful motivator.”

His booming drunk laugh shakes you, fear flooding you as you realize your mistake. But you were so close! So tantalizingly close to being free from the wretched man.

“You think men marry for love?” You see him wipe away tears of laughter as he sways on the dark oak staircase of your home. “You my dear, are even more dull than I thought.” You shake with anger and anxiety.

“I want to be in love! Like you an-”

“Do not say you mother and I. Ha. You are truly delusional.” He interrupts, taunting you with drunken laughter. Your father never speaks of your mother, and when he did it was pushed aside in favor of something else. But alcohol has a way of loosening tongues.

“I… I-” you stammer, if there was one thing you remembered about your mother it was the love she shared with your father and the stories of growing up and falling into a love so pure with someone it made your heart ache for it.

“We were not in love, she despised me, and I her.” He spits from his place on the stairs. The height difference adds to how small you feel. How his pitiful stare shrinks you and sends chills into your bones.

“I do not under-“ He interrupts again:

“It was an act! Pretend! Meant to fool young girls into thinking they could have a life as such. And even in death she continues to lie to you!” You blink away tears and think, you try to think he is lying, that they were happy, she was happy, and that in his intoxication your father lies.

“She was adamant that we would be in love for you.” He sighs, and drops to the stairs to sit and lean on the railing. “That we would keep up pretences for your sake so that you would strive for such happiness.” With his words it is as if he is taking away the core memories of your mother.

“I will not marry that man.” You have to push the words out, but the meaning is clear enough.

“Yes.” Your father says ever so sternly. “You will.”

“I shall not!” You fight back, hating how your eyes cloud with tears and emotions bubble up. “He looks at me like one does cattle, I am nothing more than a trade deal to that man!” both parties know you are right, from the first meeting when he had stalked around you, looking up and down, tutting here, humming there. Not engaging in any conversation that you’d deem intellectual or interesting. You’d been disgusted then, and you are still disgusted now.

“Please!” Your father wipes drunken saliva from his chin, “Lord Nython is giving us so much gold for your hand in marriage you should be grateful, and a renowned war hero like himself. You will wed that man even if i have to drag you to the altar.” You’re stunned, and horrified, and your father leaves you weeping on the dark oak stairs, a mess for one of the maids to clean up before he wakes in the morning.

Tag list: @the-mandalorian-clone-lover @peacefulwizardfox @rex-meshla @s1st3r @and-claudia @kamino-mermaid

comment to be added!

[stygianflood]

Pua Melia (Ethan x F!MC)

Summary: When Ethan reveals his feelings, Aparna’s response is far from what he expects. Continuation of the diamond scene in 3.11. Words, rating, genre- 1.2k, general, fluff with the tiniest dollop of angst.  Tropes- And they were in love.

A/N: I hope everyone is well. Supposed to be on hiatus, but that’s a lie. This came to me as I awaited (and still do) the covid test results for the family. I hope it’s nothing.  A/N 2: gandharaj: Bengali for gardenia (just discovered all the similarities between Indian and Hawaiian flora);  pua melia: Hawaiian for plumeria (garlands of it or just the flowers are presented to tourists)

Aparna pours herself a glass of water and sips the sight before her.

Shards of a midwinter moon drizzle across the vast expanse of water underneath. Impeded ever so slightly by the bay windows, they spill over the rugged expanse of Ethan’s chest. The ripple of his arm. One glorious thigh.

He’s beautiful. And strong, she thinks with a flutter in her core. And so calm he could almost be asleep. Almost oblivious of the chaos he courted only last week. 

Almost. But then he stirs, a wandering hand searching the space beside him. 

She leaves the empty glass on the counter before joining him. Looping his arm around herself, she lays her head on his chest. His other hand finds the duvet.

It’s quiet. Too quiet, but for the gentle whooshing of waves lapping at the shores. And the breeze. Sweet and brimming with the occasional gardenia. Or gandharaj as grandma called it back in India in what seemed a whole other decade.

Aparna isn’t sure if it’s middle school geography or sixteenth century anecdotes from a Ferdinand Magellan. (Or just champagne). But there’s a certain tranquility about the Pacific. Daunting in its vastness of course. But here in her sea view suite, the thrum of Ethan’s heart pressed to her ears, she settles for just tranquil. 

It is certainly calmer than the Atlantic from two winters ago. Either that, or everything Ethan had claimed and renounced that evening in Miami had muddled her senses. In her mind, Miami is exquisite. Ethereal almost. Even life altering. But almost too surreal to be true.

And yet two years later he is engraving circles on the expanse of her arm, her bare shoulder, her back. At a friend’s wedding, too. Snipping away, little by little, at the millenary drill of his life before her. 

As for the rest, Ethan never says. Never in so many words. And she never asks.

But it’s enough. 

She half wishes they could linger. Hold on to her little fistful of warm sand. There’s more to Hawaii than the whiff of gardenia. Or rows of coconut palms. Or the plumeria blossom Ines tucked behind Aparna’s left ear.  

There’s all of that, and Ethan Ramsey tossing his head with full throated laughter. Or mumbling sweet nothings into her hair as sleep overtakes her.

And it’s enough. 

Until-

-Apu...

Somewhere above her, he sounds awake as she strains to open her eyes. 

She has an arm around his middle. It’s warm. The bed. Or is it him. So warm. Her breathing softens against his chest.

-I've never felt this way about anyone.

Seconds trickle. It’s the sweetness of macadamia and their own scents. It hangs about them in a glorious mist. 

He really is talking.

-And I don’t know, he says. I don't know if I ever will again.

Her eyes snap open. 

There’s no meteor shower in the skies, or the sudden gust of wind in her hair. This is it. Ethan Ramsey is leaping with her. And all she feels is peace. An overwhelming sort of it. The sort that lulls you into sweet, sweet sleep.

Does he tense under her? 

For a second, and then he chuckles, the deep rumble tugging at something inside her.

-And as always, he surmises, my timing is perfect.

She can talk now. She must.

And so she doesn’t. 

-But... it’s probably for the best, he concludes. Kisses her goodnight. 

She smiles and holds on to her little fistful of warm sand.

***

The boarding queue is at the gates when she stumbles in, looking around wildly.

Five more seconds and I would've boarded already.

Her smile is radiant as her eyes find him and she tells him he’s all talk.

Cheeky little minx.

And in a blur of time and shapes, she asks for his help. A case of misdiagnosis. They’d most definitely miss the flight. 

He asks no more as he follows her out of the airport.

Not again, he groans, suddenly awake as sunlight assails him from what he assumes is a window shade she left open on their flight.

His attempt to rise is thwarted, his arm stuck under a sleepy tumble of dark hair. And it’s the bay window in her suite, the one he had pressed her up against last night. 

Her breath hitches for a moment and her fingers quiver for the slightest spell of a dream. Slowly, slower than the fall of her breath, he draws it and presses soft, lingering kisses on her knuckles. The softest of sighs escapes her and she releases his arm to curl up to him.

All at once he’s reminded of last night. And he feels… not regret. None of that. Sheepish perhaps.

-Morning, she grumbles from under half open eyes.

-Coffee? He kisses her hair, a little glad her eyes are closed.

He didn’t botch it. She’d fallen asleep. 

-’time is it?

-Little after six.

She snorts. As though she isn’t the one that forgot to draw the blinds. But again, he barely manages to rise.

-Stay.

She did fall asleep, right?

Ethan reclines against the headboard and picks up his copy of Sea People: The Puzzle of Polynesia. The one he didn’t make much progress with, thanks to her. And thanks to her, he doesn’t make much progress even now.

And what if she were awake all along. She wouldn’t do that to him, would she.

He exhales long and hard.

Perhaps it was too little too late. Inadequate even.

Beside him, she laces her hand with his own larger one. Traces the veins with her fingers.

He’d be there if time is all she needs. 

He cups her face in his hand as she looks up. Twists a stray lock around his finger.

Hell, he’d always be there for her.

She props herself on her elbows and plants moist, open mouthed kisses on his palm.

-I feel the same way about you, Ethan.

He gulps, suddenly delirious. Then she kisses the length of his arm. Presses her mouth against his chest. His collarbone. And it’s maddening.

He needs to ask her now. Stop her first.

And he shudders as she bites and sucks the column of his neck. Despite himself, he presses one rough palm against the expanse of her back. Draws her closer.

She takes his bottom lip between her teeth with an unfamiliar zeal, and he finds his voice at last.

-Why now? He asks bewildered. It’s been what, five hours?

Incredulity etches her face. She might have withdrawn if not for the persuasive hand on her back.

-Gee, I don’t know Ethan, she says. Took you two years. Your five hours really put that into perspective.

It’s his turn to be dumbfounded as the faintest of smiles adorns her face. 

It’s his turn to trace her lips with his own, grateful that she doesn’t withdraw. She kisses him softly this time. Tender and unhurried. And he winds a languid hand in her hair just as a soft whimper escapes her.

-Are you all right?

This is raw. Unfamiliar.

-Better than all right, she murmurs. She nestles under his chin, averting her eyes.

-I’m glad. Forgive me, I’m not the best at putting feelings into-

-Shh. Don’t, she pleads, eyes glimmering with the thousand little hopes of his own. Just stay.

And he does. Cradling her in his arms, his chin on her head, as the first honeycreeper of the day warbles its song to the ocean.

Forgotten, Ethan’s book had slid out of his hand and opened with a soft thud on the wooden floor. A single plumeria blossom pressed between its pages flutters to land beside it.

This is unfamiliar. But not unsettling. Not anymore.

This is happiness too. Untrammelled and wild.

Thank you for reading this. Love you all. Google says, a plumeria blossom over your left ear means you are taken and over your right ear means you are available ❤

Tagging separately. Let me know if you’d like to be added or removed.

[tsarisfanfiction]

Pls could you do 25 and Virgil for the whump prompts, you're the best 💚

His Hands

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Angst/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Virgil, Gordon

25) “I’ve never smashed anyone’s hand with a hammer before so this is going to be a first for both of us.”

I have to admit, coming up with a plot for this was hard because of my 'no permanent maiming' stance. Even I draw the line at wrecking Virgil's hands! He needs those! But I figured something out eventually, even if Scott's fuming in the back of my head because I told him he wasn't allowed to poke his head in this time. Not that he didn't still try...

Warning for a character throwing up.

100 Whump Dialogue Prompts

Virgil still wasn’t entirely sure how he’d ended up in his current situation. They all knew that the well-known Tracy Fortune had painted targets on all of their backs, but this didn’t feel like a normal kidnapping.

Normal kidnappers didn’t have an array of tools ranging from things found in a farm shed to what looked uncomfortably like dentistry equipment, and they generally didn’t have questions, either. Demands for money, instructions on how to act for the camera – Virgil was, unfortunately, familiar with both of those. But this was different.

This was less like people trying to get a few quick bucks and more like something that curled his stomach up in queasy knots if he contemplated it for too long. He knew, of course, that he knew a lot of things that some parties would do a lot to know. The Hood was a prime example of that, with his dogged determination to get hold of anything and everything International Rescue.

He’d just never thought he’d end up in the hands of one of those parties.

There were no stories about what sort of things people would do to get knowledge. Not first-hand ones. But Virgil didn’t need stories of what really went down when he’d seen enough tv dramas as a teenager and, more vividly, Scott after he’d finally come home.

His imagination was more than prolific enough to come up with multiple scenarios for each item he could see in his immediate vicinity, and with each one his stomach was knotting tighter and tighter, and the bile was rising higher.

Scott had had training and he’d still been a ghost of himself for those first few months. Sometimes, if something went just the wrong shade of wrong, that ghost flickered to the surface again even now.

Virgil tried to wrench his thoughts to something else, something less horrifying, but a vivid imagination could be a curse as much as a blessing, and as rugged fingers, tattooed with thick black ink in words he couldn’t read from that angle, closed around the first implement in reach, he felt all the blood drain from his face.

Some of the man’s teeth were rotten, a charcoal deepening to black with splinters of gunmetal sparking across them. Others were fake, shining vibrantly gold and jarringly pure against the smoky, coal-like tar that made up the rest of the mouth.

“Well?” Thin, bloodless lips shaped the word before returning to a madman’s grin.

Virgil kept his own mouth firmly shut. Information on the security of their ‘birds, of their home was something he knew he couldn’t give up. No matter what. Even if he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the gleaming iron, mind conjuring scenario after scenario about what the man could be intending to do with it.

“Nothing at all?” His voice was a leer; there was no disappointment at Virgil’s silence and that scaredhim. “Well, if you’re sure.” Another pregnant pause, and something cool and wet slid down the back of Virgil’s neck. “I’ve never smashed anyone’s hand with a hammer before so this is going to be a first for both of us.”

The hands in question were cuffed to a table, palms down. No amount of tugging was going to get them free but even the idea of that big, heavy hammer crashing down onto them was enough to provoke Virgil into yanking with all of his strength, showing weakness be damned. They were his hands, the things he created with, saved people with, treated his family’s injuries with.

He knew enough to know that no amount of surgery would ever be able to save his hands if the hammer was brought down.

His hands were his life. Without them-

But the other option was to talk. To put his family at risk. To bring this man and whatever forces he had behind him down on his brothers. Brothers who also knew a lot. Who knew more than he did.

His hands, or his brothers.

It wasn’t a choice. It couldn’t be a choice.

“No?”

Virgil closed his eyes and tried to pretend there wasn’t pressure building behind his eyes, tried to pretend his lungs weren’t heaving and his throat wasn’t choking. Tried to pretend this wasn’t happening.

Something that large displaced a lot of air as it was swung, and no amount of tugging or desperate breathing could drown out the whooshit made.

BANG.

Someone screamed.

It took Virgil a moment to realise it wasn’t him.

Another bang. And another.

Angry shouting. Tar-and-gold-mouth didn’t sound pleased.

Virgil cracked an eye open to be assaulted by the most hideously orange ensemble he’d ever seen. Tangerine, with a dash of something that looked almost salmon and intertwined with saffron, blocked his view of his would-be interrogator.

“Get out.”

There was only one person who would wear such an offensive combination of colours. Gordon’s voice was ice. Jarringly so; Virgil was used to laughter in his wingman’s voice, a joy about life that steadfastly refused to be silenced. To hear it so frigid was terrifying in its own way.

The skittering indicated that the aquanaut’s order was hurriedly obeyed. Still, it was several long, uneven breaths before his brother moved.

“Did he hurt you?”

Gordon’s garish fashion selection wasn’t enough to distract from the gun slipped into a hidden holster as he turned. Lockpicks sprang into nimble fingers instead, and in moments Virgil’s hands were free.

He yanked them to his chest immediately.

“Virgil?” His brother’s deep amber eyes were scrutinising him in a manner that proved that Gordon and Scott were definitely related. “Hey, we’re gonna get out of here, okay? He’s gone, and the GDF will pick him up. It’s over.”

It was only then that Virgil realised his hands were shaking violently. His hands.

His hands.

He threw up, not quite missing the eye-searing shirt and definitely not missing the rainbow sneakers on his brother’s feet. Gordon didn’t even blink.

“Come on, big guy,” the blond coaxed. He didn’t offer him any help, and Virgil was unendingly thankful for that. It hurt, because touch was a love language they shared, but right now he knew he just couldn’t.

He stumbled to his feet, hands still clenched tightly against his chest, and lumbered around the table to stand with his brother.

Crimson caught his eye, a spatter staining the edge of the table. On the ground, the hammer gleamed, but the angle of the light was all wrong, a dent in the metal that hadn’t been there when he’d seen it earlier. When it was about to come crashing down and-

It was only bile the second time, but it splattered down his shirt and caught the toes of his boots all the same.

“Let’s get out of here.” Gordon somehow coaxed him into moving without ever touching him, and Virgil found himself following his brother out the room, down a short corridor, and then out into a twilight glow that implied he’d been imprisoned longer than he’d realised.

A dragonfly pod was waiting, surrounded by GDF as they swarmed over the property. Gordon beelined for it and the uniformed officers parted in a sea of French grey before them. No-one even attempted to intercept either of them, and Virgil wondered just what look was on Gordon’s face.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

He clambered into the back seat without any prompting, well aware that he was in no condition to pilot, and huddled under the harness as Gordon lifted them smoothly into the sky, away from men with rotting teeth and gold fillings and hammers and towards the safety of the same family he’d almost lost his hands defending.

It would have been worth it. That, Virgil knew without a shadow of a doubt. It didn’t stop the little sob slipping out as he curled protectively around his hands and tried to keep his breathing steady.

[whump-tr0pes]

Honor Bound 5 - 11

AKA - The Beach Episode

This is a series. Start here, continued from here.

This is a sequel to Honor Bound, Honor Bound 2, Honor Bound 3, Honor Bound 4, and the prequel Vera.

AO3

Content warning: migraine, emesis mention, medication side effects

~

The first thing Gavin became aware of was a faint, stabbing pain behind his left eye. His eyelids fluttered open, and he winced as the hot, dull ache stabbed through his head. He squeezed his eyes shut against the light that filtered in through the curtains and assaulted him. He groaned, his hands pulling into fists, and curled into a ball under the blanket.

“Gavin?” came Isaac’s soft, concerned murmur.

“Nnngh,” Gavin moaned, swallowing the saliva that pooled in his mouth as his stomach heaved. “H-head, agh…” He whimpered softly and winced as even the sound of his own voice seemed to crush his brain against the inside of his skull.

Cool, gentle fingers carded through Gavin’s hair, and he cracked his eyes open to see Isaac lying next to him on the pillow, his eyebrows pulled together in worry. “Another migraine?” Isaac whispered.

Gavin’s head moved a fraction on an inch in a weak nod. He blew out a slow breath between his lips. “Y-yeah,” he rasped. His eyes slid shut.

The mattress jostled as Isaac smoothly pushed himself out of bed. Gavin longed to reach out and pull Isaac back down to the bed and beg him to be held, just beg for Isaac to stay with him through what Gavin knew would be an agonizing day. He lay perfectly still, trying even to stop his own heartbeat, just to relieve the pounding ache in his head. He wet his chapped lips and curled harder into himself.

“I can go get your medicine,” Isaac whispered over the sound of clothes rustling. “The riz— the migraine meds Finn brought a few days ago. We can see if that works.”

Gavin groaned his assent and tugged helplessly on his hair. He tried, desperately, to think of what helped last time – but each beat of his heart shoved away his thoughts until all he could focus on, all he could comprehend, was the pain of each second that crept by.

The door creaked open, the sound thundering through his brain, and Gavin was alone. He trembled beneath the blanket, his skin breaking out in sweat as waves of nausea rocked through him. He rolled onto his other side and let his head hang against the edge of the mattress, just in case he had to throw up. After a long moment, the door creaked again, and Gavin could hear the sound of Isaac’s bare feet on the rug as he walked to Gavin’s side. The mattress dipped under Isaac’s weight. Gavin’s stomach lurched with the feeling, and he opened his eyes.

“Here,” Isaac whispered. He held out a light orange, oval-shaped pill in his fingers. Gavin moved to take it from him and sucked in a breath as the movement sent pain exploding through his head.

Isaac pressed his mouth into a hard line and gently held the pill to Gavin’s lips. Gavin let Isaac drop the pill into his mouth, and shivered as Isaac cupped his chin and held a glass of water to his lips. He took a long sip and slumped against the mattress again. He prayed he wouldn’t throw up the water, and the pill, before it had time to kick in. If it helped at all.

“Finn said it should kick in within an hour,” Isaac whispered.

The pain spiked through Gavin’s head at the thought of relief. “Hmmn,” he groaned. He closed his eyes and tipped his head to the touch when Isaac drew his fingers through Gavin’s hair again. That seemed to bring a hint of relief. “Wh-what…” He swallowed hard. “Do you need to go into town today?”

“No,” Isaac said softly. “No, I can stay home today. Although, when I went to get your meds, the others were talking about heading down to the lake and maybe bringing a picnic lunch. Finn and Ellis are pretty much moved into their new house. It sounds like Gray and Edrissa wanted to have a going-away party for them, even though they’ll be right down the road.” Isaac huffed out a laugh. “I think Edrissa’s going to bake a cake.”

“You should go,” Gavin groaned. “I’m… ‘m good.” He squeezed his eyes shut tighter, and sparks seemed to shoot through his head.

Isaac’s fingers paused in their path from Gavin’s temple to the back of his neck. “But I can stay here with you,” he murmured.

Gavin whimpered and reached up, lacing his fingers through Isaac’s. “But… if it’s their last d-day… fuck me, if, if it’s their last day at this house, then you sh-should… ahh…”

“But—”

“They’re your… family, Isaac.” Gavin wondered if he would be able to fall back asleep if Isaac left. Maybe, if he could lie in the dark and not move, maybe his head wouldn’t explode…

“You’re my family, too,” Isaac breathed. He squeezed Gavin’s fingers. “And you’re… you’re s-sick.”

“I’ll have plenty of migraines you can help me with,” Gavin said bitterly. “Isaac… please, go, I want you to have a, um, a g-good… Fuck, this is worse than before…” He gagged weakly. The mattress lurched as Isaac lunged for the wastebasket and thrust it under Gavin’s chin. Gavin shuddered and swallowed bile, pressing his face against the sheets. He wanted Isaac to stay, but the pain ratcheted higher, like a railroad spike being driven into his left eye socket, at the thought of Isaac missing Finn and Ellis on their last day at home. His throat clicked dryly as he swallowed. “Isaac…”

“I can get you a cold compress,” Isaac said weakly. “Would that help?”

“Um… I don’t know,” Gavin groaned, ready to scream from the pain and knowing the sound would shatter him if he did.

“Okay. I’ll go… I’ll go get one.” Isaac’s fingers slid out of Gavin’s grip, and the mattress dipped as he stood.

Gavin drifted in the pain, his heartbeat marking the time as it crawled by. He jumped when something cool pressed against the back of his neck. He hadn’t even heard Isaac come in over the pounding in his head.

Gavin sighed as the compress pushed away the pain, just a little. “Thank you,” he whispered.

“Yeah,” Isaac said softly. “Do you… Gavin, if you really want me to go—”

“Once the meds start working, I’ll come out and join you,” Gavin ground out through his teeth. “Right now I just… need to focus on not… ahh…”

“Okay,” Isaac said quickly, and Gavin’s heart wrenched at the concern he could hear in his voice. “Okay. If you, um…” The compress shifted as Isaac pulled his hand away, and Gavin reached up to hold it in place. “I’ll come check on you in a few hours if you’re not out by then.”

“S-sounds like a plan,” Gavin breathed. He twisted against the sheets, desperate to find a position that would take off the pressure he could feel building in his head.

“I love you,” Isaac whispered, and Gavin felt the soft press of a kiss into his hair. His heart thudded in his chest.

“Love you, too,” Gavin whispered back. After a long moment, the soft sound of Isaac padding to the door and the creak as he shut it stabbed into Gavin’s brain like hot knives.

He whimpered softly and pressed the cold compress against the back of his own neck. It cooled his damp hair. Each heartbeat rocked through his head, each breath whooshed in and out of him, each moment crashed over him in another wave of agony. He drifted in the pain.

∴

Gavin blinked his eyes open. He squinted in the dim light filtering through the curtains and stirred beneath the sheets. The cool compress on the back of his neck made him shiver. He swallowed, and his throat felt dry.

The pain in his head was gone.

Tears of pure relief stung Gavin’s eyes. His chest swelled with gratitude for Finn and the pill that had taken away his pain. He experimentally pushed himself up off the bed. The room swam oddly around him.

He put a hand to his head and groaned. It was as if a thick fog had settled inside his brain, blunting the edges, dulling each thought. Still, his stomach felt settled, and the light no longer stabbed into his eyes. He dropped the cold compress onto the nightstand and sat up.

There was a pair of dark blue swim trunks lying at the foot of the bed.

Tears blurred Gavin’s vision all over again. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and clumsily got to his feet, wobbling slightly before he got his balance.

I don’t remember feeling this weird after.

Gavin shuffled forward and pulled the swim trunks on. After a moment, he crossed to the dresser and took out a t-shirt. He pulled it on over his head and shivered as it settled on the scars on his back. His fingers drifted over his chest, just below his right collarbone, over the scar there. His scar matched the one on Gray’s left side.

He shook his head and pushed the door open. As he wandered down the hall, the house was silent. Even as his head swam, he made his way to the bathroom and brushed his teeth. He caught himself staring at himself in the mirror, his gaze flicking between the scar on the bridge of his nose, to the one on his cheek, to the one stretching from the outer corner of his left eye and up into his hairline. Isaac always kissed those scars in exactly that order. Gavin blinked and bent over his rinse out his mouth.

Gavin wandered towards the back of the house with a strange, detached feeling. It was almost as if, as he moved through the air, it was thicker than normal. He seemed to notice everything a second after it happened. He walked through the laundry room and pushed open the back door, blinking in the sudden sun.

It wasn’t quite overhead, but then – it never got that high, this far north. Even in mid-June, the sun still cast shadows at noon. Gavin stumbled out into the long grass of the backyard and wandered down towards the lake.

Gavin blinked again; the day was stunning. The sun was warm on his face, and a gentle breeze ruffled his hair, still slightly damp with his own sweat. It was just warm enough that he didn’t shiver in his t-shirt and trunks. The sun glittered on the surface of the lake, and his feet brushed through the grass as it gave way to rough, granite-gray sand. Gavin drew in a deep breath and felt a smile pull at his lips.

Down near the lake, Finn and Ellis sat on the same electric blue towel, Ellis’s legs draped over Finn’s, both of them turned towards the water. Zachariah stood waist-deep in the water, joyously fending off Edrissa and Sam as they both climbed him like a tree, Edrissa’s squeals and Sam’s laughter carrying over the water. As Gavin watched, Zachariah’s large hands closed around Edrissa’s waist and he heaved her farther into the lake. She disappeared beneath its surface with a splash and shot above the surface again, shrieking with laughter, her pale skin flushed red from the coldness of the water. She flipped her soaking wet hair over her shoulder before she clumsily swam to Zachariah and threw her arms around his neck. She planted a kiss on his cheek before he hoisted her and hurled her back into the water, laughing the whole time.

Tori and Vera stood at the edge of the water in their own bathing suits, their arms around each other’s waists. Even twenty yards away, Gavin could see how Vera’s scars stood out pale against the dark brown of her skin, and Tori’s scars shone pink over her black skin. Vera’s had faded with time. Tori’s would, too. They both laughed as Sam climbed, one-handed, onto Zachariah’s back and wrapped their legs around his waist. Zachariah ducked his head as Sam pressed a kiss to the side of his neck.

Warmth curled in Gavin’s chest at the sight of Sam, Edrissa, and Zachariah together. I was wondering when that was going to happen.

Gray sat in a lawn chair turned towards the lake with a t-shirt and shorts, and a straw hat keeping off the sun. Gavin couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled in his throat as he looked at Gray and thought, they look retired.

At the sound of his laugh, Isaac looked up from where he knelt in the sand, pawing through a basket set on top of another towel, this one a blaring yellow. Gavin felt Isaac’s gaze like a thump in his chest. His smile stretched wider as he made his way to Isaac’s side.

Gray glanced up, and Gavin realized they were holding a glass of lemonade in their hand.

All they need is a book, and the look is complete.

“Hey!” Gray said with a grin. “He lives!”

“Yeah,” Gavin mumbled, and blushed as Isaac wound an arm around Gavin’s waist and pressed a kiss to his temple. “That medicine, um, did the trick.”

Finn glanced over and perked up when they saw Gavin. “Oh, hey!” they said, gently guiding Ellis’s legs off of theirs and climbing to their feet. “You feeling better?”

“Um, yeah,” Gavin said as he looked down at his own sandy feet. “I’m a little dizzy, but…”

“Yeah, that can be a side effect,” Finn said, and chewed their lip. “You feeling anything else? Pins and needles? You drowsy?”

“Yeah, a little drowsy,” Gavin murmured. He glanced up and flushed an even more painful red when he realized Finn, Ellis, Gray, and Isaac all had their eyes on him. “Sorry I, um—”

“You should be,” Ellis sniped, and they climbed to their feet and picked up the towel. Gavin found his gaze flicking to their abdomen, hidden behind a black one-piece bathing suit. They still weren’t showing, and probably wouldn’t be for another month or two. That’s what their baby book said. He blinked and returned his gaze to their face.

“We were waiting on you to have lunch,” Ellis said with a roll of their eyes, although their cutting voice was softened by a slight smile.

“No, we weren’t,” Isaac said with a playful grimace in Ellis’s direction. He looked back at Gavin. “I was just going to come get you. You hungry?”

Gavin’s stomach grumbled. “Yeah,” he croaked. “I am, actually. Really hungry.”

“Good,” Isaac said. Gavin melted at the smile shining on Isaac’s face.

Ellis turned to the others still in the water. “Hey, young people!” they shouted. “Get your asses over here, it’s time to eat!”

Zachariah stopped mid-toss, holding Edrissa out over the water, as his head snapped towards the shore. Edrissa shrieked as he dropped her unceremoniously into the water with a laugh and began to trudge toward shore, Sam still latched on like a barnacle. Edrissa giggled as she grabbed Zachariah’s arm and let him pull her to shore.

As Zachariah reached the edge of the water, Sam slipped off his back and landed lightly in the sand. Edrissa scrambled out of the water and tucked herself under Zachariah’s arm, shivering. Her lips were blue as she turned her head and kissed his shoulder. Gavin smiled.

“Glad you’re feeling better,” Sam said through chattering teeth. They made their way over to a pile of towels beside Gray’s chair and toweled off their hair, then wrapped the towel around their shoulders. “The rizatriptan worked?”

“How come everyone can say it but me?” Isaac mumbled at Gavin’s side.

“Yeah,” Gavin said, and took another towel for him and Isaac to sit on. “Doing a lot better.” He spread out the towel next to the basket and pulled Isaac down to sit next to him. Isaac’s scars shone almost white in the sun. Gavin laced his fingers through Isaac’s.

“I spent all morning getting this ready,” Edrissa said as the knelt by the picnic and began pulling out containers of food and sandwiches wrapped in napkins. “Potato salad for everyone… Egg salad for Ellis…” She passed the sandwich to Ellis. “Turkey for Finn, PB&J for Sam, turkey for Gray, tomato mozzarella pesto for Vera, ham for Tori, double turkey for Zachariah, mozzarella pesto for me…” she murmured as she passed out each sandwich. “Chicken salad for Isaac, Gavin I made one of those for you, too…”

Gavin gratefully took the sandwich from Edrissa and pulled away the cloth napkin. His stomach growled again, and louder. Edrissa kept pulling food out of the basket. “Pickles, olives – gross, chips… these chips are really good, they’re made by this married couple in Burmingham, they fry them in peanut oil, you have to try them… cookies…” A small pile of food was spread out on the towel next to the basket. “And if anyone wants more lemonade, I can just bring the pitcher…”

“Yes please,” came the chorus of replies.

Edrissa scrambled to her feet. “I’ll go grab it,” she said.

“I’ll help,” Zachariah said with a grin.

“I’ll come, too,” Sam said as they tripped after them.

Gavin smiled and wondered how much time the three of them were going to spend actually bringing the lemonade.

As Gavin looked around at his family, he smiled even wider. Vera was laughing as she kissed Tori, and Tori’s eyes were bright, focused, clear. Gray looked more relaxed than Gavin had ever seen them. Ellis and Finn had spread out their towel again next to the food, and Ellis was swatting away Finn’s attempts to tickle them through peals of laughter.

And Isaac… Gavin allowed himself a moment to look at Isaac, and was instantly, desperately lost. Isaac stared right back at him, the look in his brown eyes making Gavin’s stomach lurch like he was falling. Isaac reached over and laced his fingers through Gavin’s. For a moment, Gavin thought his heart might burst with happiness.

Isaac leaned forward and brushed his lips against Gavin’s scars: nose, cheek, eye. Gavin turned his head and sought Isaac’s lips with his. He smiled when Isaac lingered on the kiss.

“Oh, get a room,” Ellis said good-naturedly. Gavin broke the kiss, and his cheeks blazed.

“May as well start eating,” Gray said with a laugh. “Who knows when those three will be back. Apparently getting drinks is a strenuous three-person job.”

Gavin took a bite of his sandwich as he looked out across the lake. The wind stirred the trees on the opposite shore.

Continued here

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