#and the struggle through working with both a slipperier fabric and more fabric than I’m used to

[headofocs-inklesspen]

It’s a bit wonky and I still have to finish the top seam but blanket. Recognizably.

[angryschnauzer]

Stuck

Summary: You are August Walkers maid, and when you are changing the sheets on his massive bed your hand gets stuck between the mattress and headboard. Upon finding you in that predicament August takes control of the situation, however it doesn’t mean you get unstuck any time soon. (Based on a pornhub video i saw at 2am a few nights ago)

Pairing: August Walker x Female Maid Reader (no race or size described) Fandom; Henry Cavill, Mission Impossible: Fallout.

Warnings; NSFW, 18+, Dub-con, Fingering, groping, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, size kink, breeding kink, boob play, anal fingering, double penetration, spanking, spying/stalker behaviour, surveilence, voyerism, unauthorized recording of a sex act, not-great aftercare (he tries), slight dom/sub, the start of a ‘sugar daddy’ arrangement, however no reference to Daddy kink. 

I do not operate a tag list, however please follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications. That way you’ll get an alert every time i post anything. Masterlist can be found on AO3 link HERE

Read the Steve Rogers version of this story HERE

Stuck

 Ringing the doorbell, you stood anxiously on the doormat outside the expensive apartment, listening for approaching steps but hearing none. So when the door suddenly opened you let out a tiny yelp of surprise, before taking a deep breath to steady your racing heart;

 “Good afternoon Mr Walker”

 The giant of a man stood in front of you, recognition quickly passing over his face when he saw your uniform of black dress and simple black ballet flats;

 “Oh yes, the maid. C’mon in”

 You worked for a high security housekeeping company, strict controls and stringent background checks as you were contracted to the pentagon and the agents and staff that worked there. You always worked on an ad-hoc basis, only visiting homes when clients or agents requested it. This was however the fourth time cleaning Mr Walker’s apartment, always having to work around suitcases littering the halls and various weapons being cleaned and serviced on the kitchen table. 

 Holding your pail of cleaning supplies you waited as he shut the door, talking at you rather than to you;

 “Okay so here’s what you need to do today; clean the bathroom and kitchen, vacuum the rugs throughout, change the bedding and leave in the laundry hamper”

 You nodded;

 “Sweeping throughout too sir?”

 “No need, the Roomba does the smooth floors, it just can’t get onto the deep pile rugs” he hooked an earbud into one ear; “I’m going out for a run, I’ll be two hours”

 Swallowing nervously you nodded, watching as he hooked the other earbud in and left without another word, leaving you staring at the white wood of the door after he’d closed it. 

 Mr Walker both scared and excited you. A beast of a man, he was all muscle, and each time you had visited he had excused himself so not to be there whilst you were. The fact that he was always in a tank top and running shorts that did nothing to hide any part of him had you stretching your concentration to its limits in order to get your job done and not drift off into a fantasy land that you saved for when you were curled up in your own bed.

 Getting to work you started on the kitchen, stacking the dishwasher with the various dirty crockery that littered the room, cleaning the surfaces, sink, stove. Next up you hit the rugs, working quickly as you vacuumed, before heading to the bathroom. 

 Taking a deep breath you opened the door and relaxed. Cleaning bathrooms for single men were what you always dreaded, but at least as you started to cleanse every surface including the toilet, you realised that Mr Walker thankfully had good aim. Finally it was time for the shower, and as you pulled open the glass door and looked down you let out a shriek; the largest spider you’d ever seen sat in the corner. Grabbing the handled loofah you crept a little closer, letting out a laugh when you saw it wasn’t in fact an arachnid; instead it was a clump of dark hair;

 “Well, the man does have a lot of hair” you muttered to no-one but yourself, thinking about how his chest was covered in a mat of soft hair, exposed in the low neck of his running tank. 

 Half an hour later you wiped your brow on the back of your arm. Mr Walkers bathroom had in fact been a nightmare, the man shed more hair than a fucking German Shepherd. Washing your hands and glancing at your watch, you saw that you had fifteen minutes left of the two hours, taking a deep breath before grabbing the clean linens from the closet.

 Mr Walkers bedroom was white. There was no personalisation, no trinkets. Slipping your ballet flats off you climbed onto the bed, mentally taking in the sheer size of it; it must be a super king if not larger. Your mind immediately went south, imagining Mr Walker fucking on the bed, sprawled out as you straddle his face - you had always wondered what that moustache felt like against your skin - and you ride his tongue, or him pile driving you into the mattress, his hard body pressing against every inch of you as he fills you.

 Moving up the bed you tugged on the sheet, cursing as it wouldn’t pull out from between the mattress and headboard. With a huff you shuffled forward, pushing your hands down between them, tugging on the expensive white cotton. Pushing your arm down a little further you could just about feel that it was caught on something, moving to pull back and then it happened… you were stuck.

 “What the...?” you muttered, realisation hitting you that your watch had slipped into the gap and was now preventing you from pulling your arm out. You could feel your heart rate increasing as you struggled to set yourself free, pulling against the strain but it did little to help.  You pushed and pulled and grunted, hiking your dress up so you could widen your stance on the bed, but nothing worked. You frantically looked around to see the time, yet there wasn’t a clock or display in sight, and you could hardly look at your watch. If you didn’t get out of there soon Mr Walker…

 “Well isn’t this a pretty sight…”

 No. Please no. Oh god no. You screwed your eyes shut, the heat of embarrassment rising to your skin;

 “I’m stuck” you whispered, letting out a yelp when you felt the bed dip behind you, feeling his hands gently resting on your hips;

 “Unfortunate for you, maybe not so for me...”

 -

 Five minutes ago.

 August sat in the small room, staring at the laptop screen in front of him. As ideas went, this was both his best and worst idea yet. Installing hidden security cameras in his apartment had been at first simply for security whilst he was away on missions, but he’d found a secondary use for it once the agency had recommended your employers as a maid service. He hadn’t been expecting someone as pretty as you, you had this look of innocence about you that made him just want to corrupt you and ruin you. He may be a bastard but he wasn’t a heathen, so instead of just turning on the charm offensive he had found an abandoned room in his apartment building and set up a small surveillance center. One with a chair, a laptop, a bottle of lube and a box of tissues. 

 August Walker had just spent the last two hours edging himself as he watched you bend over in that knee length dress, adjusting camera angles to see up your skirt as you bent over. August Walker was one step away from full on pervert. And he had no regrets at all.

 That was until he saw you on his bed, and realised you were trapped. Temptation got the better of him, so stuffing his hard dick back into his running shorts, he quickly left the room and silently made his way back to his apartment. 

 He entered and could smell the pleasant scent of the cleaning fluids you’d used, the quiet grunts as you tried to free yourself from your predicament. Toeing off his sneakers he silently made his way through the hallways, suppressing a groan as he saw you on his bed; ass up face down, the fabric of your dress stretched over the tops of your thighs, the fabric moving as you moved to expose glimpses of your buttocks. He pressed a hand over the obscene bulge in his shorts before moving to the bed.

 -

 “Mr Walker!” you squeaked out in surprise; “You’re back… umm I’m stuck, my watch… I can’t get my wrist back through the gap between the headboard and the mattress”

 “Oh… what a shame. Let me help…”

 You were expecting him to move around you, but instead he covered your body with his own and grasped your arms. Your mind was lost as you took in how his massive hands could completely circle your wrists, the weight of him above you almost suffocating, and when he started to tug you knew you were done for. 

 The gentle rocking of your bodies, rubbing against one another was all it took for a moan to leave your mouth involuntarily, the feeling of his hard dick rutting against the crease of your ass making you embarrassingly wet almost instantly. He grunted above you;

 “Huh, well that didn’t work…”

 Pushing himself up he knelt behind you, still pressing his hard-on against your ass as his hands gripped your hips and he tugged gently, however all he did was pull you back against his crotch;

 “This fabric is slippery, hang on a second…”

 Pressing your head to the bed you felt him flip your skirt up, hearing a sharp intake of breath behind you as he took in the bright red thong you were wearing beneath your dress. His warm hands smoothed over your buttocks before gripping onto your hips and half-heartedly tugging again. 

 It was no good, you were too turned on to even object. You’d lusted after your client for weeks, and now you found yourself in this predicament which it was obvious he had no intention of helping you with, but instead had other ideas that you had no desire to object to. You were rocking back against his dick, the quiet moans escaping your throat telling him you were more than into it, so when you felt his fingers curl around the elastic of your underwear and tug them down to your mid-thigh, all you could do was arch your back and present your pussy for his inspection. 

 Thick fingers parted your folds, teasing your nectar to your aching clit where a thumb rubbed hard circles against the sensitive bud. His other hand was lost from you for a moment and you could feel him moving, before you felt the thwack of his heavy dick against your ass. 

 With your hand trapped and your body stretched out you could barely look over your shoulder, but when you did you could see the impressive bulk of your clients body towering over you, the sight making your cunt clench with anticipation.

 “Excited, are we?”

 “Please Mr Walker…”

 “Please what?” You moaned and his quiet chuckle filled the room; “You gotta say it”

 “Please fuck me”

 “Eager little thing, aren’t we?”

 “Please…”

 “Well, as you asked so nicely…”

 He took hold of his dick and dragged the bulbous tip through your folds, dousing himself with your juices before lining himself up with your entrance. When you felt him push just the tip inside you it felt like you were being split open, he must be as thick as your wrist, and as he continued to force his way into your body it felt like he was the length of your forearm.

 “Such a good little slut, taking my dick…” his voice filled your senses as your body fought to relax and allow him deeper, your juices running down your legs where he would rock back and forth to lubricate his girth before pushing another punishing inch in to you. 

 Your velvet walls parted yet gripped him tight, and you could feel every ridge, bump and vein as he started to fuck your tight pussy. With every pull and push your head swam, your body moving back to meet his thrusts as his massive hands gripped onto your hips and he started to slam into you harder and harder. When his hand came down onto your ass the loud smack surprised you just as much as the pain, but you arched your back even more like a bitch in heat. 

 He reached beneath you, tugging at the neckline of your dress with both hands, before the seam of the collar broke and the soft jersey stretched enough for him to tug the fabric down. His fingers caught in the lace cups of your bra, and whilst still plunging deep into you from behind, he was able to let your titties swing free and he grabbed a handful;

 “Such pretty tits. Next time you clean I want you in just your underwear so I can watch them swing. Might get you scrubbing the floors so I can see you bent over and ready for me”

 You shuddered at his words, he already paid a premium for your services, and the electronic tip that he’d sent through had been more than generous, the last visit alone you had been surprised by the triple figures, but more than grateful that you were able to pay the bills.

 His hands had found their way back to your ass, smoothing over the soft skin as he continued to fuck you, the wide ridge that ran along the underside of his length rubbing so beautifully against your g-spot, you were sure you were going to cum soon. 

 He pulled your cheeks apart and you felt him spit on your asshole, the warm liquid pooling for a moment before his thumb started to rub insistently over the brown rose. Burying your head in the soft sheets you allowed your body to relax as he breached your back door with his thumb, the wide digit stretching you as he pushed in as far as he could;

 “This ass is incredible. I can’t wait to fuck it”

 You let out a tiny yelp at the idea of trying to fit his massive cock in your ass;

 “Mr Walker!”

 “Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll make sure you’re stretched out first. Might want to add a plug to the uniform list for next time, make sure you’re ready lubed and stretched for me. But don’t you worry your pretty little head, this time I’m just going to cum deep in this sweet pussy of yours. Are you on birth control? Are you ripe?”

 You hadn’t even considered birth control. Your insurance had stopped covering you a couple of years back, so when you had gone on the occasional date that had ended up between the sheets, you’d simply resorted to condoms;

 “No… no…”

 “Oh yes. I’m going to cum deep inside you, let my seed rest within your womb. God, I’d love to see your belly round with my child, I bet your tits would be even more impressive. Hmmn yes, that’s fucking perfect…”

 You hadn’t thought it possible, but all that he said was turning you on even more, and it wasn’t just you that liked the idea, you could feel him swell within you, his girth growing thicker as his arousal grew. The added stretch was driving you closer and closer to your own orgasm, the dual stimulations of your pussy and ass both being filled had you trembling with need.

 “Are you going to cum for me?” his voice was hoarse and dry, an edge of desperation to it too; “I’m close, gonna shoot my load in you soon. You’d better cum before I do ‘cos once I’m done I’m pulling out and will leave you dripping with my seed and on edge…”

 The threat of being left on the precipice was enough to push your body over the edge, cumming hard as your body held him so tight he thought he wouldn’t be able to pull out. The vice like grip had him throwing his head back as your body milked him, his own orgasm ripping through his body that he came with a roar and a string of expletives. 

 -

 August wasn’t sure if he had ever cum that hard before, but the way your body gripped him so tight he was in no doubt that your pussy was the best he’d ever had - and he’d had a lot - and he knew without a doubt that he was not going to let anyone else ever come near it again.

 As he slowed his thrusts and let you work through the aftershocks of your intense orgasm, he mentally checked off all the things he’d been checking up on; from the details of your financials, your family and education, your social media. He had seen all of them. He had your phone tapped and knew that he was going to be installing spy cameras in your apartment… that was until you agreed to be his. 

 Looking down at your ass he pulled his thumb out of your now loosened asshole, making sure to catch the way it winked as he recorded on his phone, having pulled that out of his pocket soon after he’d started and had recorded himself defiling your body. Giving your ass a smack he relished how the camera picked up the jiggle as the force rippled through you, before grasping a large handful of ass as he pulled out and watched his cum pool at your entrance, before pushing it back in with two thick fingers. Tugging your underwear up your legs from where they had settled around your knees, he made sure the flimsy red mesh covered your hole, quickly getting soaked with his seed as he pushed the fabric against the mess to fully coat it. 

 Finally he shut his phone off and reached towards the headboard, giving it a tug and feeling it lift, watching as you silently pulled your hand free before collapsing on the bed. He carefully unbuckled your wristwatch before rubbing at the sore skin, easing away the chafed skin. He set your hand down carefully and quickly left the room, returning a moment later with a glass of water and holding it to your lips as he helped you sit up. 

 Setting the empty glass on the side, he rubbed your back before attempting to fix your torn collar, finally giving up. He swiped a thumb across your cheek, wiping away the mascara tear stains;

 “Next week you’ll need to be in your underwear and heels. Make sure the plug is well lubricated. I’ll have everything delivered to your address”

 You went to object, to question how he would even know, but then realised… CIA… of course he knew. You pushed yourself to the edge of the bed, finding your shoes and slipping your feet in, standing on wobbly legs as he spoke again.

 “Do as I ask and I’ll let you stay the night so I can fuck your other two holes as well”

 Turning you nodded;

 “Yes Mr Walker”

 “Oh, you can call me Sir now” he turned to leave the room before waving his finger at the pile of fresh linen still folded at the end of the bed; “Remember to finish up before you leave”

 He left the room without another word. You went to object, but just as you did you felt the phone in your pocket vibrate. Quickly checking it your eyebrows practically shot off the top of your head, seeing the tip transfer come through for $2000. Biting your lip, your thumb hovered over the accept/decline buttons, the moral dilemma tearing your mind in two.

 -

 In the hallway August watched his phone. He could see that you’d received the notification of the tip. When he saw your action on the app he smiled and slid the phone back into his pocket, already planning your next visit.

Part 2 >>>

[shatouto]

@obiwanobi allowed me to write a sequel to this lovely raised-as-sith!anakin and jedi!obi-wan fic!! pls enjoy this tiny little 1.3k of hurt/comfort

content warning: description of injuries

capable de deux

The standard clock strikes half past midnight.

Obi-Wan sets the basin on the floor. The man who is no longer Vader sits against the wall like a broken doll, one arm bent in a sickening angle, hands lying palm-up and unclenched between half-crossed legs. He’s not uncooperative, just limp, when Obi-Wan lifts his hands or turns his shoulder to remove the broken armor pieces. He’s not unresponsive, just lackluster, when Obi-Wan decides that the clothes are too mangled to salvage anyway and announces it to him in a murmur. He’s not unfeeling, just very, very quiet. Worryingly quiet.

In the shadow of Anakin’s silence, the only light that comes through is his eyes. Obi-Wan feels Anakin’s gaze like a physical thing, following his every movement in weary wariness as the scissors slowly snips their way along the seams. It’s borderline suffocating, how the air is so thoroughly silent that Obi-Wan can hear exactly how shallow Anakin’s breathing is. He sets all of the blood-soaked scrap fabric aside and dips a cloth in lukewarm water. He meets Anakin’s eyes, before wiping a streak down his front.

Anakin’s body is littered with scars; if there is a patch of unmarred skin left amidst the glossy criss-crossing, it would be dark with bruises. So many scars for someone so young, Obi-Wan catches himself thinking, frowning deeply - because Anakin is young, younger now than any other time Obi-Wan has glimpsed him outside of his distinct helmet. Young enough to be a Padawan, even, had the Jedi found him before the Sith. Obi-Wan sighs.

A deep cauterized gash runs from the tip of Anakin’s shoulder to the middle of his chest, and a fresh burn spreads from his heart to diaphragm, all of which Obi-Wan quickly covers with bacta patches before cleaning the rest. The blaster shot wounds are a more pressing concern, as they are still bleeding. He bites his lip in commiseration, nearly holding his breath as he cleans the too-tender flesh as gently as he can. His lineage does not have a gift for the art of healing, and Anakin’s shields are still rammed up high and tight, so Obi-Wan opts to monitor Anakin’s reactions for any sign of sudden pain.

Anakin doesn’t make a single sound. He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move. If it isn’t for his breathing sometimes hitching, Obi-Wan would have thought that Anakin is entirely numb - which would have been worrying. Whenever he glances up to Anakin’s face, their gazes touch; Anakin’s eyes train on his face rather on his moving hands, not alert, but not aimless either.

Water darkens in the basin. Obi-Wan has changed it for a third time, and is on his second washcloth. There is so much blood it’s a miracle that Anakin has made it this far, has dragged himself into the Jedi Temple without getting caught. Obi-Wan works his way down to the slippery patch on Anakin’s thigh, which turns out to be a wound that he can’t - and doesn’t want to - even begin to guess the cause: Raw burnt flesh just ripe for infection on the edge of a gaping cavity still oozing blood.

He whispers an apology as he has done for every touch, dabbing the cloth at the least damaged edge of the wound. This is by far the nastiest wound he’s seen, and Obi-Wan raises his gaze, worried that this might be where Anakin breaks.

Anakin doesn’t.

And somehow it’s even more disquieting.

“You can’t feel it?” Obi-Wan breaks the silence.

Anakin finally blinks at him. Even the confusion is better than the utterly blank look he has been sporting.

Obi-Wan breathes a sigh of relief, short-lived though it is. “Your injuries?” He specifies.

Anakin cocks his head a bit - almost cute, Obi-Wan thinks in passing - but then says in a voice devoid of emotions whatsoever. “It’s not that bad.”

Obi-Wan scoffs. “Anakin, there is blood and bruises everywhere on you and I think your arm is badly broken. Can you even feel it?”

Anakin shrugs with his unhurt shoulder. “No.”

“You can’t—” Cold dread bursts in Obi-Wan’s chest like a sheet of ice shattering. He places a hand on Anakin’s shoulder. “Anakin, you need to see a healer! Why did you let me—”

“No, I mean”—Anakin straightens up minutely—“I can’t feel it because it’s not there anymore. It’s just a mechno-arm. Dooku cut my real arm years ago.”

“…Dooku.” Obi-Wan stares at him, voice flat. “Dooku, the other Sith, who’s supposed to be your ally. He cut your arm.”

Anakin makes a vague sound of affirmation, and falls silent, letting Obi-Wan struggle to form a reply to that. Now it’s his turn to look at Anakin in the face, while those now-blue eyes turn towards the ground, lashes so long they cast shadows of their own.

“Don’t call a healer,” Anakin finally mumbles, not looking at him. “I don’t want healers. I don’t want… people. I don’t like anyone touching me.”

“Oh.” Obi-Wan’s eyes widen, realizing that he still has his left hand on Anakin’s shoulder, while his right rests just over Anakin’s knee, still clutching the washcloth. He makes to pull away. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—”

Anakin’s hand flashes up in sudden, unexpected liveliness, immediately squeezing Obi-Wan’s hand on his shoulder. His eyelashes quivers.

“You’re not ‘anyone’.”

—

The entire living room smells like bacta with a hint of blood by the time Obi-Wan is done. He locks Vader’s lightsaber with its buzzing red crystal in a drawer, and wraps away the broken prosthetic and ruined armor and shreds of clothing; it’s not safe enough to discard them conventionally, and he will have to burn them later, ideally somewhere unfrequented. Right now, there is no way Obi-Wan can leave his quarters. Not with Anakin limping out of bed at the sound of a fresher door sliding open or shut.

By all rights Anakin should have passed out from lightheaded exhaustion by now, yet he seems even more awake now than even when Obi-Wan first found him on his knees in the hallway. Anakin pauses at the sight of him and sits back down on the edge of the bed. He fixes Obi-Wan with the gaze of a Loth-wolf.

Obi-Wan lets out a sigh, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. He takes a seat beside the former Sith. “Anakin,” he enunciates each syllable in a lingering rhythm, “could you please stop watching me like this?”

Anakin blinks at him; so far, Anakin seems capable of two states of being: desperate, and confused. “What do you mean?” He looks deceivingly innocent, covered in bandages and wrapped in Obi-Wan’s colors - a thought that Obi-Wan, startled, quickly shuts down. “I’ve always looked at you like this.”

Obi-Wan’s mouth hangs open, his mind running the sentence through. Always? Since before? And then it occurs to him that Vader wore the helmet along with his full suit of armor every time they clashed in battle. The few rare times they crossed paths outside of combat were all hair-thin ceasefires, too tense, too charged with fragile hope for him to notice. It dawns on Obi-Wan that Anakin has no concept of what is an appropriate amount of looking, of staring at someone.

“...Should I not?” Anakin ducks his head a little, and reaches for Obi-Wan’s hand.

By Force, this is a man who demanded surrender from Jedi only to open fire on them, who killed hundreds with just his hands and a lightsaber, who led operations that burn cities of civilians, who scorched the earth of whole planets and poisoned whole systems. This is a man who has done enough evil to make the core of a kyber mountain shudder. He has no rights looking like this, lamb-like in both colors and manners.

But could a child weaned on blood and brought up on broken bones know any better?

“Go to bed, Anakin,” Obi-Wan says, in a tone distinctly reminiscent of that which he used with a younger Ahsoka in her rebellious day. (Not that she has gotten any less rebellious; she only moved on to matters more significant than bedtime.) He squeezes Anakin’s hand, and eases him down onto the pillow, and watches Anakin until Anakin can’t watch him back anymore.

And like all infants who fall asleep with a hand in their own, Anakin holds on tight.

[kythed]

cold war

semi eita x reader

synopsis: how many degrees does it take to melt semi eita? (ficmas day 2!)

“Why would you ever apply for a job at an ice rink,” he says, tone thickly frosted with annoyance, “if you can’t even skate?”

You blink up at your co-worker from the ice, the seat of your pants growing uncomfortably damp. Giggling children and lovesick couples glide by, all far more proficient skaters than you are. You offer the boy standing above you sheepish smile. “It just pays better than babysitting, I guess.”

He doesn’t laugh, just exhales heavily through his nose and hoists you up by the forearm with an unnecessarily harsh grip.

“Ouch,” you say indignantly, but the complaint dies on your lips when he shoots you a glare steely enough to slice through marble. Though the obvious irritation clouding his angular features renders you unable to fully appreciate his good looks, he’s the definition of severe beauty, all fair tousled hair and slate grey eyes.

“Learn how. Or else.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and effortlessly skates away to go rescue a toddler hanging onto the edge of the rink, crying for her mother. You watch as he lifts her up gently and sets her on her feet with an affectionate pat on the head. Then, almost as if he can feel you staring, he whips around and narrows his eyes with an expression that sends a chill down your spine.

You frown, but the pout swiftly turns into a scheming smile.

Semi Eita is cold. But not so cold he can’t be melted.

--

Operation Melt Semi starts small. The next day, you get to the rink early and wait for him to arrive. When he walks through the door, shrugging off his heavy parka, you sidle up to him and offer him a cheery “Morning, Semi!” along with a beaming grin.

“Morning,” he says, not even sparing you a glance as he ducks into the men’s lockers. Your face falls. Damn it. This might be a little harder than you’d previously anticipated.

You try again that Friday when you catch him in the coat room while you’re both sitting on the bench and changing into your skates. He knots his laces almost aggressively, pulling them so tight they cut angry red lines across his palms.

“Your hair looks good like that,” you say tentatively. It’s parted down the middle today, and it really does suit him. “Very nineties.”

Semi gives you an incredulous look before briefly glancing into a reflective window. He turns back, reaches into his pocket, and unwraps a piece of gum without offering you one. You bristle with annoyance but keep the sunny smile plastered across your face-- your cheeks are beginning to numb.

“Was that supposed to be a compliment?”

“Um, yeah, kinda.” You cringe inwardly when your voice cracks.

“Gross,” he says, jumping up and leaving you to struggle with your laces. You sigh and slump down. Bastard.

On Saturday, however, and every day you see him after that, he has his hair parted down the middle. He doesn’t mention it again, and neither do you, but you do feel a small sense of victory every time he runs a careful hand through his silvery locks, setting them in place after lapping the rink.

--

A couple weeks later, you’ve just gotten off your morning shift, a little bruised and battered (both physically and emotionally). Semi had still been forced to save you from the cruel, slippery ice a couple times, of course, so you’d taken the opportunity to thank him profusely, and you swear you saw the corners of his mouth twitch as he pulled you up once. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.

“Hey,” you say, poking your head into the break room. Semi and a couple of other rink attendants look up from their phones. “Anyone want a coffee? I’m gonna make a run to the nearest Starbucks for a latte.”

“No,” Semi says automatically, face blank, and you roll your eyes internally. Of course he’d decline. As your other co-workers rattle off their orders (one small caramel mocha, one earl grey tea), you resolve to buy him a drink anyways.

If I were an annoyingly attractive asshole, you muse, squinting your eyes at the Starbucks menu ten minutes later, what would I order?

When you return to the rink, breathless and bearing a heavily laden, flimsy cardboard tray, you thrust a steaming paper cup of coffee into Semi’s hand. He stares at you, face painted with something resembling surprise.

“I said I didn’t want anything,” he says, taking the lid off to skeptically peer inside. He glances up at you.“Is this a blonde roast?”

“Yup,” you say, popping the ‘p’ obnoxiously. It’s all you can do to keep the smug grin off your face as Semi inhales the mellow, milky bitterness, letting the steam curl onto his face in the cold ice rink air.

“How did you kno--”

“I could just tell,” you hum, plopping down on the couch as you take a long drink of your own latte. The vanilla syrup generously pumped inside is almost as sweetly gratifying as the bewildered expression on Semi’s face. He just shakes his head, still staring at the cup in his hand.

“Well, how much was it? I’m paying you back.”

“It’s on me,” you say casually, smiling serenely at the way his mouth opens and closes like a shocked goldfish. “Don’t worry about it.”

Semi doesn’t respond as he sets the coffee down on the table, but later you see him sipping on it while he plays some little puzzle game on his phone. Mission accomplished.

--

You’re the last one to leave the rink that day, so you lock up and double check each door before skipping into the coat room to grab your bag. The fluorescent lights flicker sporadically, casting an artificial lightning over the benches. As you reach for the bag, squinting, you catch a little yellow post-it sticking out from its smallest pocket.

Thanks, it reads, messy script scrawled in blue ink. Folded beneath it is a slightly wrinkled five dollar bill.

Despite yourself, a small smile spreads across your face. The thawing has begun.

--

It’s an uphill journey, of course, but with each victorious battle you inch a little closer to winning the war. Semi isn’t invincible, and the cracks in his icy facade are beginning to show.

He’s a little more patient, a little more understanding. His small gestures betray his hand as he shows you how to angle your skates to stop on the ice, as he gives you a pack of tissues when you have a runny nose. He still manages to sneak in an eye roll or snide side comment, of course-- “Seriously, you can’t even brake? You’re hopeless,” or “You shouldn’t have come into work today if you’re sick. You’ll pass all your germs to me.” But still, it’s baby steps, you remind yourself, clutching onto his arm as you come to a grinding halt on the ice, snatching the tissues from his hand with a pained smile and a forced “Thanks, Semi.”

One day, you have to take a shift immediately after leaving a family friend’s wedding. It had been a lovely ceremony (with really, really good chocolate cake), but you hadn’t had time to change into work clothes, so you find yourself rushing through the doors still wearing a cocktail dress and heels, tugging your backpack onto your shoulder and praying your manager doesn’t notice you’re a few minutes late.

Semi is at the counter cleaning a pair of skates, meticulously wiping the blades dry. His phone rests beside him, some sort of pulsing electropop trickling softly from its speakers. He’s nodding his head slightly, keeping pace with the rhythm, and his face is calm, devoid of the irritation you’ve grown so familiar with.

You clear your throat. “Uh, hey.”

Semi looks up, and for a moment, time stops. His eyes widen almost imperceptibly, and he swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing painfully in his throat as his gaze shakily makes its way down from the tops of your bare shoulders, to your exposed neckline, to the skirt swishing just above your knees. The dress is a soft pink chiffon, more delicate and feminine than anything you’d ever worn into work.

There’s a sudden heat, a jolt in the pit of your stomach as he meets your eyes again, and you swear he feels it too. It seems as though the temperature in the rink has instantaneously risen twenty degrees-- you think you might start sweating.

“You look…” Semi breathes, but then he stops himself, choking down whatever his next words might’ve been. He furrows his brows and tears his stare away, looking back down at the forgotten skates.

There’s a brief beat of silence, dappled with only the occasional child’s shriek of joy from on the ice.

“You’d better get changed,” he says finally, pointedly looking anywhere but you.

“Okay,” you say, unable to come up with anything more sophisticated. Your mind is empty of anything but the memory of those cold grey eyes growing suddenly hot, gazing into yours with a warmth of indescribable magnitude. As you slowly walk into the womens’ lockers, something dawns on you. There might be a different way to melt the ice prince.

--

Work is different, after that. Your days are no longer characterized by torment, by rude jabs and scowls from Semi that poke at you right where you’re sore. Instead, they’re not-so-subtly woven with lingering glances, with “accidental” touches at just the right moment to send an unwanted shudder to the very tips of your fingers and toes.

Once, when you’re working the counter, fitting customers and renting out skates, Semi skids off the ice with a spray of snow and clinks his way over to you, blades meeting the tile floor metallically.

“I’m gonna change these out for a different pair,” he tells you, and you nod, acutely aware of his close proximity. As he slips behind you, he touches your lower back lightly, just enough so you know he’s there. A breath catches in your throat when his fingers linger just a little longer than necessary, leaving their imprints burning on your skin, even through the thick fabric of your sweater.

He doesn’t look at you when he comes back out, but the back of his neck is flushed pink. You catch a whiff of his cologne-- it’s woody and spicy, comforting like a distant childhood memory. You fight the sudden impulse to launch yourself into his arms and bury your face in his hair, inhaling that holiday-esque scent.

No, no, no, you scold yourself as you watch him slide back onto the ice. Not Semi Eita. Anyone but Semi Eita.

You’d set out to make peace with him, to make work life a little more bearable for the both of you. You hadn’t expected yourself to start looking forward to seeing him each day, to have your chest constrict, the air crushed from your lungs like a soda can underfoot every time he looked your way. All you’d wanted to do was melt his icy exterior-- not let yourself get scalded by his heat.

A week later, when you enter the rink, there’s an impossibly tall redhead leering over Semi, who’s idly filling in a timetable on the front counter. He’s chattering away in a lilting, sing-songy tone while Semi pays him exactly zero attention.

“--but the last episode was really of pristine quality, you know? None of that filler crap, just great writing, excellent animation, and-- oooooh.” When ginger giant notices you, a joker-like grin stretches across his face. “And who’s this?”

“I--”

“She’s nobody,” Semi cuts in, slamming the timetable shut and jumping over the counter. He glares up at his friend, looking a bit like a disgruntled house cat attempting to bully a tiger. “I think it’s about time for you to get going.”

The friend ignores Semi’s attempt at intimidation, instead turning his attention to you. He takes your hand in a way that makes it unclear whether or not he’s about to shake it or kiss it. You stifle a giggle. “Well, hello, ‘Nobody.’ Pretty name. My name’s Tendou Satori, but you can call me--”

Semi cuts him off with a sharp jab to the ribs and Tendou doubles over in pain, clutching his stomach overdramatically. “Not her.”

“Ouch, Semi-Semi,” Tendou gasps, though a few stray giggles escape with his theatrics. He glances at Semi, then to you, then back to him, apparently having some sort of silent epiphany. His face lights up as gleefully as a kid’s on Christmas morning. “Wait… is this the girl you’re always ta--”

Semi jabs him again, harder this time, and Tendou yelps, stumbling backwards. You cringe as he knocks over a stack of ice walkers— as entertaining as this squabble is, you’ll be the one to clean up the mess. Then Semi stalks over and drags him back by the wrist with the rough swagger of a sheriff arresting the town’s most wanted. He glowers at Tendou, face dark as a thunderstorm. “Tendou, I swear to God, if you so much say another word I will strangle you with my bare hands.”

“Never knew you were so kinky, Semi-Semi!” Tendou preemptively dodges any possible counterattack and turns to you, punctuating his next phrase with a wink: “Have fun with that.”

Later, once Semi has successfully ushered Tendou out the door, you turn to him, eyebrow raised. “What did he mean by ‘have fun with that,’ Eita?”

“Nothing,” Semi says, though his guarded tone leads you to suspect otherwise. He offers you a piece of gum before taking one himself and slipping the sleeve back into his bag. “He’s just like that. Also, since when have we been on a first name basis?”

You blush. You hadn’t even realized you’d called him by his first name. Then you smile a little, popping the gum into your mouth and folding the wrapper into a neat little square. “If you’d prefer, I could call you Semi-Semi as well.”

Semi pales, presumably watching as a vision of his life tormented by two Tendous flashes before his eyes. Then he looks back to you and clears his throat. “Eita is fine.”

As you go about your day, robotically hooking skates back on the shelf, wiping down the snack bar tables, stacking chair, and shivering the whole time, what Tendou was about to say rings in your ears: Are you the girl he’s always talking about?

You can’t help but wonder what exactly Semi says about you.

--

It’s a Saturday evening when you approach Semi to ask for a skating lesson.

“Please,” you say, trailing him around the edges of the rink like a lost puppy. He’s picking up stray bits of trash from beneath the benches— sticky pieces of candy wrappers and cigarette butts left behind by unconscientious skaters. “I just want to stop falling so often-- it’s embarrassing.”

“Yeah, it is embarrassing,” Semi says, suddenly standing upright and turning to face you. He leans close, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a sly half smile. “Sucks to suck.”

“Eita,” you say again, reaching out to tug the edge of his sleeve. He glances at your fingers tightly clutching the thick wool of his sweater and then back up to you. You put on your best pleading pout. “Come on, just for tonight? Just like an hour on the ice, tops.”

“I don’t know,” he says slowly. He glances at his watch and sighs. “I have to get home by nine… I guess we can stay for an hour. But only an hour.”

Hook, line, and sinker.

“Thanks, Semi-Semi,” you say with a grin, and he scowls.

“I told you not to call me that.”

“Too bad.”

--

Semi is a surprisingly good teacher. He pokes fun at you, of course, mocking the way you cling to him when he tries to teach you to skate in a circle, or the way you clumsily flail your arms to keep your balance, but he’s patient. He’s gentle when he corrects your form, when he offers you a hand with which to pull yourself up.

It’s only the two of you now, twenty minutes after closing time. All the lights in the rink are off but the large one directly overhead, a spotlight that illuminates the pale, glassy expanse of the ice. The scrape of your blades over the ice echoes throughout the rink as Semi holds your waist lightly, trying to guide you backwards.

“I don’t understand,” you complain, shuffling backwards and trying your hardest to avoid stepping on Semi’s skates. “If I need to go the other direction, I can just turn around, can’t I?”

“Nuh-uh,” he says, tightening his grip on your waist as you wobble slightly. “Saves time. Just keep your toe pointed inwards and move your skates in curves. It’s not that hard.”

“It’s not that hard,” you say, imitating him in a squeaky, high pitched tone.

You hear him snort behind you. “That’s not what I sound like.”

“That’s exactly what you sound like,” you say, looking down at your feet. Toes in. Skates move in curves. “Hey, wait, am I doing it right?”

You glide backwards, slowly, hesitantly. Semi moves with you, hands still hovering at your sides just in case. “Almost. Bend your knees a little, that’ll make it easier to balance.”

“Oh, okay. I-- shit!”

In an entirely ungraceful lurching movement, you lose your balance, grabbing Semi’s wrist in a futile attempt to remain upright. The next moment unfolds in slow motion as you fall backwards, pulling a horrified, wide-eyed Semi on top of you as your back hits the ice, his entire body sprawled over your smaller frame.

You lay in stunned silence for a second, feeling your spine throb and the cold of the ice already beginning to seep through your clothes. Semi’s face is inches from yours-- his breath smells like the spearmint gum he’s always chewing, and, for the first time, you notice subtle green flecks in his grey eyes.

“Sorry,” you finally whisper, staring at him. “I didn’t mean to.”

He doesn’t shift himself off of you, just stares back at you with furrowed brows. Almost imperceptibly, his gaze flicks down to your lips and back up again. Your breath catches in your throat-- but then a wide, bright grin breaks across his face, and it’s like the sun, brilliantly slicing through a gloomy mass of storm clouds with its sharp golden rays.

“You-- you’re-- you’re such a shit skater,” he chokes out between guffaws. You can feel his chest heaving with each laugh, and an angry flush crawls over your cheeks.

“It wasn’t my fault!” you protest, attempting to shove him off of you. He doesn’t budge. “You weren’t giving me enough space to move!”

“You should’ve seen your face,” he says, dramatically wiping an invisible tear from his eye. “God, it was so funny.”

“Well, sorry I’m not as good at skating as you are, Mr. I Do Everything Perfectly The First Time,” you scoff, again trying to push him off. Semi cocks an eyebrow and smirks, settling his forearms on either side of your head. Your heart beats erratically at his nearness. “And can you please move? You’re crushing my lungs.”

“Nope.”

You scowl. The repressed irritation from weeks and weeks of trying to get on his good side strains at the boundaries of your self control. “Get off, Semi.”

“Make me.” His eyes gleam with silent laughter as you struggle for a moment, unable to do anything more than wiggle beneath him.

You huff, resting your head back down on the ice in defeat. “You’re fucking heavy, Eita. What did you do before this, eat a buffet out of business?”

Semi chuckles, and it’s a low, raspy sound that vibrates in your chest. He leans in close, angling his face slightly. His lips hover just above yours, and you can feel his breath fan over your mouth with his next words: “You’re so damn annoying.”

There’s a beat of silence. A heavy, stifling tension hangs in the air, a live wire with crackling electricity dancing across its taut line. You stare at him, unblinking. Daring him to do something.

And then he’s kissing you, one hand cupping your cheek, the other slipping under your shoulders to pull you flush against his chest. He kisses you hungrily, recklessly, like he’s been fasting and your lips are the first food he’s seen for months. You grip the back of his sweater as you kiss him back, fingers clutching at the fabric like it’s the only thing keeping you grounded. He tastes like mint and something sweet; it’s messy, there’s tongue and teeth, and your jeans are wet from the ice— but at that moment, you think you’ve never been kissed better. A warmth spreads from his lips to yours, making its way down your throat into deep within your chest, where it burns your lungs and throbs almost painfully.

Though Semi Eita may be cold, his kisses are anything but.

When you break away he’s in quite the state, breathless with a flushed face and disheveled hair. You must look much the same, you think as you inhale deeply, blinking away the stars behind your eyes.

He sits up, resting on your hips. “Well, then.”

“Well, then,” you echo, propping yourself up on your forearms.

“You’re a shit kisser, too.” Semi grins when you gasp and punch him in the arm. You open your mouth to fire back, but before you can get a word out he leans down quick and kisses you again, soft and light. “It’s okay. We can practice.”

Your heart skips a beat.

“How generous of you.” You try to sound sarcastic but the words fall flat under Semi’s gaze. He smiles again and clambers onto his feet, offering you a hand.

“You wanna get dinner or something?”

--

You hold his hand on the walk out to his car, too, fingers tightly interlocked. He hums something under his breath, squeezing your palm every so often.

It’s freezing outside. As Semi fumbles with his keys, you rub your arms, trying in vain to brush away the stubborn goosebumps.

When you climb into the passenger seat, Semi lets you choose the radio station and, before he pulls out of the lot, he silently taps his cheek for a kiss. You roll your eyes but nonetheless lean over to give him a quick peck.

“Thanks,” he says, putting an arm over the back of your seat to pull out of the space. A slow acoustic song comes on, reminiscent of thick woolen blankets and cheerfully flickering flames.

The cold war is over, and you’re not quite sure who melted who.

“Mhm,” you hum. Semi offers you his upturned palm without taking his eyes of the road, so you slip your hand into his, enjoying the way his fingers envelop yours. There’s a light winter rain outside, washing away any remnants of frost on windowpanes and waterpipes.

But, frankly, you don’t really care.

[aerynwrites]

Okay okay, I got this! So may I request Cassian with the prompts “You’re bleeding” and “Come here, let me fix this” where the reader is inadvertently injured during a mission and Cassian needs to patch her up? Maybe some feelings involved somewhere too 😭💕 Thank you!!

A/N: Here you go! I’ve missed writing for Cassian! <3

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: Blood and injury, hurt/comfort, fluff.

It was supposed to be a simple mission. Get in, meet with the informant, get the information, and get out. A simple task that Cassian has completed hundreds of times. Which is the only reason he thought it safe to bring you along with him. You’re just a technician, usually you come with him or the rogue one crew to help with analytics or if something goes wrong with the ship. Cassian had never intended to fall for you, having always put the rebellion first. He never expected for you to worm your way into his heart with your kindness or bright smile. 

Yet here he is with you, running away from an ambush of storm troopers, all because he could never say no to you. 

You had begged and begged to accompany him on one of his smaller missions. Claiming that the more knowledge you had of his field work the more help you could be. But Cassian knew it was because you wanted to do more for the rebellion than just fix ships and look over data. Perhaps that’s why he had caved and let you tag along, because he saw a bit of his younger self in you. Optimistic, hopeful, but terribly naive. 

“Come on!” he shouts, ducking and pulling you with him to avoid a round of blaster shots, “We’re almost back to the ship. We can make it!”

You struggle to keep up, the stormy weather of the planet you’re on has turned the ground into a muddy mess. You keep losing your footing on the slippery terrain, and you can hardly see in front of you due to the buckets of rain pouring down from the sky and dripping into your eyes. Oh...and the blaster-shot to your side that you think Cassian has yet to notice. 

The only sense of hope you feel is when you see your ship in the distance. You faintly hear Cassian call into his comm link for K2 to start the ship and get prepared to take off the moment you two arrive on board. Another round of blaster fire has both you and Cassian ducking to the side before you both finally manage to run into the ship. You slip on your way up the ramp and Cassian instantly catches you and hauls you the rest of the way into the ship. You let out a pained hiss as his hand falls onto your blaster wound, and release a sigh when you are set gently into one of the passenger seats. 

“You’re bleeding,” Cassian says, voice slightly panicked as he looks at his hand covered in crimson.

“I-I’m fine,” you tell him, trying to calm him down, “It’s nothing we can’t handle.” you wince on the last word, hand falling to the source of pain instinctively. 

Cassian feels like his heart is in his throat when he discovers your injury. He feels like a fool for letting you come along with him, letting his feelings for you get in the way of his better judgment. He shakes his head firmly, quickly stripping off his thick coat and moves to find the med kit. 

“I shouldn’t have let you come,” he sighs, pulling the medkit off the wall and walking back over to crouch on the floor in front of you, “It was too dangerous, and I should have known that!” he chastises himself. 

“Cassian,” you call out to him, “Stop,” you breathe, “Please. It’s not your fault,” you insist, “You couldn’t have known what was going to happen. Please don’t blame yourself.”

The man before you closes his eyes tightly, biting his tongue to stop himself from arguing with you. He takes several deep breaths, realizing that - as much as he hates it - your words are true. 

He sighs. Moving to help over to help you stand from your seat, “Come here,” he instructs softly, “Let me at least fix this,” he gestures to the charred and bloody area on your jacket. 

You nod, letting him guide you over to a low bench instead. He helps you remove your jacket slowly, careful not to jar you around too much. Then he lifts your shirt up enough so he can inspect the wound.

“Hold your shirt up,” he whispers. 

You obey, holding the fabric away from the wound and biting your lip when you feel his fingers trail around the area lightly, assessing the damage. You let out a shaky breath when he pulls his hands away, and he sighs softly in relief.

“It isn’t too deep. Just a graze,” he explains, “I just have to clean it, apply some bacta and bandages and you will be good as new.”

“Okay,” you say softly, “I trust you.”

Cassian smiles wryly as he begins to slowly doctor your wound, “And look where that trust got you. Covered in mud with a blaster bolt to the side.”

“Cassian!” you chastise, voice pitching up slightly when he starts to apply bacta cream to your injury, “I told you this wasn’t your fault, you need to sto-”

“I have one job!” he cuts you off, voice harsh yet hands gentle as he continues to treat you. “I have one job,” he reiterates. “To protect those who can’t protect themselves. To protect those I lo-”

He stops, throat going dry, as he begins to wrap the bandages around your waist. He has never told you how he feels, never intended too. But after today, even though it wasn’t anything terrible, he can’t deny the absolute fear he felt shooting through his veins when he saw your blood on his hands. He has plenty of that already, but he never wanted yours on him. Never wanted the blood of those he loves to come anywhere near him. 

He continues only when he has taped the bandage off and tugs your shirt back down, looking up at you with hands resting on your thighs gently. “I’m supposed to protect the people I care about, the people I love,” he squeezes your thighs on the last word, “What good am I, if i can’t even do that?”

You feel your eyes burn with unshed tears at the confession. You’ve had feelings for the captain since the moment you had joined the rogue one crew on your first mission. You knew that you both felt something for each other, constantly tiptoeing around one another and teasing back and forth. But you knew that Cassian was practically married to the rebellion. So, to hear him finally say these things out loud...it made a wave of emotions crash over you. 

You quickly slide down from the bench so you are on the floor just a hair's breadth away from him. You hesitantly move to cradle his face in your hands, feeling your heart swell when he melts into you. 

“I love you too, Cas,” you whisper, thumbs running slowly over his cheek bones.

His eyes snap to meet yours when the words fall from your lips, and before you can react, his hands are on your wrists and he's bringing his lips to yours. 

And suddenly...everything seems right.

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Cassian Andor Tag: @stubbychaos @shayna-winchester @a-keyth16 @godhateskyleigh @seasonschange-butpeopledont @bisexual-space-slut  @stanfordscrush @infinitepurity @kaermorons @maydayfigment @h-e-l-l-o-s @justawilddreamerchild

[sunlit-squid]

(simping softness prompts) could i get some “hey, everything's gonna be fine. stay where you are, i'm on my way” or “holy crap, i thought you were dead! never do that to me again!” if you are feeling so inclined? sorry im just in love w ur writing

For those who don't know, my ask box is open. Send me a simping softness prompt, and I'll write a short sbsp ficlet for you. ✰

i'm gonna do "hey, everything's gonna be fine ...", but don't you worry. i will also be doing "holy crap ..." at some point, since someone else requested it.

anyway, thanks for the prompt, and for the kind words! while we're here, i should also say that @wowthwtslame is doing a similar ficlet challenge. their writing is wonderful, so definitely check them out!

also tagging @azumeowth, who requested the same prompt!

ficlet under the cut. thanks again!

The call came in -- loudly -- at around 2 in the morning.

When Squidward rolled over to check his shell phone, the dull blue screen read, simply, “SpongeBrat”, accompanied by a vomit emoji. Sighing, the octopus put his phone on silent and went back to bed. Surely whatever it was the sponge wanted to blabber about could wait until tomorrow. After a decent night’s sleep.

Unfortunately, sleep was hard to come by. Despite having switched his phone to silent, the device’s small blue screen continued to light up repeatedly, like a small, pathetic rave. Every few seconds, the small blue light cast peculiar shadows on the walls of Squidward’s bedroom. Eventually, after thirty minutes of tossing and turning, the cephalopod grabbed his phone to shove it inside the nightstand -- when he caught a glimpse of the screen itself.

43 missed calls. 37 unread text messages. All from “SpongeBrat” Squarepants.

The phone rang again. This time, Squidward picked up.

“Spongebob, do you have any idea what time it is?” snapped Squidward, despite the uncomfortable, worried feeling growing in his stomach. “No? Well, I’ll tell you -- it is two-forty-seven --”

“I-I know, Squidward,” came a small, shaking Spongebob-voice. “I just -- I didn’t know what to do.”

Squidward paused. Well, that was … not the regular Spongebob volume. Or tone. Or pitch.

“Squ -- Squidward?” came the sponge’s soft, sad voice once more. The frycook’s voice was barely audible. There was some sort of loud, constant whooshing happening on the other end, not to mention a weird crackling noise, which made it very difficult to hear. Squidward sighed, wiping a tentacle across his eyes.

“I’m here,” said Squidward. “What’s this about, Spongebob?”

Silence. Then, crying -- and not Spongebob’s usual loud, obnoxious crying. This crying was quiet and gentle, barely decipherable against the loud whooshing on the other end of the line. Squidward sat up then, pressing the phone close to his ear.

“Sponge,” said Squidward, panic rising in his chest. “Sponge, what’s wrong?”

Spongebob sobbed something indiscernible. Then, he stammered, “I’m -- I’m hurt, Squidward. I’m hurt, and … I’m lost.”

Something funny exploded in Squidward’s chest. Before he knew it, the octopus was out of bed, scrambling for his jacket and keys. Gripping his shell phone tight, Squidward asked, “Where are you? What’s going on, Spongebob?”

On the other end of the line, Spongebob snuffled. “I got on the wrong bus,” he explained, in a shaky, uneven voice. “I -- I’m in a place called ‘Deviltown’ now, and the current is so strong, and the signal is pretty bad --” There was that distorted, crackling sound again -- followed by a few more broken whimpers.

Squidward sighed, feeling his hearts crack with every little sob. “Hey, everything’s going to be fine,” he said, stepping out the door and into the cool Bikini Bottom night. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.”

-0-

Deviltown, it turned out, was several hours away from Bikini Bottom. Squidward’s shell phone indicated the drive not only went straight, but downward -- which was certainly a problem. Oceanic towns grew more and more dangerous the deeper you went, and Deviltown was apparently thousands of nautical leagues under the sea. Wherever Spongebob was, even the sun couldn’t reach him.

Undeterred, Squidward set off on his journey. His boat was constantly maintained, so the cephalopod was certain it could handle the perilous road ahead.

For the first hour or so, the drive was uneventful -- peaceful, even. The streets were smooth and well taken care of, which was good considering the massive tax hike this past year. Squidward even put on some Kelpy G, which certainly helped to soothe his nerves.

Later on, however, the drive got worse. The once well-maintained roads gave way to rickety rocks and slippery sand, with only a few sporadic road signs to get by. Moonlight became sparse, and by the time Squidward reached a vertical road, he had his brights all the way up -- and was still struggling to see.

A nearby rickety sign read “Deviltown, 10 nautical miles downward.” Peering down into the deep abyss, Squidward gulped. Despite his headlights, he still couldn’t see a thing -- just a vast expanse of open blackness.

A tight feeling wound itself around Squidward’s chest. He thought about backing up, turning around, and going straight home. This was ridiculous. Why was he out here, in the wee hours of the morning, chasing after SpongeBrat Squarepants, of all people? The boy had other friends. Certainly one of them would be willing to retrieve him.

Squidward’s tentacle hovered just over the gear stick. That’s when he saw it: in his passenger seat lay Spongebob’s wrinkled little jacket. The sponge must have left it behind the other day, when Squidward (begrudgingly) drove them both home from work.

Squidward’s chest felt hollow, suddenly. He thought of how many times he’d seen Spongebob in that exact jacket over the years.

He thought of never seeing him in that jacket ever again.

Groaning, the octopus switched gears from “Drive” to “Drive, But Downward”, and puttered his way into the deep and black abyss.

-0-

The journey into the inky black was, bar none, one of the creepiest things Squidward had ever experienced. He told himself, repeatedly, that if he just stared straight ahead and focused on the task at hand, then everything would be fine. Still, hearing creepy noises in the darkness (and being unable to see where they came from) was severely unsettling.

After what felt like forever, the vertical road became horizontal once again, and Squidward finally drove into Deviltown. Luckily, the town had the decency to set up some lamp posts, possibly for out-of-towners like Squidward who were unused to the darkness. Still, the lamp posts were few and far between, and there was nobody out and about, giving Deviltown a fittingly creepy vibe nonetheless.

Tense, cold, and worried, Squidward drove further into town, squinting for Spongebob’s bright yellow body. Surely the boy couldn’t be that hard to spot -- he was likely the only vibrant thing down here. Surely --

Oh. Oh, no.

Squidward brought his boat careening to a stop. Clambering out of it, the octopus made his way over to a rickety wooden bus stop, with a flickering lamp post just overhead. On a bench nearby was none other than Spongebob Squarepants: cold, alone, and unconscious. For a moment, a horrible thought passed through Squidward’s head -- is he dead? -- before he saw the sponge’s chest rise and fall, taking slow and steady breaths.

Breathing a huge sigh of relief, Squidward looked up and down the street. No one in sight.

Gently, the octopus leaned down and shook Spongebob lightly. “Hey,” said Squidward, awkwardly. “What are you doing asleep all the way out here? We have work tomorrow, you know.”

Spongebob stirred. In the dim light, Squidward realized the sponge really was hurt -- his usually spiffy shirt and tie were ripped straight down the middle. Beyond the fabric, the sponge’s chest was badly torn up, too, and for some reason, he had not regenerated yet.

Squidward swallowed. “Spongebob?”

The sponge stirred once more. This time, his eyes opened -- and he smiled, weakly. “Squidward,” he slurred, happily. He tried to laugh, then winced, clutching at his stomach and chest. “Squidward, it’s you … you came … ”

“Of course I came,” muttered Squidward, before he could stop himself. “I -- you … ugh, I hate you.”

Scooping up Spongebob, Squidward gently carried him over to the boat, positioning him carefully in the passenger’s seat. The sponge fussed a little about being buckled in, but otherwise, seemed too out of it to complain properly. Taking a deep breath, Squidward got back behind the wheel and started the engine.

“Heheh,” chuckled Spongebob as the boat roared to life. “Vroom-vroom.”

Squidward rolled his eyes and began turning the boat around, back towards Bikini Bottom. “We’re going home now,” he said, with a sigh. “You need to see a doctor for … whatever it was that happened to you.”

Spongebob simply nodded, then fell to his side, leaning all of his body weight on Squidward as he drove. The octopus felt warmth rising to his cheeks, and for once felt grateful for the murky blackness of the ocean void.

Spongebob was mumbling something.

“What is it?” said Squidward. “Are you okay?”

“I …uh … love you, Squidward,” said Spongebob, in a very loopy voice. “I love your big nose, and your paintings, and I wanna … get married, someday. Okay? Can we get married, someday?”

Squidward’s entire face was bright red now. It took everything in him not to just veer in a random direction and crash the entire damn boat. Taking a deep breath, the octopus collected himself. Spongebob was just severely injured, and loopy as a result. He didn’t really mean any of this.

Squidward decided to play along. “Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, we can get married.”

“Mm,” said Spongebob, chuckling softly. “Can I -- can I wear a dress?”

“Sure,” said Squidward. “Whatever you want.”

“And you’ll … and you’ll kiss me?”

“Mhm,” mumbled Squidward.

“And I can … listen to you play the clarinet around the house … and, and paint with you … and watch your soaps with … you … ”

Squidward looked over. The sponge had fallen asleep, and was snoring loudly. Which was … good. Very good. Excellent, even. That way, they couldn’t talk about marriage or love or any of that absolute nonsense. Now they could just drive forward in sweet silence.

Still, Squidward found himself dwelling over Spongebob’s words far more than he would have liked.

About an hour into the drive home, the octopus glanced over at the sponge, still fast asleep beside him. Fixing his gaze forward, Squidward took a deep breath, clutching the steering wheel in a tight death-grip.

“Spongebob, I …,” Squidward began, shakily. “I love you. I love you, I love you.”

Squidward found that once he started saying it, he couldn’t stop. The words felt good in his mouth, like a massive weight had finally been lifted off his chest.

“I love everything about you,” said Squidward, his three hearts exploding inside his chest. “Your annoying laugh, your stupid singing, all of it. I want to read with you, and garden with you.”

Squidward hesitated, his words floating out into the open water.

“I love you,” said Squidward, one last time. “And I … I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe I’m a coward. I’m sorry.”

Squidward looked over. Spongebob was still fast asleep, snoring away against his arm -- but the smallest of smiles had appeared on his face.

-0-

Squidward woke up in the hospital, seated in a chair next to Spongebob’s hospital bed. The poriferan was wide awake, watching an episode of Mermaid Man and Barnacle Boy on the hospital television. Of course.

The sponge turned. “Squidward!” he exclaimed, his voice loud and back to normal. “You’re awake!”

“Unfortunately,” muttered the octopus. “How are you feeling?”

“Great!” chirped Spongebob. “Better than ever, actually -- but the doc says I should stick around for a little while, just in case.”

Squidward glanced down. Sure enough, Spongebob’s chest had almost fully regenerated. Thank Neptune. When they arrived at the Bikini Bottom General Hospital early that morning, Spongebob was still in rough shape. The doctor said Spongebob most likely had a run-in with a deep-sea predator, and the attack was too quick and too constant for the poriferan to regenerate. Not to mention there were several lacerations to his vital organs.

Still, sponges were pretty sturdy folk -- and all Spongebob really needed was a long rest in a controlled environment.

Squidward breathed a huge sigh of relief. “Great,” he said, awkwardly. “I, uh. Pay attention next time you get on the bus, alright? So I don’t have to come running after you.”

Spongebob laughed. “Okey-doke.”

The two then sat together in silence for an uncomfortable amount of time. All the while, Squidward wondered if perhaps his stupid, impulsive, not-really-a-love-confession-confession had actually gotten through to Spongebob. His hearts twisted up at just the thought.

“Hey, Squidward?”

The octopus looked up, and was very surprised to find splotches of red decorating the sponge’s cheeks.

“What?” said Squidward.

“My, uh, sea flowers have been dying lately,” said the sponge, scratching the back of his head awkwardly. “Maybe you could come by and we could share some gardening tips?”

A brilliant red blush planted itself on Squidward’s face. Then, he cleared his throat, and folded his arms across his chest. “Only if we get to watch a soap afterwards.”

Spongebob grinned. “Deal.”

Squidward found himself grinning, too, despite himself. “Deal.”

References:

“Deviltown” is loosely based off of the Devil Sea, near the Japanese coast.

I will likely be compiling these ficlets into one combined fic on ao3. I originally wasn't going to, but I definitely didn't expect so many requests. So keep an eye out for that, at some point.

[the-melting-world]

Goosebumps 🍋

~ In which a pscyhic pirate reunites with a quiet quartermaster...

@midsummer-masquerade

Sun Bai x Jacqui

Jacqui belongs to @apprenticealec

You can read all the fics to Off To The Races: A Midsummer Masquerade here.

Music: "Goosebumps" by Travis Porter

Day 5 of The Midsummer Masquerade ~ Voyeurism

Smut Prompts 9 + 48: "Is it good when I touch you here? Or maybe here?” + “Shall we put that mouth to better use?”

cw: brief mention of death

~ 3k words

Shortly after Rodrigo leaves his quartermaster's side to pursue a masquerade guest with a swan mask, Jacqui starts to feel a familiar, encouraging sensation lightly pressing up the against the nape of his neck...

As much as Jacqui couldn’t get enough of Sun Bai’s telepathic kisses, this was the one time he could pass on them. Especially if it meant he could catch up to the slippery mantis as he took Jacqui on a maddening journey through the Palace corridors.

Though Jacqui was able to keep Bai in his sights – thanks to both of their heights, none of them had a problem getting lost in the sea of people – Bai was always just out of Jacqui’s reach. Yet the pirate continued to taunt and poke the quartermaster with those psychic touches that felt eerily similar to Bai’s lips walking down his spine.

Eventually, the halls grew darker and less crowded.

Bai, Jacqui called out in his own head, knowing that the other could hear him, where the hell are you taking us?

A kiss ghosted across Jacqui’s pressure point, followed by some quiet snickering.

[You’ll see.]

Finally, Bai went still before a pair of tall, metal doors. Jacqui caught up to him and, with breathtaking control, steered him against the wall. This close to Bai’s lean body, barely covered by a dark silk robe, Jacqui could hardly hold back from burying his face in the pirate’s neck. And so he didn’t.

Bai hissed and trembled in what Jacqui knew to be pleasure as he walked his lips up and down Sun Bai’s throat, taking in his scent of rain and whatever herbal tea he last had to drink.

Jacqui reached for the opening in Bai’s robe and slowly dragged the pad of his finger down his chest. “Is it good when I touch you here?” He pulled the edge of Bai’s robe off his shoulder “Or maybe here?” Jacqui whispered as he lowered his head and dropped a kiss to the exposed skin.

To Jacqui’s surprise, it was Bai who eliminated the space between them. “I need you closer.” The pirate sounded desperate, almost whiny.

Jacqui rocked his hips forward and once again rolled his face against his partner’s neck.

“I’m here. Take as much of me as you want.”

Jacqui sensed some of the internal battle taking place in Bai. He didn’t miss a single shiver or shudder from the former bounty hunter. Bai dragged his palms up and down Jacqui’s bare chest and keened his hips forward so his erection rubbed insistently against the quartermaster’s.

[Goddamnit Jacqui, I want all of you.]

He sounded more frustrated with himself more than anything. Jacqui didn’t know if it would ever be the right time to ask Bai how he got this way. Sometimes in the rare quiet hours on the Bleeding Heart, he wondered about Bai’s behaviors. He had seen him without clothes and knew that he didn’t have any scars or brands to speak of. So what was the source of all his avoidance?

There were other peculiarities as well. In the bedroom, Bai had an aversion to being bent over solid surfaces. He preferred to stretch out on the bed or even the floor. He was also content with being on his hands and knees. These aversions weren’t something Bai ever came out and spoke to Jacqui about. The observant quartermaster simply happened to pick up on things over time.

For now, however, his curiosity would have to wait. He wanted Bai just as much as he felt wanted by him. Jacqui used a fraction of his strength to line his entire body up with Bai’s, pinning him firmly to the wall. He fed a hand inside his robe, relishing in the way Bai’s smooth skin rippled as Jacqui’s palm traveled down to his waist where he firmly gripped. Jacqui wanted to feel more of Bai between his legs so he spread his own a little, encouraging Bai to press his thigh in between them.

Jacqui’s other hand came up last to Bai’s head. Soon he was lost in his ghostly white waves, careful not to disturb his glasses as he moved in with deep and tender kisses. By now, Bai no longer struggled with matching Jacqui’s rhythm. His body might have been shivering and losing its grip every time Jacqui flexed his muscles, but that wasn’t the case with his mouth. Bai’s jaw went slack for Jacqui as his tongue came alive and eager to tease the ring in the pirate’s lip.

“We need to find a room,” Jacqui groaned as he drew back just enough to look into Bai’s eyes. Bai was clearly in a giving mood and he didn’t want to be in a place open enough to risk getting interrupted by any of the crew.

Jacqui suddenly had a thought. It made him smirk as he drew Bai’s face up by his chin. “And then maybe we can put that mouth to better use, hm?” He gave him a soft kiss, but immediately regretted his words when he pulled back and saw the look on Bai’s face.

Jacqui wished he could kick himself. If there was one thing Bai had come clean about in the past, it was his vulnerabilities around any oral affection below the waist.

Jacqui stepped back and hid his face in his palm. “I’m sorry. It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other. I totally forgot–”

Bai’s hand came up to rest on Jacqui’s arm. He gently pried Jacqui’s palm from his face. “No. That’s actually something I wanted to…” He swallowed and adjusted his lenses. “Just follow me.”

The room that Bai led Jacqui inside of was almost completely dark except for a spot in the center that was lit up by a single beam of light. There was a cushion on the floor, resting under the spotlight.

Jacqui stopped Bai from going any further. “Wait. Before I forget.” He pulled out something he had carried with from the ship. “This is for you.”

Bai didn’t look at the gift until both of them were under the light. He quietly observed a simple solid black case. Once he figured out how it opened, he discovered the rich velvety interior. It came in a nostalgic shade of green much like the jade stones occupying the piercings in Bai’s septum and bridge.

“For my glasses?” The psychic whispered.

Jacqui smiled as he carefully removed the blue-tinted frames from Bai’s face and set them inside the case. “Yes. So you don’t have to keep replacing them so often. Besides, I figured it would come in handy tonight.” He set the case on the ground out of the light.

“Now.” Jacqui faced Bai again. “What was it that you wanted to show me?”

Bai looked a little lost for words. Clearly, he hadn’t been expecting the gift. Jacqui reassured him by brushing his thumb over the mole close to Bai’s eye.

“You can talk to me with your mind if that’s easier.”

Bai turned his eyes up under the light, which illuminated the true gray in them.

[It is easier this way.]

Jacqui wasn’t sure at first, but he thought he heard the space suddenly fill up with the sound of a violin.

[You asked me earlier if I wanted to put my mouth to better use.]

The darkness in the room began to lift.

[The truth is I do. I have. I always have.]

It didn’t take long for Jacqui to realize that they were not alone.

[These sort of things take a little longer for me. But I think I’m ready now, Jacqui. I wanted to make tonight special for that reason.]

Jacqui scanned the room to see that they were surrounded by chairs, which were all occupied. There were two rows. The second row belonged to the orchestra. The first row closest to Jacqui and Bai was full of guests barely clothed and touching themselves in ways that were meant to bring pleasure.

[It’s going to be special because we get to have a witness. Quite a few actually.]

The party guests’ limbs were positioned at odd angles. That’s when Jacqui noticed that they all seemed to be controlled by strings at their joints. He followed the threads up and and up and up until…

[Puppet masters and their “marionettes,”] Bai explained. [It’s some sort of kink magic. I don’t know. All the parties involved are consenting, I promise.]

Jacqui’s heart was causing a lump to form at the base of his throat. He looked back at Bai.

“They’re going to watch us while you–”

Bai collided messily with Jacqui’s mouth. Hot and breathy, he whispered, “While I suck you off – yes, yes. Yes.”

[If you’re not into it, just say the word. I’ll make them go away.]

Jacqui steadied his breath against Bai’s already swollen lips. He cleared his throat and said with calm confidence, “Let them watch.”

Sun Bai didn’t waste any more time talking. He dipped his face against Jacqui’s neck, working kisses down his collarbone and over his chest. His fingers came to Jacqui’s crotch to unlace the drawstrings on his tight, leather pants.

Meanwhile, the orchestra and the masturbating marionettes carried on in the background.

[Do you want to know why I don’t get jealous when I see Rodrigo all over you? Or lose my cool whenever he catches wind of me and chases me off? It’s because I know and more importantly I know that you know: you’re mine. Just mine.]

Bai was on his knees now, dragging his open mouth over Jacqui’s tight bulge. His breath was unsteady under the musical whine of the strings playing in the background. Bai dug his fingers behind the leather and seesawed the fabric down just enough to free Jacqui's cock.

The psychic looked up at the quartermaster as he formed a ring with his index and thumb that he then slid from Jacqui’s base and up until he gently pinched the head. Bai maintained eye contact as he brought his face forward and dabbed the crease of his lower lip with Jacqui’s small spell of precum.

Jacqui’s face burned at the sight. He knew he had no control over the muscles in his jaw. Was he wetting or biting his lip? Was he arching his eyebrow in curious fascination? He had no clue.

Bai was tonguing his slit now, his eyes closed in tranquil concentration. He dug his fingers deeper past the lip of Jacqui’s pants and gave a slow tug, filling his mouth up with Jacqui’s impressive length. Bai took his time salivating over every centimeter of Jacqui’s cock, savoring each ridge, each hidden dimple that he would have otherwise missed if he had simply tried to swallow him whole.

“Bai,” Jacqui breathed, “I want you in my head too. Talk to me.”

Bai’s eyes fluttered open. He gave the softest of smirks, his mouth still full of cock.

[What’s wrong? Don’t like the orchestra that I’ve prepared for you? And here I thought you were a man who could appreciate the more alternative art forms.]

Before Jacqui could respond, Bai’s presence was back.

[Is it getting to be too much? The crowds? The lights? I can turn them off if that’s better.]

Jacqui didn’t know how Bai controlled it, but the room went completely dark. The music was still going and the audience was still getting off on themselves.

[There. Sounds like they’ve seen enough to take care of themselves. Now it’s just you and me.]

The sounds of the marionettes groaning and cycling through their orgasms were only amplified in Jacqui’s ears. That and Bai’s wet, deliberate sucking.

[Show me you’re mine, Jacqui.]

Jacqui bit back a groan. “What do you mean?”

[I know you won’t ever say it outright. Out of respect for your captain. I understand that, but I know you to be a man of action rather than words. So show me.]

The lights came back on. Bai hollowed out his mouth and came to a stop.

Jacqui shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Bai came off his cock and took a moment to swallow his spit. Then he stood up and kissed Jacqui with such tenderness, the quartermaster felt his heart actually skip a beat.

“You don’t want to hurt me?”

Jacqui shook his head again, his silver ring lightly brushing along Bai’s lower lip. Bai steadied Jacqui’s head by reaching up and tightening his hand in the roots of his locs.

“Then don’t.” He steadied Jacqui’s lips with a kiss. “You know I trust you.”

Bai drifted back down to kneel on the cushion. This time Jacqui was ready. Eager even. He fumbled at his leather still constricting his waist and peeled it down to his knees so his legs could breathe and spread a little wider.

Stay with me, Jacqui called out when he felt Bai trying to fade from his head. The cool feel of wet grass stayed as he worked his cock past Bai’s lips and over his tongue.

[–mmk!]

Jacqui sensed the ebb and flow of Bai’s reactions as he held his face and found his rhythm in it, his own groans barely a whisper despite all of the charged blood that had rushed straight to his extremities.

Bai’s lashes fluttered out of his control. His gunmetal eyes lolled behind them. And then the lights began to flicker, like a strobe, dancing to the music of the marionettes and the violins and Bai’s patient gagging.

Jacqui began to feel Bai’s presence in a new way in the form of a firm, uneven pulse. He realized it was the beat of his own cock every time it kissed the back of Bai’s throat. The sensation was so hypnotic, Jacqui let go of a shuddering breath and leaned into it.

The strobe lights danced for them, Bai’s reactions registering in Jacqui’s vision only as flickers and flashes. The steady, constant beat of his hips took both of them by storm.

“Bai, I’m coming.”

[Yeah, I know.]

Jacqui was seeing stars. His fingers became tangled up in Bai’s ghostly waves. His hips managed not to jerk too hard, but he couldn’t help anchoring Bai’s face downward so his cock could take advantage of the natural curve of his throat. He opened his hips some more as he emptied out his excitement. Jacqui groaned unexpectedly at the sensation of Bai’s esophagus gently nipping the tip of his cock with each desperate swallow.

Despite his efforts, Bai hadn’t been able to get it all down. While the orchestra was wrapping up and the puppet magicians were packing their things and filing out, Sun Bai was still trying to catch his breath against Jacqui’s leg. Jacqui stroked his hair while Bai leaned his cheek against the quartermaster’s damp thigh and waited until his chest stopped heaving.

Jacqui expected that when Bai was ready, he would tuck Jacqui’s cock back in his pants and go about the rest of his night. But Bai stayed, leaving breathy, half-hearted kisses along his partner’s inner thigh.

This went on for some time, to the point where Jacqui’s already damp skin tingled under the tenderness of Bai’s lips and the light brushing of the soft, dark hair from his chin. All the other guests had left the dark hall.

Jacqui, who wasn’t used to this sort of attention, especially from Bai, called out to him. “Babe, you don’t have to do that.”

“I know that.” Bai shot Jacqui a look before he went back to kissing and sighing against him. Jacqui’s face burned under the prolonged affection. He returned to massaging his fingers against Bai’s scalp, which only earned him more delayed reactions that walked a fine line between an exhale and a whimper.

Finally, Bai helped Jacqui adjust his pants before getting back to his feet. Jacqui walked over to where he had set down the glasses case and handed them off to Bai.

“Thank you. I…” Bai hesitated. “I got a room for us. But if you want to go back to yours–”

“I’m staying with you tonight.”

Bai turned around before Jacqui could catch his reaction. “Alright then. It’s this way.”

Sun Bai’s chambers were sleek and free of the usual masquerade decorations. Without many words, Jacqui and Bai helped each other out of the more restrictive components of their costumes until Bai was just in his silk robe. He brought another robe out of the closet for Jacqui, so he wouldn’t get cold. This one was dark blue, almost black. The swirls of gold painted in the fabric were only visible when they caught the light at certain angles.

“You can keep that,” Bai said just as Jacqui was in the middle of calculating the fortune something like this must have been worth.

Soon they were under the sheets, Jacqui’s back resting against the pillows and the headrest while Bai chose to lay his head on the quartermaster’s chest. With one leg draped over Jacqui’s thigh and his arm resting along his abdomen, Bai encouraged him to let down his bun and massage his darker roots. While Jacqui happily went about doing so, running his fingers through the psychic’s pale locks, Bai spoke quietly about his travels since they had last seen each other.

“We got a cat. He’s gray and likes to ride on my shoulders sometimes.”

“He sounds a lot sweeter than Mr. Pickles,” Jacqui mused. “What’s his name?”

Bai offhandedly flexed his wrist. “Gatsby... Don’t ask me what it means. Sascha named him. Probably has something to do with guns.”

The pirates kept chatting until Jacqui started to yawn.

Bai shifted a little. “Hey. Stay up with me. Don’t let me fall asleep either.”

Jacqui arched an eyebrow. “Why not?”

In all the time they had known each other, Bai had never spent the night. This was also the longest he and Jacqui had spent in a position like this. Cuddling seemed a strange word to use, but Jacqui honestly didn’t know what else to call it.

Bai hesitated. “Because…”

Jacqui held his breath. A few beats later, Bai’s confession came out honest and straightforward.

“Because the last time I fell asleep in someone’s arms, I woke up in a pit of dead bodies.”

Jacqui stiffened ever so slightly, hoping Bai hadn’t noticed.

Bai didn’t turn his head to look back at Jacqui. In fact, he didn’t move at all.

“I was nineteen.”

Jacqui closed his eyes as he dipped his face towards Bai’s crown.

“I won’t let you fall asleep.” He wrapped both arms around Bai and held him as tightly as he could. “I promise.”

Sun Bai let out a very small breath.

[Thank you.]

[arvandus]

Touch (pt 3)

Pairing: Dabi x Fem!Reader

WARNINGS: 18+ only please!  Drug abuse/withdrawal, adult language/themes, heavy angst, past trauma/abuse, anxiety/panic attacks, PTSD, fluff, pining, slow burn, eventual emotional SMUT. *please pay attention to the chapter tags as these warnings will apply at different times*

Synopsis: When you first joined the LOV to lend your healing quirk, Dabi  terrified you.  Not interested in attachments, he wanted to keep it  that way.  That is, until he needs your help. (Slow burn, soft Dabi).

Please let me know if you’d like to be tagged in future chapters.

Recommended Chapter Song:

Dizzy by MISSIO

Part 1   Part 2

Artwork credit to @hellowon31​ on Twitter (https://twitter.com/hellowon31)

Part 3 - Resistance

The next day, Dabi woke up feeling like a complete wreck of a person.  A mockery of a human being, made of faulty parts stitched together haphazardly by a cruel universe.  He was angry. Furious.  Wasn’t your quirk supposed to last longer than this?  His head pounded.  The sun peeking through the crack in his curtains was an assault. Sweat covered his exposed pale flesh and yet he felt cold, clammy hands shaking.  Dabi laid back on his bed to cocoon himself into his blankets when he realized…his back was still painless.

Your quirk was still working.

Dabi’s bleary eyes caught sight of his empty pill bottles on his nightstand, and realization dawned on him. Withdrawal.

It started sooner than he had hoped.  He would have refilled his stock by now, but his usual seller went missing, most likely picked up by the feds.  Dabi had already reached out to Giran to find a new source, but the old man hadn’t returned his text messages.  So, Dabi spent some of his time the day before following connections within the villain network.  His search came up with nothing; what he could find wasn’t strong enough to justify the expense or the sellers were obviously trying to swindle him with a diluted product. Long story short, he felt like shit and had no quick fix for it.

He wanted to crawl out of his skin.  Fuck. Everything.

The memory of your cool touch on his skin came forefront to his aching head and he wondered if your quirk would be useful for his withdrawal symptoms…

Dabi pushed the thought out of his head.  He wasn’t going to let that be an option.  It was a slippery slope leading to a dependency that he simply couldn’t afford and definitely did not want.  He was already on edge from yesterday’s conversation. His sympathetic thoughts, no matter how brief, made him see a man he didn’t recognize, and the thoughts plagued him ever since.  He had never considered himself a soft guy.  It wasn’t that he didn’t have feelings.  Things could still bother him if he let them.  But he had learned very early on that what he felt didn’t matter. Perhaps it was the gradual silencing of his conscience, small pieces of him chipped away like stone worn down over years of crashing waves.  Only rarely, every once in a while, did the waters of his vengeance and bitter hatred recede enough to allow sunlight to touch his burnt heart.  And in that moment, he saw you, a fragile boat approaching rocky, dangerous shores.

He frowned.  As long as you did your job, what should it matter? You chose this life just like everyone else did.  It wasn’t his responsibility to protect you from it.

As if his heavy thoughts summoned you, your familiar knock rang through his door.  He cursed under his breath.  During his misery, Dabi had forgotten that you were going to visit him this morning.  He had planned to be gone before you came looking for him, a silent show of defiance to your mothering.  But instead he here was, stuck, feeling the shittiest he felt in a long time.  Maybe if he just ignored you…

You knocked on the door again, your pounding louder, incessant.  You were so fucking stubborn.  He glowered at the wooden barrier angrily, the intolerant noise sending a ringing like a tuning fork into the depths of his brain.  He contemplated setting the door on fire just to make a point. He held his restraint by hair, only vaguely aware that doing so would make him feel even worse, if such a thing was even possible.  Plus, you were the only person here with a lick of sense for medical care – he was ninety percent positive you had some sort of medical background.

“What?” he growled as he sat up begrudgingly, unwilling to let you see him so weak.  Nausea permeated him from his sudden motion.

On the other side of the door, you stared at the wood in confusion.  The sound of Dabi’s voice shocked you – low, scratchy, slurred… menacing.

You almost wanted to concede to the unspoken request, but your determination to treat him held tight to your will.  “It’s me.” You replied, hoping your voice didn’t sound as small as it felt.

A pregnant pause greeted you before he finally spoke. “Come in.” It sounded like an order.  Or was it a surrender?  Could it even be both?  How did this man always seem to have two versions of himself running simultaneously?

You came into the room and closed the door behind you with a quiet ‘click.’ You were met with a dark stuffiness, the air unusually warm and infused with the stink of sweat. The curtains were drawn closed, light straining to seep out along the edges of the fabric.  A thin slit of light stretched across Dabi’s bed where he sat, his back facing you.  He looked like a fallen angel, a broken soul.  His shoulders were hunched, drawn tight like a bow string, struggling not to fold in on himself and break.

His bravado was gone, his casual presence muted in the deafening silence.  He wasn’t even trying to pretend this time.  His distress was palpable.  You felt shame being here, your presence intrusive.  You weren’t supposed to see him like this.  So why did he let you in?

A mild panic filled you. Did he hurt himself again since you last saw him?  Or was this your fault?  Did your quirk wear off already?

“What’s wrong?” you asked. He didn’t respond.  You stepped forward cautiously.  “Dabi…?”

Your voice grated on his conscience – words of concern, a tone meant to soothe. He didn’t want your compassion.  He wanted you to be cold and indifferent, a mechanic repairing a broken part.  Or maybe even have you be as crazy as the others, waxing poetic about bloodlust and freedom.  That was a language he understood, that he could navigate with ease.  Not this benevolence.  Not this normalcy.  Why were you so different?

“You’re annoying.” He growled just loud enough for you to hear.

You halted your approach and your back stiffened.  “What?”

“Stop acting like you fucking care.”  The words spilled out of his mouth without a concern as to their damage.  He knew you cared, even if it was on a basic level, which was why he desperately, accusatorily denied it.

Everything bothered him. His head.  His body.  The stink of this room… you seeing him like this.  Why did that bother him?

You pressed your lips together, your jaw taut.  The tension in the room became as palpable as the stifling air.  What could you possibly say? That you did care?  Well, did you? You cared enough to be here, at least. You had a responsibility to treat him, and you’d be lying to yourself if you said he hadn’t been on your mind more than usual the past couple of days.  Of course, he’d never know that…. But were you friends by any stretch of the definition? No.  Definitely not. So, if he wanted to be a jerk and suffer with his pride, then you’d let him.

“If you want me to leave, just say so.” You replied coolly.  “I’m just here to do my job.”

Your answer satisfied him, cold and to the point, a counterbalance to your overwhelmingly gentle nature.  It provided him the emotional distance he needed, a cloak he donned willingly to shelter himself from your prying eyes.  And through his mental fog, he realized in mild amusement that it was the second time you called his bluff, grinding in your heels to deflect his verbal strikes. You weren’t easily bullied; at least, not as easily as he’d originally thought.

“Whatever.” He grumbled. “Let’s just get this over with, I got shit to do.”

You clenched and unclenched your hands around your bag.  You were grateful Dabi caved, your conscience breathing a sigh of relief.  You’d make it quick, to address what you needed to and leave him to sort himself out in solitude, like you knew he wanted.  You began to approach him, quiet steady steps around his bed so you could get a closer look at him. If he was going to let you treat him, you might as well try to make the most of your limited time and see if you could figure out what was wrong.

As soon as you could see his face, you realized he was holding something in his hand. An empty pill bottle.  His eyes stared at it like it held the answers to the universe while also cursing its existence.

Suddenly, everything clicked.  The agitation.  The pain. The misplaced anger… Of course.

You closed the distance between you until you were standing in front of him.  Without saying anything, you quietly took the bottle from his hand, which, surprisingly, he let you.  You read the name and the dosage.  It was a strong one.

“Dabi,” you said quietly, hoping you didn’t sound patronizing, “How long has it been since you’ve had your medication?”

There it was.  That kindness again.  You brought it forth so effortlessly, as if he didn’t just insult you a moment ago. Somewhere, behind his defenses, the itch of guilt settled itself into his mind like an unwelcome guest.

He was quiet for a moment as he stared at the bottle in your hand, his eyes either unable or unwilling to meet yours.  “Two days.” He replied, his voice scratchy.

You quickly did the math in your head.  He had mentioned that his pain meds ran out when he first asked for your help, but you had thought nothing of it at the time, assuming he had ways of fixing his problem.  You should have known.  You should have checked with him.  Drug withdrawal was no joke.

“When are you getting more?” you asked.

“Not sure, doll.  My supplier has gone AWOL and I haven’t found a backup.” He put his head between his hands and rubbed at his temples.  You watched him with quiet concern.  At first you wanted to use your quirk to try to help him, your hand starting to reach out to his wild raven hair instinctually. You faltered.  Would your quirk even work with this?  This wasn’t a cut or a burn or a broken rib… this was a chemical imbalance in his brain.  What if you hurt him or messed him up somehow?  Slowly you lowered your hand.  He needed his drugs.  

“How many of these did you take a day?” you asked as you looked at the bottle again.

He answered.  Your eyes bulged slightly.  How was this man not stumbling around when you first met him? He must have built up a tolerance over years of use.  Besides, quirkology affected everyone’s body a little differently.  Still, it definitely explained his bored expression and overall body language – this guy was constantly high.

“Don’t look so surprised, doll.” He stared up at you with shining bloodshot eyes.  His forehead was beaded in sweat, his skin so ghostly pale that only the rise and fall of his shallow chest indicated he was a breathing, living human.

You watched him, taking in his current state.  If he did finally get a hold of new meds on his own, would he be able to show restraint? Logically, you knew that he was experienced with this – it obviously wasn’t his first rodeo.  But still, a part of you couldn’t help but worry.

“You could really hurt yourself with these.” You replied softly.

“I know my limits.” He stated firmly, annoyance starting to seep in.

“That’s what everyone says, until they don’t.”

His brow furrowed, dark eyebrows pulled together like closing gates.  “Look, doll.  If you’re gonna lecture me, then you really can leave.  I don’t need your help with this.  I got by just fine before you came along.”

You wanted to snap back at him, to defend what seemed common sense to you, but you held back.  Poking the bear would help no one.

You kneeled down next to him and opened your bag, rummaging through your things.  “I’m not trying to lecture you.  I’m trying to help you.”  You found what you were looking for and pulled it out.  Nervousness filled you – you hoped he didn’t ask too many questions.

Dabi eyed the bottle of medication in your hand in hunger.

“It’s not as strong as what you’re used to,” you explained, “but it will take the edge off.”

“What kind of doctor are you, aiding a drug addict?” he teased.

A pang of guilt shot through you, but you steeled yourself against it.  “If you’re going to be taking pain meds, then I’d rather have it be something reliable and safe that I can monitor instead of something you find on the street through dubious means.”

“Oh yeah?  Like all of your little supplies don’t come from shady sources.  You can’t exactly get this stuff from anywhere.  Those are prescription only.” Dabi nodded at the bottle clutched so tightly in your hand, that he couldn’t see the label on it.  He couldn’t help but wonder… was it your name on that white sticker?  Or someone else’s?  What other items did you have in that bag of yours?

You lifted your chin pridefully.  “I have an inside source.  Trust me, the stuff I get is the real deal.  And that’s all you need to know about that.”

Dabi grinned as you gave him two of the pills from the bottle.  “Well, look at you, doll.  What a criminal.  You could get in serious trouble for this, sweetheart.”

“Oh, I think we’re well past that by now…” you replied with a grin, which earned you a chuckle.

Dabi popped the pills into his mouth and swallowed them dry.  Your smile faded slightly as you felt the urge to say one more important thing to him.

You stared at his hands in front of you, long fingers intertwined together and suspended in the air as his elbows rested on his knees.  “Look, Dabi…” you started.  Your eyes traced the metal rings holding his skin together.  “I can’t imagine the kind of pain you’re constantly in.  I understand why you take drugs. I think anyone would.  That’s why I’m helping you.  Not having pain meds isn’t really an option for you.”

“So, does that mean you’re gonna let me have that bottle?” his eyes stared at the bottle still clutched in your hand.

You held the bottle to your chest protectively, a part of you afraid he’d try to snatch it from you. Withdrawal made people do desperate things.  He raised an amused eyebrow at your defensive action, a small smirk upturning the corner of his mouth.

Your body felt warm and you broke eye contact.  “Not yet.” You replied.  “I want to make sure you’re okay with it.  It’s different from what you were taking before.  It might feel weaker than what you were taking or might have different side effects for you.  I don’t want you to overdo it.”

“And what makes you such an expert?” Dabi pried, his bloodshot eyes narrowing as his head tilted.

You put the pills back into your bag as you looked away from him.  “I have a medical background, so I know a lot more than you might think.”

Dabi grinned, despite his headache, the skin pulling tight enough along his rings to send an ache of pain along his jaw.  He was right. Not that it was that hard to figure out, but he liked that you answered him honestly.

“You don’t trust me, doll?” Dabi’s teasing tone made you look up at him to find his fiery eyes piercing yours.  That familiar spark of life, dangerous and wild, was starting to return to his drawn features.  Oddly enough, you found it comforting even if it did send your pulse racing like a scared rabbit.

Meanwhile, he was amused at your caution.  Little did you know how many drugs he’d tried over the years, how many times he came close to ‘overdoing it,’ as he learned what his body could and couldn’t handle. Sure, he needed his drugs to keep the pain at bay… but he also needed to carry out his mission.  He refused to let himself devolve into a zombie when he still had unfinished business.

You rolled your eyes at him.  “I just want to make sure you transition to this new pain medication okay.  Switching drugs can be a messy business.  If I decided to trust you and something went wrong, well…” your words faltered, unable to finish your statement.  It almost surprised you how much the thought of something horrible happening to Dabi bothered you… especially if it was caused by your own negligence.

“Aw, doll, you’re making me blush.” Dabi grinned.  “You better not try to take advantage of me. I’m under the influence.”

You raised an amused eyebrow at him.  “Really? Who’s taking advantage of who here? Someone just got free drugs.”

“Trust me, sweetheart – you’ll know when I’m taking advantage of you.”

A proper comeback couldn’t find its way to your lips while your mind was so distracted by suggestive thoughts.

He continued on unfazed, as if his previous words meant nothing to him.  “So, how are we gonna do this then?”

You cleared your throat and wet your parched lips with your tongue.  Dabi watched the gesture intently, but you didn’t notice as you avoided eye contact.  “We’ll start with what I gave you. When it wears off and you feel like you need more, you come find me.  If you have any issues or feel anything weird, you come find me.  I don’t care what time it is.  If it’s 3 in the morning, you come find me.”

A devilish grin spread across Dabi’s features as his head got a rather detailed less-than-pure mental picture of a late-night visit.  He knew that wasn’t what you meant, but he enjoyed where his imagination took him, nonetheless.  He eyed you for the first time since you came into his room, allowing himself to take in your appearance from head to toe, his eyes lingering where he wanted them to, without a care as to if you noticed.  He might not be willing to touch, but he was definitely willing to look. Life was too short to not appreciate the finer things in life, and at this moment the finer thing was you.

You shifted nervously under his penetrating gaze, your pulse quickening under your skin like a raging river. You weren’t quite sure what he was thinking, but the light of his eyes made you feel exposed.  You resisted the urge to wrap your arms around yourself protectively, your self-consciousness fighting to get the better of you.

Your forced yourself to continue, looking away abashedly.  “I’m still coming to take care of your bandages, so I’ll be checking up on you again tonight.  Do we have a deal?”

Dabi was quiet for a moment as he stared at your determined face.  Finally, he smiled.  “Yeah, doll. We got a deal.”

“Good.  Now let me check those bandages.”

He stood up and you instinctively took a step back as his presence filled yours within the tight space between his bed and the wall where you stood. The scent of him filled your nose and you resisted the urge to inhale.  You liked it and you couldn’t explain why.  He turned his back to you and removed his sweat-soaked shirt.  You waited to see if he would move to the more open space of his room, but he didn’t, and you stood awkwardly before deciding to just change his bandages where he was.  Maybe he had a headache and moving was a little too much for him.  It’d take about thirty minutes for the pills you gave him to really get into his system and start working, and you’d be long gone by then.

You changed his bandages quickly and efficiently as well as added a little boost with your quirk to make sure his back was pain-free until you returned to check on him later in the evening.  He seemed to have enough on his plate to deal with without having your quirk wear off.

He was silently grateful you changed his bandages in silence as he waited for the pills you gave him to kick in. He was familiar with them, of course – they weren’t the best for what he needed, but you were right when you said they’d take the edge off.  Still, he didn’t want to use up your supply.  He didn’t know if that was your only bottle, and at the rate that he typically popped pills, you’d be out within a few days.  He’d reach out to Giran again to get a hold of his own.

Once you were done, you packed up your items to leave.  But before you did, you reached into your bag and pulled out a bottle of water and handed it to him.

“Hydrate.  Please.” You said.  “You took those pills and they might make you nauseous on an empty stomach.  Besides, your body needs more than coffee, energy drinks, and alcohol.”

Dabi grinned.  “Have you been watching me, doll?  You’re not stalking me, are ya?”

“I watch all of my patients.” You replied with a critical eye.  “Nice try, though.”

“You got any ramen in that bag?” Dabi teased as he opened the water bottle and took a swig.

“No, but I got a granola bar.  You want it?” you replied casually. You pulled out said item and waved it in Dabi’s face.

Dabi’s lip turned up in disgust.  “That shit’ll get stuck in my rings.  And it’s disgusting.”

“It’s healthy.” You replied with an extra wave for added emphasis.

“You’re like a walking drug store.”  Dabi commented as he watched you put the offending food away.

“I feel like a damn mom with all this stuff, but you’d be surprised how often it comes in handy.” You replied.  “Alright, well I’m gonna go and let you rest.  Do you have my number?”

You said it so casually, that Dabi had to stare at you to process your words for a moment.  He didn’t easily fluster, but he also didn’t ever have pretty girls offering their number to him, his scars always scaring them off.  It was such a personal gesture and completely alien to him.

“What for?” he finally replied.

“In case you need me for anything.  Like if the drugs wear off, or your bandage comes loose or something. We might not always be in the same place at the same time and I’d hate for you to not be able to reach me if something’s wrong.”

The tension in Dabi’s chest eased slightly.  Of course, it had to do with his health.  He noticed that about you – when it came to business, you cut straight to the chase.

He wanted your number.  But as soon as he realized it wasn’t for health reasons, he immediately shot it down, his iron wall crashing down.  “I’ll be fine.”

You stared at him and shrugged.  “Suit yourself.  Just trying to be efficient.  If you change your mind, you can reach out to one of the others.  I think you’re the only one who doesn’t have it.”  You walked to the door and turned back to him.  “Like I said, I’ll be back tonight, probably at around 9pm.  You’d better be here, or you won’t get your pills.” Mischief danced in your eyes and Dabi realized you were teasing him. He grinned.

“You think you can manipulate me?” he challenged.

“We’ll see…” you replied casually and left his room.

After you were gone, he stood there for a moment staring at the water bottle in his hand before he realized he had a dumb fucking smile on his face. He threw the water bottle in his trashcan.

You were a goddamn pain in his ass.  And he was a damn idiot, getting flustered over a pretty face being kind to him. What was this, fucking middle school? Like he’d never been around a girl before?  You were here to treat him.  As soon as his wounds were healed up and he got his own drugs, things would go back to normal.

It had to go back to normal.

__________________________________________________________

Part 4

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Taglist: @lemonfvck @vs-redemption @inanabsentia ia @sheedaabee @toshiuwuu @marydragneell @chillinwithmybakubros​ @genuinelytodorokisbitch @sam-i-am-1025 @redflannel @axerrri​ @necccomancy​ @miadraws0​

[angryschnauzer]

Stuck - Steve Rogers edition

A/N: By popular request, and i thank everyone that messaged me and sent me asks if i would consider releasing a second edition of ‘Stuck’ but with a Marvel character, i give you ‘Stuck - Steve Rogers edition’.  (You can read the Henry Cavill character ‘August Walker edition’ here.) In future i will consider dual-releases of more stories, where the narrative works for various fandoms. If there is any of my back catalogue you would like to see written as a different fandom, drop me an ask!

Summary: You are Steve Rogers maid, and when you are changing the sheets on his massive bed your hand gets stuck between the mattress and headboard. Upon finding you in that predicament Steve takes control of the situation, however it doesn’t mean you get unstuck any time soon. (Based on a pornhub video i saw at 2am a few nights ago)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Maid Reader (no race or size described) Fandom; Chris Evans, Marvel, Captain America

Warnings; NSFW, 18+, Dub-con, Fingering, groping, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, size kink, breeding kink, boob play, anal fingering, double penetration, spanking, spying/stalker behaviour, surveilence, voyerism, unauthorized recording of a sex act, not-great aftercare (he tries), slight dom/sub, the start of a ‘sugar daddy’ arrangement, Daddy Kink (this version DOES contain it).

I do not operate a tag list, however please follow @angryschnauzerwrites​ and put that blog onto notifications. That way you’ll get an alert every time i post anything. Masterlist can be found on AO3 link HERE

Stuck

 Ringing the doorbell, you stood anxiously on the doormat outside the expensive apartment, listening for approaching steps but hearing none. So when the door suddenly opened you let out a tiny yelp of surprise, before taking a deep breath to steady your racing heart;

 “Good afternoon Captain Rogers”

 The giant of a man stood in front of you, recognition quickly passing over his face when he saw your uniform of black dress and simple black ballet flats;

 “Oh yes, the maid. C’mon in”

 You worked for a high security housekeeping company, strict controls and stringent background checks as you were contracted to the Avengers and the agents and staff that worked for Shield. You always worked on an ad-hoc basis, only visiting homes when clients or agents requested it. This was however the fourth time cleaning Captain Rogers apartment, always having to work around suitcases littering the halls and various weapons being cleaned and serviced on the kitchen table. 

 Holding your pail of cleaning supplies you waited as he shut the door, talking at you rather than to you;

 “Okay so here’s what you need to do today; clean the bathroom and kitchen, vacuum the rugs throughout, change the bedding and leave in the laundry hamper”

 You nodded;

 “Sweeping throughout too sir?”

 “No need, the Roomba does the smooth floors, it just can’t get onto the deep pile rugs” he hooked an earbud into one ear; “I’m going out for a run, I’ll be two hours”

 Swallowing nervously you nodded, watching as he hooked the other earbud in and left without another word, leaving you staring at the white wood of the door after he’d closed it. 

 Captain Rogers both scared and excited you. A beast of a man, he was all muscle, and each time you had visited he had excused himself so not to be there whilst you were. The fact that he was always in a t-shirt two sizes too small on and running shorts that did nothing to hide any part of him had you stretching your concentration to its limits in order to get your job done and not drift off into a fantasy land that you saved for when you were curled up in your own bed.

 Getting to work you started on the kitchen, stacking the dishwasher with the various dirty crockery that littered the room, cleaning the surfaces, sink, stove. Next up you hit the rugs, working quickly as you vacuumed, before heading to the bathroom. 

 Taking a deep breath you opened the door and relaxed. Cleaning bathrooms for single men were what you always dreaded, but at least as you started to cleanse every surface including the toilet, you realised that the Captain thankfully had good aim.

 Half an hour later you wiped your brow on the back of your arm. Captain Rogers bathroom had in fact been a nightmare, the man shed more hair than a fucking Golden Retriever. Washing your hands and glancing at your watch, you saw that you had fifteen minutes left of the two hours, taking a deep breath before grabbing the clean linens from the closet.

 Captain Rogers bedroom was white. There was no personalisation, no trinkets. Slipping your ballet flats off you climbed onto the bed, mentally taking in the sheer size of it; it must be a super king if not larger. Your mind immediately went south, imagining him fucking on the bed, sprawled out as you straddle his face - you had always wondered what that beard felt like against your skin - and you ride his tongue, or him pile driving you into the mattress, his hard body pressing against every inch of you as he fills you.

 Moving up the bed you tugged on the sheet, cursing as it wouldn’t pull out from between the mattress and headboard. With a huff you shuffled forward, pushing your hands down between them, tugging on the expensive white cotton. Pushing your arm down a little further you could just about feel that it was caught on something, moving to pull back and then it happened… you were stuck.

 “What the...?” you muttered, realisation hitting you that your watch had slipped into the gap and was now preventing you from pulling your arm out. You could feel your heart rate increasing as you struggled to set yourself free, pulling against the strain but it did little to help.  You pushed and pulled and grunted, hiking your dress up so you could widen your stance on the bed, but nothing worked. You frantically looked around to see the time, yet there wasn’t a clock or display in sight, and you could hardly look at your watch. If you didn’t get out of there soon Captain Rogers…

 “Well isn’t this a pretty sight…”

 No. Please no. Oh god no. You screwed your eyes shut, the heat of embarrassment rising to your skin;

 “I’m stuck” you whispered, letting out a yelp when you felt the bed dip behind you, feeling his hands gently resting on your hips;

 “Unfortunate for you, maybe not so for me...”

 -

 Five minutes ago.

 Steve sat in the small room, staring at the laptop screen in front of him. As ideas went, this was both his best and worst idea yet. Installing hidden security cameras in his apartment had been at first simply for security whilst he was away on missions, but he’d found a secondary use for it once Shield had recommended your employers as a maid service. He hadn’t been expecting someone as pretty as you, you had this look of innocence about you that made him just want to corrupt you and ruin you. He may be a bastard but he wasn’t a heathen, so instead of just turning on the charm offensive he had found an abandoned room in his apartment building and set up a small surveillance center. One with a chair, a laptop, a bottle of lube and a box of tissues. 

 Steve Rogers had just spent the last two hours edging himself as he watched you bend over in that knee length dress, adjusting camera angles to see up your skirt as you bent over. Steve Rogers was one step away from full on pervert. And he had no regrets at all.

 That was until he saw you on his bed, and realised you were trapped. Temptation got the better of him, so stuffing his hard dick back into his running shorts, he quickly left the room and silently made his way back to his apartment. 

 He entered and could smell the pleasant scent of the cleaning fluids you’d used, the quiet grunts as you tried to free yourself from your predicament. Toeing off his sneakers he silently made his way through the hallways, suppressing a groan as he saw you on his bed; ass up face down, the fabric of your dress stretched over the tops of your thighs, the fabric moving as you moved to expose glimpses of your buttocks. He pressed a hand over the obscene bulge in his shorts before moving to the bed.

 -

 “Captain!” you squeaked out in surprise; “You’re back… umm I’m stuck, my watch… I can’t get my wrist back through the gap between the headboard and the mattress”

 “Oh… what a shame. Let me help…”

 You were expecting him to move around you, but instead he covered your body with his own and grasped your arms. Your mind was lost as you took in how his massive hands could completely circle your wrists, the weight of him above you almost suffocating, and when he started to tug you knew you were done for. 

 The gentle rocking of your bodies, rubbing against one another was all it took for a moan to leave your mouth involuntarily, the feeling of his hard dick rutting against the crease of your ass making you embarrassingly wet almost instantly. He grunted above you;

 “Huh, well that didn’t work…”

 Pushing himself up he knelt behind you, still pressing his hard-on against your ass as his hands gripped your hips and he tugged gently, however all he did was pull you back against his crotch;

 “This fabric is slippery, hang on a second…”

 Pressing your head to the bed you felt him flip your skirt up, hearing a sharp intake of breath behind you as he took in the bright red thong you were wearing beneath your dress. His warm hands smoothed over your buttocks before gripping onto your hips and half-heartedly tugging again. 

 It was no good, you were too turned on to even object. You’d lusted after your client for weeks, and now you found yourself in this predicament which it was obvious he had no intention of helping you with, but instead had other ideas that you had no desire to object to. You were rocking back against his dick, the quiet moans escaping your throat telling him you were more than into it, so when you felt his fingers curl around the elastic of your underwear and tug them down to your mid-thigh, all you could do was arch your back and present your pussy for his inspection. 

 Thick fingers parted your folds, teasing your nectar to your aching clit where a thumb rubbed hard circles against the sensitive bud. His other hand was lost from you for a moment and you could feel him moving, before you felt the thwack of his heavy dick against your ass. 

 With your hand trapped and your body stretched out you could barely look over your shoulder, but when you did you could see the impressive bulk of your clients body towering over you, the sight making your cunt clench with anticipation.

 “Excited, are we?”

 “Please Captain…”

 “Please what?” You moaned and his quiet chuckle filled the room; “You gotta say it”

 “Please fuck me”

 “Eager little thing, aren’t we?”

 “Please Daddy…”

 “Well, as you asked so nicely…”

 He took hold of his dick and dragged the bulbous tip through your folds, dousing himself with your juices before lining himself up with your entrance. When you felt him push just the tip inside you it felt like you were being split open, he must be as thick as your wrist, and as he continued to force his way into your body it felt like he was the length of your forearm.

 “Such a good little slut, taking my dick…” his voice filled your senses as your body fought to relax and allow him deeper, your juices running down your legs where he would rock back and forth to lubricate his girth before pushing another punishing inch in to you. 

 Your velvet walls parted yet gripped him tight, and you could feel every ridge, bump and vein as he started to fuck your tight pussy. With every pull and push your head swam, your body moving back to meet his thrusts as his massive hands gripped onto your hips and he started to slam into you harder and harder. When his hand came down onto your ass the loud smack surprised you just as much as the pain, but you arched your back even more like a bitch in heat. 

 He reached beneath you, tugging at the neckline of your dress with both hands, before the seam of the collar broke and the soft jersey stretched enough for him to tug the fabric down. His fingers caught in the lace cups of your bra, and whilst still plunging deep into you from behind, he was able to let your titties swing free and he grabbed a handful;

 “Such pretty tits. Next time you clean I want you in just your underwear so I can watch them swing. Might get you scrubbing the floors so I can see you bent over and ready for me”

 You shuddered at his words, he already paid a premium for your services, and the electronic tip that he’d sent through had been more than generous, the last visit alone you had been surprised by the triple figures, but more than grateful that you were able to pay the bills.

 His hands had found their way back to your ass, smoothing over the soft skin as he continued to fuck you, the wide ridge that ran along the underside of his length rubbing so beautifully against your g-spot, you were sure you were going to cum soon. 

 He pulled your cheeks apart and you felt him spit on your asshole, the warm liquid pooling for a moment before his thumb started to rub insistently over the brown rose. Burying your head in the soft sheets you allowed your body to relax as he breached your back door with his thumb, the wide digit stretching you as he pushed in as far as he could;

 “This ass is incredible. I can’t wait to fuck it”

 You let out a tiny yelp at the idea of trying to fit his massive cock in your ass;

 “Captain!”

 “Oh, don’t you worry, I’ll make sure you’re stretched out first. Might want to add a plug to the uniform list for next time, make sure you’re ready lubed and stretched for me. But don’t you worry your pretty little head, this time I’m just going to cum deep in this sweet pussy of yours. Are you on birth control? Are you ripe?”

 You hadn’t even considered birth control. Your insurance had stopped covering you a couple of years back, so when you had gone on the occasional date that had ended up between the sheets, you’d simply resorted to condoms;

 “No… no…”

 “Oh yes. I’m going to cum deep inside you, let my seed rest within your womb. God, I’d love to see your belly round with my child, I bet your tits would be even more impressive. Hmmn yes, that’s fucking perfect…”

 You hadn’t thought it possible, but all that he said was turning you on even more, and it wasn’t just you that liked the idea, you could feel him swell within you, his girth growing thicker as his arousal grew. The added stretch was driving you closer and closer to your own orgasm, the dual stimulations of your pussy and ass both being filled had you trembling with need.

 “Are you going to cum for me?” his voice was hoarse and dry, an edge of desperation to it too; “I’m close, gonna shoot my load in you soon. You’d better cum before I do ‘cos once I’m done I’m pulling out and will leave you dripping with my seed and on edge…”

 The threat of being left on the precipice was enough to push your body over the edge, cumming hard as your body held him so tight he thought he wouldn’t be able to pull out. The vice like grip had him throwing his head back as your body milked him, his own orgasm ripping through his body that he came with a roar and a string of expletives. 

 -

 Steve wasn’t sure if he had ever cum that hard before, but the way your body gripped him so tight he was in no doubt that your pussy was the best he’d ever had - and he’d had a lot - and he knew without a doubt that he was not going to let anyone else ever come near it again.

 As he slowed his thrusts and let you work through the aftershocks of your intense orgasm, he mentally checked off all the things he’d been checking up on; from the details of your financials, your family and education, your social media. He had seen all of them. He had your phone tapped and knew that he was going to be installing spy cameras in your apartment… that was until you agreed to be his. 

 Looking down at your ass he pulled his thumb out of your now loosened asshole, making sure to catch the way it winked as he recorded on his phone, having pulled that out of his pocket soon after he’d started and had recorded himself defiling your body. Giving your ass a smack he relished how the camera picked up the jiggle as the force rippled through you, before grasping a large handful of ass as he pulled out and watched his cum pool at your entrance, before pushing it back in with two thick fingers. Tugging your underwear up your legs from where they had settled around your knees, he made sure the flimsy red mesh covered your hole, quickly getting soaked with his seed as he pushed the fabric against the mess to fully coat it. 

 Finally he shut his phone off and reached towards the headboard, giving it a tug and feeling it lift, watching as you silently pulled your hand free before collapsing on the bed. He carefully unbuckled your wristwatch before rubbing at the sore skin, easing away the chafed skin. He set your hand down carefully and quickly left the room, returning a moment later with a glass of water and holding it to your lips as he helped you sit up. 

 Setting the empty glass on the side, he rubbed your back before attempting to fix your torn collar, finally giving up. He swiped a thumb across your cheek, wiping away the mascara tear stains;

 “Next week you’ll need to be in your underwear and heels. Make sure the plug is well lubricated. I’ll have everything delivered to your address”

 You went to object, to question how he would even know, but then realised… Shield… of course he knew. You pushed yourself to the edge of the bed, finding your shoes and slipping your feet in, standing on wobbly legs as he spoke again.

 “Do as I ask and I’ll let you stay the night so I can fuck your other two holes as well”

 Turning you nodded;

 “Yes Captain”

 “Oh, you can call me Daddy now, I did so like that little slip you made in the heat of the moment” he turned to leave the room before waving his finger at the pile of fresh linen still folded at the end of the bed; “Remember to finish up before you leave”

 He left the room without another word. You went to object, but just as you did you felt the phone in your pocket vibrate. Quickly checking it your eyebrows practically shot off the top of your head, seeing the tip transfer come through for $2000. Biting your lip, your thumb hovered over the accept/decline buttons, the moral dilemma tearing your mind in two.

 -

 In the hallway Steve watched his phone. He could see that you’d received the notification of the tip. When he saw your action on the app he smiled and slid the phone back into his pocket, already planning your next visit.

PART 2 >>>

[boxboysandotherwhump]

Teeth

Tags:  @salamancialilypad  @whumpfigure @albino-whumpee @comfy-whumpee  @ashintheairlikesnow   @haro-whumps   @moose-teeth @vickytokio​ @yet-another-heathen​ @orchidscript

@finder-of-rings

Chapter 5

CW: detailed description of intense stab wound pain (to the arm), fighting for their lives against giant spider, it as a pronoun in a very brief flashback, blood, powering through pain,

Sahars blood thrummed in his ears like drums heralding disaster.

Adrenalin spiked blood rushed through his veins.

His muscles twitched.

Every fiber of his being buzzed electric.

With feet barely connecting to the soft forest ground, Sahar felt trapped in the worst kind of flight.

The kind that had driven him through dark alleyways, reduced to prey running from its predators in a cage the size of a city.

He’d sworn to never forget the lesson he’d learned, back then. When the little boy he’d saved had ratted him out and sicked a seething horde of citizens onto him.

It had been a warm night back then, too. Like and unlike today in so many ways. 

Only that today, he knew how to fight. To defend himself. He was no longer a scrawny eight year old, trying to save a neighborhood kid from some angry teens, mouth running a mile a minute, words tumbling from his tongue, trying to sooth, to deascalet. But words hadn’t been enough, between them and their rage against a world that had banished them behind fences, trapped them in Berlin's slum. Words had done nothing against their butterfly knife. And it had sunk into his arm as they stabbed him, sliced through skin and muscle and planted a searing pain under his skin. His mutation had gone off, outside the safety of his mothers apartment and for all the world to see. What had followed, had been pure terror. 

That night had never stopped breathing down his neck, lurking around dark street corners or whispering from beyond his locked bedroom door.

Get it! I saw it dive behind a dumpster! Up the street, the little pest ran into the carpentry. Fuck, fuck we lost it. No wait! There, there it is. It jumped into the river! Then let it drown. Or drift outside the city. It’ll die there anyway.

Haunted, wide eyes flitted over the trees, nearly expecting a hate and fire spewing crowd to break out from between them at any moment.

Bitter fire taste burned on his tongue.

Sahars foot caught on a branch and he slammed into a flower stem. Hard enough to jostle him out of his vicious memory storm.

A painful dull throb pulsed through his shoulder. Nothing compared to a knife buried in his right arm, but enough to let his consciousness snap back into the here and now. Back into his shuddering body. Back between giant leaves and flower petals that rustled in the warm evening breeze. 

Sucking in a shaking breath, Sahar felt the axe’s weight in his hand. Heavy as the burden of his conscience. His panic subsided, morphed into something akin to stubborn righteousness.

No.

No matter what had happened back then, he’d done the right thing in saving that boy. And he would do the right thing now!

Even if it meant the whole village would find out. Even if Charlotte would hate him.

He wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he turned his back on them. If he’d let them die while he hid like a coward.  

Not if he could do anything about it.

“You you you can do this. You’re no no no damn child anymore.”

You have an axe now.

An axe to slay an insect. The idea was hysterical, really.

An axe to turn a monster into a hero, maybe?

He ignored that small hopeful whisper, shoved it back deep inside the hole it had crawled out of and ran.

 Sahar nearly lost his balance as he dodged a branch, speeding down a mossy root right towards the clearings edge.

Children’s screams, shrill with terror, echoed from below, cutting through the forest’s silence like a rusty knife. They were so loud Sahar nearly missed it in between the first seconds of shock and his thunderous heartbeat.

This rattling, bone chilling hiss, biting and burying itself deep into one’s very core.

Every hair on Sahar’s body stood. Electrified with fear.

Could it be?

His chest crashed into a thick vine of ivy before he could react or bring his feet to a halt on his race down the slippery root.

Grabbing blindly for the vine, somersaulting thoughts scattering every which way, Sahar caught  himself somehow, avoiding a fall down the rocky hillside and meeting certain death as a graceless heap of flailing limbs.

Chest rose and fell with every shuddering breath. He allowed himself to just hang there, hidden within the thick ivy leaves, fighting to get his shaking legs back under control.

The axe’s handle threatened to slip from his clammy fingers and Sahar gripped on tighter, forcing himself to peer through the thick foliage.

A few feet under him, it’s pulsing hairy abdomen turned his way, it stood.

A giant wolf spider.

Its jaws rubbed together in endless agitation, creating this god awful noise.

Sahar wished he could scrub it off his skin.  His fingers twitched, rubbing frantically over the smooth wooden handle, as he stared and stared and stared.

Charlotte and the children had encircled the beast somehow, yelling and throwing whatever they could find on the clearing’s rocky ground at it in a desperate attempt to confuse it, keep it from attacking.

So far it seemed to work.

Whenever the beast's eyes looked onto someone, the kids from behind it would hurl stones and mushrooms at its back, forcing the spider’s attention onto themselves.

Its long thorny legs crashed into the ground, kicking dirt and gravel everywhere in its furios thrashing.

That’s when Sahar saw it. Its eyes. He hadn’t noticed at first, between all the movement and blue luminescent mushroom pulp dripping of its body.  But one of the spider’s eyes was missing.

The head hunter’s spider!

The controlling device, still rammed deep into its ugly head, had stopped blinking.

The machines malfunctioning must hurt. 

No wonder that thing is all over the place.

This was Sahars chance. Hurting, distracted and one eye short, the spider shouldn’t notice him. Not if he came down from above.

Clutching the Axe in both sweaty hands he raised it far above his head. And jumped.

Air rushed past his ears. A storm of raging blood roaring from inside, crashing through his head and drowning his every thought.

There was only gravity left.

Gravity pulling on his limbs, drawing him down faster and faster towards inevitable eight legged death.

But he fell too fast for all the thoughts and fears of disaster to possibly catch up to him. Utterly focused, for the first time in his life, every other thought, the fabric of reality itself ground to a halt.

The only thing still moving were the flexing muscles in his arms and the spider. Abdomen pulsing with its erratic heartbeat. If he could hit that, split the soft flesh there and spill all its blood and guts on the rocky earth, everyone else would live.

The muscles of Sahar’s stomach pulled tight, transforming his body into a bowstring ready to launch.

The children’s surprised shrieks faded to background noise. His biceps bulged, feet drawing closer, his whole body readying for impact.

When suddenly, a pebble, small like a penny, came free from the sole of his heavy work boots. And dropped. Hitting the spider mere seconds before he would. But for vicious instinct carved from hard moving flesh, seconds were more than enough.

The world narrowed to a flash of glistening lidless eyes and pain as a leg, heavy like a tree trunk, bashed him into the hillside. Sahar’s spine lit up in agony. Pain spread through his arm like wildfire. It took everything in him to keep it from exploding.

Just let it. Let it. Don’t waste your time holding back!

No! No no no no, I can’t.

I’m scared.

“Sahar!”

Charlotte’s shriek cut through the storm of his mind, a lighthouse siren guiding all his scattered thoughts in one direction. His eyes snapped open, met midnight black teeth, sharp like daggers and dripping poison. The creature towered over him. Its liquefied promise of pain dripped to the ground.

Sahar’s body felt heavy, a disconnected breathing stone, teetered to the hard earth.

“Sahar! For fucks sake move!”

His limbs had forgotten how to obey his commands. A silent scream existing solely behind clenched teeth. The neurons in his head all failed to fire.

My Axe? It’s gone!

His eyes dropped from the spiders clicking jaws, searching frantically between its thorny legs. As if that thing would do him any good now.

Not against this seething monstrosity.

Dirt danced under its body, swirling up with every shuddering gusts of hot air exhaled through the breathing holes along its abdomen, so hidden under its body Sahar would have missed them if he wasn’t practically cowering under that thing.

He could see children’s legs storming off to safety, scattering and disappearing in between bushes and behind mushrooms. Their bluish glow grew stronger with every second of fading daylight.

Good.

At least he had been able to save them, before-

“I said. Move!”

Charlotte charged at the spider, pale fingers wrapped around the Axe in a death grip. Debris crunched under her shoes, flying every which way.

The weapon swung back into a wide arc, twisting her whole body with the force of her attack.

There was a visceral sort of grace to her, in that moment, in the flexing of her muscles, in the way her soft pink lips twisted back into a snarl, revealing a row of perfectly white teeth.

She was fury incarnate.

Her conviction alone seemed enough to strike that beast down.

It jerked its abdomen high into the air, stubby spinnerets twitching, the only warning before it fired. A wave of white glistening silk erupted from its silk glands, hardening as it flew towards Charlotte. The force of the impact knocked her backwards and she crashed down, fighting for balance on one knee.

Only her head and right arm remained spared from the silvery, hardening restrains that bound her to the ground.

“Fuck. Fuck!”

The Axe’s blade barely left a dent in the silk as Charlotte struggled to cut herself free one handed.

Terror held Sahar’s heart captive, had it flutter and beat with all its might, trying to escape anxiety’s iron grip.

He watched in horror as the spider turned towards Charlotte, its remaining seven eyes flashing green in the mushroom’s glow.

Its mighty body tensed, a barely there tremble rippling through pulp splattered legs. The hiss of slowly opening jaws rung over the clearing, shrill like funeral bells.

“No!”

Finally, Sahars legs moved. Launching him forward with the force of a slingshot projectile. 

A gust of breath brushed his left shoulder, warm and surreally alive, as he dived past the spider's abdomen and dashed towards its mouth.

Its hairs tickled the crown of Sahar’s head.

Poison slicked fangs flashed in the last rays of dying daylight as massive jaws moved. Opened. Struck down. 

A tooth burrowed deep into Sahars right arm, slicing skin and muscle like a glowing knife would butter. He felt something hard crack and splinter inside him, felt the resistance and inevitable give of his bones as the fang pierced through.

Excruciating agony exploded in his arm, threatened to devour him whole.

His body’s torment broke free with a deafening crack.

The cells of his right arm crystalized. Growing muscles twisted and hardened into an impenetrable shield, crushing the fang still buried deeply in his flesh into a hundred pieces.

Venom welled from Sahars wound, dripped down solid skin, unable to pass the armor of mutated flesh.

He could feel the pressure of the spider’s tooth stump against the wound as it bared down.

New waves of pain welled up, crashed through him like a storm flood, drowning every other sensation, every thought.

Unrelenting jaws squeezed tighter still and tears trickled over Sahar’s cheeks, down his nose, falling to the dusty ground like raindrops.

The other fang graced his ribs. Threatened to break skin. 

Oh god. Oh please no.

Conjuring every last remnant of strength hidden in his muscles, Sahars pushed back. The spider’s cool hairy flesh gave under the press of his elbow, the tiniest bit, and its fang pulled back.

He hadn’t thought it possible for this pain to climb higher still, but here it was, whisking him away to a dimension composed solely of suffering.

The scream tearing from his throat didn’t sound like his own. But he could feel it, as it clawed its way out, bursting past his lips in raw desperation.

“Sahar?” The whisper of a voice found its way through the pain filled fog his existence had been reduced to and he forced his eyes open. Whimpering.

When had he even closed them?

Charlotte’s pale freckled face hovered centimeters from his. Splatters of blood trickled down the birthmark of her left cheek and dried in the copper curls of her bangs.

A faint, shuddering part of Sahar realized that this blood was his own.

Her eyes were blown wide and the blue of her irises danced in the surrounding bloodshot white of them. 

“What have you done? Oh god what have you done?” There were tears, imprisoned in the tremble of her voice.

I don’t know. My body just moved.

The words were nothing but a whisper in his head, unable to escape a body shuddering and hurting and trapped on the brink of collapse.

He knew how it felt to lose control, over his senses, his mutation, his emotions but nothing had ever felt like this. He’d never felt as disconnected, as betrayed from his own flesh as the moment his knees gave out and he crashed to the ground. The fangs tip tore through his linen shirt, soaking the fabric with poison.

Screwing his eyes shut in terror filled anticipation, Sahar didn’t see Charlotte’s face morph into a ferocious scowl. All bared teeth and fierce determination.

The Axe’s wooden handle splintered under short sharp nails and fury as she swung it, with the strength of 17 years’ worth of hard work living in her muscles.

The spider’s left jaw split with the sickening tearing of flesh.

Sahar’s red blood mixed with the spider’s blue in the dirt as it gushed from the wound and dripped down the Axe.

The spider’s nearly dismembered mandible flapped uselessly from side to side as it sprung back, unsure if to retreat or attack.

With the pressure of its jaws gone, Sahar collapsed onto the blood soiled earth. A few dirt grains danced in the gusts of his labored breaths and the tears Charlotte had so desperately tried to hold on to burst free without restraint The spider webs still held her to the ground as she began to frantically claw at the silken sticky mess, desperate to break free.

Sahars tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth as he rasped, “Hey. Hey hey hey ‘s fine….. fine now. Let… let me-”

Words failed him, all washed away by a new wave of hot boiling pain as he willed his mutilated, mutated arm to move, despite every fiber of his being wailing protest. Sharp pointy fingertips dug into the silk and tore it apart like a clawed animal clumsily disemboweling its prey. A howling hissing one at that.

He wanted nothing more than to get out of here and for this unbearable pain to finally, blessedly end.

Oh god please just make it stop.

Charlotte’s free hand found its way into Sahars brown unruly hair and scratched over his scalp in slow soothing circles. He leaned into the touch, this something-other-than-all-consuming-pain-feeling and whined softly.

“Shh shhh. Almost done. It’s almost over.”

He continued to rip the silk to shreds until Charlotte was finally freed. She shot up, dragging Sahar with her. He howled in agony.

Hunted blue eyes darted back to the spider, cowering low on the ground. Its seven eyes stared back, glowing in the mushrooms light.

“We have to move, Sahar. That thing‘s not done with us.”

He willed his shaking legs to stumble alongside Charlotte, when a shot rang over the clearing. Loud like a thunderclap announcing a storm.

Flinching hard enough to make him cry out Sahar witnessed the spider collapse. A thick metal stud pierced through its head, painting abstract patterns of dull blue blood and glowing mushroom pulp over its twitching body.

The ferocious predator transformed into a corpse bleeding starlight.

[janekfan]

jon taking some bullets for martin in the slaughter realm?? cue jon defending the action with his healing powers, cue martin being VERY upset about this assumption

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26688478

I hope you like it :) It kinda got away from me ^^’’

Jon gripped Martin’s hand harder, squeezing for all he was worth as he dragged him through the twisting, turning, twining constructs of rusted, rotting, ruptured metal bursting at degraded seams.

Left, left, right, left, straight, right.

runrunrun

Follow the path. Follow the route the Eye has chosen. It’s all he can see.

The path. The way. The route.

Death may not be a permanent thing here but Jon wasn’t going to allow it to happen. Wasn’t going to allow Martin to hurt more than he’d been hurt. He would protect him.

“Jon” Gasping, breathless and he’s sorry, sorry, sorry but this has to be done. We have to keep moving.

Slavering, hungry, greedy mouths stretched wide in horrific grins and sporting too many teeth.

And they are closer, closer, closer.

Shots ring out, instinctively they duck, hunch, Jon pushes them faster, they are close, almost to the border, and they can make it if they run.

Knowing lances through his mind like a lightning bolt and he almost trips, instead shoving Martin forward, in front of him, and he feels it like a blow to his shoulder, pushing him forward, over the threshold and the hyena laughter fades behind them like it never was.

“Jon.” Panting, bent forward. “Wh’what was that?!”

“Sorry, I’m, I’m sorry, Martin.”

The adrenaline is fading and the pain is beginning to blossom in his back, radiating in all directions but Martin is so shook up and Jon is pretty sure despite the blood running down his spine that he’s already healing. The strap on his pack is digging into the wound, chafing and tugging and pulling. It’s like a white hot burn and he ignores it in favor of checking Martin all over for injuries.

“A’are you hurt?” His hands are shaking and he folds them into fists to hide it.

“No, no, I’m fine. Are you? Did--”

“I’m alright.” Not a lie. He will be. He is. “We. We should get going.”

Their pace was slow. After their mad dash through that place they were both tired and despite the hole in his shoulder having healed over, it still hurt. Jon was exhausted. Beholding like that. Running like that. The horrible fear for Martin. It had taken a huge toll and while he wanted to sit down. Pass out? They had to keep on.

“Jon?” He jumped, bit down on his tongue to prevent a whimper. “You’ve been so quiet.”

“Ah, j’just, I’m fine. Bit, uh, tired, I think?” Martin’s brows knit together.

“We can rest if you need to.” But Jon shook his head and pressed forward, Martin’s hand in his.

It was becoming a chore to put one foot in front of the other, like he was struggling through mud, or his bones were made of lead and his rucksack weighed more and more with each passing second. Slipping a finger into his collar he tugged on it, stretched it out from where it was choking him, and he could barely breathe, keeping his eyes on the horizon line as it dipped in and out of focus

“Hey, you. Hey--” Martin pulled him up short and Jon shrank under his scrutiny. “You’re slowing down. We need to take a break. Have some water. Here, here, let me.” Jon let him help him to the ground and pass him the bottle. Despite not being able to really feel thirst the water was blissfully cool on his dry and scratchy throat. Jon ducked his head between his knees, dizzy, the adrenaline was, it had worn off (hours? ago) that’s all, just a little woozy. It didn’t even hurt that much anymore. But now that he was down here he didn’t think he’d be able to get back up. “Jon, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“N’nothin’s wrong, Martin. M’alright.” Jon lifted his face, tried his best to dredge up a smile for him. Judging by his expression it didn’t work.

“Please. You, you need to trust me.” It almost broke him, how earnest he was, how he cupped his chin in both hands. “You’re burning up. You’re sick, or, or something.”

“No--”

“Don’t lie to me!”

“I--” The hurt in his eyes stopped him. “I. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to.”

“You don’t need to protect me. I want to know, I want to know these things so I can help you.”

“Help me up?” Martin scowled but held out his hand to haul him to his feet and Jon’s vision blacked at the edges. His hands went to his head and he blinked fast, unable to clear it.

“No, no statements or whatever right now.” And Jon couldn’t find the words to tell him what was happening. “You’re not getting out of this, you need to talk to me.”

“It’s.” Tongue clumsy, mouth numb.

“You need to tell me things.” He staggered forward a step.

“S’s’...not…” The ground was painful against his knees. He didn’t feel it when he fell forward into the dirt.

Shitshitshit.

“Jon?” Martin kneeled beside him, hands fluttering uselessly, mind infuriatingly blank. “Jon, Jon, okay. It’s okay. I’ve got you.” First thing’s first, he unbuckled the straps and lifted the canvas bag off him and nearly dropped it again in surprise. “Oh, Jon.” Blood soaked his back, stiff fabric the color of rust outlined a muddy ruby stain and his sides expanded raggedly with each shuddering breath.

He should have packed a larger first aid kit.

While cutting away Jon’s ruined clothes Martin could feel the intense heat coming off him in waves, the shivering echoing through his skin into his palms. Palms now soaked red like the bare expanse of Jon’s shoulders. He scrubbed away the worst of the mess, desperately looking for the source of all the blood, fingers ghosting over the dips and valleys of his back and any other time this would be a gift, working out the tension he could feel knotted in his muscles, touching him like this.

There was nothing. No wounds, only scars from the worms, other nicks and scrapes and cuts from the times Martin hadn’t been able to be there for him.

“Jon, love.” He lifted his head, smudging his cheek with a whisper of blood, and slipped a pillow of folded cardigan beneath it. “Jon, come back to me.” And finally, his nose wrinkled up, eyes struggling against the weight of his lashes.

“M’in” Slurred badly and Martin rested the backs of his fingers against his cheek.

“Yeah, it’s me.”

“S’m’thin’s…” His tongue ran between chapped lips. “W’wrong.”

“It’s alright. I’m going to fix it, you’ll feel better soon, darling.” He pressed his lips against his forehead. “Where does it hurt?” A whine rose in Jon’s throat.

“Shoul’er.”

“Okay, I’ll take another look.” Martin pushed against the flat of his scapula and Jon cried out. Hotter here, sore, there was something hard dug into the bone under fingers, flesh. “You’re alright, love.” Martin had a feeling he knew what had happened and when, the memory of Jon shoving him in front of him. A bullet. How mundane. Okay. A deep breath. Two. Three. Martin poured alcohol over his hands, over Jon’s shoulder, letting it dry, trying to take some of the heat out of him. He swiped down the blade of their pocket knife, the tweezers, sick with what he had to do.

He wasn’t ready for this. He wasn’t ready to hurt Jon.

He swallowed.

Again.

Pressing down over the bullet lodged in him, thankfully shallow. Blood welled up under the blade, oozed around it, and Jon’s writhing beneath the steel almost made Martin ill, but he held him down, pushing on until he could slip the tweezers in alongside because his body kept trying to heal around the infection it had unwittingly trapped. It took a solid minute because Martin had trouble getting a grip on the bullet, everything slippery with blood and when he finally grabbed it he chucked the damn thing as far away as he could, flushing the wound with water and letting it bleed freely until it bled clean before finally letting it close.

“Hush,” he soothed, wiping away stray tears after he wiped Jon’s blood off his hands.

“M’sorry...thought…”

“We’ll talk about it later.” He pulled Jon into his lap, covering him with the jumper and relieved that his fever already seemed lower. “I want you to sleep for a little while.” Teasing fingers through his curls, he untangled the worst of it until Jon relaxed, rubbing his cheek against Martin’s thigh.

“I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

[cockasinthebird]

congratulations on reaching 500 bb, you deserve it!! can i ask for prompts 7 and 115 please?

Dear anon, Thank you!!! And thank you for sending in prompts!!

7. “I want you now.”

and

115. “Come here.”

Not in this particular order, though, but still used quite well, and while I did actually struggle just a tiny bit with deciding which idea I should go for of the numerous ones that came forth, I’m still v satisfied!!! I’ll probably have to write the other ones at some point, but first! 

1.8k words, enjoy~

-

“Harrington!” his voice carries over the roar of a dozen teenagers talking and gossiping throughout the cafeteria.

Everyone goes dead silent, staring at Billy, then they all whip their heads at Steve, who’s frozen with his teeth biting into a piece of meatloaf.

“Come here!” Billy shouts with his eyes burning holes into Steve.

Cautiously he turns to look at Billy, fists tight at his sides, brows pulled strong together in a stern stare.

“What did you do?” Nancy whispers to Steve, leaning across the table.

Jonathan sits next to her, honestly looking more scared than Steve himself. Everyone else looks almost excited, as if they’re waiting for a chance to see blood, the tension palpable in the air, thick and electric like a storm is brewing.

He doesn’t answer, simply drops his food on the tray and stands up, immediately causing a wave of not that hushed whispers.

Steve’s gonna get his ass kicked. Billy boutta tear Harrington a new one! Dead man walking.

It’s kinda hard to ignore. The ocean of students separate before him like he’s Moses as he walks through the crowd. They’re all laughing, snickering, jeering, as the old King Steve approaches the reigning Keg King.

Nice knowing ya, Steve. Good luck. Just give up now, it’ll hurt less. If I were you I’d run away.

But he doesn’t register any of it beyond simple background static, because the way Billy is staring, leering, is setting his soul aflame, triggering his fight or flight instinct, getting him a tad bit too excited.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Billy hisses at him, canines exposed through a scowl.

Steve frowns right back, crosses his arms. “I dunno, you tell me.” They’re standing so close that he can smell Billy’s cologne, feel his harsh breathing against his lips.

Billy looks away from Steve and over his shoulder, going from one peer’s curious gaze to another’s bloodthirsty one, then snarls, “What the FUCK are you all staring at?”

And at that they all scramble around, returning to their places, but it’s painfully obvious that they’re still paying attention, glancing over shoulders with perked ears.

A fist closes around the fabric of Steve’s expensive, short sleeved, open button down.

“Not here,” Billy whispers sharply, nostrils flared, a finger rubbing against the slightly exposed patch of chest hair Steve has to offer.

-

Steve gets pulled along by the shirt, out of the cafeteria, down the halls of Hawkins High, outside, underneath the bleachers, and isn’t released till Billy shoves him against the chain link fence that spans the outer borders of the football field.

Within a second Billy’s on him, lips meeting roughly with such a deep hunger it leans toward too much, but Steve follows his lead, moving fingers up to pull at the golden mullet, breathing ragged through his nose.

Billy’s thick fingers tear through the buttons of Steve’s shirt. He has been staring at him all day, the pale blue shirt having been opened just enough to expose the top of his chest, a hint of hair, and it is a fair move on Steve’s behalf, considering it’s at the start of summer and sweltering hot, nearing 90 degrees already. 

But Billy hates it, in a sense, as he could not focus all day, Steve’s pale skin just teasing him, daring him to stare, inviting him to touch. And perhaps it’s because he’s seen Steve fully naked, flushed, moaning beneath him, marked up in purple and red, that he can’t just go on about his day whenever Steve shows just a bit too much. Short shorts, tight jeans, crop tops, and unbuttoned shirts. It just flicks a switch now.

As he leans away from their brutish kissing, he stares at the patch of hair now fully on display, then catches Steve grinning like the cat that ate the canary. 

“You wore this shirt on purpose, didn’t you?” barely an actual question as Billy runs his fingers through Steve’s dark, rather soft, chest hair.

“I did,” he responds, sounding a bit more winded than Billy. 

“You know what it does to me,” another clear statement.

“I do-” Steve starts with a sensuous chuckle, but winces an interruption as Billy tugs on a few strands of hair. “Ah-h, asshole.”

But they both laugh at that, humoured by Steve’s obvious teasing and insinuation that follows wearing this shirt, unspoken but still heard. Billy leans in, doesn’t kiss Steve even as he opens up with wanton; his need to taste Billy again palpable.

“God,” Billy growls out hot, and Steve eats it right up, squirms a bit under the hand flat on his pecs. “I want you, now.”

“Hmmm…” Steve hums as if he’s actually contemplating something, as if it wasn’t his plan from the start of his morning to end up like this. “How?”

-

Billy spreads his legs out on the backseat of the camaro, not that there’s a lot of space to do so, but enough for Steve to kneel there, balanced precariously on the edge of the bench, as he kisses Billy; a bit softer now but no less passionate.

As Steve makes his way down, across the jaw that tastes of aftershave, the neck that smells of cologne, the chest that beats like a drum, Billy thunks his head against the window, gazing at the tree tops surrounding them where they’re parked in the forest.

Wet, eager, pliant lips follow right behind where Steve’s fingers undoes the buttons of Billy’s dark fuchsia shirt, tongue out to taste the summer on his skin. When he reaches the border of jeans and pulls at the belt, Billy looks down at him to run a hand through his hair.

Brown eyes shoot up, dark and amber, filled with lust, desire and a certain tenderness they haven’t addressed yet. Which Billy doesn’t really want to, just in case it would ruin everything, because he doesn’t believe he can trust his own heart with such a delicate matter, with such a pretty boy.

Steve raises himself to kiss Billy, pushing his tongue in to curl them together, sweet and wet and dear, before he pulls off by an inch with a complacent smile.

“You were really convincing back there,” he laughs quietly, unhooking the belt.

“Oh yeah?” Billy chuckles back. He’s got one arm resting across the backseat, the other up to grab at the headrest for the driver's seat.

“Yeah, had me worried for a moment.” A button pops free and the zipper runs loudly.

“Good, ah-” Billy bites back a moan as Steve’s warm and slightly sweaty hand reaches into his trunks. “Wanted to- fuh-ck- wanted to sell it, make it believable.”

He gasps and groans as Steve works his hand along Billy’s full erection, staring down at those soft, pale fingers squeezing around him.

“Shit Stevie…”

Steve chuckles warmly, smiling as wide as he can go, eyes lidded and heavy with a heated gaze at how Billy becomes breathless by his touch. He scoots down the seating, lying down as much as he can, legs bent into the air, as he faces the girthy cock that throbs in his grasp.

Looks up through lashes to watch how Billy bites into his lower lip, brows pinched together with anticipation as Steve pulls his dick free from its reins. Feels a gentle hand petting his hair when he skims his lips across the burning skin, runs his tongue from the base up to just under the head, following the curve of it with the tip of his tongue.

The hand in his hair is heavy, comforting, pleading, and Steve opens his mouth wide, smears the droplet of pre against his flat tongue, then sinks down on Billy’s cock, stretching his lips around the thickness of it.

Instinctively Billy bucks his hips up, making Steve gag loudly - but he doesn’t pull off, just makes a slightly annoyed sound as he adjusts to the intrusion prodding at the back of his throat.

“Fuck! Fuck, sorry Steve, you just- ah- yes-” at least he tries to apologize, but the way Steve has the head of his leaking prick rubbing against the palate of his mouth makes it a real struggle not to thrust into that gorgeous, slippery heat.

“Mmh, arrh, look so pretty with your lips wrapped around my cock like that, baby,” Billy moans out as Steve starts bobbing his head; fingers tugging on his hair to set the right pace.

Steve says something, not meant to be heard, rather for it to vibrate off of his tongue and through Billy’s steely erection, making him leak worse, groan louder, as Steve swallows around the head.

"God, fuck- you suck dick so so good, harrh- ahh-" 

With both hands in his hair now, Steve moves faster, rolls and twists his tongue, pressing against the bulging veins, swipes against the weeping slit before daring to push his way down to nuzzle his nose against Billy's crotch. 

"F-faster," Billy begs as nicely as he can, voice on edge and rough. 

And Steve's happy to oblige; let's himself be controlled by Billy's eager lust, fists lifting him up till only the head of the thick cock is inside of Steve's mouth, then gently but with intent thrusts back in. 

It's sloppy and obscene as he fucks into Steve's throat, throbbing erection drenched in spit, drool running down Steve's chin as he relaxes. 

"Yeah, fuck, I'm-I'm so-" Billy trails off with a loud groan, thighs tensing, head hitting the window as he throws back, shoving Steve fully onto his dick as he cums, a lot, warm and salty and overflowing almost. 

Steve swallows the best he can around Billy's cock, like he's sucking on a lollipop, hollowing his cheeks, working the muscles in his throat to milk Billy dry. 

As Billy gasps for air, chest heaving, prick softening up real quick, Steve pulls off and licks his lips all satisfied, earning himself a breathless laugh from the other. 

He makes a bit of a show of it, really letting his tongue slide from one corner to another, mouth wide open, crawling further up to then kiss against Billy's lips with an all too happy smile. 

"You're incredible," Billy hums with appreciation and something close to adoration, his fingers brushing through Steve's thick hair, caressing him and soothing where he's been yanking and pulling on dark locks. 

"I try," Steve chuckles.

"Your turn now." And Billy starts pushing Steve away, looking down at the bulge in his jeans, clear as day. 

But Steve shakes his head and catches Billy's hand as it initiates a dive for hard flesh. 

"Later. Pick me up after school and I'll let you fuck me blind here in the backseat," Steve purrs directly into Billy's ear, then removes himself entirely to climb back into the passenger seat. 

[zosonils]

surely post some autistic ferb things for us all,,,,,,

hell yeah anon!! here’s an absolute hell dump of Ferb Autism Indulgence Things because i have really been wanting to get my grubby little autistic hands all over him lately

his special interests are engineering and tetris [which is the game he’s internationally ranked in!]

he stims vocally by humming or repeating other vocalisations, but rarely with actual words

if he’s too nervous to vocalise/just not in the mood he goes for small hand movements to stim like clicking pens or tapping his fingers

he does flappy hands/arms when he has a lot of excitement to release! otherwise he prefers to stick to smaller/more subtle motions for a variety of reasons

he only repeats actual words as echolalia, almost always off of either phineas or perry! that thing they do where perry chatters and the boys mimic it and they all just loop off each other for a while is absolutely an echolalia loop for all of them [yes even the platypus]

a very epic headcanon i have is that owca agents are typically labelled as having therapy animal training to give them some more wiggle room with showing intelligence, so perry is officially a therapy platypus for the flynn-fletcher kids, especially the boys. ferb does the aforementioned echolalia chatter thing with perry and also just generally finds him extremely comforting to hold. of course perry’s figured out all of ferb and his siblings’ needs by observation and makes sure to subtly be as comforting as possible for his kids, especially if they’re having a meltdown and need to hold someone who won’t try to talk to them

ferb genuinely dislikes communicating verbally, due to a combination of general social anxiety, struggling to translate his thoughts into words, and finding it physically uncomfortable to talk. it’s not serious enough to prevent him from cracking a joke or vocalising his thoughts every once in a while, but he prefers to be nonverbal as much as possible and communicate through gestures and body language

throughout the series he only ever speaks on his own terms and as much as he’s comfortable with, so it comes out without issue, but if he’s forced to talk when he doesn’t want to or while he’s under stress he struggles to string sentences together and stutters really badly. fortunately he’s got nice friends and a great family so this issue rarely presents itself, although it comes up sometimes during the school year in battles with pissy neurotypical teachers over oral presentations

over time he starts to work past the discomfort [genuinely, it’s on his own terms as opposed to masking to get allistics off his back] so that by the time he’s an adult he can hold an entirely verbal conversation for a decent while before it drains him, but he still tends to avoid speaking if he can

phineas instinctively understands ferb’s silent emotional cues, a lot better than he understands most people’s [but that’s a whole other infodump lmao], and unless ferb actively indicates that he wants to talk for himself phineas usually speaks for both of them and translates any of ferb’s less neurotypically obvious signals

phineas and ferb made The Ultimate Fidget Cube as one of their daily projects [they were being mass produced for an hour or two and then something or other happened, there was a mobile phone and an avalanche of instant noodles, long story short only the handful they made for themselves and their friends are left now] and neither of them go anywhere without it

ferb doesn’t have any specific comfort/security objects but he feels significantly more at ease if he’s got some kind of tool in his hand or within reach [or, failing an actual building-stuff tool, anything he can hold and Do Something with, like a pen or his fidget cube or a video game controller], and is a lot more stimmy with his hands and generally anxious if he isn’t holding something

perry performs the task of comfort item better than any inanimate objects but platypi aren’t allowed to come to school even if they’re very polite :(

believe me the brothers have tested this numerous times

school is stressful for ferb because it fires up his sensory overload and is usually where he’s forced to do some neurotypical shit that upsets him, but his friends always have his back and linda and lawrence are definitely super involved in making sure their kids’ needs are met and respected by their teachers, so he manages pretty well unless something really bad happens to set him off

he’s susceptible to sensory overload, mostly with bright lights, sudden noises, and being touched. the light and sound involved in many of his and phineas’ projects is alright because he usually designed them and knows exactly when they’ll come on and what it’ll be like, but if he doesn’t have that prediction available he freaks out easily. being touched [especially without warning] is the absolute fucking worst and he almost invariably flips out if someone unfamiliar tries to touch him or he’s hit with an unexpected sensation he doesn’t like

he only rarely has meltdowns because he’s good at self-regulating when he needs to and his friends and family know what does and doesn’t fly with him, but when he does they’re often triggered by either sensory overload or being forced to talk

when ferb starts entering meltdown territory his verbal skills are the first thing to shut off, and if it gets worse he usually stops communicating altogether and enters a really bad dissociative state that he won’t come out of until he feels safe again and can be carefully brought back to his senses

standard procedure for ferb meltdowns is to get him a weighted blanket and some tea and a perry if you can find the slippery little bugger, let him snap back to reality at his own pace, and once he can communicate his needs again pay extra close attention to them until he calms down enough that he can properly self-regulate again

his favourite sensations are weight/pressure, the funky bumpy shit perry’s tail has going on, and anything soft!

most of his clothes [including his usual outfit in the show] are tight-fitting but made out of soft fabric for maximum comfy

the blanket on his bed is a weighted one, but if he’s too far from his room or it’s too hot to be comfortable under a blanket sometimes he’ll just find the tightest spot he can wedge himself into without getting hurt or stuck and squish himself in there to calm down a bit

his favourite food texture is crunchy stuff, and he samefoods with particular cereals and sandwich combos that rotate every few months when he finally gets tired of the exact same breakfast and lunch every day and wants slightly different identical meals

while he’s fine with variation from day to day, he’s very firmly attached to the summer/weekend formula of wake up > cereal > big idea > where’s perry > [building montage] > mom holy fuck > sandwich > [having fun montage] > our fuckoff massive contraption has vanished somehow > oh there you are perry > snacks > nondescript vibing > dinner > bed time, and if this schedule gets significantly thrown off it really bothers him

ferb shows his emotions more subtly than neurotypicals, which can make him seem hard to read, but his external emotional range is still extremely distinct - he just expresses it in atypical ways sometimes!

one of his most notable atypical emotional cues is that thing he does when he’s startled and he pulls his hands up - he does this in we call it maze when candace falls over on her skates in the beginning, split personality when busting candace scares him, lost in danville when he’s worried another capsule might fall on him or phineas, and the phineas and ferb effect during how do i do it when milo’s exercise bike crashes, just to name a few instances! this boy has Unique Emotional Cues and i love him for it so much

he’s better at reading emotions than phineas [as low as that bar is], but sometimes misses more subtle cues and doesn’t quite trust his ability to read anyone aside from phineas, candace, and his closest friends

he’s been aware that he’s neurodivergent ever since he was diagnosed as a little kid [he was first diagnosed with autism when he was extremely baby, not even three years old, and had it continually reconfirmed as he got older] and he’s been entirely happy with being autistic for as long as he’s known what that even means, with this only being reinforced as he found siblings and made friends with other autistic kids :)

good lord this is such an infodump i’m sorry i just love my son so very much and have been feeling particularly self indulgent today ;<;

[fourmarkdove]

Tiger.

Title: Tiger.

Pairing: Clark Kent x Reader

Genre: Hurt/Comfort

Words: 2.6k

Summary: You suffer through terrible migraines and push others away because of them. One man breaks through your self-imposed fortress of solitude.

Warnings: Pain, angst, fluff.

A/N: Migraines. Started writing this during one. Ended writing this during another one. Comments are welcome. Thanks for reading!

You moaned yourself awake. Pain gripped the muscles tight across your face and stabbed like a serrated knife behind your left eye.

Acute pain like that made decisions seem just out of reach and words difficult to find. It felt like it knocked you back to a primitive state; you just ached to be held and for it to stop tormenting you.

Drawing your knees up and head down, you literally curled into the fetal position and whimpered aloud. Your cold fingers felt like an ice pack pressed to your eye socket. Your brain was aflame.

You’d lost and just plain avoided relationships the last few years. Who would put up with this looming specter? It was frustrating enough to deal with this nonsense yourself. You couldn't force it upon anyone else, so you kept to yourself.

Even on the best days, your coordination was subpar so it was no surprise when you’d spilled tea on the coffeehouse floor, you slipped in it. You expected to hit the tile hard but a pair of large hands caught under your arms and lifted you back onto your heels.

He offered a soft smile and worried brow, sitting with you a moment while a flash of bright light swept across your vision indicating another attack was eminent.

Noting your struggle to find abortive meds in your bag, he suggested it might be a good idea to get a ride instead of driving home yourself. You agreed home was a good idea but had a meeting to get to - one to show your architectural design portfolio. You were wincing in pain, moreso by the second, when he inquired about the location of your meeting downtown. He said it was near the Daily Planet and he’d be happy to get you there. You didn’t want to be a burden but the concern lingering in his blue eyes made you relent. He typed his number into your phone when he dropped you off and said if you needed him for anything, even a ride home, he’d be there. Something in those bright blue eyes and intonation seemed so familiar. Had you been more alert, you’d have been shocked by how easy it was to trust this good natured puppy of a man.

You never called him for that ride home; you were embarrassed that he saw you in such miserable shape when he appeared to be in pretty top physical shape himself. Over the next few weeks, you passed by each other in the coffee shop, exchanging “good morning” greetings. Beyond that, you never spoke or saw each other again.

Now in the solitude of your misery, you thumbed through your phone and found his number. He did say anything. And if he wasn’t awake, he’d get the message too late in the morning and you’d make an excuse about meaning to text someone else.

Hurting. Miserable. Advice?

You didn’t need advice. You’d lived with this most of your life and tried every drug, vitamin, tea, diet change and yoga position. Just shy of a lobotomy, nothing worked. You just didn’t want to be alone, trapped, in pain.

Tossing your phone on the bed, you dug your nails into your scalp attempting to create pain elsewhere that might distract from the torture in your face and behind your eye. You didn’t expect your phone to buzz immediately.

I’m so sorry to hear you’re struggling. I could come over in a few with a cold drink. Have you eaten? Best, CK

Squinting at the dim light on your phone you thought a long moment, pressing your dry lips together. You’d thrown up hours ago and a cold drink did sound nice.

Not lately. Sprite pls? Ty ty

Writhing in bed, you just could not find a position that made the overwhelming pain feel any better. You resorted to letting yourself whimper desperate cries with every exhale. Pathetic.

Of course. I’ll be right there. Do you need anything else? Best, CK

You did your best to roll over and crawl out of bed. If you had company coming, you needed to at least brush your teeth and pull back your hair. Stumbling to the bathroom in the dark, you leaned heavily on the door frame. The pain screamed through your head; every nerve across your face set ablaze like a searing electrical fire.

Well beyond the point of thinking clearly, your nails dug into your scalp, clawing, desperate, and you sunk down to the cool tile floor and curled up there, unable to process anything other than the primal urge to soak up the numbing cold.

He didn’t bother with the guise and formality of knocking at your front door. Pushing it open as if it’d not been bolted, he dropped the bag from the store at the door and rounded the corner to the bathroom. Not yet completely used to the sound of your voice, he’d heard something like the whimpers of a mortally wounded animal from blocks away.

He found you curled up, in the bathroom, passed out. Kneeling, his brow furrowed deeply with concern and he squeezed your wrist, calling your name. He tapped your shoulder but nothing came of it. You were limp as a rag doll and your skin glistened with a thin film of slippery sweat. You managed to get one arm pulled out of your tank top off before you collapsed entirely, so the damp fabric draped partly around your neck like a scarf.

He pulled away strands of hair clinging to your face. “Y/n, come on. Wake up. It’s me. Clark, remember?”

His brow furrowed further still and jaw tensed from clenching his teeth. Sliding a forearm under your legs, he turned and lifted you gently, letting your head fall against his shoulder as he scooped you up effortlessly and took you back to the bed where your sheets had been balled up and nearly torn off completely.

‘What kind of torture chamber is this?’ he thought to himself.

Lying you out as carefully as a feather on a silken pillow, he sat on the edge of the bed and pulled your arm back through your shirt. His long fingers slid under your neck and thumbed the base of your skull. He could hear the woosh of blood pounding through constricted vessels and the scent of adrenaline on your skin.

Your expression sharpened when he thumbed down the back of your neck, right to the rigid muscle at the top of your shoulder. Pressing his thumb into it, the stubborn muscle almost immediately gave up. A tiny whine escaped your lips which he took as positive sign so he touched the other side, getting it to release, too.

Your eyes winced open. Even in the dark, it was too bright. “C-Clark?” You croaked. “I’m so sorry I -“

An anxious smile only slightly distracted from the gnawing pain.

“It’s okay,” he interrupted. His gaze was so kind despite the worry in those large blue pools. “How are you feeling?”

“I think I’m dying,” you quipped humorlessly.

He huffed a slight chuckle. “My mom used to get migraines, especially during tornado season, so I sort of know a few tricks. May I?”

“Please,” you ached wearily. Shrugging out of his jacket, he put up a finger to indicate he’d be right back, even though you couldn’t see it through the blur. Stalking to the front door, he returned a moment later with a blue bag that he set beside the bed.

He sat on the edge again and untwisted the green bottle of Sprite, and slid it into your shaky hand. Helping you sit up, he blew lightly over two of his fingers while you sipped. Whisper gently he stroked his frozen fingers over your forehead. Your eyes squeezed shut and you cooed softly, setting the bottle down between your legs. Silently, you leaned into his touch in relief as the pain tidal wave began to ebb. A slight smile creased the corners of his eyes seeing the tension melting from your expression. He blew on his other hand and ran two sets of fingers down your temples and then between your eyebrows, sweeping lightly over your sinuses.

Your lips parted and you moaned out loud. He didn’t jump but definitely glanced down at your hand pawing at his thigh, wordlessly expressing the relief and gratitude you felt.

“Real lightning storm in there, huh?” he asked just above a whisper.

You hummed letting your fingertips spread against his thigh.

“May I take down your hair?” he asked gently, blowing over both sets of fingertips again.

You nodded, completely giving yourself over to being touched. You didn’t care how - you only knew he was making it so much better and in the crushing despair, you craved the comforting.

Smoothing both palms up the back of your neck to the fallen bun atop your head, he loosened the band and slid the elastic around his wrist, easing your hair down with his splayed fingers. He frowned harshly, circling over the crescent shaped indentations along your scalp. There was desperation under his fingertips and it made his stomach tighten up.

Lost in the sensation, your body rocked forward until your forehead touched his shoulder. This was much too intimate, to be held and caressed in your own bed by someone you’d only really talked to once. “I… I’m... sorry...”

He side eyed you from behind his glasses when you palmed his chest lazily intending to push yourself away but made absolutely no effort to do so.

“It’s fine. Really. Is this helping at all?”

Humming in the affirmative, you squished your cheek against his pec and sighed deeply, feeling tension in your back draining away while his broad palm pressed between your shoulder blades. Carefully lowering you back into bed, he pulled the covers up.

“Try to sleep, okay? I’ll just be on the couch,” he whispered, rubbing his thumb against your shoulder. Comfortable again, you’d already fallen back to sleep before your body even touched the bed.

*

Stumbling out of bed about 2am with a blanket wrapped around yourself, you headed to the kitchen. Your stomach was rumbling but what to make that required as little energy as possible?

“Banana? Banana.” You said to yourself out loud tugging on the not quite ripe bunch on the counter.

“Need help?”

You yelped, dropping the bananas on the floor with several thumps. He stood in the doorway with a fading grin.

“I thought I was alone,” you said hoarsely. “Thought you were a… fever dream or something.”

“Nope, I’m very real,” he explained, bending to scoop up the mess of fruit at your feet and blow on a couple fingers.

Straightening up, he put the bananas back on the counter. It made him smile slightly to see you blush and go wide eyed when he closed the distance between you.

“How are you feeling?” he asked gently, searching your eyes, sweeping his cool fingertips over your forehead. You blinked slowly, not entirely aware you were letting out the softest purr but he definitely heard it. He smiled down at you as he caressed over your face.

“I’m… okay,” you sighed dreamily after several long moments. “Hungry though.”

“Let me make you something,” he appealed, thumbing slow circles into the back of your neck only after you dropped your head and pointed. He chuckled and listened; that heartbeat wasn’t thumping quite as hard in your head anymore.

“Probably something light to start. Toast and fruit? You seem to be craving bananas.”

“Thank you, Clark,” you sighed, peeking up at him through your fallen hair.

“‘Course,” he shrugged it off with an easy smile. He seemed to have plenty of those to offer. “Now you go curl up on the couch. Didn’t know how long I’d be here for so I loaded up 76 on your xBox. Without the DLCs it’s absolute trash, though. If it’s done you’re welcome to take it for a test drive while I get some snacks ready.”

The tableside lamp cast a warm glow which you settled under, drawing your blanket up closer. The comforting scent of melted butter scraped over toasted bread wafted in from the kitchen. It made you smile and close your eyes listening to him humming to himself as he worked. Just as he sat down with the tray in both hands, the xBox restarted and he grinned at you.

“Perfect timing! Peppermint tea?”

Collecting your cup from the tray, you sat back against your end of the couch and wrapped both hands around it, inhaling the tingly minty scent and sighed. He’d traded the tray with teas and toast and - wait, where did he find a single pink tulip? - for the console controller. He was all grins loading the game up, adjusting his glasses.

“See? This is already SO much better,” he said with mock annoyance, motioning with his hand at the big screen opposite the couch. “Looks like Bethesda finally got their shi- What are you doing?”

He arched a playful eyebrow at you. It was so unlike you but you actually started to giggle. The sound, the crackle sensation in the back of your throat and chest, felt foreign.

“Nothing,” you cooed softly, drawing your cold toes back from where you’d been trying to wiggle them under his thigh for warmth. You sipped your tea.

“Mhmm,” he hummed, the very slightest of smirks lifting the corner of his lips. His gaze returned to the game and he thumbed over the controller quickly.

Wordlessly, he lifted his thigh and sighed, feigning exasperation. You let out an excited squeak, sliding your feet under his thigh which he then rested down over you, making you sigh.

Without looking over, he took one hand off the controller and tucked your blanket over your ankles. “There now. Better?”

“Mmhmmmm,” you cooed, putting your tea down on your chest as you slid down on the couch into the pillows.

“Anyone ever told you that you may be part cat?”

“Mm?”

“Mm like the cats and kittens we had on the farm back home. They love scritches behind the ears, seek out warm places to take naps, seem to climb all over ME for some reason.”

You lifted your head as he exchanged your tea for toast. You nibbled on the corner and couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe it’s because you keep feeding them.”

He chuckled and paused the game, throwing an arm over the back of the couch. “Could be. Somebody’s got to look after them, though.”

“Might as well be you, hm?” You didn’t mean for it to come out as sharply as it did.

His smile started to fade a bit and a furrow creased his brow. “Might be. Might be somebody else. It’s only a problem if they think they’re not worth the attention.”

It made your cheeks burn and chest feel all fluttery. Was this flirting? You couldn’t remember. “Clark?”

“Mhm.”

“We’re still talking about cats, right?”

A sly smirk lifted his features as he collected the controller in both hands again. “You. I like you,” he husked, giving you a side eyed glance.

“And cats.”

“More of a dog guy if I’m honest.”

“Wait… WHAT are we talking about then?”

He tossed his head back and chuckled. “Eat your toast, Tiger.”

[sabraeal]

In Plain Sight, Chapter 4

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3

Written for @k-itsmaywriting​‘s birthday! I hope that, despite how weird the world is right now, you have an amazing day!

Shirayuki understands how this is supposed to work. She’s seem movies after all-- Witness, of course; Sister Act 1 & 2, if only because Opa thought Whoopie Goldberg was a national treasure and Oma thought she was too young to be watching Ghost; and Our Lips Are Sealed about eight times on video cassette, since she’s old enough (and Opa resisted DVD long enough) have both VCRs and wholesome Olsen twins content as a part of her childhood.

(Her favorite formative twins were Annie and Hallie from The Parent Trap; they were red-headed, just like her, and one of them had a British accent. She’d been devastated to find out that not only were both of them American, but they were also only one girl. She’d watched Double Trouble to console herself)

In any case, she knows how this goes, at least narratively. She lays down in this amazingly comfortable bed, stares up at the ceiling in a tense yet melancholy fashion for hours, and dreams in plot-relevant flashbacks. Extra points if they reference the crime she witnessed.

The problem is: she didn’t. She’s just the unfortunate collateral to her father’s personal redemption. All the life ruining without ever being part of the A plot.

There’s an upside though: the second she hits that firm cloud of a mattress, she’s out like a light.

Absolutely nothing wakes her, but Shirayuki jolts into consciousness anyway, as unpleasant as any false start. She expects to be confused; she’s not a graceful riser to begin with, and every morning in temporary housing, she’d bounce off three walls at minimum trying to find a bathroom that didn’t exist.

(Well, the bathroom did exist, it just didn’t exist where it should, which was down the hall to the right, and was compounded by the door being in exactly the wrong place too.)

Instead, she knows exactly where she is. Knowledge which is quickly followed by the low-key, seething resentment for the man who put her here.

She groans, lifting her head from the pillow. It’s fine. She’s fine. It’s just--

7:00, her alarm clock says. Tuesday, her brain provides after a long moment.

She should be getting up, habit told her. Getting her morning fix of avocado toast and orange juice with Paul Newman’s face stamped on it.

There’s worse ways to start your day than having a fine pair of eyes smiling at you, Oma would say.

What can I say? Opa’d grumble back, flipping through the paper. It’s impossible to compete with Butch Cassidy.

Her fingers curl into the sheets. There’d be none of that today. Agent Jiang-- Obi’s assistant had gotten her Simply Orange instead. A small mercy. It’s hard enough to be someone else when there’s still so much her clinging to the edges.

It’s tempting to linger in bed; she’s always been a morning person, up with the birds, but maybe Claire isn’t. Maybe Claire likes to stay up late and sleep in, sleeping past the three alarms she sets for herself. Maybe she likes to have waffles for breakfast, straight from a box, and drinks pomegranate juice. Maybe she doesn’t bike into the lab at eight because--

She groans. Because Claire doesn’t have a job. A thing that will have to change soon, since Claire has to pay for this house.

There’s a great deal of compromise that happens between bedside and bathroom; habit insists she needs to be fully dressed, ready to greet the day, but everything else--

Well, she’s not going anywhere is she? There’s no reason she couldn’t wallow in her pj’s all day

Standards, habit insists. But those belonged to Shirayuki, not Claire. Claire has no job, no friends, and nothing to do on a Tuesday morning besides--

Oh no, the recycling.

The bin is nearly two-thirds her height, but with only one day under her belt, it’s already overflowing. Good thing she’d looked at that brochure when it slipped out from between the takeout menus.

She shrugs her hoodie a little tighter, pulling it down over her leggings-- habit and hedonism settled on exercise wear as a happy medium-- and grips the handle, tugging it out the opening garage door, right into the fresh Texas morning--

And promptly throws her hoodie back into the garage. She might need that with the downright frosty temperature the house is set to, but oh, she was not going to cover her skin out here any more than necessary. Even now, she’s starting to sweat in impossible places beneath her leggings.

Hooking her palm back around the handle, she tugs the bin down the drive. Her gaze fixes to the pavement-- the last thing she needs is to trip right over herself on her own driveway taking out the trash-- and she doesn’t look up until she hits the sidewalk. It’s a struggle to get it to sit right-- these are proper curbs, white poured cement with squared edges meant to puncture cheeky tires; one of the wheels catches in a gap and refuses to budge until she hip checks it out onto the next slab.

She’s damp at this point, skin dewing with giant drops of sweat she’s tempted to shake off like a dog, but--

But Martha Kino has an arm slung along their fence, holding a tall glass of iced tea that makes her mouth water just to look at.

“Oh, um, good morning!” she calls out with a weak wave. “I didn’t, um, see you there.”

It’s only when Martha slides her gaze to her that she realizes her neighbor hadn’t been looking at her at all. Her mouth curves into a knowing smile at the sight of her. “Good morning, honey. You here for the show?”

Shirayuki blinks. “The show?”

“Mm-hm.” Martha takes a long drag from her straw, ice clinking against the glass. “Here it comes now.”

Shirayuki tracks her line of sight right across the cul-de-sac, squinting at half acre of immaculately trimmed, completely invasive Bermuda grass. Their front garden is well-kept, as well; thickly mulched with giant hibiscus blooming blood red against pristine stone facade.

Oh, and there’s a man as well. That’s probably what Mrs Kino is looking at.

He’s tall. No, tall is an understatement; he’s a giant, six foot four at least with shoulders to match. He’s trimmed with the same military precision as his lawn, clean shaven with an undercut that could scratch glass. Heavy brows draw sharply over his nose, forehead rumpling as he tears a box right down the fold--

Ah, well, all right. It’s not doing much of anything for her, but the Vitruvian man’s more ideal cousin ripping up boxes definitely counts as a show. Halfway through, he grabs the hem of his shirt, mopping his brow, and ah, hm, he could definitely have made money as an anatomical model. His rectus abdominis are, ah...very defined.

“Is he--” Shirayuki searches for the words-- “from around here?”

“Oh, him?” Martha’s gaze doesn’t stray for a second, not even as she sips at her tea. “That’s Scott. Aspen’s husband. They just moved in a few weeks ago.”

Shirayuki glances around the neighborhood. Seems like more than a few of her neighbors hope they’ll never leave either.

“Quite the pair, those two,” Martha hums. “She’ll be at the luncheon. I know you two will just get on like houses.”

More like houses on fire if she mentions she’s seen her husband’s floor show. “Oh, right. The um, luncheon.”

Mrs Kino grins as Scott hops back inside, out of this heat, just like she’s dying to do. “By the way, he mows the lawn on Sunday, just before lunch.”

“Oh, um, great.” She’ll be sure to miss it. “Can’t wait.”

It’s too early to bake cookies.

There’s not a baked good on earth that tastes as good two days later as it does fresh out of the oven; Shirayuki knows that down to her toes and bones, but still--

Stress baking. It’s a thing. And she doesn’t have to make anything right now. She could get all the ingredients together, just to make sure she has them. And then...just not do anything.

She can. Definitely. Absolutely. She’s Claire now. Claire probably doesn’t even like chocolate chip cookies.

Oh gosh, who is she kidding? Only monsters don’t like chocolate chip cookies. What next, Claire doesn’t like brownies? Apple pie? Snickerdoodles?

It’s a slippery slope, not liking things. Best to just keep it simple and eat everything, that’s what Opa always said at the church potluck.

The morsels and brown sugar already sit out on the counter when her phone lets out a piercing ting. She’s half tempted to ignore it; she’s having a contentious battle with the ten pounds of King Arthur flour that’s tucked away in her cabinet-- what was she thinking?-- and she refuses to show any fear in the face of baking supplies but--

Ting. No one knows her number. Well, no one except the government.She settles back on her heels with a sneeze. The government probably doesn’t take kindly to being left on read.

Her hands clap against her thighs, flour misting into the air as she leaves two partial prints right over the helical print. She frowns, plucking at the fabric, nose wrinkling as more powder burst into the air. Ting.

“I’m coming,” she mutters, stumbling over to the island. “I’m coming.”

Sugar Daddy i got just what u need pumpkin check ur email

The corners of her mouth dig furrows into her cheeks as she clicks on the notification. It’s the only message in her inbox, aside from the ubiquitous Welcome to Gmail spam and a few coupons for Banana Republic and a couple of other retailers. They’d taught her about this at orientation; they couldn’t do much about an empty inbox, but everyone had at least a few mailing lists they’d either forgotten to opt out of or regularly used.

Still...what about her said Banana Republic? She glances down at her spandex-clad legs. If they were going to go for a too-expensive clothing line, they could have at least sprung for Lululemon.

Ah, but that wasn’t the point. Marshal Jiang-- Obi hadn’t texted all...that...to show off some spam. Sitting at the very top of her inbox is a Cornell email address-- Cornell-- with an attachment.

Dear Claire, the message reads, We’re so sorry to see you go, but I’m glad we’re able to keep in touch. Of course we kept the copy of your old CV. Good luck to you in all your endeavors.

It’s signed by some professor; not high profile enough for her to have heard of, but she doesn’t doubt that he’s real, someone a curious party could look up on Cornell’s directory. Well, at least for the next six months.

The Columbia alumna inside her writhes in agony. Cornell. She doubts it’s a coincidence.

Me Aren’t you supposed to be taking care of me?

Not that she’s very, um, up on the specifics of such a relationship, but she’d been under the impression that sugar...children?...were supposed to be fully reliant on their sugar parent. Her mouth pulls thin. Already she’s thinking about this far more than she’d ever hope to.

Sugar Daddy a good daddy makes sure his baby can take care of herself ;)

This declaration is followed by a stream of emojis, ending with an eggplant and a peach, and she just-- doesn’t need to know. She wipes away the sweat that beads at her hairline-- from embarrassment, of course-- and downloads the attachment.

Me I’ll take a look. Thank you.

She sets the phone back on the island, face down, and glares. He can’t possibly be like this to everyone. People would complain. They wouldn’t just let him insinuate that he-- that they--

Ting.

Sugar Daddy good girl

All right. Maybe they would.

Shirayuki doesn't get homesick.

She’d been the first brownie to leap out of her car at summer camp; Opa barely had time to lurch into park before she was traipsing across the field, backpack slung over her shoulder and duffel bag dragging on the grass. Freshman year, she moved into the dorm by herself, pressing kisses to wrinkled cheeks as she lugged her suitcases onto the train; she’d almost forgotten to wave from the window.

But as soon as she lays down in bed, the lights snuffed out and the world still, it hits her. Just a soft roll of her stomach at first, the barest itch on her skin, like wearing a wool sweater on a spring afternoon. It’s fine; too much to ignore but nothing that would keep her up too long.

It doesn’t stay that way.

Her stomach clenches, tears pricking at her eyes, and it’s everything she can do to just roll onto her side, letting the chills wrack through her body. She shivers so hard her teeth chatter, and this-- this isn’t the gentle ache of nostalgia her books prepared her for. This is an illness, plain and simple, like when she caught norovirus in eighth grade can could hardly do anything but lay on the bathroom floor and wait for the next wave to begin.

This isn’t her, she isn’t like this, she doesn’t get like this, but-- but--

Before she always knew her home was waiting for her; she could leave but Oma and Opa would always keep the front lamp on, waiting for weary travelers and last minute bookings.

It’s different now that there’s no home to come back to.

7:00, her alarm clock says. She watches it tick over, like she has for every hour before it.

She must have slept at some point; it’s impossible that she’s lain awake, staring at the clock for eight hours. But that doesn’t make her any less tired, and so when her alarm starts up, beeps cutting through the quiet white noise of the air conditioner, she reaches out and slaps it off.

Shirayuki may not sleep in, but Claire is certainly warming to the idea.

Her notebook sits open on the island; neat, looping script stretches across the page, straining the boundaries of the blue lines that contains it. She’d done her homework yesterday, combing through job sites to find the most likely candidates. There’s five on her list right now, ranked according to preference, and oh, is Shirayuki glad she had the gumption to do this before, because this morning she feels like roadkill being scraped off the blacktop.

Still, she worries at her lip as her laptop boots up, peering over her list. In the cold light of the morning, five seems too few, but...desperation hasn’t set in yet. She’s allowed to still have standards.

Wrapping her hands around her mug, she glances at the next page: another list. No, a set of instructions. Edit CV. Write cover letters.

Shirayuki groans. Even with the bullet points she left for herself, composing cover letters is a circle of hell all its own. With only three hours of solid sleep under her belt, it’s an insurmountable hurdle to getting hired.

“Right,” she murmurs, hooking an ankle around a stool and pulling it under her. “Editing it is.”

She clicks on the pdf Obi sent her, scrolling down and--

“Oh no.” She rears back from the screen, heart pounding. “No, no. There’s got to be a mistake...”

“Hey, baby,” Obi’s voice rumbles through her speaker. It’s thick and warm and would be utterly distracting if she were in any less of a crisis. “A little early for a b--?”

“What happened to my papers?”

“Uh.” All the suggestion in his tone evaporates. “What?”

“My papers.” Her hand grips the phone so tight it creaks. “They’re gone.”

His end goes silent. Silent enough to make that weird click, like the line’s cut out, and she pulls back to check--

“Someone stole your passport?” He laughs, incredulous. “Some sort of luck you have, Miss. Barely had it for a day and already you’ve gotten your identity stolen.”

She blinks into the barren air of her kitchen. “What?”

“You know,” he hums, too amused, “I picked out a cute house in the suburbs for safety, and here you are, getting robbed. Did you leave them in your car? Or did you just go out--”

“N-no!” She’s honestly half tempted to say what car, until she remembers the tasteful mid-sized SUV in the driveway, the one she’s still been calling the girlfriend car in her head, and realizes-- it’s hers. She’s the girlfriend.

Except she’s not. At all. Which is fine! She doesn’t even want that! If she’s still thinking about what his mouth feels like as he wraps them around his words, then--

She really can’t be thinking about this right now. “I mean my papers! I just looked at my CV and it’s a page!”

He hesitates, though not enough for the line to click again. “Isn’t that long enough?”

“CVs aren’t resumes,” she informs him patiently, pen twisting between her fingers. “They’re dick measuring contests--”

Her teeth snap around the words, but oh, it’s too late. They’re already out there in the aether, and he’s laughing.

“Now there’s something I didn’t think I’d hear out of you, Miss.” He doesn’t need to sound so pleased about it.

“It’s something my old PI used to say,” she mutters. Oh, Garak would be so proud of herself if she knew. “It’s not very polite, but she’s not, um, wrong.”

“I’m sorry the US government made you under endowed.” His words practically rattle as he says them. “It’s not the size that matters, Miss, but how you use it.”

“Obi,” she huffs. “All the work I’ve done for the past ten years of my life now is attributed to my birth name and my birth name only! According to this CV I have the same level of experience, but less papers than an undergrad! And you can’t tell me that any of these are searchable on PubMed.”

And none of them are first authors, is what she doesn’t say. It’s a petty thing to worry about when her entire academic career is functionally extinct.

“Hm.” His fingers drum quickly on a table. Desk? It’s strange not knowing anything about the man who is her only lifeline. “I’ll look into it.”

“I don’t want to be, um, alarmist, but I can’t get a job with this.” Her hand shakes as she scrolls down her screen. “No one is going to hire a post-doc with a one page CV.”

“Don’t worry, Miss. There’s a plan for this, somewhere.” She can feel his grin when he says, “You can’t be the first academic who’s had to go into hiding.”

She smiles, despite herself. “Considering some of the conferences I’ve been to, I can believe it.”

“Besides, you could always apply to pharmaceuticals.” The very word is like a donkey kick to her gut. “The pay’s supposed to be better--”

“I can’t work for Big Pharma.”

He hesitates. “You...can’t?”

“Obi, they make little old grandmas pay eight hundred dollars for insulin!” She presses a hand to her chest. “Banting and Best didn’t sell the patent for one dollar so that people could get gouged by--”

“I get it, I get it,” he assured her. “Preaching to the choir. But as a safety, I’m sure you could find one that isn’t stealing candy from babies.”

She huffs. “I doubt it.”

He rasps out a laugh. “I’ll see what I can do. As I said, can’t be the first PhD on the lam.”

Her mouth twitches. “Just yours?”

“You are certainly some kind of education, Miss.” He hums. “Give me a day. See what I can turn up.”

“You have two,” she informs him magnanimously. “I have the luncheon tomorrow.”

“Oh, right.” She doesn’t need to see him to know he’s lounging, smug like a cat post-canary. “Looking forward to joining the neighborhood’s Ladies’ Committee?”

“Ha ha,” she drawls flatly. “Very funny.”

He is unnervingly silent on the other end.

“You’re kidding, right?” Her voice certainly does not fill with a nervous quaver. “You guys don’t have things like that around here.”

Obi hums, humoring her.

“W-what would they even do?” She picks nervously at the sticker on her laptop, prying up part of NVIDIA. “Plan potlucks? Organize the Neighborhood Watch? Cotillions?”

She doesn’t know how he makes his grin so palpable over 4G. “Looking forward to your debut, Miss?”

Shirayuki scowls down at her screen. “I think I’m firmly up on the shelf, thank you. Now if you don’t mind, I have cookies to make.”

[consumedkings-archive]

ancient names, pt. xvi

A John Seed/Original Female Character Fanfic

Ancient Names, pt xvi: that colossal wreck

Masterlink Post

Word Count: ~6k idk man i barely go here 

Rating: M/Mature; lots of blood and stuff but nothing steamy.

Warnings: blood and guts, mentions of self-harm, mentions of sexual assault, Kian is a creepy fucker and he needs to die so he gets his own warning, dog on man violence. Uhhhhh idk how shotguns work so I did my best, don't @ me. Elliot does go full feral in this and I'm not sorry.

Notes: I so hope y'all enjoy this chapter. I'm not gonna say too much about it here, but please know that every comment, like, kudos, whatever—even the tiniest bit of knowledge that y'all enjoyed it just makes me so incredibly happy. It was a bit of slog at some parts but I'm so excited to get it out for you. <3 Special shout-out to @starcrier who provides incredible input and support while I try and glean even a MODICUM of her talent; ilysm!!!

As well, @baeogorath has been such an absolute DARLING, allows me to send them memes at like 3am and scream at them about all of my feelings. And @lilwritingraven, who has been SO supportive and helpful and just all around the biggest sweetheart a gal could ask for, thank you BOTH sm. <3!

The first thing that she recognized was the desperate need to breathe. 

The second was that she was wet, exceptionally wet, her lungs filling with water over and over again, like dying a thousand times without the actual reprieve of death. Two strong hands gripped the front of her shirt, pinning her under the dark surface. Elliot thought, I’ve been here before.

Those hands gripping her hauled her out of the dark, wheezing and coughing up water, and tossed her onto the riverbank like a dead fish. She might as well have been, for what it was worth; when she managed to open her eyes, the world blurred and melted around her the way water swept over a window in a carwash.

“So glad you are awake,” Kian said from in front of her. He stood in the water just past his knees, and as he made his way out and over to her, she blinked rapidly to try and clear her vision. Elliot sucked in the biggest lungful of air she could, and all of the water that had been sitting in her mouth and throat caught and ripped, forcing her to lean and choke it up. “You were sleeping for quite a while, you know, Elliot. Had to make sure you slept all of it off.”

Her name coming out of his mouth felt like a violation—sticky, wet, ruined, a thing she had not allowed him to use, and yet he did anyway. She hadn’t given him permission to know her, and it felt different still than when Ase had used her name; like a weapon being wielded against her.

They gave me so much, she thought desperately a while her body thrummed with pain, searing hot through every nerve-ending as if they’d all been rubbed raw and exposed. They gave me so much of that shit, so much more than Ase ever did. How long was I sleeping it off? Fuck fuck fuck.

Kian’s fingers gripped her throat, slotted just under her jaw, and he pulled ; hauled her straight up with brute strength until her bare feet— when had they taken her shoes?—scrambled against the slippery river bank.

“Her dress fits you well,” he continued admiringly as he held her there. His words dragged her attention back to herself; she wasn’t in her own clothes, in fact, but in a long, dark cotton dress, high-necked and slim fitting. It looked like the same dress that she had first seen Ase in. “In fact, if your hair was just a little darker, and your eyes not so fucking blue, I would think you two could be sisters.”

Dead, the wind whispered. Humidity crept under the fabric, stifling and tenacious. Dead woman in a dead woman’s clothes.

“W-Where—?” Elliot managed out hoarsely. Her own heartbeat, so loud that she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to hear Kian, thrummed violently in her ears as panic started to really settle into her skeleton. “Where—John, and Boomer—what the f-fuck did you—”

“Now that you’re awake,” Kian continued conversationally, as though she had not spoken at all, “we can start.”

His grip loosened and then released. She barely managed to keep herself upright. The world lurched dangerously beneath her feet, and for a second, she thought she was going to have to throw up; the sensation subsided, and she swept her gaze in a single circle around her.

No John; no Boomer. Only darkly-clothed, silent figures, watching. Each face—some as old as a grandparent, some as young as what she thought could only be ten, and many of them somewhere in between—regarded her with the same kind of glassy-eyed curiosity that came with a circus attraction.

“What the fuck,” Elliot said, her voice hoarse and cracking in distress. “What the fuck did you—where are they—?”

“I’m only going to give you one tip,” Kian said. “Stop trying so hard to talk. You’ll burn through all of your adrenaline, mor.”

He had passed her up the riverbank. The intent of it all was very clear: he anticipated that she would follow, because he had something that she wanted and she was in no state to claw her way through all of them even if she wanted to. The knowledge of this—the understanding that Kian knew exactly what hand he had, and was going to play it—filled her with another sickening wash of dread.

The redhead stopped at the top of the bank and looked at her over his shoulder. “Are you coming?”

Shivering, Elliot wadded the hem of the dark dress up in one hand and struggled to the bank. Kian let her. He let her catch herself, dirtying her hands and the dress, practically clawing her way up as her heart rate fluctuated earnestly and without pattern in her chest, and when she made it to where he stood she could see the treeline ahead of them. Dark, drenched in nightfall, the pines murmuring every time the night’s chilly breeze rustled the branches.

“They’ll—” Talking caused pain to splinter through her jaw, radiating in spiderwebs up behind her eyes. “His b-brothers will—”

Kian waved a hand. His voice was light when he said, “They are busy.”

Fuck. Despair welled in her chest. Elliot swallowed thickly and said, “What are... What are we...”

He stared at her. She had the distinct sensation of being an ant, trapped under the searing beam of his magnifying glass, raising burns all across her skin. Then, he reached down to the ground, and from a bag, he procured a handful of papers; when he pulled them out, the familiar scent of her home wafted from them.

“You have lovely handwriting.” He scanned the page. “I hope you’ll forgive my snooping through your home. I couldn’t resist. Let’s see here: sounds like our little bunny was struggling with insomnia, feeling alone. Angry with your therapist for saying you were displaying—” Kian lifted a finger to indicate the importance of the word. “— significant signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, including—”

“S—” I want to die I want to die. The pages of her ripped journal sat in his hands, even greater a violation than the sound of his name. “Stop—”

“—intrusive memories, loss of time, irritability and aggressive behavior, self-harm. Is that where those scars are from? Hm, and… 'Sometimes, I wonder what it would have been like if I didn’t let this happen to me'. Is that guilt ?” Kian clicked his tongue. “Do you feel guilty, Elliot? For what that man did to you, those years ago?” And then he paused, glanced back at the paper, and said, “Forgive me. It was one year ago. Not that far gone, I suppose.”

She opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out; something gripped her lungs, restricted their movement, until she thought she was going to pass out.

He had been in her home. He had touched her things. He’d stood among the things that were meant to be hers, rifled through them, found her journal and ripped the pages out. She’d taken up journaling about what had happened—not to torture herself with the reality of her situation, but in an effort to understand who she had become, to feel less like a stranger in her own body.

And now he held it in his hands, and there it was: everything that she was, just that small, just that insignificant. The entirety of what she was clutched in the hands of a psychopath.

“I hope she’s fucking suffering.” Elliot ground the words out, and Kian quirked a brow at her inquisitively. She plunged onward, reckless and vicious from her pain, “I hope Ase’s fucking rotting in hell, suffering, and I’m glad they blew her fucking brains in.”

Something dark flickered across Kian’s expression. It may have been a trick of the light; the clouds passed over the moon, blinking the world into darkness for a few minutes before the nighttime wind pushed them forward again. Elliot couldn’t tell if it was real, what she’d seen on his face, but she hoped it was.

But he didn’t say anything about her venom. Instead, he said, “Ase and I used to play a game together.” His tone was light, casual; he dropped the papers back into the bag dismissively, as if they were nothing. “I would give her a three-minute head start. She would run into the woods, and I would try to catch her. She was the perfect prize.”

A strange kind of affection welled in his voice. It was love, Elliot thought with a sickening kind of realization, in his voice—and it only made her more grateful that John had busted through her spine with a shotgun shell, the knowledge that maybe Kian was suffering even a tiny bit as much as she was.

Kian continued, “Now, because of you, she is not here to play the game; you will have to be my prize, Elliot.”

She was going to be sick. She wished that he would have just killed her, rather than this—this waking nightmare, this actual fucking living hell he was going to put her through. Elliot sucked in an unsteady breath, and when Kian gestured at the treeline, she turned her gaze there. It was easier to look at the sturdy line of pines than at his wretched face.

Hot breath fanned across her ear. Kian’s hand came up to the back of her neck, holding, gripping, the way a father would when he prepped his son for a baseball game. She heard the words like a sick comedy in her head: Come on, champ! You’ve got it! But his mouth was right on her ear and he said, “I hid your man out there for you.”

John.

“He’s—not,” she managed out. “Mine.”

Kian huffed out a laugh against her temple. “Then it should be easy for you to hide from me and not worry about finding him.”

Bluff called. Fucking cultist.

He stepped away from her, heading to the half-moon curve of cultists waiting idly by. Silently, Elliot tried to count them; she wanted to know how many she could kill, and how fast, if she got a gun in her hands, but the splitting headache blurring her vision uneasily made it difficult to keep track.

One of them put a shotgun in Kian’s hand. He checked the ammunition idly.

“Start running, Elliot,” he called without looking at her. “Your time starts now.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“What took you so long?”

John thought he had to be dreaming. He was certain of it, somewhere in his brain, because Elliot’s voice hummed warmly against the skin of his neck and she pressed up against him like a feline eager for his attention, and that wasn’t her. Was it?

“You’ve been sleeping so long,” she murmured into him, all sleep-warmed skin and soft lines. “Aren’t you going to wake up?”

Yes, he thought, because he wanted to open his eyes, because he wanted to see her like this. He’d worked hard for it. He deserved it, didn’t he? Yes, I’m going to wake up.

“John.” Elliot purred his name, sweet and decadent. She was so warm. “Wake up.”

“Okay,” John said, because he knew that he was ready. But the world stayed dark. He tried again: “Okay, I will.”

Her lips brushed against his pulse. He felt her fingers traced the Sloth scar on his sternum, meticulous, memorizing, slender and warm and affectionate.

“Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you,” he managed out, “I trust you.”

Like lifting the floodgates, he pushed his eyes open. And it was a push; the effort it took to open his eyes was astronomical, like someone had suddenly stuck him under slow-moving lava that swallowed him up, ate away at the oxygen around him and weighed down his lungs in their attempt to let him breathe.

There was no Elliot. Only the slow, dark pulsing of pine boughs overhead. For just one split second, John felt relief; he was fine. Somewhere, but fine.

And then a piece of the sky lifted and peeled, drifting away. The trees bent and warped around him. He tried to struggle to sit up, fighting the urge to coil up into a tiny ball.

He said, miserably, “What the fuck,” and something at his hip buzzed static. The sound sent jolts of white-hot panic searing through his body.

“Hello?” It was a radio. A thick, dark voice came through. John didn’t pick up. He thought it sounded like Kian.

“Fucker,” he managed out, hauling himself to his feet as the world see-sawed beneath him.

“John Seed.” The voice came again. “I know you can hear me. You should be waking up any minute now.”

John wished he was still asleep. The dream had been better than this. At least in that, Elliot was—

Elliot. The last thing he remembered was her frantic hands trying to undo his seatbelt, and then her warmth getting ripped away from him, and then someone's hands on his shirt and—

“Fuck.” Bad news. Bad. “Fuck fuck fuck. ”

Steadying himself on a boulder, he came around into the clearing, trying to see through the trees. It was no good; the world pulsed and bled around him, smearing like an oil painting, and he realized with a sense of dread pitting in his stomach that they’d drugged him. Hard. The same way they’d drugged Elliot when she’d been crying into the ground like she was going to fly off.

That he knew what was going on did little to abate the irrational panic flashing through him, electrical pulses pounding through his body every chance they got. It made everything too much —the sound of the wind, the murmuring of voices that he thought maybe weren’t there, the feeling of the night on his skin. Yes, he felt it, like a garment of clothing, sitting just on him; he couldn’t tell where he ended and the rest of it began. 

“I let your beast loose,” Kian’s voice crackled, seething with delight. “Gave her a head start, too.”

His fingers itched to grab the radio that had been clipped on his belt. He thought, I shouldn’t let him know I’m awake —

“Hey, fucker,” he snapped, his finger pushing down on the walkie button. His words kept slurring on their way out of his mouth, but he plunged onward anyway. “Come out here, huh? Love to chat face to face.”

Well, he’d never been that good at impulse control, anyway.

“On my way already,” Kian murmured silkily. “See you soon, friend.”

And then it went dead.

John spent what felt like an eternity staring at the face of the walkie talkie before he thought, Hey, that’s my fucking radio. And then: fuck, I can’t fight him right now.

He blinked furiously, trying to refocus his vision as bright colors started to bloom and bleed out from the ground. John kept telling himself that it wasn’t real, that there was no way it was real—and then he understood Elliot’s very real fear that night he’d tried to pull her down the hill. What had she seen then, he wondered? What had she been looking at?

“John?”

He hesitated, because the last time he’d heard Elliot’s voice it had been a dream. John’s base instinct was to stand very still, exceptionally still, which didn’t feel very still at all because he was drugged up through his fucking eyeballs and he wanted to puke.

“John—”

When she broke into the clearing, Elliot’s voice was frantic. Her hair had been let loose around her face and she was wearing a dress and bolting barefoot through the woods. Oh, John thought, a little panicked, oh, I’m dreaming again.

“Fuck,” Elliot said, her voice breaking. Her hands fluttered aimlessly, like she couldn’t figure out a place for them to land. “You don’t have Boomer?”

Maybe not dreaming, after all.

“Sleeping,” John replied, intelligently. “I was—”

Elliot stared at him as she drew closer, her eyes razor-sharp and clear and quick. The sliced right down to the core of him, but what was new, anyway? Stupid deputy, his brain chanted, sluggishly. Stupid, pretty, dumb deputy.

“... drug you?”

John blinked owlishly at her. He wasn’t in very much pain, which was good, but it probably was all going to hit him when the drug wore off and it was harder and harder to keep his attention focused; it was getting to the point where it was like being very drunk , where keeping his eyes open was becoming more and more of a chore.

Elliot snapped her fingers in front of his face. “John, focus.”

“Whose dress?” he managed out, gesturing at her.

Her eyes flickered uneasily. “Dunno.” She brought her fingers to her lips and whistled, high and fast, and John groaned; the sound rattled around in his head, echoing over and over again, splintering behind his eyes.

“Why?” he hissed. “Why are you—”

“Shut up, you fucking baby.” 

Yeah, definitely not a dream.

They stood there in quiet for a moment, waiting; in the distance, John could hear a faint barking.

“He’s out there,” Elliot said, relieved. “They probably have him tied up, if they were able to get their hands on him. John—”

The blonde stopped suddenly, and he turned his gaze back to her inquisitively. She looked very much like she wanted to say something; her lashes flickered uneasily and she swallowed thickly.

“You have to get him, John,” she said finally, which didn’t sound like the thing she wanted to say.

“I’ve got a radio,” he supplied helpfully; on instinct, he reached for her, and she didn’t flinch back when his hand found the juncture between her neck and shoulder. Warm, he thought pleasantly, hazily, the breath spilling out of his lungs like a waterfall. “It’s the one from the ranch. We can—radio Joseph and the others.”

“John, I need you to listen to me,” Elliot began, reaching up to put her hand over his. Her skin was warm, but she shivered—John realized very suddenly that she was soaking wet. “I need you to get Boomer. He’s over there somewhere, close enough to hear a whistle. You can whistle, right? Or just—say his name, he’ll respond to that too.”

“‘M drugged,” he replied. “No good. Besides, he doesn’t like me.” The last half came out petulant. He thought very little of Kian’s voice crackling through the radio, or that he’d said he’d be there soon, or that someone had drugged him and left him in the middle of the forest. All he could think about was the problem being presented to him: Elliot was asking him for something, and he couldn’t give it to her.

“You have to,” she reiterated firmly. “You told me you’d do anything I asked.”

“I did,” John insisted. “Don’t you remember? I f—”

“Shh!”

Elliot grabbed his hand and yanked, hard, hauling him into some thicker brush. The whole gesture of it had his vision spinning like a slot machine.

“John, you have to go,” she whispered furiously. The sound of heavy, leisurely footsteps thudded somewhere a little ways away. “Please. You said. ”

“We can both go,” he whispered back. And then, because she hadn’t recognized his good fortune earlier: “I have a radio.”

“I can’t,” she replied. Her voice broke a little, slipping past a furious hiss and cracking on an emotion that John didn’t want to know. “I can’t go.”

“Why?”

“I have to—” Elliot paused, her gaze flickering tiredly. “John, I have to take a break, I’ve—I’m so tired.”

He paused. “I’ll wait, too.”

“You need to go.”

“I don’t want to. I’ll stay, too, and we’ll go together—”

“No,” she insisted. “Fucking— God you are so annoying—”

John heard, very faintly, the low and threatening click-click of someone pumping a shotgun. He paused, and Elliot did too, and then she pulled him forward by his shirt and kissed him hard. She tasted a little like river water, but mostly like her, and the warmth of her mouth against his made heat bloom all over him like he was green and Spring, again.

“John,” she whispered against his mouth, nearly inaudible, “please. Get Boomer, radio your brothers. We’ll catch up on the other side. I—”

Another couple of footsteps echoed in the stillness of the night. All of the birds and wildlife had fled; they knew there was a big, bad predator out in the evening, and John felt that knowledge twisting something violent and wretched inside of him.

“Do not fucking die,” he hissed at her. “You’ve stayed stubbornly alive for this long. Do not.”

She nodded faintly. “Yes, boss.”

He went to move, but she stopped him, lifting a finger to her mouth; each beat of his heart rumbled violently in his ears, and he thought he might pass out if he didn’t get moving fucking soon; each second spent crouching still and silent in the brush was swaying him viciously back and forth, trying to get him to face plant into the ground.

Elliot, back against the tree, let go of his shirt. She mouthed, Go, and then darted out, quick and fast and taking with her all of the vibrant sound and warmth in the world.

John's legs lifted him to a standing position. It felt like operating heavy machinery; every movement ground through his skeleton laboriously. But he was going; gripping the radio, trying his hardest to sprint, when he heard the sound of a shotgun shell pelting the earth in one sharp, gritty blow.

And then a familiar voice: “Where are you, little rabbit?”

Please.

Everything in him was telling him to turn around. Screaming at him—but he knew that was exactly what Kian wanted, too. To have them both there, in the same place, to make one of them watch the other die.

So, he didn’t.

He kept going, and when he got far enough away to be convinced that Kian was preoccupied with Elliot, he stopped and looked around. The night was eerily still and pulsed dimly around him. He glanced down at his feet; the grass reached up and around his shoes, coiling around him, trying to hold him down.

“Fuck,” he hissed, hurriedly stepping forward. “Find dog. Radio Joseph. Boomer?”

He kept his voice low as he crept through the woods, fiddling clumsily with the radio as he moved. When he found a channel whose numbers looked vaguely familiar—and familiar was a stretch, considering that accessing just about anything in his brain was like feeling someone’s face in the dark and guessing who it was—he pressed down on the talk button.

“Joseph? Jacob? Somebody?” He let off the talk button. “Boomer?”

No barking. Was Elliot drugged too? Had they been hallucinating the dog barking? 

John had just begun to give up on the idea of doing anything other than wander aimlessly in the dark woods when he made it to the edge of the treeline and saw the dog. Unfortunately, the beast was tied up to a wooden stake, growling low and threatening the two men as they walked idly around him and to the van, busying themselves; soft music played from the car. They seemed to be waiting patiently for Kian to finish whatever it was he was doing. Killing Elliot?

Fuck, he thought hastily. Gotta hurry.

He watched as one of the men set his gun down on the bed of the open van, stretching and chatting conversationally with his companion. When he wandered back over to Boomer and said, “Here, doggy,” the Heeler lunged viciously and set off barking, teeth snapping. He sighed.

“Stupid dog.”

They turned back toward the road, and John made his way closer to Boomer. If he could get that lead unclipped—if he could do it without them noticing…

“Fucking shithole,” one of the men said, backs turned to him as they lit a cigarette that got passed between them. “Can’t wait to purge this place and get out.”

“Yeah.”

“Hey, do you know…”

As their conversation drifted, so did John’s attention. He slipped out from the cover of the underbrush; instantly, Boomer’s eyes were on him. His hackles went up, and John lifted his hands, keeping them open.

In hindsight, he’d probably feel stupid thinking about this moment. The dog wasn’t holding him hostage. But it felt a little like he was, anyway.

“Hey,” he whispered, creeping closer. “Gonna let you off, beastie.”

Boomer eyed him, eyes flattened back against his head.

“You wanna get ‘em?” he continued, glancing over at the men as he reached for Boomer’s makeshift collar, clipped onto the lead. He didn’t know what kinds of gestures or phrases Elliot used to get the dog to do what she wanted. He only knew that Boomer did , sometimes without her saying, and so he said again, more urgently, “You wanna get ‘em, beast?”

The urgency of his tone seemed to spark something in Boomer. His ears pricked forward. John’s fingers found the lead clipped around his collar, pulled on the little metal clasp, and let it drop to the ground.

Boomer watched him, expectantly.

“Well, go on,” he whispered, gesturing. That seemed to be all that was needed; the cattle dog darted forward, teeth sinking into one man’s leg and yanking hard enough to unbalance him and pull him to the ground; the dog's head thrashed violently, ripping out of him guttural snarls.

John blinked, and thought, holy shit, is this what he’s been like this whole time?

There wasn’t a lot of time to spend thinking about it, because the other man was whirling angrily, shouting something, and then his eyes landed on John.

They both looked at the gun sitting on the tailgate of the van at the same time.

“Fuck,” John hissed, lunging forward and grabbing wildly; he wasn’t entirely sure that he even stayed upright, the strange back-and-forth pull in his head having only abated a little, but he reached for the gun and snatched his hand back, fumbling with the safety.

The whole thing felt like an eternity —comedically so. While the sounds of Boomer mauling the unarmed cultist echoed in his ears, John’s fingers clumsily switched the safety off and he fired recklessly; the bullet barely grazed the cultist’s calf, and as the man reached for him, John pulled the trigger again. Once, twice, three times, the bullets planted themselves in the man’s chest, jerking him back with each impact.

A heavy thud echoed in the night as the man slumped to the ground. Boomer had handily dispatched of the other one; his mouth was red and wet, and when John struggled to his feet, he saw that the man’s throat had been ripped open.

“Nice,” he breathed. Boomer regarded him warily, unimpressed with the compliment. He quickly shuffled the safety back on and tucked the gun into the back of his jeans, pushing the tailgate of the van up. When the dog whined, low and uncertain, he glanced back at him and sighed.

He pulled the tailgate back down. “Load up. We’re gonna get her back.”

Boomer leapt up into the back of the van, nails sliding on the hard plastic. It took John about five minutes of rifling through the pockets of the two men to find the car keys. While he wasn’t entirely confident in his ability to drive, he had just planted a couple of bullets in a man, so he supposed he'd be fine.

As he climbed into the driver’s side, he shut the door and settled in and carefully, meticulously slid the key into the ignition. The van purred to life as though John’s last week hadn’t been an entire fucking series of absolute fuckhead jokes, and he let out a breath.

The glint of something blue and reflective in the cupholder between the two front seats caught his eye. He glanced down, blinking.

“Hey,” he said, reaching down. “My sunglasses.” Tucking them into his shirt, he checked the rearview mirror and gently, gently pushed the car into drive.

"Alright, beastie," John muttered. "Let's get this ended, huh?"

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The concussive blast of bullet meeting wood rang in her ears; chips of bark and the guts of the tree showered her, the shot echoing just above her head, and she thought, fuck, I just want to be dead already. She was so tired; moving was a luxury that was not afforded to her anymore, each gesture as she struggled to her feet tipped and fettered by the bruises and wounds that littered her body.

Finding John had taken about fifteen minutes, fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds of which had been spent agonizing about where to look first. She didn’t recognize where they were, or know her way around, and she was barefoot and soaking wet and shivering and she just kept thinking about how badly she wanted to lay down.

We’ll go together. Fuck, John was so stupid. She might have actually had a moment to breathe if he’d just listened to her and did as she said. But that wasn’t ever how these things went, was it?

A calloused hand closed around her wrist and yanked her to her feet. For a second, in the blurring, thrumming night, between the whispering voices in the wind and the lurching of the great beast hunting her down, Elliot saw the dark fabric of a button-up shirt and thought, it’s John, it’s John; he came back me and now we’re going to get out.

“I win,” Kian purred.

His voice bled through her skull, stretching and warping as the agony crashed over her in a scalding wave. Kian’s fingers wound iron-like around her wrist, holding her there, and his other hand came up to grip her chin; playfully, he shook her head back and forth, like he was trying to jostle her out of deep sleep.

“Don’t look so sad. I’m not going to kill you, Elliot.” He regarded her with something like amusement, eyes glittering dark and obsidian in what little moonlight had managed to seep through the tree cover. “Do you know what mor means? It means mother. We’re going to keep you for It, and when it’s time, we’ll slice you open. You will make It so happy.”

She gripped his wrist as hard as she could and tried to push his hand from her face. Kian had discarded the shotgun in favor of having both hands to grab her, and as he gripped her face—the wide, calloused crux of his hand covering her mouth while his fingers reached the dip of her jaw—she thought, Something has to be done.

Elliot had promised Joey. Even if I have to fucking die for it. She had promised, and that meant it had to be done.

Muddling through the panic, Elliot squirmed under his hand, opened her mouth, and bit down as hard as she could. The disgusting taste of hot copper flooded her mouth instantly; the webbing between his thumb and pointer finger wasn’t meant to take teeth ripping and tearing, and she was ripping and tearing; even with the limited mobility she had, she wrenched her head anyway she could, intent on taking some piece of Kian with her.

A wretched kind of sound came out of him. He tried to yank his hand back off of her face, and she bit down harder, anywhere her teeth could catch and grip. If she could hit bone, she thought; if she could sink her teeth right into the marrow of him, maybe then she would have felt like she got some repayment for what he’d done.

Kian yanked his hand free, gripping his wrist as crimson streamed down his palm and arm. His eyes were wild and dark; for a split second they stood there, staring at each other, two beasts nursing wounds and waiting for the other to make a move.

Elliot grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him forward, slamming her face into his. It would have been nearly impossible to bodily force Kian’s to move had he not been clutching his wounded hand, and for that she was grateful—grateful, she would tell herself, around the ricocheting stars of pain blurring behind her eyes, using the hardest part of her skull to bash into Kian’s nose and mouth.

And then she ran.

The gun was around, somewhere, dusted in pine needles and nightfall; like a needle in a haystack. She heard someone spitting behind her, and she thought, I hope I broke your fucking nose, you piece of shit, just before she ducked into a thick bustle of brush and behind a rock.

Around her, the world blurred and fuzzed black. She tried to furiously blink it away, but every second spent standing still meant that her body was suddenly remembering how tired and overworked it was, how much she had done, how much she had suffered. We could stop now, the tired little girl inside of her said. We should. We should stop now.

But Kian had said it himself; he wasn’t planning on killing her. She wouldn’t get rest even if she gave up. He might have changed his mind after she’d bit through his hand and headbutted him, but—

That wasn’t a chance she could take. Not for herself, and not for Joey, and not for the girl she had been that night in her apartment, either.

Heavy footfalls echoed just a few feet away from her. Her mouth was still flooded with the taste of Kian’s blood. As she made her way to the other side of the boulder she’d taken refuge behind and peeked out, she thought, I’d do it again, given the chance. I’d rip him open with my teeth if I got the opportunity. Give me the fucking chance.

Moonlight spilled through the trees and into the clearing they had just been in as the wind pushed clouds out of the way. The glint of dark metal, threatening, caught her eye; the shotgun was there, with hopefully at least one shell in it—one that she could put straight through Kian’s ugly fucking face.

And he was nowhere to be seen, either. Even as she leaned further out, trying to see around the boulder, she couldn’t see him crashing through the underbrush; she couldn’t hear him, either. Just the sound of the wind, pine needles skittering across the ground, a twig snap and—

A second too late, Elliot’s pain-addled brain realized the breaking branch was just behind her. Fingers fisted into the hair at the back of her skull and dragged, hauling her out of the underbrush and back into the clearing, tossing her like a ragdoll. All of the already-battered ribs shrieked on impact, and she wheezed out a breath that had blood and spit flickering across the forest floor.

Tired. She was so tired. So tired, and the world blurred and tried to fizz and pop out of existence around her, a sticky-wet hand forced her eyes forward.

Blood streamed down Kian’s face from their earlier collision. When he grinned at her, his teeth were stained pink, red seeping in the gaps.

“Hello, little rabbit,” he ground out, pushing away her scrambling hands and pinning the left down. “You put up quite a fight.”

Elliot tried to search in her spatial memory—what was left standing of it, anyway—for where she had seen the gun. But it was getting harder to breathe, and to think, and Kian’s fingers dug into her jaw and cheeks. An awful, animalistic noise came out of her at the pressure—it was a whimper, but unlike anything she’d ever heard out of herself, unlike anything she’d known she was capable of making.

“I wonder—”

His voice came out in a low murmur, spit-slicked and venomous, his nose grazing the slope of her cheekbone.

“—will you feel guilty about this, too? When I drag you back kicking and screaming, and make you watch as I cut each of those fucking hillbillies open? I know some of them got out. I'll find them, too.”

It had to be close, she reasoned through the haze in her brain; the gun had to be nearby. She’d just been looking at it. Her body was trying to give up; Kian’s fingers pinning her wrist down and bruising her neck, his words hissed out against her skin, were all tripping that strange little trigger in her brain that finally wanted to give up fighting and do something else.

Quit.

“ Mor,” Kian purred against her skin. “Mother, you’ll be so good for It, I know you will.”

Joey, clutching her tight. “I never doubted you’d be able to get me out.”

“It likes it best like this, you know.”

John, mouth so close to her ear. “I said, it’s a good thing you’re more devil than woman.”

Each second that ticked by, filled with Kian’s voice, the fingers of her one free hand inched. S he felt them close around cool metal.

“It likes the ones that fight back.”

She gripped the gun hard, and swung.

It collided with a heavy-handed thump against the side of Kian’s face, and he jerked back. He still straddled her, but with room between them now, Elliot could lurch forward, bowling as much of her weight into his midsection as she could to push him off of her and send him reeling back into the hard surface of the boulder.

Her fingers worked fast as she struggled to her feet. Pure adrenaline, pure muscle memory, as she flicked the safety off, cocked the shotgun, and pulled the trigger.

It clicked.

Empty.

Kian barked out a laugh wet with blood. There was a wound on his temple that was bleeding, now, and as he struggled to sit up more she could see him wince—the collision with the boulder hadn’t done him any good. Elliot pulled the trigger again, and again, and each time it clicked she found herself getting angrier and angrier. Filling with poison, up to her brim, like someone had just uncorked it.

“It’s empty, mother,” Kian rumbled at her. “You think I brought any more ammo than those two shells?” He spat blood out of his mouth and cocked his head, regarding her with dark eyes. “I told you, I’m not going to kill you.”

I’m not, like he still thought he had won. Pure, vibrating fury radiated through her body. This was supposed to be her victory; this was supposed to be her revenge for Joey. For her life. For her.

It would be. It’s mine, she thought viciously, this fucking moment is mine.

“Yeah, well,” Elliot spit out, digging her fingers into the metal, “can't say the same.”

The weight of the gun was not unlike a bat; so when she took the barrel of the gun and swung it like one, it felt familiar. Just like when she was ten, playing rec-league softball, only this time the bat was an empty pump-action shotgun and the ball was Kian’s head.

When the dull impact send vibrations rattling up her arm, and Kian keeled to the side, wheezing and biting out something venomous in Swedish, Elliot gripped the shotgun harder and swung again.

And again.

And again.

Each collision brought it closer to the satisfying, wet crunch of blood and bone on the redhead’s face. Elliot couldn’t have counted how many times she swung if someone asked her—or pinpointed the exact moment that Kian stopped moving, stopped breathing.

She could only think about the way he’d planted his words right against her skin, gripped her, I win.

Do you know what I get to do with things that belong to me?

“Nothing,” she ground out, when her arms burned and ached and her vision fuzzed with exhaustion. “You don't get to do anything.”

“Deputy?”

Blood spray littered her face. She was sure that her teeth were stained red, too. Each breath heaved exhaustively through her body, rattling, and when she turned her head to the source of the voice, she saw John and Jacob standing at the edge of the clearing; lights blurred through the trees, the sound of trucks and voices echoing in the still night air.

Boomer darted out from behind them, immediately pressed to her legs. She held the shotgun loosely in her hand.

“El,” John said, softer than Jacob had, “It’s me.”

Her gaze flickered back to the brutalized corpse in front of her. She thought, faintly, that there was no way her life was going to be normal after this again, but that was okay. She’d promised Joey.

If I have to die for it, I will.

She’d done it. And maybe she had died for it.

Jacob had taken a few steps toward her as the thought echoed in her head. Slowly, like she was a stray dog snarling over a cow bone. When John moved to follow, she saw Jacob put his hand out and stop him.

“Put the gun down,” Jacob said, his voice still and calm. Elliot blinked tiredly.

She wanted to do it. She wanted to let go of it. But that girl that she had been—that girl who had cried under the blanket fort, who had thought, I don’t know how I let him do that to me, the girl who had sat on the floor of her bedroom in Hope County and blinked through furious tears as she struggled to understand herself—no longer wept; that girl was furious, and so Elliot gripped the gun tighter.

As though it made it any less of a weapon, she said, “It’s empty.”

Jacob looked at Kian’s face, bashed-in. Obliterated. “I know.”

Boomer whined at her feet, nosing her empty hand quietly and gazing up at her with big, brown eyes. Something strange washed over her, an emotion that made her lip tremble and her eyes burn. The Heeler nuzzled her hand again, and she sucked in a shaking breath as finally— finally, finally —the tears stung down her cheeks.

She dropped the shotgun. John said her name, and Jacob dropped his arm, and she realized that it was relief she was feeling now.

Only vaguely aware of Jacob kicking the shotgun away from her, the world blurred as Elliot felt John’s hands cradling her face. Each place where his fingers traced the bruises from Kian, that pulse of relief ran stronger through her body until it was overstimulating, overwhelming. When John kissed her, it was almost frantic—she could taste the blood in her own mouth, his fingers tangling into her hair as he kissed her again and again, until her lungs ached with the need to breathe. But each kiss brought her somewhere else. It took her somewhere that she didn't have to think about anything except John in that single moment.

“Hey,” John said, their noses brushing. His movements were sluggish and uncoordinated, his voice still slurring a little. “I have you. Right here with me, El, don’t go anywhere.”

“Yeah,” she managed out. Her voice wobbled, and she sucked in a sharp, stuttering breath. “John—”

His thumbs swept across her cheekbones, smearing more blood than they wiped away tears, and as the sound of voices echoed dimly around them, she lifted her hands and gripped his wrists. Through the coppery tang in the air, she could smell his cologne; her lashes fluttered and John pressed their foreheads together.

“It’s okay.” John murmured the words, tugging her against him, into his chest. “It’s all over now.”

No, she thought as his arms circled her, pulling her closer, Boomer barking at anyone who wandered near.

It’s not even close.