#cw noncon kissing

[bloodfreak-boyking]

i literally can't stop thinking about shifter!dean so i curse thee with a brain dump ficlet. cw for non-con groping & kissing

---

"See, deep down, I'm just jealous. You got friends, you could have a life," the shifter said, Dean's stolen face barely visible in the dim sewer light. His eyes flicked between Sam's, hurt and something unidentifiable swimming in them. "Me?" He leaned in closer, the space between them growing hot and humid. Sam could feel the shifter's breath on his cheek. "I know I'm a freak."

Sam scowled, glaring the creature down. "What the hell are you talking about?" Dean was a lot of things; a nerd, a jerk, disgustingly charming, but not a freak. That title was reserved for Sam.

A grin twitched across the shifter's lips. "Oh, you don't know, do you?" it said, amusement thick in his voice.

Sam knew he should ignore it, this impulse to get insight into his brother's mind, his thoughts and feelings that he kept held so closely to his chest. The thing would probably lie anyway. But Sam was never good at resisting temptation. "Know what?"

Not-Dean was suddenly straddling Sam's thighs, a lascivious smile on his face. Sam instinctively tried to move away, but the rope kept him from doing much more than squirming under the creature's weight. A low chuckle rumbled in its chest. "Dean here?" It shoved its hand between them, roughly palming Sam through worn denim. Sam tried to stifle a gasp, only half succeeding. "He wants you. Hell, he's wanted you since he was seventeen."

Sam felt frozen, shock making his limbs feel numb. Or maybe that was the rope cutting off his circulation, he couldn't really spare the brain power to tell. "Wh-what? No, you...you're lying."

The shifter leaned in closer, nipping at Sam's earlobe. "Oh, the things he wants to do to you." He ground his hips down against Sam's lap forcefully. "His sweet little Sammy."

Somewhere in the back of his mind, Sam registered Not-Dean was hard. Another sharp bite, this time to the hinge of his jaw, had him letting out a startled yelp.

The shifter groaned against his skin. "God what he would give to hear you make noises like that." It grabbed a fistful of Sam's hair, yanking down on it hard. Sam, in an attempt to stifle a loud cry, let a pitiful whimper slip past his lips instead. The creature's eyelids fluttered shut. "Fuck, yeah, just like that."

Warm, plush lips were suddenly on him, sliding against his stock-still ones. Before his brain could send the message of no bad no, his own lips were moving. The shifter growled and pulled his head back further, drawing a gasp out of Sam and giving himself an opening to lick deep into Sam's mouth. A soft moan escaped Sam. What could he say? The thing could kiss. Dean could kiss.

It was like a bucket of ice water was dumped on him. He twisted his head away, forcibly breaking the kiss. His heart was hammering in his chest and his stomach flipped and the worst part was, Sam couldn't tell if it was disgust or...

The shifter slowly stood, still trying to catch its breath. It reached down and grabbed one of their duffel bags, swinging it over his shoulder. "Well, it's been great, y'know, shattering your worldview and all," he looked Sam up and down once more, predatory, "but I've got a hot date with lovely little Becky."

...

"Well that's 'cause you're a freak," Dean, the real Dean, teased from behind the wheel as Saint Louis disappeared behind them.

Sam snorted. "Yeah, thanks," he said sarcastically, rolling his eyes.

"Well I'm a freak too. I'm right there with you, all the way."

"Yeah, I know you are." Sam looked down at his hands, twisting them nervously in his lap. The shifter's words bounced around his brain: He wants you. He shifted in his seat and bit his lip, the next part of the memory playing involuntarily.

Dean shot him a quick glance out of the corner of his eye. "What?"

"Dean...um..." Sam readjusted in his seat again, the Impala suddenly feeling claustrophobically small. "Well, I, uh-"

"C'mon Sammy, spit it out."

"The...the, uh, shifter. It...well it...there's something..."

Dean shot him an annoyed glare "Sam," he admonished.

"Do you want me?" Sam blurted out, his face blooming scarlet and his skin too hot.

Dean's grip tightened on the wheel. A muscle in his jaw ticked. "What?" His voice was too calm, too measured.

"The shifter, it said you wanted me. It...it kissed me. Do...do you want me that way, Dean?"

Dean was clenching his teeth so hard that Sam could've sworn he heard his jaw creaking. His knuckles were white on the wheel and his face, where Sam expected to see fiery red skin, angry or embarrassed, was drained of all color. Dean didn't respond or even look at Sam, just turned up the radio so loud that neither could hear themselves think.

Sam's stomach was in knots again, and this time, it was worse: he knew it wasn't disgust.

[emberdew]

Be More Ghost Chapter 14: Do You Wanna Hang?

Summary:

A Be More Chill AU where Danny gets a Super Quantum Intel Unit Processor (or Squip) to help him become cool and win over Valerie, but things don't really go as planned.

Masterpost | AO3 Link | Word Count: 1,496

Do you wanna hang for a bit?  Just you and me, intimately, talking about all of our feelings and shit.

Danny felt a bit uneasy as Paulina led him into a bedroom on the second floor of Dash’s house. She said that Star had a surprise for him, but why would that require her to lead him up here?

“Dash’s parents’ room,” Paulina said as she closed the door and locked it behind them. “Don’t worry, they’re not using it.”

“You, uh, really know your way around.” Danny was pretty sure he had never been in this room before. He remembered phasing into Dash’s bedroom down the hall the first time he’d been to a party at his house. He really hoped Technus didn’t attack again tonight.

Paulina sat on the bed and patted the spot next to her. Danny sat down and flinched slightly in surprise when Paulina started rubbing his arm.

“Yeah, I’ve been kissed in pretty much every room in this house,” Paulina smirked at Danny’s alarmed expression, “because I dated Dash! Dios mío, what kind of girl do you think I am?”

Danny wasn’t sure how to respond to that. It was pretty nice having all of Paulina’s attention though. It was a bit like when they were dating that time Kitty overshadowed her. That thought led Danny to check Paulina’s eyes to make sure she wasn’t overshadowed this time. They looked hazel without any red glint, so he was pretty sure the only ghost in the room was him.

Wait, weren’t they supposed to meet Star here?

“Where’s Star?”

“Oh my god, you are too freaking adorable!” Paulina leaned close and whispered in Danny’s ear. “Star’s not coming.”

“She’s not? Then why…?” Danny tried to pull himself back slightly but Paulina just leaned closer into his space.

“Do you wanna hang for a bit? It’s just us all alone in here… We could get all intimate and talk about our feelings and stuff.” 

Paulina whipped out a dazzlingly pink Sayonara Pussycat-themed water bottle and started chugging it. From the smell, Danny could tell there definitely wasn’t water in there. Where had she been keeping that?

“Do you wanna get really deep?” Paulina’s face was just inches away from Danny’s now. Her seductive gaze entranced him. “We could connect and if I get wrecked you could… y’know.”

Danny felt his cheeks heat up at her implication. She was so close to him now that their noses were almost touching. He could smell the alcohol on her breath.  

“I have to go.” Danny tried to get up but his legs wouldn’t move. It was like he was stuck to the bed. “I can’t stand up.”

You’re welcome. Squip-Phantom winked at him from where it was sitting by his side opposite Paulina. 

Danny gulped as he realized the Squip had somehow taken over his body enough to prevent him from moving.

“I don’t know why she likes you so much. You’re not that cute, even if you are dressed like my favorite hero. No offense,” Paulina interrupted Danny’s growing panic.

“None taken. I should get back-” 

“You know she’s not that innocent. That wounded puppy routine? It’s how she gets all the guys,” Paulina continued, waving her arms around in frustration. “Acts all helpless so they want to protect her. Not that I care.”

Danny had been so concerned with his current problems that he was barely listening to Paulina’s rant about Star but suddenly it clicked in his mind what was going on with her. His friends may call him clueless, but even he could tell that Paulina’s feelings about Star weren’t what they seemed.

“You’re jealous of Star!”

“Um, obviously I’m not,” Paulina scoffed.

“That’s unbelievable! Why would you be jealous of anyone? You’re the prettiest girl at our school!” Danny flinched as he realized how embarrassing it was to say that to her face. 

Suddenly Paulina grabbed the front of Danny’s jumpsuit and kissed him. Danny’s eyes went wide and he tried to pull away. 

“Woah, woah!” Danny’s brain felt like it was short-circuiting. Why had Paulina kissed him? What was going on? “Stop!” 

Why would you want this to stop? The Squip gave Danny a disappointed look. 

“Do you wanna stop being coy?” Paulina smirked at him. “I know you want me.”

She offered him her bright pink bottle. 

“Oh, I’m not really a big-” Danny started to refuse, but his arm jerked forward out of his control and he was forced to put the bottle up to his mouth and take a drink. “Drinker!” 

Danny sputtered and tried to fight for control of his body again, but it was like Squip-Phantom was puppeting him. It reminded him of Freakshow’s ghost-controlling staff except he was completely aware of what was happening. He shuttered internally and tried not to let his panic overwhelm him. 

The Squip pushed his body forward until he was kissing Paulina again. She kissed him back, but it felt so wrong. He was glad when a knock at the door interrupted them and he could pull away. 

“Danny? Are you in there?” Star asked from the other side of the door.

Danny opened his mouth but Paulina covered it and shushed him.

“Ashley said she saw you go upstairs,” Star muttered as she knocked on the door again, “Danny?” After a moment, Danny heard her footsteps moving away.

Danny sighed as Paulina moved her hand away from his face.

“If Ashley saw us…”

“Ashley should mind her own business,” Paulina snapped.

“Star’s going to find out.” Danny gestured towards the door. “Don’t you care?”

“You’re a lot less cute when you’re talking.” 

Danny ran a hand down his face and turned to his other side where the Squip was still sitting. 

“Help me out here!” 

Squip-Phantom garbled something incoherent in what sounded like Japanese. It didn’t look as solid as usual and the edges of its form were glitching out.

“What’s going on?”

The Squip frowned in concentration and seemed to solidify slightly.

I’m sorry, Danny. Alcohol temporarily scrambles my- another wave of glitchiness distorted the Squip and the rest of what it said was too overloaded with static to make out. 

“Then why did you make me drink it!?” Danny ran a hand through the white hair of his wig in exasperation. 

The Squip attempted a response but all Danny heard was more incomprehensible static and garbled Japanese. At the very end, Danny thought he heard it say ‘You’ll thank me later.’ 

Danny turned back to Paulina who seemed unamused. To her, Danny had been looking away from her and mumbling at the wall for the past few minutes.

“Whatever.” Paulina crossed her arms. “I’ve had enough-”

A loud knocking sound interrupted her.

“FENTURD?” Dash shouted as he continued pounding on the door.

“Ooh, the fun begins!” Paulina clapped giddily. 

“FENTOAD, you better not be having a make-out session on my parents’ bed or you’re toast!”

“You can toast him after I’m done with him!” Paulina grabbed Danny’s arm even though the door was still closed.

“...Paulina?” Dash paused his knocking at the realization.

The doorknob rattled as Dash tried to get in the locked room. Then the door thudded so loud Danny thought it might break. Was Dash throwing himself against the door?

“Hear that?” Paulina pursed her lips and made exaggerated kissing sounds, “I’m making out with Danny all over your parents’ room!” 

“No, we’re not, I swear we’re not!” Danny cried out. 

The thumping on the door stopped and after several minutes of silence, Danny let out a sigh of relief. 

“Maybe he believed me and went away.”

An ear-piercing crack shattered Danny’s shred of hope as well as the window. Danny turned to see Dash’s fist covered in blood and broken glass spilling onto the floor.

Behind him, Danny heard Squip-Phantom pulse with static like an alarm. But before he could do anything about that, Paulina pulled him closer again and tried to kiss him. Danny managed to turn his head to the side so it landed on his cheek.

“You’re freaking dead, Fen-toast!” Dash vaulted through the broken window and landed ungracefully on the floor.  

“Go away, we’re making out right now!” Paulina lied.

Danny finally focused enough to phase out of Paulina’s grip and run for the door. He quickly opened it only to almost smack face-first into Star. 

“Danny?” Star took a step back. 

“Star!” Danny felt like his feet were frozen to the ground. The feeling melted when he heard Dash stand up in the room behind him.

“FENTINA!” 

Danny whispered an apology to Star before pushing her aside and sprinting down the hall. He could hear Dash in pursuit directly behind him, which only made Danny pick up the pace. 

“I’ll kill you!” Dash screamed from behind him right before the jock stumbled to the ground after rounding a corner too quickly. “Oh man, I shouldn’t have drank so much tonight.”

Danny took his chance to escape.

[dead-dove-orchid]

Hey guys I made a freenoodles fic ❤️💖

+ version without words

[deluxewhump]

Ethan Byrne- 2

Part one

CW: Cameron has just turned 19 in this. abuse, very incestuous overtones, controlling whumper, intimate whumper, bruises, bruise touching, noncon kiss (back of neck), dunking underwater, standing dishwater (this is a new cw)

_

Ethan approached Cameron in the kitchen, where he was dutifully finishing up their dishes for them. He took a fistfull of ashy brown hair, shoving Cameron suddenly and forcefully down so he flung his hands out to keep his head from going into the dirty water. He gripped the edge of the sink with whitening knuckles, keeping his face out of the water by six inches. Ethan slotted one leg between Cam’s from behind to better control him. 

“What’re you doing?” Cameron hissed. His agitation possessed a note of panic.

“Nothing, Cammy. Just seeing how cleaning my house is going for you.” He pushed Cam an inch closer to the sink full of water. He braced himself, using all his strength to keep himself as upright as he could against his half brother’s heavier, more muscled body. Despite Cameron’s height and lanky sort of strength, Ethan had a clear advantage. This was nothing but a crude display of it, and they both knew it.

“Ethan,” Cam said seriously, as if this might just be rough play. “Let me up, man.”

Ethan pushed him closer still, so his forehead broke the surface tension and he whimpered, straining to stay above it. 

“Why should I?” 

“Because— I did what you asked. And I’m… you’re my brother.”

Ethan hummed in barely restrained glee, leaning close to the back of Cam’s neck. “You may have just carved out a new soft spot in me. But don’t brothers do this sort of stuff?”

With his mouth open to answer, Ethan dunked him under, submerging his face in water that was equal parts soap suds and slimy food debris. Cam struggled violently, but he was pinned underneath Ethan’s unbudging weight. After many long seconds, he let him up. 

All pretense of horseplay was gone, now. Cameron coughed wetly and gasped for air. He spat into the water in abject disgust. “Let go!”

“Ask me nicely.”

“Get the fuck OFF of me!” He sent a sharp elbow backwards into Ethan’s chest.

Ethan’s exhale of surprise trailed into a laugh. “That’s not nice.”

“Ethan…”

“Nicely, Cameron,” he said, and dunked him quickly in and out of the water again. 

Cameron sputtered and spat, blinking soap from his eyes. “Stop,” he begged, more like a sob than his earlier demands. “Just please stop, Ethan. Let me up.”

“Warmer.”

“Please,” he repeated, water dripping from his hair and the tip of his nose. He sounded wrecked. “I get it. You’re stronger than me. You don’t fucking like me. I give up. Please, get off of me.”

“That’ll work,” Ethan said, leaning over and kissing the back of Cameron's neck. He cringed in Ethan’s grip and sobbed between grit teeth.

Ethan let him go.

“Look at you,” he said, watching Cameron in the reflection of the kitchen window. “Soaking wet. Let’s get you into some dry clothes. C’mon, you can borrow something of mine.” 

Cameron didn’t move. Hands still on the edge of the sink, he stared straight ahead at Ethan’s reflection in the window, still breathing hard from the struggle.

Ethan tilted his head. “I was just fucking with you. I have to make sure you’re not a pussy.”

Cam turned to look at him over his shoulder. 

“And you’re clearly not,” Ethan continued. “Come on. I have a shirt for you.”

Reluctantly, Cameron followed him into his dark bedroom. Ethan motioned for him to strip, and Cam pulled his wet shirt gingerly over his head. Ethan approached with a dry one in hand, but stopped when he noticed the dark and angry bruising that still bloomed over his ribs from the beating he’d taken back home. He reached out to brush his fingers over the purples and yellows. Cam stiffened. 

“That hurt?” Ethan asked, his voice edging towards tenderness. Cam looked at him guardedly, his body language closed and hostile. Ethan touched two fingers to the bluish center of the bruise. Cameron closed his eyes. 

“Yeah, it does,” Ethan murmured, but continued to touch. He applied light pressure and watched Cameron’s breath catch. 

“I don’t mean to take it out on you,” he said gently, walking two fingers over the dark contours of the bruise so Cameron inhaled sharply. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Our father did. But that’s got nothing to do with us. Not anymore.”

“I thought I was fucked up,” Cam said, his eyes still closed, brows knit in a soft expression of pain. “But there’s something really wrong with you.”

“How fucked up are you?” Ethan asked, massaging two fingers in the center of Cam’s wounded ribs in the way he might touch a girl. 

Cameron took hold of his wrist and pushed it away. “Not that fucked up,” he said, and snatched the dry shirt from Ethan’s other hand.

Ethan smiled to himself as Cam retreated to the shower.

[ask-the-parabalis-gang]

O B L I G A T I O N

INCLUDES: Cal, Dr. Nick Orgon CWs: Nonconsensual kiss, nonconsensual touching, manipulation/guilt tripping, physical violence

“Before I leave you,” Cal said, voice low and languid as he took a small step closer to Orgon. He was already within a few feet of the smaller man, and the proximity caused a tremor to run down the backs of both, one with anticipation and one with loosely contained fear. “May I have a kiss goodbye, mon amour?”

His fingers curled around the side of Orgon’s waist, a small smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as he tugged him forward; this faded ever so slightly as Orgon did not comply, stepping back towards the wall behind him.

“No.”

Cal simply raised an eyebrow at the word, as if he did not quite understand it. “No?” he repeated, the hand at Orgon’s waist remaining firm as he followed his movements, driving him backward. “Your heart has indeed hardened, then… but is it not your purpose, now, to please your savior with the life that he has given you? A small offering to me is all I ask, so I will ask again; I would simply like a kiss goodbye.”

Puffs of warm breath on Orgon’s face made his skin crawl as Cal moved forward. Once again, he drew backward, turning his face away with disgust as he wrenched himself from the hand that gripped with no remorse. “No-”

The sudden movement had pressed Orgon into a wall, trapping him precisely where Cal wanted him. His other hand reached up, gripping onto Orgon’s chin before he could turn away again and tilting his head up to face him with sickening gentleness. Forced to meet Cal’s gaze, Orgon’s breathing quickened as his muscles tensed at the sight of the other shifting closer.

“Une telle résistance, mon petit agneau...” Cal purred, his free hand finding Orgon’s waist again and partially slipping beneath his shirt, rough and calloused fingers rubbing at the skin there; Orgon shuddered, unable to help himself. “You’re pleasing me. Is that not what you live to do now?”

He stepped forward, face flushed and lips slightly parted as his fingers prodded, squeezed, digging into either side of Orgon’s face and forcing his jaw open a little. Every motion he made was gentle, loving, as if both of them wanted this.

“Give in.” It was a command, a plea, a prayer that Orgon could not afford to ignore.

He forced himself not to turn away again as Cal brought his mouth to his own, a soft, pleased hum leaving him at the taste. Orgon was unable to keep away the thought that death would have been preferable to this fate at the intrusion, the violating feeling of Cal’s fingers prying his jaw open a little further so he could force his tongue inside. His skin crawled at the overwhelming heat, at the feeling of Cal’s stubble scratching at his face and his hand gripping and pulling and tracing along his ribs under his shirt; Christ, he couldn’t breathe. It was only when the kiss went on for a moment too long, and Cal slipped his knee between Orgon’s legs to press up against him with a smug chuckle into his mouth, that he pushed him back, unable to stand another second of what was happening.

His actions were met with a swift, harsh slap to the face that made him stumble ever so slightly. Cal softly tsked, watching Orgon slowly look back up at him, chest rising and falling quickly as he panted for breath.

“How defiant…” he murmured, reaching up and gently rubbing at the skin that he had struck. “How curious it is, that you, who clings to life so desperately, fights against the will of that which gave you life with that save desperation. A peculiar juxtaposition indeed, mon amour… but remember what I have said. And be careful when toying with these filaments of trust I still have in you. They have worn quite thin as of late.”

With a final, lingering caress, Cal turned away. Even as he left, Orgon could still taste him, could still feel him lingering on his skin. No distance between the two could ever purify him.

[thus-spoke-lo]

I just know Ace is the most protective and loving older brother ever 😔 He gets all red in the face when he sees you in a cute new outfit and yelps "NOBODY LOOK" all while throwing his arms infront of your body to hide it as if he doesn't live in just a pair of shorts and a cowboy hat.

Your room on the ship is right next to his. At first when you arrived he'd argued that you could just stay in his room but the idea was shot down immediately. At least with you nextdoor he can keep an eye out incase of trouble. Or if any crew members get too close.

He probably bursts into your room whenever he wants, generally without knocking. You can squeal in embarrassment for being caught half naked all you want, he's your trustworthy big brother- nothing is tmi for him.

But I think he's also constantly boasting about you to his crew mates-- rambling about how you're the best sister in the world and how you're so smart and pretty. "My lil sister is the cutest right?" He'd say, likely getting angry no matter what the stuttered answer coming from a crewmate is.

I imagine him getting super drunk one night and coming into your room. It's not unusual for Ace to want to cuddle, so it doesn't set off any alarm bells at first. He wraps his arms around you from behind and spoons you on your single bed, drunkenly muttering how much he loves you punctuated with his intermittent giggles.

It's silent for a moment before his hands start to stroke your arms. "You're really pretty, you know that?" He whispers against your ear. "The most beautiful girl in the world."

And that's when his touches get weird. His hand wanders from your arm to your chest, slipping under the light fabric of your pyjamas. "Ace? What are you-"

You jolt when he grasps your breast. A shriek escapes your lips and his other hand clamps over the lower part of your face as he fondles your breast in his hand. He shushes you, breathing heavy. "Shh, shh. Relax." He murmurs while pressing kisses up your neck. "You don't want them to hear us do you?"

With teary eyes wide open in fear you begin to struggle. But it's no use really. Ace is much stronger and much bigger than you are. You're just wasting your energy.

His rock hard cock rocks against your backside as he feels you up. Pinching and pulling at your nipple as if he's trying to milk you. He repeats his gentle words of love while violating you and you sob against his hand.

I am chewing through drywall, i am pounding my fists on the floor, etc etc!! Ace is the type of big brother to start swinging as soon as he hears anything he interprets as negative about you, or get a little too close. That's his job after all, isn't it--to take care of you and protect you, make sure you don't get into any trouble and keep you innocent and away from leering eyes? (Except his of course!)

And it's all just so, so easy and natural the way he just falls into your bed and manhandles you, knowing there's no way you could ever fight him off. He just adores you so much, you know? Just stay still and let him show you the extent of his love for you...

[hurtfortea]

Whumpuary Day 5: Fragile

“Do you trust me?” | manhandled | chills

Contains: noncon touching (nonsexual), noncon kiss, injury/bodily harm, guns, knives, blood, defiant/mouthy whumpee, creepy/intimate whumper, hostage situation, sci-fi setting

“Alright everybody! Keep calm, put your hands up, and this will be over with quickly! We don’t want to use force!”

Ares looks up, a bit shocked and a bit irritated. Seriously, who robs physical banks these days? He focuses on the “menu” button in the corner of his vision for three seconds and a screen appears in his vision. Ignoring his vitals, he selects the “emergency call” option. It doesn’t go through. Did they somehow block the signal around the bank? He dismisses the screen with a sigh and lifts his hands.

The robbers work their way around the room, cuffing people’s hands behind their backs. When they get to him, he doesn’t resist, though he shoots them a dirty look, which they ignore. If only he could have been a guardian. Then he’d be able to put these bastards in their place with the press of a button. He allows himself to be herded to the center of the room with the rest of the hostages while the leader drags the manager off to the back.

“You’re not going to get away with this.” Ares can’t help but say, for all the room to hear. “Were you living under a rock for the last thousand years or did you miss that the world has moved on to digital crime?”

“Shut it.” One of the men snap.

Ares scoffs. “What are you going to do to make me? Don’t act like you’d add to your sentence by hurting me.”

The men give him their attention, and the man who’d spoken to him narrows his eyes at Ares. “Who the fuck says I intend to get caught?”

Ares shrugs. “Doesn’t matter what you intend to do, it’s inevitable.”

“Ares.” Joan, one of his coworkers, hisses from beside him. “Don’t antagonize them.”

“Why not?” Ares asks, not breaking eye contact with the robber. “They’re not going to do anything. They’re here for the money.”

“Froggy. Tape him.” The man says.

‘Froggy’, a man with a frog mask, pulls a roll of duct tape from his bag and rips off a strip, walking over and sitting down on Ares’s legs. Something about him gives Ares the chills, but he refuses to let his discomfort show, sneering at the man. When Froggy reaches to put the tape over his mouth, he twists away, not that it does much to stop him. He just grabs Ares by the hair to keep him still and presses the tape over his mouth, smoothing it out with his thumb. He holds eye contact the entire time, and Ares can barely resist looking away.

“Boys! We’ve got the vault open!” The leader calls from the back. “Get back here!”

“Treat that guy to a good time, would ya, Froggy?” One of the men says before they head back.

“My pleasure,” Froggy says. Even though he can’t see the man’s face under his mask, Ares gets the feeling he’s smiling. He breaks eye contact, feeling a nervous sweat break out on his forehead. “Ares,” Froggy says, rolling the R as if to test the way it feels to say, and Ares’s eyes snap to him, confused, until he remembers his nametag. “I like that name,” the man decides. “Feels old.” Ares just glares. “Now, let’s see what we can do about teaching you how to hold your tongue.” Fear trickles in, and Ares pulls in a steady breath through his nose. He has to stay calm. The man pulls a knife from his bag, and it’s all Ares can do to keep his breath even.

“W-wait,” Joan says, “please, don’t hurt him, he’s got no filter, but he’s a good guy-”

Froggy scoffs. “You think I give a shit?” He digs the knife’s edge into Ares’s neck, just beside his jugular vein, and all rational thought disappears. Ares’s chest heaves, his heart beginning to thunder. He whimpers behind the tape, pulling uselessly against the man’s grip on his hair. He can feel his breath getting short, and that’s only making it worse. Froggy smiles at him. “You break easy, don’t you, sweetheart?” Ares shivers at the pet name, squeezing his eyes against the sudden onslaught of tears as his chest begins to hurt. “You’re all talk.”

“It’s not his fault,” Joan says, and Froggy frowns, looking at him again.

“Can’t you take a hint? This is between us,” Froggy says, nodding at Ares.

“He’s got a weak heart,” Joan carries on, “you’ll kill him if you freak him out too badly, so please-” The knife retracts and Ares is nearly lightheaded with relief.

“Oh, I see.” Froggy says, studying him like he’s some kind of artifact. “You require a gentler touch, huh?” Ares stiffles a sob as he tries to get his breathing- and heart- back under control.

“Damn, Frog,” one of the men says, and distantly Ares sees the other robbers have returned, their duffle bags full. “What the fuck’d you get up to?”

Froggy smiles, looking over his shoulder. “Nothin at all.”

The men laugh. “Well wrap it up, it’s time to go.”

Froggy hums low in his throat, looking back at Ares. His lips purse. “Ya know what? I think I’ll leave you with a little keepsake, to remember me by. Deep breath!” Without further warning, he slices through Ares’s cheek with his knife. Ares screams behind the tape, his scalp aching as he tries to wrest himself from the man’s hand. Froggy makes another cut, the same depth, cutting through the first. Ares’s blood wells in the shape of an X. “There we are,” Froggy says with a self satisfied smirk. Then he presses a sloppy kiss to the tape covering Ares’s mouth and stands up. “Be seeing you, Ares!” He follows the rest of his team out, and Ares is left breathing heavily through his nose, blood running down his face.

[whump-card]

This Death That I Chose: Chapter 9

1233 words

CW: death, child death (not explicitly described), guns, recapture, noncon kiss, pet whump

First, Previous, Masterlist, Next

~~~

Tao remembered thinking that it must have been fireworks. That there was no way the Commander’s Military had advanced so far overnight.

They had.

He’d stared out the window at the tanks rolling down the street while his brother and his wife rounded up their kids. Lilah and Rory. They were too young to understand what was happening, only that they were scared.

They got everyone in the car. They had the flashlights, the batteries, the canned food.

But Rory forgot his stuffed monkey. And Tao went back to get it.

An explosion rocked the house a second after he picked the toy up. When he got back outside, the car was in flames.

~~~

Tao knew it wasn’t fireworks this time.

Lark squirmed, and Tao’s grip on him tightened like a vice.

“I have to go-” Lark gasped.

“No,” Tao’s throat constricted, “No, I won’t let you.”

“Tao, please.”

“Everyone here knows what to do. We have escape plans.” He loosened his grip on Lark just enough for the two of them to be able to stand, then pulled him back close. “There are cars parked in the woods, we just go to the nearest one, okay?”

Lark lifted his tear-streaked face and hesitantly nodded.

“Okay.”

“Good, let’s get this on you properly.” He released Lark and took a step back, taking hold of the shirt draped around the young man’s shoulders. Lark obediently put his arms into the sleeves, and Tao forced his hands to be steady as he buttoned it up.

There was another smattering of gunfire in the distance.

The shirt hung loose and oversized on Lark’s small frame, and the tattoo around his neck stood out starkly, but it was better than nothing. Tao glanced around, spotted Lark’s sling on the floor, and scooped it up and looped it around Lark’s neck.

“Sit down and fix that while I get your shoes on.”

Lark sank down to sit on the edge of the bed, while Tao swiped a hand underneath the frame and pulled out Lark’s shoes.

“That’s where they were,” Lark commented numbly, nestling his cast into the sling.

“Yep.” Tao shoved Lark’s feet into the shoes with little grace, and stood, holding out his hand. Lark looked up at him, fear written all over his face, and took it.

“Now we run,” said Tao.

They left Faye’s – Dylan was nowhere to be seen – and instead of going down the driveway Tao led them to the road through the trees. At the edge of the street they crouched in the bushes, and Tao craned his neck to look down the road.

“Shit!”

There was already a squad of soldiers, moving up the road in a fan formation, illuminated by the high full moon. They had full tactical gear and assault rifles.

“Okay, listen,” Tao grabbed Lark’s shoulder, “You’re going to run straight across the road and into the woods, and keep going until you reach a path, okay? Follow-”

“No.”

“Yes, follow the path until you find the car, okay?”

“No!” Lark shook his head wildly, “I can’t!”

“Yes, you can,” Tao said firmly, drawing his pistol, “When I say go, you go.”

“No,” said Lark, “You should run.”

“What?”

Lark stared at him a moment, breathing hard; then he moved faster than Tao would have ever expected. He grabbed the barrel of the gun, yanked it out of Tao’s hand, and started running straight towards the soldiers.

“Lark!” Tao screamed, starting after him. Lark threw the gun as hard as he could into the woods to the north. The soldiers spotted him and lifted their weapons.

“Don’t shoot!” Lark shouted, “It’s me, don’t shoot!”

The soldier on point lowered his gun, and the others followed suit. Lark reached him and flung his arms around the soldier, nearly tackling him.

“I’m here, we can go home now, please don’t hurt anyone!”

But Tao was fast approaching, and the soldiers went back on alert, training their weapons on him. Tao slowed to a jog, then a halt, his survival instincts overriding his need to stop Lark.

It was too late, he realized.

Lark looked over his shoulder at Tao, eyes wide.

“Please don’t shoot him!” he begged the soldiers, “Please – Tao, run!” His voice was a desperate shriek.

Tao could’ve run – but for as little time as he had known Lark, something prevented him from leaving the boy behind. He stood rooted to the spot, his mind a blank.

The soldier Lark was clinging to was tapping his earpiece and saying something Tao couldn’t make out from where he was. Then he pushed Lark off and behind him, and aimed his gun at Tao.

“On your knees!” he shouted, “You’re coming with us!”

Tao wanted to sob with frustration at the situation. They could have made it, if Lark had just listened to him. He slowly raised his hands and sank to his knees. He locked eyes with Lark. The boy looked petrified. Tao couldn’t be angry with him – not now.

A black SUV crested into view behind the line of soldiers. It slowed to a halt, as two of the soldiers advanced on Tao.

A man got out of the backseat. A tall, old man, who stood ramrod straight and wore a long coat and an officer’s cap, despite the heat of the summer night. He radiated power.

The Commander.

Lark tore his eyes away from Tao to look behind him at the sound of the car door closing, and he let out a small cry. He sprinted over to the Commander and abruptly dropped out of view. Tao craned his neck, and his stomach flipped with revulsion when he saw Lark had prostrated himself at the Commander’s feet, and appeared to be licking his boots.

“Lark!” he shouted, jumping to his feet, but the soldiers were on him now and they seized his arms. Tao struggled wildly, stomping on their boots, but they were unfazed. They twisted his arms behind him and efficiently zip-tied his wrists together. Tao didn’t take his eyes off the Commander as they manhandled him – and the Commander looked back. Tao felt ice run down his spine when those cold blue eyes found him. Simply being looked at by the Commander felt like a curse.

A van pulled up behind the SUV, and the soldiers started dragging Tao towards it – towards Lark and the Commander. Tao watched, growing ever closer, as the Commander snapped his fingers and Lark jumped to his feet. Tao was hauled in a wide berth around the reuniting master and pet, and as he passed the Commander fisted a hand in Lark’s long hair and leaned down to kiss him, as if to spite Tao specifically.

Tao let out a wordless shout of rage and redoubled his efforts to escape the soldiers' hold, to no avail. Still trapped in the kiss, Lark’s eyes rolled to look at him.

He looked scared. Desperate – but only for a moment before he closed his eyes and leaned into the kiss, sensually running his hand up the Commander’s chest.

Tao felt his legs go weak.

You’re not going back.

Everything’s going to be okay.

I promise.

It was all turning to lies, right in front of him. He’d failed. Tao went nearly limp, allowing the soldiers to frog-march him to the back of the van.

God only knew what would happen now.

~~~

First, Previous, Masterlist, Next

Taglist: @angst-after-dark, @sunshiline-writes, @flowersarefreetherapy, @pigeonwhumps, @whump-em, @morning-star-whump, @thecyrulik, @honeycollectswhump

[rotting-inkblot]

i dont WANNA have to look up daterape drugs, or even drugs that are dissolvable in alcohol............................. but stalker!barry slipping a lil somethinsomethin in rafe's drink to make him more pliable and reliant on him

[copics-and-renegades]

Whumptober 2024 Day 13: Multiple Whumpees

Mithos thinks they're the sweetest thing~ <3

---

I never know anymore what to comment on my work.

[kenobster]

I can see that the whole stewjoni dualsex thing might be problematic... at times... maybe... But counterpoint: a) knock him up and b) uh, um, Triple Penetration In Three Holes

Look lmao, I'm not here to say what's problematic or unproblematic (unless you hate Anakin, of course... in which case, please consult my very serious Ted Talk on the subject).

Anyway, I said what I said in that answer, not because I think ppl who write Stewjoni biology should stop (I'm not a party pooper nor an anti, so please carry on ^_^), but rather because I was furious over a blatant hypocrisy on someone else's post lmao.

But on a personal level re your counterpoints.... and how do I say this gently...... Oh! Right:

YKINMKATO

Lmao, there we go.

In case anyone would like to drizzle some Fine Kenobster Tastebuds over their Fic Perusing Repertoires, they're absolutely welcome to consider my below counter-counterpoints.

(Note: I am incapable of getting horny over consensual smut, so we're assuming these are noncon/dubcon adjacent, but in full honesty, I'm sure you could wiggle these into any smut fantasy of your choosing.)

counter-counterpoint #1: i've read fic that made fortuna's thumb more erotic than any number of simultaneous penetrations.

counter-counterpoint #2: if u wanna get a biological boy knocked up, see below for instructions:

Step 1: Detach the bowels from the blorbo's anus and connect them to an external poop bag instead;

Step 2: Insert a uterus (along with a pre-fertilized egg attached to its lining) into the blorbo's abdomen;

Step 3: Connect the anus to the cervix (please note that no other modification to the anus is necessary);

Step 4: Ejaculate into blorbo's anus repeatedly (please note that, as the egg is already fertilized, this step may be completed as a fun little treat or skipped at your leisure);

Step 5: Pump blorbo full of pregnancy hormones while you wait for the fetus to grow to term;

Step 6: When your blorbo begins to go into labor, watch with mirth as his body fails to eject the baby through such an inelastic hole. Feel free to laugh yourself giddy as his ass-muscles get all torn up and scarred.

Step 7: Unless your goal is for your blorbo and its fetus to die, eventually show him some mercy and conduct a C-Section.

In other words, don't be a pussy about giving the blorbo a pussy.

counter-counterpoint #3: may I direct your attention to the many cunt-having blorbos out there? For example, Padmé has some very Obi-Wan-esque qualities, and she comes with a canonical interest in pregnancy and ready-to-lactate boobs! "But Padmé's not a Jedi," you whine. Bitch, please. If you're giving Obi-wan a cunt, then I think you can make Padmé a Jedi, yeah? -pats your head- Live your dream. Be free. <3

***

Anyway, if you were hoping for some serious thoughts in response to your ask, then (1) I apologize lmao, I have chronic inability-to-be-serious blogger syndrome; and (2) please copy paste your ask and resubmit it here instead. ^_^ If you do that, I promise that you will get a very comprehensive post that describes my exact opinions on the subject, no joke. Give it a whirl.

[mumza-superiority]

if any of my irls see this no you don’t no you don’t please do not perceive me with this one ok I just I just

More creepy/intimate whumper things

Part 1 can be found here! Happy Valentine's Day!

Cleaning Whumpee while they're tied up in bath

Playing with Whumpee's hair before roughly pulling it

Nuzzling Whumpee or possesively putting an arm around them while they're in public

Groping Whumpee in public

Holding Whumpee's face to examine them

Forcefully kissing Whumpee and biting their lip until it bleeds

Calling Whumpee pet names and refusing to use their actual name

Forcing Whumpee to undress Whumper

Making Whumpee sleep in the same bed as Whumper (tied up or not)

Forcing Whumpee to pretend they're in a romantic relationship with Whumper (in front of Caretaker)

Touching/kissing Whumpee while they sleep

Hand-feeding Whumpee

Whumper forcing their fingers into Whumpee's mouth

Whumper filming/taking pictures of Whumpee while they're in a compromised position

[bitterrfruit]

iron tide [1]

fisherman price x reader cw: noncon undressing/bathing, dubcon touching. 11k words. 18+ mdni the crew aboard a deep-sea crabbing vessel rescue a woman adrift in the north sea. you wake up on a boat surrounded by men you don't know, with no memory of where you came from. or: john price rescues you from certain death and decides that you belong to him [masterlist]

Jonathan had long forsaken his godliness; but if he were to deify anything, it would be the Sea. 

Great big blue, infinitely vast and infinitely deep. She was sweet when she was still, gentle, little ebbs like kisses against the barnacled hull — formidable when she was angry, titanic swells like mountains that crashed and shattered and sucked irreverent men down into the depths of her. 

She took as much as she gave, demanded sacrifices for her gifts. Stole his father when he was a boy, swept off the deck of his ship by a rancorous wave and cast out into the expanse before she inevitably swallowed him. But what she purloined she returned in abundance — a cornucopia of life; fish, lobsters, molluscs — and enough crabs for John to make his living for the better part of his life once he retired from the Navy. 

In more recent years, though, he had begun to lose faith in her, too. 

The seas were violent and only getting rougher, warmer when they needed to be cold to let the crabs get meatier, colder when they needed to be warm so they could replenish their numbers. 

A burgeoning resentment had rooted in his crew like a spreading cancer, minute at first but steadily swelling — every year they were paid a little less and damaged a little more, and who else was there to blame but their skipper? 

Wrong spot, wrong depth, wrong time of year; he seemed to keep getting it wrong, despite decades and decades of seafare. As though the Sea was punishing him, as though he had taken too much — only a matter of time before it was his turn to give. 

She made known her spite as he leaned over the paint-chipped railing of the deck-facing balcony, watching his crew haul in pot after pot from the raging ocean. Each cage more vacant than the last, the crabs smaller than he had come to expect from the once generous North Sea, soft brown shells where they should have been thick, ochre red, and thorny. Half of them too small to keep, so were begrudgingly tossed back into the deep.

The sun had set not ten minutes prior, hidden by black cloud and dense fog, the sea and sky smudged into a uniform shade of gloaming blue. The waves were tempestuous, whitecaps high and valleys low — the Iron Tide was a resilient girl, and she carved through the bulk of the swells, but even she could not avoid the plummets and climbs of an ocean this rough. He felt the mist of the cracking waves on his cheeks, the wind blistering cold and forcing him to squint. 

As the Captain he had outgrown the need to get his hands dirty, he could stay in the comfort of the wheelhouse if he wished — but he still liked to venture down to the deck to pull ropes and haul pots when he could, if only to show his crew how it was properly done. He liked to ensure his callouses stayed thick and his mettle hadn’t turned soft. 

“This’s a fucken’ suicide set, captain!” Roared Johnny from the deck, work-worn voice barely audible over the bellows of the waves on the hull. Lead deckhand with the attitude of a first mate. 

The first mate himself, Simon, had begun ascending the rusty steel stairs with an uncharacteristic urgency, the hood of his fluorescent orange jacket around his shoulders, kept there by the wind. 

“How many ‘ve we got?” John asked him, jaundiced, having to shout over the gale. 

“Thirty-two,” Simon said rigidly, “from twenty pots.” 

“Fuck’s sake,” John grunted, aggravated, smacking the rail with his palm. He cynically observed the next pot as it was hauled up, even emptier than the last one, and he made up his mind. “Alright, set ‘em back.”

“They’ve been soaking for twenty-four hours,” Simon disputed, but the pith of his irritation resided in the knowledge of how much labour had already been wasted. It was an inexorable fact, though — there was little point in retrieving them now, as empty as they were. 

“It’s a waste of time to haul them all,” John barked. “What have we got, seventy to go? Set them back.” 

Simon rubbed the bridge of his nose with a thumb, exasperated. “Alright.” 

He echoed the Captain’s command in a roar down the stairs, deckhands looking up to listen before they obeyed — John watched, disenchanted, as they began launching the string of pots over the side of the deck one by one, throwing loops of yellow nylon rope and the bright red marker buoys out to follow them. 

It was easy for John to fall into a sour mood, and after the abysmal stew Nikolai had thrown together for their supper, his fuse was cut even shorter. Seemed the Russian mechanic’s turn to cook always landed on the harshest nights, left everyone crotchety and indolent. 

He needed nicotine. 

He made his way back to the helm with a crease in his brow and his jaw in knots. The bolted windows spanning the length of the bridge were near impossible to see through, the battering of sea spray distorting the view of the dark ocean that extended unendingly past the bow. He glared out into the abyss for a beat, stoically watching the black waves, wondering what next the Sea would punish him with. 

A blink of red pierced through the mist. 

He almost ignored it, at first, rubbing his forehead as he twisted his spinning chair behind the helm — until it was there, again; a pin-prick of bright carmine, cutting through the blue sea fog and disappearing behind a wave. 

Frowning as he leaned into the radar screen, his eyes scoured over the bright blue disk and immediately caught on a tiny yellow blip. Due north, twenty degrees west. It was faint, flickering every odd moment, and he stared at it vigilantly — a spot he would normally dismiss as sea clutter, if not for the blinking light he thought he saw on the horizon. 

He reeled down the window by the seat and stuck his head out into the winds, squinting through the spray — at the top of a crest shone the little red light, blinking at half-second intervals, clear as day. 

The realisation rinsed him colder than seawater. 

A lifeboat. 

He snatched the intercom radio from its hook by the wheel and held it to his lips. 

“All hands—” He barked, “Secure the deck. Got a lifeboat up ahead. Prepare for rescue.” 

Simon’s crackling voice quickly came back through the radio, from the call point on the deck. “D’you say a lifeboat?” 

“That’s what I said.” 

“Roger.” 

John could hear the yelling on deck from the wheelhouse, all that fervour frothing up at the prospect of an emergency; a new challenge. He immediately spun the wheel to adjust the rudder, steering the boat in the direction of the blip on the radar. Gently pushed the throttle to catch up and felt the roaring engine quake through the boat, the sharp bow of his ship cut through the swells like a fist through a wall. 

“See it,” Simon called through the intercom. 

“What’ve we got?” 

“Life raft.” 

He tugged the throttle lever back to halt the boat on approach, aligning the vessel so that the lifeboat was portside, knuckles white on the wheel. He set the engine to hold station before marching out to the deck, bracing for the wind as he hurried across the steel balcony and down the ladder, knurled steel stairs clanging loudly with every thud of his boots. 

“Any survivors onboard?” John shouted, joining his crew where they peered over the railing, as another wave cascaded over the gunwale, greenwater flooding the deck before gushing out of the scuppers. 

There it was, neon orange and climbing up a steep swell. Hardly a lifeboat — an inflatable raft, little red light blinking atop a rounded corner. From the deck he could tell it was ancient, the bright skin of the raft peeling and blistering, exposing the ballooning black rubber within that kept it afloat. Modern regulations demanded modern lifeboats — fully enclosed boats with their own motors, search and rescue transponders equipped. He struggled to imagine the kind of vessel the raft had even come from; certainly not a cruise ship, or any legally operating fishing or passenger boat. 

“Only one,” Alex answered, yelling over the roar of the ocean. 

Nik let out a grunt, dismissing it all with a sweep of his hand. “That woman is dead.” 

John squinted at the raft, and quickly determined that Nikolai wasn’t unreasonable for thinking so.

The woman aboard the raft lay face down in the orange bed, bare-footed, nothing on but a saturated ivory dress that clung to her skin like glue. Sodden hair webbed across her back, tresses floating in the inch of water that filled the basin of the boat. 

Even if she were a corpse already, though, he wasn’t going to let the Sea digest her unchallenged. 

“Alright,” he declared, chewing on his plan before he uttered it. “I’ll strap on the lifeline, jump in and grab her, then you lot can reel me back in.” 

The disputes were quick to gush from his crew, all cursing and shaking heads. 

“Get fucked,” Alex scoffed, appaled, “skipper jumping overboard? What world are you living in?”

“You gonna do it, then, Keller?” John retorted, lips in a line. 

“I can,” Soap yelled, already shucking off his heavy jacket. Daredevil that he was.

John gritted his teeth. Wasn’t sold on the risk of losing his lead deckhand; but as he considered it, he would never be prepared to risk losing any of them. 

“You sure?” 

“Ah’m the best swimmer,” he boasted through a grin, now down to his thermals, shoulders raised in the cold and rubbing his hands together. 

“Good man,” John nodded approvingly, and the crew quickly went to work strapping him in — hooked the harness over his shoulders and secured it in the front, fed the end of the long blue rope into the winch so he could be retrieved after the catch. 

Came the thudding of boots on the deck, running towards the commotion; “Fuck’s going on? Why’s the engine idle?”

Kyle, the ship’s engineer, finally emerging from the engine room with a smudge of gear oil on his cheek. Must have had his earbuds in when the Captain issued the all hands directive. 

John let out a huff, not prepared to give a long justification to the designated safety officer, conscientious as he was.

“Oh shit—” Gaz chirped, discovering on his own the gravity of the situation, as he glanced over the railing and spotted the raft. “Is she alive?”

“We’re about t’find out,” Soap said keenly, bouncing on the balls of his feet to warm himself up. 

“You’re jumping in?” Gaz balked, “That’s — you’re fuckin’ mental.”

John let out a sharp huff. He didn’t disagree, but he thought it counterproductive to express any reluctance. “Got a better idea, lad?” 

Gaz sighed anxiously as he clutched the guardrail, head hanging from his shoulders. He knew as well as John that this was the only option — it was that, or leave the woman adrift in the ocean to die, if she weren’t already. 

John held fast to his pragmatism, but his morals were unyielding. Nobody gets left behind. 

Men took turns giving Johnny good luck pats on the back as he climbed over the railing. He hung off the other side like a monkey with his fist around the bar, looking down into the furious ocean and taking an anticipatory breath. 

The crew watched raptly and let loose a strident cheer as he launched off, diving into the waves with knife-pointed arms and sinking out of sight. Nik remained steadfast by the hydraulic winch, ready to set it off at any indication of either success or failure. 

Soap reemerged from the water with a visible gasp ten-odd metres out, breaking through the white foam and powering ahead in a freestyle stroke. He reached the raft quickly, and climbed aboard like a wet dog, hauling himself up over the ballooning sides and almost pulling it under the water with him. He kneeled beside the woman once he was in, pulling her by the shoulder to assess her — he gave no indication to the crew as to her status before he hoisted her up and held her tight to his chest, arms hooked under hers so that she wore him like a backpack.

He pushed himself back into the water with an eager holler; “Got ‘er!”

Nik immediately pulled the lever on the winch and it zipped loudly as it began spinning, winding up the rope and hauling Johnny through the swelling sea. The crane arm of the davit extended far enough beyond the gunwale that he didn’t slam into the hull on his ascent, and he clung to the limp woman for dear life — John and his deckhands leaned as far over the railing as they could without toppling overboard, hooking the rope that suspended the swimmer and heaving he and his cargo onboard. 

Soap coughed out a splatter of seawater as he gingerly lay the woman on her back, before rolling over and wiping down his face, dripping wet.

“Found yerself a mermaid, cap,” he sputtered, sniffing and shivering violently as he pushed himself to stand. 

“Nicely fuckin’ done, Soap,” Alex lauded, smacking him on the back and earning a screech from the Scotsman. 

“‘S too cold,” he bit, grabbing at his genitals through his sodden thermals. “Ma fucken’ balls are gone.” 

“Go in and get dry,” the Captain barked, as he hurriedly crouched beside the woman, sweeping locks of drenched hair from where it stuck to her face. 

“Jesus,” Gaz muttered concernedly. 

Her skin was bitterly cold, but soft on her cheeks; some indication that resuscitation might have been possible, that her skin wasn’t as stiff and waxy as corpse skin would have been. Eyes were lightly shut, her thick lashes clumped together by seawater. He used a gentle thumb to lift up an eyelid, and her pupils were nice and black — blown out, but not clouded over. Laces of capillaries meshed through her white scleras. Blood still bright red.

“How’s she looking?” Alex asked, crouching beside John, pessimism in his throat. 

“She’s frigid,” John said grimly.

“Could be hypothermic,” Gaz said from behind him, worry leaden in every word. “That water is barely higher than zero.” 

“Mh,” John grunted in agreement, hastily pressing the palps of his fingers under her jaw into a spongy jugular, held there for a few seconds — no pulse. “We’ll worry about warmin’ her up once we get her breathing.” 

He leaned back and interlaced his fingers, laying his hands knuckles down between her breasts. Pushed his weight into her sternum with a hard shove and her ribs sunk underneath him, bouncing back up when he released the pressure. Repeat. Over, and over, grunting with each desperate compression.

The heaving bodies of five men caging her kept the bulk of the angry waves from dousing her, the spray crashed over John’s back and dripped from him, beads landing on her body. Solemn silence hung heavy between them, as though fearful that expressing any hope would condemn her to certain death. Simon clutched John’s shoulder, grip encouraging. 

He counted his compressions until he reached thirty, before he urgently keeled forward and pressed his mouth to her cold lips, pinching her nose and lifting her chin — pumped air from his lungs into hers with a forceful breath, then another, then another. Her chest rose as it filled up with his air, sunk again as he let it seep out from behind her teeth. 

Returned to compressions. Push. Push. Push. He pressed so hard into her sternum that her ribs threatened to snap under the weight of him, but they were rubbery enough to withstand it. 

Continued the next round until he reached twenty-one — when water began to rise up her throat, sloshing about in her open mouth and trickling out of its corners. He urgently halted his compressions to flip her onto her side and tip out the brine, hammering into the midline of her back with an open palm. 

“C’mon, love,” John growled, teeth gritting. “Cough it up for me.” 

As though she had heard him, a gurgle eked from her throat, torso retching as an eruption of water gushed out of her mouth and sprayed over the deck. A few weak coughs followed the first, and she shuddered — the men roared in shock and celebration as John returned her to her back. 

Her eyes fluttered open for less than a second, shrinking pupils fixed on John for a heartbeat — wet, glittering under the beaming of the deck lights, carving straight through him and taking root in the marrow of his skull. Vacant and yet swollen, the glow of life anew, as though glaring right into the heavens — and with a little sigh, they feathered shut again. 

He held a hand to her cheek, gave her head a soft shake; prepared to continue the chest compressions, but as he curled forward and held his ear to her lips, he felt her breathing, shaky and weak against the cartilage shell. 

“She breathin’?” Simon asked bluntly, laden with apprehension. 

“Yeah,” John huffed, relief potent as liquor flooded hot into his chest and made his temples throb. 

“Good shit, cap’n,” Alex commended, releasing a puff of pent air, just as relieved as the lot of them. 

John nodded dismissively, hands on his knees, before he pushed himself to stand. He stood over the girl and hoisted her up with his hands under her arms, before delicately draping her over his shoulder.

“Gaz, help me with her, will you?” He grunted, before marching toward the stairs up to the superstructure. “You three — fun’s over. Get back to setting the pots. I’ll send Soap back out once he’s in his dries.”

“Aye aye,” Alex said facetiously, shaking out his hands as he and the others returned to the stack they had just tied down. 

“What’s the plan?” Kyle asked stiffly, in quick pursuit as John steamed up the stairs. 

“Gotta get her warm,” John said. 

“Yeah—” he agreed with a hesitant tone, “what d’you want me for?”

John’s eyes rolled into his skull. “You did a couple years of health science, didn’t you?” 

“One year,” Kyle corrected. 

John could have said that he wanted Gaz specifically because he was the ship’s assigned safety officer, or because he was the only man aboard with a university degree. But, in truth, he wanted him simply for the fact he was the least likely of all of his crewmen to make stripping the girl into something needlessly lascivious. 

He carted her to the head in steady stride, passing Johnny through the narrow corridor as he dried himself off with a towel around his neck. 

“She’s alive?” He asked hopefully. 

“Uh-huh,” John rumbled. 

Soap triple-smacked the veneer panel of the wall with a flat hand in excitement, all but bouncing off the ceiling with it. “Halle-fucken’-lujah! Need help warmin’ her up?” 

“No. Get your skins on and head back out to deck, Johnny, y’got more pots to drop.” 

Johnny groaned like a teenager, but he went off as he was told.

The head was small — enough room for a toilet, a shower, and a three-inch wide sink, not quite the floorspace to lay her down gracefully. John tore back the curtain and propped her up against the wall of the shower, nestling her into the corner so her head leaned against the perpendicular wall. 

No sense in wasting time. He clinically peeled the sodden fabric of her white dress up her thighs, lifting her limp leg to tug the skirt out from under her. 

“Christ—” Gaz grumbled, disquieted, he turned away. 

“Will y’hold her arms up for me?” John monotonously requested, uninterested in the boy’s reservations. 

Gaz sighed as he obeyed the order, taking her cold hands by the wrists and holding them above her head. John hiked up her dress without reservation, revealing the saturated bra and underwear she wore underneath, as he lifted it her arms up above her head. 

“This’s fucked up,” Gaz mumbled. 

“What is.” 

“Taking her clothes off,” he said, reluctance poignant. 

“You’d rather we let her freeze to death, eh?” John bit, not even dignifying the engineer’s aversion by turning to look at him. 

He tugged her flaccid body towards him, and her head fell against his shoulder — he reached under her arm into the space between her back and the shower wall, unclasping her bra with a single hand. 

“No,” Kyle acquiesced. “Do we really need to take off her underwear, though?”

“She’s not gonna get warm in wet knickers, is she,” John grumbled, frustration blossoming, releasing it in a sharp sigh. “Y’need to grow up, Garrick. Go and grab my jersey and a towel from the laundry, then.”

“Okay. Sure, yeah,” he agreed, marching out of the head like he might trip over in his haste. 

John bit down on nothing as he pulled the straps of the girl’s bra down her arms, adding it to the pile atop her drenched dress. Didn’t help that she was a lovely thing — pudding-soft curves, pretty little face — might lend an explanation to the young engineer’s discomfort, couldn’t reconcile the attraction he felt to a near-dead woman while she was incognisant of her nudity. 

John did not care, he had no qualms. 

A pragmatist, through and through. He felt no shame for admiring her as he leaned her back against the laminate wall, nipples grey-purple and hard as pebbles by virtue of her palpable hypothermia. Soft lips were slack, not as blue as they had been when she was fished out of the ocean, now that her blood was pumping again. 

He wasted no time ogling her, though, he was no reprobate. His only priority was getting her warm and awake. And that happened to involve hooking his fingers into the waistband of her knickers, saturated in seawater and cleaving fast to her skin. 

He hooked an arm around her to lift her from the shower floor, used the other hand to tug her underwear over the swell of her bottom before he set her back down to reel them down her thighs. 

Pretty cunt, too. Unshaven, how he liked them. 

He reached up for the shower head, held it in a fist as he switched on the water. Already nice and warm, preheated by the engine-powered calorifiers. He held the stream of warm water over her chest, watching as it cascaded over her breasts and flooded between her thighs. Didn’t care if he got himself wet in so doing. Checked her pulse every odd moment with the pad of a finger on her wrist, ensured her chest continued to rise and fall. 

Rubbed his free hand over her skin to scrub off all the salt; started modestly with her arms, shoulders, back — but was unhesitant in rinsing and scrubbing her armpits, down her belly, between her legs. Didn’t touch her pussy, though, even John felt that was a step too far. He simply rinsed it. Let the water run over her mons and channel down the cleft of her unaided. 

He tilted her head back and ran the warm stream over her hairline, careful not to let too much water pour down her face. He combed thick fingers through the tresses, scrunching her hair into a ball to wring out the brine before rinsing it out again. 

As he carded his fingers through her scalp, though, he felt a lump; just above her hairline, concealed by the locks. A squishy protrusion from the skull, with a frayed ridge through the centre of it. Only then did he see the diluted blood in the water that puddled at the bottom of the shower, originating from the ends of her saturated hair. 

Add that to the list of ailments, he thought. Poor wee girl. They’d need to tend to that. 

Kyle finally returned with a cautious knock on the door, a single knuckle. 

“D’you fall overboard, Garrick?” John murmured — he had been gone far longer than it should have taken to find the items he requested. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Couldn’t figure out which fleece was yours.” 

John said nothing. 

“She warming up yet?” Gaz asked tightly, likely not even looking in the direction of the shower, now that she was entirely nude. 

The girl’s skin was now plush and pink under the heat of the water, and felt warm to the touch under the back of John’s hand; so with a satisfied nod he shut off the water and hooked the showerhead back into its fastening. 

He reached backward with a gesturing hand, and Gaz handed him the crisp towel he had brought from the laundry without a word. 

“Looks like she got hit in the head,” John commented, as he draped the towel over the girl's front, rubbing her down to get her dry. Arms, shoulders, armpits, thighs, feet. He was thorough. 

“Shit,” Gaz said morosely, half-hearted. Soft young man, soft in a way John was almost envious of. Sometimes he wondered if he had grown too rough around the edges, too abrasive for his own good. “What the fuck happened to ‘er?” 

“Not a clue,” John said. “Nothing good.” 

“That life raft was — that was non-standard,” Gaz pondered aloud. 

“Thought the same thing,” John replied, as he scrunched her hair in the towel, twisting it up to wring out the water. He was careful with the top of her head — dabbing her scalp gently, leaving dark red smears in the blue fibres. 

“Ferry capsized, maybe?” 

“We would’ve heard about a ship capsizing nearby,” John said. “‘Specially a passenger vessel. They’d have blasted the distress call out in every direction.” 

“Mh,” Gaz agreed. 

“She had no shoes on,” John remarked, tone sombre. “No gear, no jacket.” 

“Running away from something?” asked Gaz, picking up what John might have been suggesting. 

“Maybe,” John said, before hanging the towel around her back and hauling her up from the floor with an arm around her ribs. 

He hung her floppy arms over his shoulder, kept her body tight to him, the towel just long enough to conceal her buttocks from Gaz, sensitive lad. He kept her up with a forearm under her rear, bounced her to adjust. She was impossibly easy to lift; John could have carried her one-handed, if he were less concerned about avoiding brandishing her nudity around the ship. 

Gaz followed him out of the head, towards the galley. 

“She had no belongings with her, eh?” Gaz asked, “no wallet, nothing?” 

“No.” 

Kyle let out a long sigh, worry oozing from his every pore. “Don’t wanna imagine how long she was drifting for.” 

John nodded, as he sat her down on the bench seat of the dining table, the thin vinyl cushion squeaking underneath her. He dumped the towel, and grabbed his jersey from Gaz — one of his heavy Patagonia fleeces, fabric thick, plush like sheepskin, dark navy with a zip collar. He pulled it over her head, fed her arms through the long sleeves and adjusted it down her torso. It was long enough that it reached her mid-thighs, hands two-thirds of the way through the sleeves — big enough to conceal everything, and cozy enough to keep her warm. He pulled her hair out from inside the collar and lay it to one side over her shoulder. 

“Grab me the first aid kit,” John ordered dryly, as he leaned her against the seat, holding her head upright with a hand at the back of her skull. 

He fingered through her locks of damp hair, looking closely for the contusion that he felt ballooning out of her scalp — found it, eventually, dark purple and swollen, sticky burgundy blood coagulating around the open wound and gluing bits of hair together. 

“Think she fell?” Gaz asked, as he returned with the red polyester pouch after rummaging through the galley cabinets, unzipping and unfurling it. 

“S’there betadine in there?” John asked, before he had acknowledged the engineer’s question. “Hard to say, it looks rough.” 

Kyle handed him the little brown dropper of iodine solution, popping off the cap for him. “You don’t think someone hit her.” 

John’s jaw tightened. “If they did, they hit her bloody hard.” 

“Fuckin’ hell,” Gaz grumbled, upset, watching with his arms crossed as John tipped over the little bottle. He squeezed out several rust-brown drops, they landed squarely in the wound in her scalp, emulsifying with the tissue. “This’s all — just wrong.” 

“Least she’s alive,” John murmured, through a huff, as he put down the betadine. No use in attempting to bandage it, the laceration was small enough that it would heal on its own if left unbothered. 

“Wonder where her home is,” Gaz mused, tone dismal. 

“We’ll ‘ave to see what the bird says when she wakes up,” John said, laying the girl down on her side, tucking up her knees. 

“What if she doesn’t?” 

“She will,” John asserted as he stood, rapping an appreciative hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “Keep an eye on her, will you? I need to get back to the bridge.” 

“Okay,” Gaz nodded tightly. 

“And get her a blanket,” John ordered on his way to the ladder. “Call me if anything changes, yeah?” 

“Will do, Captain.” 

You tasted salt on your tongue.

It was dark, and your body was so heavy — your neurons fired off to raise an arm, and all they mustered was the twitch of a finger. Skin felt warm and viscid, lacquered in a tepid layer of tar as though fully submerged in gooey black pitch, too thick to move around in.

Your eyes perceived nothing but deep, liquid burgundy, and the sparking of white-and-red stars that encroached on the borders of your vision, writhing and swirling in the abyss of your blindness. 

Still, salt on your tongue. 

It was foul, overpowering, all consuming — that brackish grit in every corner of your mouth, between your teeth, crystallising in the back of your throat. It filled your nose, stung where it adhered to the delicate mucosa of your nostrils, every breath hurt to take in. 

You could feel it in your lungs, too. Shards of salt embedded in your bronchioles, saline glutted alveoli, trachea plugged with viscous brine. 

Your diaphragm spasmed beyond your control, body seizing as you erupted into a coughing fit — wet and phlegmy, salty fluid gurgling in your chest and hucking out of your mouth with every ragged splutter, you almost choked on it as you heaved in as much air as your lungs could imbibe. 

Your eyes shot open, then, vision so blurry that you had to wrench them closed a few times before the membrane over your corneas began to dissipate. 

A rubbery cushion under the side of your head, fuzzy fabric enveloping your arms and chest, something scratchy and heavy over your legs. Warm, sore — you ached everywhere, every joint stiff, every muscle burning, every organ twisting and floundering inside you. 

Dizziness wracked through your head, brain swimming free within your skull, spinning around in circles and bouncing against the walls of its cavity as though you were being tipped forward and backward and forward again. 

Nausea swelled up quickly, filled you up to the ears and made your stomach cramp and contort — bile rose up your throat and burned on its way up, you leaned over the surface you lay on and let it spill out from your teeth. Hardly any vomit, merely an oozing stream of chartreuse bile that dripped in strings from the corner of your mouth. 

You heard a voice, a man’s voice, at first too disoriented to understand it. 

“Shit — oh my god, you’re—”

A hoarse groan escaped your chest in response, not a noise you made on purpose, as you tried to roll onto your back. 

“Are you okay?” He asked urgently, and suddenly you noticed a pair of knees under a table beside you, only as they shifted when the person stood. “Hey — you’re okay, you’re—”

You moaned again, squinting under the bright light above you, vision distorted by vertigo and brine. Tongue too fat to form any words yet. 

“You’re okay, let me — let me get you some water.” 

You heard the hurried thuds of boots away from you, and you rubbed your eyes with the heels of your palms, finally able to see properly once you opened your eyes again. Shakily pulled yourself upright with a hand on the table, muscles quivering so violently that they could barely hold you up — but fired adrenaline began to kick in, thumping out from your chest and buzzing in your fingertips as you glanced around the room, utterly alien to you. 

“Where…” you croaked, soaking in your surroundings. Panelled walls of honey oak, an ugly veneered table in front of you, you sat on its bench seat. A small circular window sat above the table, bolted around its borders, and a single light bulb hung from the ceiling. 

The room smelled like dish soap and body odour, fetid with the scent of an unwashed sponge and a hovering note of fish carcass. A small kitchen, as you turned your head around to check behind you — the man towered over a sink, you heard the hiss of running water. 

“Where am I?” You finally asked, finding your words, but your voice was as frayed as if you had swallowed glass.

The man turned then, and you did not recognise him. Not at all. A complete stranger, with a furrow in his brow, and an awkward smile tugging at the corner of his lips. 

You bolted up from the seat then, tossing aside the blanket that rested on your knees, fight-or-flight reigniting your muscles and setting your heart into overdrive — your head spun with it, and your balance was completely off kilter, you had to continually readjust your feet to keep yourself upright. 

“Hey — hey, easy,” he said edgily, voice soft. 

“Who the fuck are you?” You barked, immediately defensive, you tried to keep your eyes pinned to him while you made note of your peripheral surroundings. 

“I’m — I’m sorry, I didn’t — I’m Gaz. Kyle. I’m Kyle.” 

You scowled at him, panting, hackles raised high as you shuffled away from the table. “I don’t know anyone called Kyle,” you hissed. “Or anyone called Gaz.” 

“We haven’t met before,” he said, body twisting to face you as you inched around him. 

He put down the glass of water he held in his hand, and that only further enkindled your terror. Now his hands were free. He could tackle you, if he wanted to. Tall man that he was, muscular under his black jersey, his big doe-eyes did nothing to soften you to him. 

“We found you in the water,” he tried to explain, “we thought you were dead. But we rescued you.” 

“The fuck do you mean, found me?” You spat, now approaching the kitchen, your eyes scoured around for something to grab. 

He could detect your scheming, inched closer to you on quiet feet, attempting to flank you. 

So you dashed — bolted towards the small cooktop, where a magnetic strip mounted on the wall held an array of kitchen knives. 

“Fuck—” He cursed, through teeth, failing to grab you in time before you snatched one by the handle, and held the blade in front of you with both hands. 

You jabbed it at him as you backed out of his reach, arms so shaky you almost dropped it — but you kept it tight, holding onto it with vicious devotion, as though dropping it would be your death sentence. 

He held up his hands, not in surrender, but as if he were attempting to settle a wild animal. “Okay, love, take it easy.” 

“Stay away from me,” you shouted, trembling, backing away cautiously. 

“Captain!” The man roared worriedly toward the ceiling, and you flinched. “Look, love, I’m not going to—”

“Fuck you,” you bit, before you spun on a heel and flew towards an archway. 

“Shit.” He cursed as you escaped, but he had not yet pursued you. 

You scurried down the narrow corridor, bare feet aching with every step, knife extended in front of you and prepared to slash at anything that got in your way. You were wobbling all over the place, as though the ground beneath you was rocking back and forth; you toppled into the wall on your right, yelping as you tried to get yourself upright again. 

You reached a great big industrial door, painted blue and with a tiny circular porthole too high for you to see through. It had a wheel in the centre of it, connected to a series of bars that spanned it from top to bottom. Not a door you had ever seen before, but you inexplicably knew to twist the wheel — left, first go, and the bars shrunk away from the top and bottom, the steel door unsealing with a clank. 

Now you heard the thuds of running boots, fast, growing louder, closer — you shouldered open the heavy door and leapt over the lip at the bottom, immediately blasted with an ice-cold wind that made you shrivel up and almost retreat back inside. 

The sky was stark black, and you were blinded by floodlights. You stumbled towards the railing, hanging onto it for dear life as you almost slipped over on the frigid metal grating under your feet — it felt like barbed wire on your soles, and you whimpered with every step. 

Your fierce desperation to escape trumped any pain, though, you burned hot as a boiler, thundering adrenaline keeping you aflame. You spun your head around to determine where you were; a pitch-dark abyss surrounded you on all sides — no sky, no ground, no lights on the horizon, nothing. You peered over the balustrade and realised then that you were on a ship, now seeing the building-tall waves that cascaded over the floor below, bedizened in ropes and grates and metal cages and buoys, populated with a few people in neon jackets. 

“Hey—” Came a bark from behind you, and you shrieked — immediately scurrying towards a steep staircase, pole-narrow, almost toppling down it as you bounced to every second step. 

The floor of the deck consisted of slippery water-logged wood, and the soles of your feet struggled to find any grip as you sprinted across it. You weren’t even sure where you were running, just away, from the man who had followed you — but it became quickly clear you had no escape, and the orange-jacketed men on the deck had turned their heads to spot you.

“Oh, fuck—” One barked. 

Another erupted in bewildered laughter; “She breathes, alright!” 

“Oi — girl—” Called one. 

“C’mere, hen!” Shouted another, Scottish. “We don’t bite!” 

You sobbed as you ran, ravaged by a fear so potent it made your heart shrivel up like a raisin — you were sprayed by a crashing wave, blinded by the salt, and your feet slipped out from under you. Collided into the hard ground with a slam, a bounce, you skidded across the wood and your knife tumbled out of your grip, sliding out of reach. 

Only as you flopped around on the greasy floor did you realise your nudity under the sweater you were wearing, bare thighs slick with cold sea water, ass bitten by the arctic wind. You scrambled to get yourself back up, crawling on your hands and knees towards your only weapon — until a thick arm hooked under your belly, swiftly hoisting you up from the ground with yank, and you squealed. 

“Easy, now, woman—” Gritted the man, the hoarse growl of an old dog, and he held you flat to his chest. “In such a hurry to go back overboard, eh?” 

You wailed, attempted to buck yourself free from him while your feet dangled off the floor, but he only secured his grip with another mammoth arm. The other men on the deck approached hastily, concern and confusion etched in their cold-ruddy faces, looking between each other as though waiting for somebody to decide what to do with you. 

“Let me go,” you sobbed, paltry voice broken by hiccups, you spluttered and cried and kicked when you could muster it. “Please, please—”

“Put her down, Nik, for fuck’s sake.” Came the roar of another man, approaching from further away, an authoritative fury that your captor swiftly obeyed. 

You landed on your bare feet onto the wet floor with a squelch, and a sob, but he kept a firm grip of your shoulder to prevent you from fleeing. You wouldn’t have, though — now, it was clear to you — there was nowhere to run. 

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Yelled the evident commander, “All of you? Christ, look, you’ve scared the shit out of her.” 

You saw him, then, as he stood in front of you — towering, heaving, you felt the vibrations of his heavy feet on the deck with each step. Broad shoulders cloaked in a rugged navy jacket, the hood pooled around his neck, a pair of roomy yellow overalls strapped over the waterproof layer. A black knitted beanie sat on the top of his head, folded just above his furrowed brows. His lips were in a snarl under his dense beard while he addressed the other men, but they softened into a neutral line when he looked at you. 

There was something familiar about him, not that you could place it; a face you might have seen in a dream, or crossing the street once. A face you could imagine with a glowing light beaming from behind it, as though the moon eclipsing a sun. You had no memory to tie to it, and yet, it settled you slightly. 

“Y’alright, love,” he said, voice honey-warm and thick with gravel, he held a hand in your direction and gestured to follow him. “Come back in, will you? Too cold for you out here, eh?” 

You sipped a shaky breath, shivering in the bitter wind, glancing at the men surrounding you from under your brow. Returning to the man that gestured for you, you gave him a feeble nod, and waddled in his direction. 

“Tha’s it, c’mon,” he said gently, hovering a hand at the small of your back. He turned over his shoulder to shout at the others; “You lot have more pots to set, don’t you? Get back to fuckin’ work.” 

He guided you gingerly towards the stairs, close behind you to ensure you didn’t slip over on the way up. Opened the weathertight door to let you in, but walked in front of you down the same corridor you had escaped through. You held your arms tight around yourself, left soggy footprints along the vinyl floor. 

“Got yourself all wet again,” he said, an edge of irritation in his tone. 

“D’you get her?” Came a call from the kitchen you had awoken in, and the man — Kyle — appeared at the end of the hallway. You froze. 

“Go finish your work, Gaz, y’still got an hour on the clock.” He ordered flatly, and Kyle looked at you past him. 

“Yes, Captain,” he grunted disdainfully, shouldering past the man in front of you, and squeezing around you where you pressed yourself into the wall. “Hope you’re feeling okay,” he mumbled sheepishly, before disappearing down a flight of stairs. 

The captain looked back at you, flicked his head in the direction of the kitchen. “C’mon, let's get you dry.” 

The kitchen was much smaller than you remembered it being not a few minutes prior — cozy, much warmer than outside but still not quite warm.

“Siddown,” he said from the kitchen, not as forceful as a command but just as compulsory. You gingerly sat yourself on the same bench you had woken up on, watching him carefully, lips sealed. 

He approached you with a tall cup of water, held by the rim with the tips of his fingers. “Drink it.”

You took the cup timidly, but once it was in your grip you did not hesitate; tipped it into your mouth and skulled it down desperately, a dribble escaping the corner of your mouth. You had no idea how thirsty you were until fresh water touched your lips — fresh, not salty — you panted like a dog when the cup was empty, half-quenched. 

He took it from you, filled it back up at the sink before bringing it back, and you drank the second cupful just as quickly. 

“Better?” He asked, and you nodded, wiped your mouth with your hand. 

“Thank you,” you said quietly. 

You watched as he grabbed a light blue towel from the tabletop, and for a moment you thought he might hand it to you — instead he crouched in front of you, and took your leg by the ankle. 

You immediately chirped and attempted to tug your foot free on reflex, but his grip was firm; entire hand wrapped tight around your ankle, he gave you a tut. 

“Settle down,” he snipped, resting the sole of your foot on his collarbone. “I’m only dryin’ you off.” 

Said with such certainty that you began to doubt your instinct that it was inappropriate for him to put his hands on you — tempered by the feeling that he knew what he was doing, that he was only taking care of you. 

He looked at you impatiently until your tensed muscles eased, before he nodded in satisfaction. He hooked your foot over his shoulder so that your ankle rested on his trapezius, before he bunched the towel up in a fist and ran it up the length of your leg. 

You leaned on your arms behind you, heart in your throat, beating so fast that you could hear it buzzing in your ears. 

He was focused, wiping the seawater and muck off your skin, up and down your thighs, down the underside of your leg. 

“Took a tumble, did you?” He asked plainly, dabbing a fresh graze on your knee with the towel, making you flinch with the sting. 

“Yeah,” you said meekly; you were sure it would bruise eventually, but it was largely painless for the time being. 

He tutted you, but continued, wiped down your calf and dried off your foot last; he was fastidious about it, pushed the fibers of the towel between your toes, engulfed your foot in the cotton, scrubbed it along the sole of your foot and your toes curled with the tickle.

He set that leg down once he was done with it, and wordlessly demanded the other with a curl of his fingers. 

Confounding yourself, you did as you were told, and offered him your other leg; he repeated the procedure, resting your foot on his shoulder and scrubbing your leg with the crunchy towel, unabashedly wiping up to the top of your thigh, between your legs, under your knees. 

It didn’t escape your notice that you were naked underneath the jersey, and if he were to look a little higher his eyes would be square with your pussy. The thought made you tighten, and he gave you a disapproving glance when he felt it — but he finished with the other foot, and set your leg free again. 

“Thank you,” you muttered, tight-lipped, dizzy with confusion. 

“D’you want a new jersey?” He asked as he stood, swiping a hand over the sleeve shoulder, where seaspray had beaded on the outside of the fleece. 

“I’m okay,” you said timidly, tucking your legs together. 

He nodded, dropping the towel back on the table. “Alright, pet,” he said. “Let’s get you a cuppa, yeah?” 

You were quiet, but he busied himself in the tiny kitchen anyway — followed the rumbling of a water boiler and the slosh of hot water, the opening and closing of cabinets and drawers, the tinking of a spoon in a teacup.

“Hope you take it with milk and sugar,” he said. “You’re getting it whether you like it or not.” 

“That’s fine,” you croaked. 

“Good girl,” he said, as he returned with a brown glass mug and set it down on the table in front of you. “Gotta get some sugar in you. You remember the last time you ate?”

You shook your head. 

“Mh, well, let’s get you fed.” 

“I’m not — I’m not hungry right now,” you said hesitantly, and when a divot pulled in his brows, you clarified; “don’t think I can keep much down yet.” 

He nodded. “No problem, love,” he answered, with a pacifying grin. “How’s the head?”

“Where am I?” You asked pointedly, cutting to the chase, unwilling to take a sip of your tea out of lingering suspicion. 

He sat down across from you, landing in the bench seat with a grunt, interlocking his fingers on the surface of the table. His glare was scrutinising, albeit gentle, as though checking rather than inspecting. 

“You’re aboard the Iron Tide,” he said candidly. “We’re fishing for crabs in the North Sea.” 

“Iron Tide?” 

“That’s the name of the ship, love,” he answered, a little patronising. “I’m her skipper, I’m Jonathan. You met Gaz, he’s our engineer — he gave you a fright, I bet, but he’s a good lad.” 

You nodded edgily, looking askance at him. “Okay… but, how did I get here?” 

He smiled sombrely at that, crow’s feet pinching in the corners of his tired eyes. An oceanic blue, you noticed, little round seas reflecting the light that bounced off the table beneath him. 

“Was hopin’ you could tell me that, pet,” he gibed, nodding at your mug. “Drink your tea.” 

You took a sip, as you were told. Just cooled enough to sip with a slurp, blanketing your salty tongue, warm and saccharine, hot as it went down your throat. Earl grey. The taste made you feel tucked in, as though a blanket were over your legs, a pillow behind your head — but the murky memory was as fleeting as it was vague. You swallowed it with a sigh, and he looked pleased. 

“So?” 

“So what?” You asked, with a frown. 

“How’d you end up on the high seas, hm?” 

“I—” You cut yourself off, as you stared into the steaming surface of your tawny-coloured tea. 

Words danced at the tip of your tongue, amorphous and flavourless, nothing you could place. Notions that, if you were to reach for them, would drift away, or turn to smoke. 

You didn’t have an answer. 

“I don’t know,” you said, voice shaky, glancing at him with worry knitting in your brows as though he might be able to remind you. 

“You don’t remember?” He asked carefully. 

A piteous heat swelled beneath your eyes, tears welling from their ducts and pooling in your eyes, your vision went blurry with it. You shook your head. 

“S’alright, pet,” he said, fixing a hand to your wrist across the table. “It’ll come back to you. Do you remember anything at all? If you were on a boat, what country you’re from?” 

Again you shook your head, sniffling, you wiped an errant tear with the soft sleeve of the oversized fleece you have no memory of putting on. “No.” 

Concern cracked through his stoic expression, and it only made you more upset.

“Do you know your name, love?” 

You vacuumed in a slow and trembling breath, eyes bouncing between your hands, as if they might hold the answer. You could think of names — Jessica, Lucy, Nina, Anna, Rebecca — but they were only that, random names floating about in the air around you, and you could not pin any of them as your own with any certainty. 

“No,” you eked, followed swiftly by a sob, despite your effort to swallow it. 

He exhaled, long and beleaguered, stroking the back of your hand with his colossal thumb. Hands as big as saucers, calloused and molten hot to the touch. Made your hand look like a pixie’s underneath it.  

“Don’t fret, eh?” He said, failing to comfort you. “Y’got plenty of time to remember. Just finish your tea.” 

“What do you mean?” You asked weakly, plenty of time comment making you uneasy. “Aren’t you going to take me to — back to land?” 

He smiled, bemused, as he released your wrist with a pat and leaned back against the bench seat, hanging an arm insouciantly over the back. 

“Not heading all the way back to port yet, love,” he said frankly. “We only left a couple days ago. Got a lot more crabs to catch.” 

“I’m — I have to stay on this boat until you’re done fishing?” You asked, fighting back the tears that threatened another cascade. 

He tilted his head. “This’s my job. If I don’t get crabs, I don’t get paid. Neither do the other lads, ‘n they won’t be letting that happen.” 

You pouted, lip quivering and face scrunching, and he let out a huff. 

“Look, sweetheart, what would I even do with you if I took you back now?” He asked, tone rigid. “Y’got no ID, no passport, no papers, nothing on you but that bloody frock. We don’t even know what country you belong to. You’d get snatched up by the authorities and tossed around immigration services until your head is on backwards.” 

You sniffled, wiped your cheek with your sleeve. You had no argument, and even if you had the energy to muster one, you had no knowledge of how such a system worked, or where you would possibly go if they allowed you free movement. You’re sure you’d have a house somewhere, a family, someone out there must be looking for you…

The thought made you cry again, head falling from your shoulders and landing in your hands, you sobbed unremittingly into the dense fleece. 

Jonathan sighed at that, evidently growing impatient, but he pushed himself to stand — he was suddenly next to you, planting himself on the bench with his thigh against yours, and he draped an arm around your shoulder. 

“S’alright,” he crooned, voice as deep and rumbling as an engine, and you found yourself curling into him on instinct. Tucked up under his arm, head on his chest, a warm hand rested on the side of your head and smoothed down your hair. “We’ll sort it out.” 

“I don’t even kn-know where my home is,” you blubbered into him, muffled by his jacket, still speckled with beads of sea mist. “Or if — if I’ve got a family, or a husband—”

“Y’look a little young for one o’ those,” he remarked, with a chortle. 

“What if I don’t remember anything? Ever?” You cried, and he stroked the shell of your ear with his calloused thumb, fingers woven in your hair. 

“None o’ that,” he grumbled, you couldn’t determine if he was rocking you or if it was simply the motions of the boat tipping over the waves. “No wallowing on my ship. Keep your chin up, and you’ll be fine.” 

You whimpered, but nodded, and he petted your head like a cat. 

“We got another nine or ten days at sea,” he said, comforting hand retreating from you, resting on his lap. Kept his heavy arm coiled around you, though, and you were daftly grateful for it. He patted you on the far shoulder with a stiff hand. “You’re a tough girl, yeah?”

“I dunno,” you sniffled, sitting yourself upright and reeling away from him. He released you, then, arms crossing over his chest instead. 

“Well you survived God knows how long floating around in the North Sea, pet, I’d call that pretty tough.”

You attempted to compose yourself, sucking deep a breath and wiping down your face with your sleeves. Hoped that whoever’s fleece it was didn’t care about tears and snot being smeared over the cuffs. 

“Is there somewhere for me to sleep?” You asked cautiously, in an attempt to come to terms with reality — nine or ten nights of sleeping on a fishing boat. It made you sick to think about. 

He curled his lips as he thought for a moment. “You can sleep in my bed,” he said. “Skipper’s cabin is a lot nicer than the crew berths, I’ll tell you that.”

You blinked at him, uncertain — it was unsettlingly vague whether that meant he was offering you the bed to yourself. 

“Or you can ask one of the lads to share a bunk with them, I’m sure they wouldn’t mind.”

You shook your head hastily, and he cracked a grin. “No, thank you, skipper’s cabin sounds good, please.”

“Alrighty,” he concurred, with a nod, the deal done. “Sleepy already, eh?”

You nodded sheepishly — for the most part, you just wanted to be alone, somewhere quiet and enclosed, out of sight. But you were utterly drained, left ravaged by receding adrenaline, body battered and bruised. Curling up in a bed sounded luxurious, and heaven only knows how long it had been since you slept in one. 

“Y’only been awake for twenty minutes,” he joked. “And you’ve hardly touched your tea.”

He flicked his head towards the mug, and his imperious expression made clear that he wanted you to finish it. 

So, if only appease him, you clutched the mug and tipped it into your mouth, sucking down the now luke-warm tea in five hefty gulps. Licked your lips when you were done, and dumped the mug back on the table. 

“Happy?” 

He smiled wide, let out a haughty chuckle. “Nicely done,” he said. “Alright, then, let’s get you tucked in.”

He pushed himself to stand with a grunt, finally freeing you from behind the table, and you followed him. 

“Y’sure you don’t want a bite?” 

You shook your head. “Maybe in the morning, if that’s okay.” 

He laughed as he made his way toward an upward staircase. “Morning’s fine, but I’m not having you starve yourself.”

“I won’t.”

As you climbed to the top of the stairs you reached the bridge — a large control station with many screens, all showing different radars and panels and numbers. The wheel was there, too, a spinning chair with a sweater thrown over the back of it tucked in front of it. Sea spray made pattering rain-like noises on the thick windows, but very little light came in from them. The air was thick with cigar smoke and terpenic air freshener, the everpresent ghost of saltwater lingering in between. 

“Just through here,” he instructed, and you followed him around to the other side, through a door, and down a shorter staircase. 

There you were met with a bedroom; it was intimate, stuffed full of bags and boxes and papers. A fold-out desk jutted out from an warm-wood wall, covered in maps weighed down by protractors and a drawing compass. Coats hung over hooks, boots lined up by the door. 

A cot bolted to the wall, perhaps a king single, unmade — a thick duvet with a red-and-navy plaid blanket tossed overtop, heavy wool that you could ascertain would be itchy without needing to touch it. A single pillow in a navy pillowcase, cream-coloured fitted sheet likely toned off-white due to age or overuse. 

It was rich with musk in there, the single porthole window not able to be opened, and the heady scent made you dizzy. You imagined it was only a marginally diluted version of the same scent you’d get pressing your nose into his armpit. It was only tempered by traces of toothpaste and cigarettes, and the potent smell of Imperial Leather bar soap. Daft that you remembered that, and little else. 

“Not a five-star hotel, eh?” He gibed, nudging you with his elbow. You didn’t have a response, at first, and he chided you; “Don’t be a sourpuss. No room for being fussy here, love.”

“No — this is perfect, thank you, I’ll sleep anywhere.” 

He smiled and crossed his arms, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Alright, well, you get yourself comfortable then,” he said. “Loo’s just through there, if you need it. Use my toothbrush if you like, just give it a wash after, eh?”

You almost grimaced at the thought of sharing his toothbrush, but the lingering bile and salt in your mouth had you looking forward to the taste of toothpaste. 

“Need anything else, pet?” He asked, still gruff. “Paracetamol? I can get you something else to sleep in—”

“I’m okay, thank you,” you insisted, perhaps too plainly eager to get him out of the room. 

“Alright, love,” he said. “G’night, then. I’ll just be up there, still got some steering to do.”

“Okay.”

With a firm nod, he turned around and headed out of the cabin, shutting the door behind him. 

You let out a pent breath once you were alone, potent exhaustion suddenly crashing into you like a train. You stumbled into the tiny ensuite — a small toilet and a sink, the shower head jutting out from the wall above the commode — rinsed his frayed toothbrush under the tap and globbed on some colgate. 

Brushing your teeth made you feel marginally human again, and you spent a good five minutes scrubbing out every crevice of your mouth. You washed it afterwards, like he said, and stuck it to the wall with the suction cup on the back of it. 

There was no mirror, and you found yourself glad of it. You couldn’t yet confront the fact that you did not remember what you looked like, an existential dread that simmered in your belly, but too tired to churn up. 

Only then, as you glanced at his bar of soap (it was Imperial Leather, as you had guessed), did you realise how clean you felt — you wondered if he had washed you, and now you were certain that he had changed you. The thought made you shiver, and you tried not to think about it. 

His bed was squeaky underneath you, and the mattress so soft that you sunk deep into it; the weight of him permanently embedded in the springs, you settled into the divot like a cat, curled up towards the wall. It was bitterly cold in the cabin, much like the rest of the ship, so you tugged the blankets up your cheek, rubbing your icy feet together to warm them up. 

The sheets reeked of him, of man and musk, the pillow smelt of scalp and salt. It was unusually comforting. Such a human smell, and as you tucked yourself under his layers of blankets it swirled around in the front of your head and made you dozy. 

Sleep called to you, dark and ebbing, and you slipped willingly beneath the surface. 

You were roused, only slightly, at the sound of a door handle. 

Not alert enough to open your eyes, you still floated deep in slumber, soft and warm. Your consciousness ascended close enough to the shallows to acknowledge the opening of a door, the footsteps across a hollow floor, but the sounds conveyed no meaning to you. 

Sleep pulled you downward but you floated languidly back up at each noise; the fizz of running water, the scrubbing of brushing teeth, the spit of toothpaste.  

A zip being undone, velcro being ripped open, boot laces being untied. The clunk of a shutting door, a cough, a grunt, and you finally broke the surface. 

Now entirely awake, you remained completely still — not out of fear, you didn’t think — perhaps in the hope that he would leave you alone to keep sleeping, absolutely not ready to get up yet. He made no effort to be quiet, as he dumped his boots by the door, rummaged around in his belongings for a moment, coughed again. 

You kept your nose close to the wall, eyes barely open. He flicked off a light switch and the room was abruptly drowned in darkness. 

The blanket was lifted from you, then, and you flinched — with the cold air nipping at your skin, you realised your long jersey had been hiked up in your sleep, and your bare bottom half was starkly exposed. 

You froze, curled up, tongue in your teeth; until a sudden weight plummeted into the mattress, bouncing you up before sinking deep behind you, causing you to slide into the dip.  

With a grunt and a huff the blanket was pulled back up over you, scratchy wool brushing your cheeks. A titanic arm hooked over your stomach, and you squeaked — he paid no mind, yanking you backwards until your back was flush with his chest, ass nestled into his lower belly, his thighs tucked up behind yours. 

You held your breath, skittish, not yet daring to move; he let out a deep sigh into the back of your head, warm breath seeping through your hair and into your skull. 

His entire body was a furnace, burning hot, and you felt yourself melting into him whether you liked it or not. A mammoth hot water bottle, wrapped around and behind you, keeping you soothingly warm. 

His hand ventured nowhere untoward, arm only hanging listlessly over the divot of your waist, forearm tucked into your chest. He felt clothed against you, sweatpants and a thermal on. 

There was something wrong about it — something off, a survival instinct that buzzed around you, humming like a mosquito, a ringing in your ear, annoying and persistent. 

But his pyretic warmth made you lightheaded, so comfortable tucked into him that it felt like you were already dreaming. 

With a heavy blink, and a deflating breath, you sunk deep into him and let slumber swallow you whole once again. 

[liabugs]

how do you think the boys would be with an mc who's like deathly scared of sex, like she wants it but is so terribly frightened of it :( like she can cuddle and kiss them but she gets scared when things get sexual :(

I have so many asks in my inbox but this one caught my eye :3

This took kinda a dark turn in zayne's + Caleb's so tw for dubcon/noncon, not proof read

CW: fam!reader (she/her pronouns used) male masturbation, making out, pantie stealing (?) baby trapping, use if 'gege' (Caleb's) let me know if I missed any 🩷

Dividers by @/v6que and @/anitalenia!!

Xavier — ୨୧

Xavier would never force you into doing anything that you're not comfortable with. He wouldn't be pushy at all. When you're ready, he's ready. But that doesn't mean he doesn't get blue balls when you make out with him :(

Your lips moving perfectly against his, his tongue caressing yours... His hands on your hips.. But it's all gone when he starts to lose his resolve and grinds his hips against yours. You pull away, Xavier mentally cursing himself for getting ahead of himself and ruining the moment.

So when he leaves your place somewhere around 10:30 pm after finishing a movie, the moment he steps into his apartment he rushes to his room to relieve himself.

He thinks about how your cunt would feel wrapped around his length, so warm and tight. Pumping his cock in his fist, pre cum seeping from his slit. He can't help but cum moaning your name.

Rafayel — ୨୧

Rafayel can be needier than most, but he always puts your comfort before his. He loves you to the point where just having your presence around him is enough to satisfy him.

So the first time you get intimate with him is very cute! Playfulness and teasing all around. Rafayel takes a more wholesome approach to things, making sure to praise you the way you deserve.

Feather light kisses, giggling and other wholesome things to lighten up the mood. Because there's one thing Rafayel doesn't want you feeling when being intimate with him, that being scared.

Zayne — ୨୧

Zayne is totally fine with you not being comfortable being intimate with him. He's a busy guy, so chased kiesses and cute dates work fine. At least that's what you see on the outside.

On the inside, he is raging with sexual frustration. He does a good job of hiding it though, taking cold showers to get rid of his sexual tension. It gets to a point where cold showers aren't cutting it anymore.

And before he knows it, he's using the spare key to you apartment. He's going through your underwear drawer, he tries to rationalize his actions. But the way you cute black lace panties feel around his cock overpowers any sanity he has left.

And if you found out? Could you really blame him? You make it hard not to loose control of his usually composed demeanor.

Sylus — ୨୧

Sylus is nothing if not patent. The time will come when you will get over your fears, the time will come when you crave him in every way he craves you.

And when that time comes, you will share the same longing Sylus has felt for lifetimes. Sylus is nothing if not gentle. Slow, soft and sensual. His hands moving all over your body, his lips fitting perfectly with yours.

He loves the way you look at him, unsure, hesitant... He loves when your face contorts in pleasure, when you realize that there was nothing to be fearful of. He loves when you depend on him for pleasure, because he's the only one you can make you feel good.

He's the only one who can make you see stars when you give him your everything.

Caleb — ୨୧

Caleb knows your scared, it's okay, he only wants the best for you. And the best thing for you is to go dumb on his cock and take his seed. Let him knock you up, he knows it's scary. But when he fucks his baby into you, everything will be okay, you'll be safe.

He'll make sure of it, you trust him right? His pipsqueak trusts her gege to make the right choice for her? Ssh ssh it's okay I know baby, just take it... Just focus on how good it feels. As he pumps his hot load into you, tears streaming down your face.

He would kiss your tears away and tell you how good you were for him, he would apologize for hurting you... He was just doing what's in your best interest, you can forgive him right?

[waifuoftomonori]

I think writing a fic in which Tomonori is possessed by the Sword and forced to sexually assault Shiki against his will counts. (Why is the Sword doing this? It's trying to break Tomonori's mind by convincing him he's a terrible person to make him easier to control, but somehow he keeps resisting the order to kill Shiki. And the Sword needs Shiki dead because Shiki's the only person with the power to seal it and prevent the apocalypse, although it would be considerably more difficult for her at this stage. And the Sword wants very much to cause the apocalypse and kill everyone. That's, like, its whole thing. So for right now, it's settling for "look at this terrible thing you're doing to the person you love" in hopes of eventually turning that into murder when Tomonori is traumatized enough to surrender full control.)

...Honestly, Shiki would be into the rougher sex if she didn't have to watch Tomonori suffer and struggle for control over his body the whole time, and when he manages to wrest control away from the Sword for brief moments he keeps pleading with her to kill him and free herself, which she refuses to do because she loves him more than she hates the Sword. My justification for why the Sword can make Tomo "rape" Shiki but not murder her is that Tomonori's aware on some deep unconscious level that she returns his love and attraction, and if he weren't possessed and all this shit weren't going on around them, she would eagerly consent to getting shoved down in the snow, having her clothes sliced open, etc.

I've had the idea for a while now, but never gotten further in than a page or two. Honestly, I don't think I'm cut out for writing really dark stuff where everyone involved is suffering. (Well, I don't care about the Sword's "suffering", it's fucked Shiki up her whole life and now it's trying to destroy my man's mind to turn him into a vessel for the apocalypse, but Tomonori and Shiki's suffering, yes, I care very much about that.) I was planning for it to end happily, even.

How? Well, the only "how" my stupid brain could come up with is "maybe Shiki's on her period, unbeknownst to the Sword, and there's enough of her blood in the discharge to seal it".

...Yeah, I think I'm better off writing crack. I have some twisted ideas; I'm just incapable of taking them to a serious conclusion.

Trigger warning: rape/non-con

Every poll on this blog is about fictional characters only. This request was sent to us and we made a poll in response to it. Send any Blorbo-related question you want to our inbox and we’ll make a poll on which people can vote with their own Blorbos in minds

[soapcloth]

CW: 18+ MDNI, soapgaz x reader, clubbing, implied noncon/dubcon - unedited - dividers -> @/cafekitsune

So, on your much anticipated vacation to Berlin, you got peer-pressured into clubbing? You can handle that. Your friend practically vanishing into the pulsing crowd with a kiss blown in your direction and an arm hooked around their waist, however…

Despite the alarms firing off in your mind, what else could you do but try to enjoy the night you paid for?

This train of thought is how you find yourself coated in sweat and grinding rhythmically against a big, stocky scot with an award-winning smile and a set of thick, wandering hands. The music is too loud to hear much of anything he says whenever he ducks towards your ear- which is often- but somehow you find out that his name is Johnny. 

His eyes are a bit wild- starting to make you a bit squeamish honestly, and just as you’re starting to look for a way out, there's a tap on your shoulder. 

You must’ve lived a previous life as a saint to deserve the face you’re met with when your head turns towards the touch, earning a whine from Johnny.

“This guy making you uncomfortable, love?” The stranger calls out with a blinding grin as his head bobs lightly in time with the DJ’s set.

You nod and attempt to pry yourself away from Johnny, only to be caged against him. 

“He does that,” the man laughs into your ear from behind, hips pressed into you and rocking as his hands finds your hips, right overtop Johnny’s. his thumbs slip under Johnny's palms with a fond familiarity and squeeze gently. ”-you’ll get used to it. Name’s Kyle, love.”