#fic ༄ cabin fever

[moondirti]

𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑, 𝐈𝐈 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( 2 of 3 /PREV )

DEAD DOVE. RATED E. HORROR EROTICA. 9K. – AO3 heed the warnings below and proceed at your own discretion.

warnings: NONCON. graphic depictions of gore. injury. cannibalism. blood licking. slaughtering + ingesting animals. violence. degradation. body horror. hypothermia. isolation. manipulation. corruption kink. religious imagery. dark!ghost. female reader. i know i said 2 parts total but now it's a 3er.

additional tags: groping. tit fondling. rough oral (male receiving). face-fucking. cum guzzling + eating. it’s all a little disgusting and not in the good way i fear.

𝐈𝐈.𝐈

The cottage is halfway buried under snow when you run out of firewood. 

It should come as no surprise, though you stare down your emptied closet like the ground opened up and swallowed your remaining reserve. Out of body, you fail to confront the cold reality that has already seeped into your walls, freezing the splintered wood of your floors, instead standing stock-still as your mind sharpens its critical edge. 

Only there is no one to direct your reproach to but yourself. Weeks ago, your rune casts had predicted a crippling whiteout, thus you set out to collect enough fuel to last you the season. Yet as night waxed on the third day of your efforts, and your hands started tearing bloody from splitting hardwood all on your own, that resolve debilitated rather quickly. Like sugar steeped in tea; your will to live was already in a decrepit state, and indeed, eagerly unravelled at the first sign of adversity. Suicidal, with hindsight. A passive play at death of which you were too fearful to try and seek for yourself. 

It did not seem like that at the time, of course. Rather, you justified the fatuous decision to stop (after cutting down a mere three trees) by concocting an estimate of how long it would be before you could venture out for more. Based on absolutely nothing but a desperation to curl back on your couch, sore but sheltered, you gave it one month. One month until the storm would abate. Of restlessness, fermenting in a prison you call home. To your distorted sense, four-hundred pieces of firewood seemed plenty enough to get you through it, despite admittedly lacking even a basic working knowledge of wood arithmetic.

Counting the days now, you’re almost tempted to laugh. Almost. The shroud of horror that newly accompanies death since Ghost’s lesson triumphs, after all. You are more terrified than you would have been a week ago. Still, you were not wrong – the firewood had lasted a month – only the weather does not seem to be looking up, and you’re trapped inside a quickly cooling cottage with no source of heat to get you to the thaw. The possibility of fatal hypothermia looms closer, more dangerous. Eerily relevant–

(Just a year ago, you watched a man die from the warmth of your ancestral home, face down in fresh snow outside the parlour room window. Your ageing mother had invited the pastor’s son over to help repair the stairs left unattended since your father’s death, and the man had called your fascination with the corpse morbid, nail between two teeth as he hammered down a wooden plank. 

No use starin’ at a dead man, lass. Not for a bonnie thin’ like you.

But you could not tear your eyes away from his mottled skin, the blue-black ends of his fingers. Even at his burial several days later, his face displayed the same, blank expression, perpetually cast by that winter’s frigid storm.) 

You imagine yourself passing in a similar vein. It will take longer, you think. You’ll be dying for weeks as your blood courses slower through you, iced by the winds that howl down your chimney. Protected, but not enough, by these walls you have been banished to live within. Unable to get even a glimpse of sunlight before shutting your eyes for the last time, the snow packed up to your windows effectively burying you without ceremony. A forgotten tomb. 

You wonder if Ghost would intervene, yet your speculation is brief. His words echo like he uttered them only moments ago. Fight or die. He has long established the volitional aspects of your relationship – he owes you nothing unless you ask, and if you do, then you would rather wish you were dead in lieu of what he asks for in return. No. He will merely watch as you take your last breath, satisfied that he was right, then scavenge your carcass for his next meal. Fated to wet his mouth like the picked off crow. A long-awaited feast.

Curling in on yourself, it is all you can do to bury yourself in clothes. Your vulnerability is often a fickle thing, you find, ebbing and flowing like seawater tides gradually gorging on their shore. There are periods you feel invincible; a being made of eternal magic, unmoved by the shifts in nature bid by time. Some sequoia, whose roots pierce deep into the earth and drink from freshwater wells unacquainted with human touch. A thing truly deserving of the title witch. 

Other times – these times being of increasing occurrence since the arrival of your familiar – you cannot help but to shrink back into a girl again. Raw and tender and emotionally volatile. Naked, sore lungs, as you’re pulled from your mother’s womb and forced to embrace the harsh cut of air. Ghost watches from his usual corner, a spectre practically pulsing with this voyeuristic game he likes to play. You know he’s figured out the predicament you’ve put yourself in, can feel yourself quailing at the discredit his judgement affords. The layers serve a dual purpose, then – for warmth, and to grant brief reprieve from his gaze on your shivering form. 

Three pairs of socks. A tunic, a fleece, a cardigan, and a coat. Skirts over your trousers. Gloves and a woollen hat. 

By the end, you have a hard time moving at all. Certainly not enough to cook, or to try tunnelling a way out of the window. No point in reading if you can’t practise your magic, either; so you mutter a quiet ignition spell over the charred firewood from last night, hoping it lasts even half as long, before collapsing on the couch and willing yourself to sleep. 

Only sleep does not come. 

Or, it might. Yet your mind is so occupied with your condition that it does not allow you to fully lose consciousness. You’re attuned to every particle around you, overstimulated in the worst sense, still subjected to an unsettling sequence of half-dreams. Brain flickering through pale mirages of dead crows, ice floes, of capsized rafts in arctic waters, their hulls resembling slabs of marbled meat. As you drown, you shout for help and pique at the sound of it echoing in real life, tangible enough that it shakes you awake. You nearly strangle yourself trying to wind your quilt tighter around your shoulders afterward, burying your nose in a pillow and cupping your cheeks with frigid hands. 

Eventually, time joins the distortion, and you have a hard time discerning whether it’s been hours or meagre minutes. The only indication is the way in which your body starts to ache with a pain so profound, it is as though you’ve been beaten. If you weren’t frustratingly cognizant of your surroundings the whole night, your first bet would have been to blame Ghost, or at least the threadbare couch you’ve been using as a bed erring too long now. Unfortunately, the true cause of your affliction is hard to misdiagnose; a violent, merciless shivering, your muscles made to tremble as if compelled to by electric shock. The teeth chattering kind – and it is exactly the rattle of ivory against ivory that serves as a makeshift timekeeper. 

Click. Click. Clickclick. Click. 

It must be two hours later when you bite your tongue and jolt completely awake from the pain, swathed in your quilt like the nesting doll that sat on your windowsill back home. Though the appendage bleeds, spreading metallic bitterness onto your teeth, you wonder for a brief moment whether you are alive at all. Foggy vision. Taut skin drawing lines down your cheeks from either corner of your eyes. When you squint, it tugs tighter, and you realise at one point you had started crying. It’s hard to tell without your nose hot and runny, or your lips swollen like overripe berries. Instead, you’re rendered to a shrivelled reflection of yourself, dried tear tracks setting the image in stone. The shadow looming above you seems to agree. 

“Not dead yet. But only just.”

You wish you could say his voice is any softer than standard. That the stars aligned, or that this is an ideal world where the antediluvian creature occupying your home has tapped into his small pool of pity. But he nudges your knee with all the detached amusement he prescribes to most things, like he can’t understand why you’re so easily affected by the cold. 

“Ghost?” 

“Almost exclusively.” He mocks.

The couch dips near your feet. You do not register why until he scoops an arm into your quilt, pulling you from warm refuge and onto his lap instead. It isn’t in you to fight, merely mewling like a feverish cat as you reach a hand out to the cushion where you once lay. Wiggling your fingers, kicking your heels. 

He swats your arm until it flops back to your side. 

“If only y’could see yourself like this. Bloody pathetic, pet.” 

“I’m c-cold.” 

“Not doin’ yourself any favours, then. This,” He tugs at the coat barely hugging your shoulders, stretched taut over your bulky layers. “off.” 

When you fail to listen, he takes the initiative for you, pulling it down your arms and towards some distant corner. You don’t miss it, necessarily – it hardly did anything to keep you warm – but you protest the loss as you would have done anything else; noisily, sniffing to suppress the fresh bout of tears spooling over your vision. 

“Think you exhausted every option, hm? All you can do is curl over and cry?” With his hands now at your cardigan, thumbs hooked under the lapel, you search his eyes for indication of what he intends to do. Ghost is difficult to appreciate even on the best of days, but now, without the handy glow of fire or direct stream of sunlight, he’s practically impossible. Like two mountains stood tall with no valley in between them, no line of logic exists that can explain his actuality. 

(And you’ve never been the logical type – there is no precise science to why goat fat and cumin work together to lure someone into love, or why you knew to stay away from the pastor who kept your mother company. Some things exist solely in magical proportions; limiting yourself to rational thought would be doing a great disservice to what they have to offer.

But confronting Ghost on a plane where he has the upper hand is a daunting task, so you stick to what rationale can place.) 

“What are you–you doing?” 

“Shut it.” He folds the cardigan around your hips, clasping a colossal palm onto the back of your neck. Though you’re used to being scruffed when he’s less than pleased with you, the purpose of this is far from dissatisfaction. You know it immediately. His skin, flesh, is warmer than anything you’ve felt in a long time. A quality of comfortable, penetrating heat that sinks into your nape and slowly works to defrost your marrow, your limbs, the icy film clinging to your brain. Your eyes roll shut almost instantaneously, body slumping forward to sink into his chest. Somewhere in the recesses of your mind, where the relief of warmth has not yet reached, you worry that he’ll push you off. 

He does not. 

Instead, his other hand slips under your fleece and tunic, smoothing over the knots of your spine to reach between your shoulder blades. There, his heat sinks to swathe your chest, and the weakly heart somehow managing to do its job, pumping blood that tickles your toes and fingertips. It drips down to your tummy too, where it weighs heavy like a tangible mass, and brings your pulse to the bud between your legs.

His touch there doesn’t last long; he pulls away only moments later, a tightness newly lifted off your sternum. One hand still kneads your nape, effectively keeping your face against his broad shoulder, but the other moves to collect your slack wrists together. It strikes you as unusual, sure, yet you’ve since surrendered your inhibitions for sake of survival. A cavewoman tradeoff. Your body purrs at the satisfaction of your baser instincts, happy to resort to this primitive state of impartiality, if only it means you’ll stay snug throughout the winter. 

Yes. If anyone were to ask you right then, you would have seen it as not only plausible but entirely necessary to stay like this for the months to come. Sated and secure and just a hint impassioned, content to doze off on the lap of your tormentor. Already halfway there, lashes fluttering as you battle complete oblivion. 

Only that isn’t what Ghost has in store, and he seems eager to break the illusion you hold in such high regard. 

He releases your neck, guiding you to sit upright upon his tree-trunk thighs. When you object by reaching for his hands again, you find that your own are securely fixed behind your back. Completely immobilised. 

Sensation slowly trickles back to you. Once numb, your skin now comes alive with frayed nerve endings, crackling, hair standing on its ends. What you find, alarmingly, is your place within a twisted example of the lesson Ghost has been attempting to teach. The lightness on your sternum not as metaphorical as you had assumed – rather, the bandages binding your breasts have been unwrapped to treacherously hitch your wrists together. The rough fabric excoriates the surface of your forearms. 

Your breathing accelerates. If you’d been freezing before, you’re thoroughly iced now. Shock races through your system and persecutes everything that lulled you into this position. Stupid, stupid, stu–

“Ghost.” You hiss. “Ghost. This is-isn’t funny.”

He doesn’t respond, rolling your top to reveal the soft stretch of your navel. It involuntarily retracts when he flits over your belly button, dodging the unwelcome spread of his fingers. Your body's way of protesting, for all you lean into his touch. Too tempting not to, really. Something in him burns; perhaps a furnace in place of his heart, or a piece of hell he takes with him wherever he goes. 

That primitive voice grows louder, whispering deceptively in your ear that it’s fine, let him touch you. So long as you stay warm. 

You shake your head as if to jerk the instinct off your crown. Lips pursed tight now, the hand on your belly slowly climbing up. Up. 

“Stop it. Stop this, I d-don’t want it.” 

“I know.” He says, pressing his thumb into your waist. It digs until it hits a rib, tenderising muscle. You’re a lamb on a spit, spun slowly, roasted over an open flame. How silly of you to lean into the burn. Short-sighted to decide that it’s better than the cruel press of winter. You’ll be eaten like this. 

“Then g-get the fuck off me!” You yelp, swaying on your haunches in a bid to knock yourself off his lap. Your arms are useless, but that does not mean you cannot fight. “I order you!”

That pulls a laugh from him. Or, what sounds like a laugh. As with everything, it’s his estimate of a human one, like the cicada mimics the bird; not as melodic, rather striking you with disgust so potent you feel your nausea reawakening. You might just hurl.

“And wha’ will I be granted in return? Nothin’ you have that’ll convince me to unhand you, pet.” Ghost rucks your tunic to your shoulders at last, exposing your bare breasts to bitter air. Though he gives them no time to pebble up, large paws enveloping both mounds and squeezing until your breath syphons from your lungs. “Haven’ seen a pair of tits in decades. Suppose you humans do have somethin’ going for you.” 

Your words startle in your throat. Nothing about it is pleasurable, nor does he intend for it to be. His fingers take your nipples; rolling, tugging, pinching. Nails dig crescent cuts into the darkened skin there, perhaps searching for blood. He certainly treats it as though blood is the aim, and you wonder whether you’re to be hung from your bust to drain onto his waiting tongue. Just as one might press olives, no care for their pulpy bodies but only the rich oil they produce. Grease to slick their pans, to moisten their mouths. 

You’ll be eaten like this.

“Stop, please.” 

“Wonder what y’would look like plump with milk. Nursing my litter, rounded out with another dozen.” He sucks his teeth, contemplative. “Body wouldn’t handle it, f’you ask me. Stronger women than you ‘ave tried.”

Have. It hurts to think about. Hurts more when the insult of his words truly resonates. Stronger women. That is to say you have been exiled for nothing. That with a year of solitude and occult practice, you are just as feeble as before. Is this why he ate your crow? To prove to you that he could? 

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers. 

“Let me go.” 

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little elixir to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.” 

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again. 

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse. 

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.” 

Given his derision, you know not to rejoice when his other hand leaves your chest. Your shirt slumps lamely back over your figure as he lifts the edges of his mask, folding it over his mouth. In the dark, it’s difficult to map the nuances of his exposed jowls. There’s a pale curve there, a disfigured line here. Your sinuses twinge when your stare narrows, cutting through murk to place the shape of his lips. 

It’s futile. You have no way to jam the gaps; no way of knowing whether he’s all man, all demon, or a foul mix of the two. 

The one thing that glimmers with definition is the string of spit when he unlatches his jaw, long tongue striking like a wound-tight cobra. You would flinch if you could, eyes pruning shut, but his grip keeps you steady in place as he laves a forceful path up your chin. Tasting the metallic leak of blood, all the way up to its source. 

You see it coming. Still, you can’t help but scream when he works his tongue around your nose. Loosed bones shift under your skin, steadiness fractured, cartilage support dipping inwards against the assault. He groans, and in spite of your impaired sense of smell, you get a whiff of rot-hot breath. It must all be a terrible dream, you think. The hardened muscle pressing against your inner thighs, the viscous web of saliva stretched across your face. It’s cold and you’re sweaty, and everything about the past month – the past year – seems like it has been especially curated to torment you. You would wake from this any second.

He gathers the salty drips off your eyes, the blood, every grief coating your skin. Agony blinds you – so profound it takes shape, colour. You squirm in your binds, ragged shrieks ripping from your throat. 

It echoes even after he breaks away. If it weren’t for the sudden coolness of spit drying within your cupid’s bow, you would think he was still making a feast of you. 

“Tha’ got you to settle, hm?” 

You shake your head, exhausted. “You said–” 

“I said fight, or die.” He huffs. You let silence swathe your lips, pursing them as thin as you can manage without exacerbating your injury. “Yer fighting to die, pet.”

“I just want to be left alone.” 

“‘N’ what d’you think will come of that?” 

“It shouldn’t m-matter.” Your conviction sound hollow when spoken aloud. If he hears it, he uses it as an incentive to strip your top back over your chest. Like a hot wire pushed through your ribcage, his warm hands toast you from the outside in. It is in your best interest not to shiver in delight; though you are still dreadfully cold, and your injury makes it difficult to pigeonhole any alleviation to your pain. “You can’t-t-t defile me on the grounds of greater good.” 

Ghost laughs again. “Ain’ pretending this is for the greater good, pet. The world will thank me if one more witch freezes to ‘er death.” You’re yanked further up his lap. “I let you go, you’ve got four, five hours tops ‘till your heart fails. You wan’ to live?”

You shake your head, fervent tremors batting your pout. A nonanswer seems the only manner of resistance, now. “Not like this.” 

“Clever. Tha’ still tells me you do.” He pinches the knotted peaks of your breasts, twisting until you buck wretchedly onto his pelvis. “And I wan’ to spend my evenin’ playing with your tits. A fair compromise, then.” 

What sort of familiar makes the demands? You contemplate berating him out loud, lunging for the dirty insult to beat at his status like he did yours. With no room for taking the high ground, you will do anything so long as you can later say you bared your claws. So you do not wonder, for countless sleepless nights, if there was something more you should have done. You will be mean. You will go low. You will condemn him to a fate of eternal dissatisfaction, so that no matter how much he eats or kills or takes, he will always feel his stomach a gnawing pit. 

Though something tells you he will not succumb to scrutiny against his honour. There is no code for creatures like him, who floss their teeth with crow meat and pluck the nipples of girls who grant them shelter. Nothing to hold them to expect the conditions of their summons.

Perhaps that’s just it.

You stir. It feels much like magic, when an incantation rolls off the tongue just right and the air shifts to accommodate it. Your heart vibrates behind your sternum, power bloating your veins, ricocheting within your skin. If Ghost feels it, he doesn’t falter.

“Be sure, demon.” You rasp, drawing your intent taut in your chest like a bowstring. He hums but does not stop, kneading your flesh to conform to the creases and calluses of his hands. “Be sure that’s what you want. I could give in without further fuss and be like a docile rabbit on your lap. That way, you will have taken two things from me tonight.” 

The liquid of his eyes shifts quick. You catch its gleam in the little light, and it pleases you enough to deliver the rest of your covenant.  

“By the spell that brought you here, you are bound to do what I sacrifice for.” You pause a moment. “In exchange for the blood you have ingested off my face, you will dig this house out of the snow. And for my virtue, this one evening allowance of which you have already taken upon yourself, you will collect my firewood until the season clears.” 

Ghost makes an indiscernible noise from underneath. You can not tell if he is peeved or pleased, and the ambiguity shakes you. You expected some sort of acknowledgment or counter to your trick. Instead, he does not speak on it. No pitch or complaint, protest or taunt. 

He just sits there, pawing at your chest like a satiated dog. 

(And come morning, when your breasts are raw and tender to the touch, he tunnels the snow around your cottage and returns hours later with a hundred cedar logs for the kindling.)

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈

She prefers him in the daylight

Sun floods her little home when it rises and keeps it bright until it sets. Whereas the dark plays tricks on mortal eyes, oil lamps flickering, casting shadows that always resemble something else. She likes training an eye on what he does in his usual corner; but come night, she can’t trust what she sees. Thus, her confidence strains. She flinches at every sound. Any movement will have her tucking deeper under her quilt. His empty-eyed stare glows more sinister, if anything is to be assumed by the way she will crack her grimoire open and mouth protective spells like prayers.

Perhaps she’s afraid she caused offence, that he mulls over a punishment to teach her not to make a fool of him again. Perhaps it plagues her that she cannot stop him if that is the case. He does not tell her that, already, the worst possible thing that can confront her has. Though of course she isn’t privy to it, it’s been a month since he decided against making a meal of her. Everything he does now is moderate in comparison. He’s being good. 

Good, yes. In the evenings, he will venture out to do her bidding. The timing grants her a few hours rest, then, and him an opportunity to hunt for his dinner. 

Good, because he waits until he’s a mile out to transform to his truer self. It is easier to strip trees of their branches and snap their spines when he stands over two metres tall. Not so easy to mend the fragile tolerance she’s gained for him, which is sure to shatter if she catches sight of his monstrosity. He eludes the possibility entirely, then. 

Good, because Ghost refrains from agitating her more than he already has. And his intention in doing so does not change that decency. 

That is to say, he hasn’t grown a heart. He does not care for the girl. But the passivity that necessitated his savagery has since come to pass. She’s grown claws. She fights for her say and punches through life with guile. Any more and he would be faulting her for it, like burning the meat he tumbled through mud to slaughter. It is down to him to take it off the roast, now, to revel in the succulent bite. He’s got her right where he wants her.  

With some brief tampering on his part – laying out the temptation like a breadcrumb trail into the woods – she broke her invisible vow not to ask him for anything. Has it not made her life that much simpler? Her hearth burns bright and warm everyday; she does not have to worry about keeping it lit for the remnants of winter. He picks cedar for its aroma, it's even char, and she would not have access to that if it weren’t for his ability to tackle the sturdy tree. All it took was her debauchment, the vitiating of character to match his. 

(And really, how debauched was it if she only endured his groping for one night?)

It isn’t too much to want, he thinks. 

She thinks so too. Or otherwise decides it's worth the risk. 

It is late into the evening and his dinner sits fresh in his belly, fire chewing away at the split logs he emptied into the pit earlier. The air is thick with cloying cedar and the mephitic scent of potion-brewing, his pet crouched over a bubbling pot. She has been at it for hours, the same nightly routine since she broke her nose. Tadpoles and feverfew and sage, chanterelle and wishbone and sand. Stirred, brought to a boil, thickened with spit. Then scooped out and smothered over her sore face. A modest poultice, turned cast, to help her mend correctly over weeks.

He wonders if she considered bothering him to heal her. He certainly can. But it appears as though she enjoys keeping her hands busy. Toiling through time, grinding away like water does the earth. In the aeons he’s been around, he’s seen mountains chipped away, rocks change shape, rivers bend over time – and it is always the same eternal petulance. Stubborn mediocrity built into something larger. Endurance over brute force. He doesn’t pretend to understand it, but he can recognise a reflection of it in her craft. 

But she is not eternal. Every mortal has their limits. 

Ghost sees the iron grow filigree in her eyes, calculations imprinting onto her resolve. When she stands and turns to him, he almost expects it. The past quarter hour has built up to this ambitious ask, whatever it may be, and he’s mapped every battle she’s held within herself over the course of it. She does not want like he does. It is only extraneous circumstance that would lead her to his service. 

“I started it later than I usually do.” She mumbles, lips twisting like maggots. The hollows under her eyes are prominent, both exhaustion and hunger trimming her down to a sorry state. “I need sleep, but this can’t be heated beyond a boil.”

His cock chubs up in his trousers, aching as an array of possibilities occur to him in that second. Would he split her cunt on his fingers? Would he make her set it down atop his tongue? Her skirt leaves much to the imagination, but he imagines it bright and faithful in his head. Darker on the outside than in, glazed with pellucid slick, and shrouded in a matting of hair. The thought alone funnels salivate to the underside of his tongue. 

He meets her eye, shoulders curving inward, poised to pounce. 

Then, her brow spasms, and the wolfish instinct unravels as fast as it materialises. 

No. He cannot push it too far, not when she asks for something so little. It took all her energy to come to him now. She will never consider it again if he exploits that beyond equal measure. 

So, Ghost stands, stalking over to the cauldron and his pet. He often forgets how small she is until she cranes her neck to look up at him, all owlish blinks and delicate fingers latticed together, anxious for his response. 

“I’ll wake you.” He says. The tension in her forehead ebbs immediately, eyelids sagging now that he confirmed her ingredients will not waste. Though she doesn’t move, and he makes her stand there until he determines on an appropriate return. 

Moments later, he wraps an arm around her. His hand finds the jut in her skirt, where it protrudes to lap over her arse, and squeezes around the fat of one cheek. Even with the layers separating them, she is supple like softened butter. She makes a sound like a trapped mouse, jumping to the balls of her feet. The noise doesn’t deter him; he holds it there until he’s satisfied his grip will bruise. 

“There we are.” When he releases her, she stumbles backwards to find her bearings against the cool press of the wall. Puts a safe distance between them. Yet her stunned silence is intoxicating, and he has to actively suppress the gluttonous urge for more. Nothing is sacred when he gets like this. “That’s us even, then.” 

She nods. It is a wonder she manages to sleep at all.

(Unfortunate that the potion to heal her broken nose steals stock from her kitchen shelves. Day by day, he’s watched her sacrifice her fungi and herbs to the cauldron, prioritising recovery over sustenance. Unfortunate that she is still unable to go out for more. The winter whips cruel and merciless winds for anyone who dares step out into its storm.

Unfortunate. But not moving enough. 

It is intentional silence on his part, then. For the day will come where she opens her cupboards to eat and finds them lined with dust.

And on that day, he will be there.) 

𝐈𝐈.𝐈𝐈𝐈

Ghost takes his meals outside. 

That is, when he comes back lugging a dead beast and a tree behind him. You’ll watch from the window as he places the latter to the side, sinking to his knees to feast on whatever he caught that day. It always varies: hares, owls, rodents. An elk if he’s lucky. Today, it is a fox. 

Your heart knots with pity, mourning for the mammal who cannot grieve itself. Eyes blank and jaw swung open. Its fur, which typically strikes as a vivid red, can only look dull when set by the blood it leaves in its trail, tangled in the entrails bursting from its belly. The demon never minds the hair, nor the carnage. He balances on his haunches and pulls his mask up, sinking his teeth into the softest parts of his spoils. 

Though no one holds you to the frosted glass – chanting look, you have to look – you insist on bearing witness. The gore never grows easier to behold; everytime, it is the same revulsion that stews nausea at the sight. But you sit and suffer it anyway. If anyone were to ask you why, you would be hard-pressed to find an answer. 

Perhaps it is to build a tolerance for nature’s brutality. Ghost’s lesson with your crow has carved an irreplicable torment within you, revealing the jeopardy you face should you continue down your meek path. Exposure therapy is good justification, then, when your personal improvement thus far has only wrought merit. Your magic begets greater effect. You feel your self-possession flourish your spirit. Even your familiar has staved off the trouble, and you can not ask for a greater success.  

But that does not capture the core of the matter. Perhaps that is to be found in him, instead.

Because when Ghost eats, his visage will fluctuate. You do not think it is something he’s mindful of. None of it looks intentional – he does not bid whetted talons or teeth, features that would aid him in gutting the fox. Rather, they appear like fish beneath a rippling brook. Swift, transient flashes of another form. 

He sucks down an intestine, and his burly legs stretch so the joints are equidistant. They snap backwards, digitigrade heels extending, before you blink and they’re human once more.

He laps at a puddle of blood, and his mask parts to reveal two ivory prongs that steadily grow from his head. They curl, winding around his temples as ram horns do, only to disappear as your arid eyes burn. 

He tears into cartilage, and his exposed skin flakes like charred wood. The liver; his torso extends and thins. The brain; his breath condenses to black ash, as yours would ghostly vapour in cold air. None of it permanent. All of it haunting. 

The first time you saw it, you chalked it up to phantasm. Lack of sleep, insufficient nutrition. Searching for monstrosity that would better connect to the horror unfurling before you. So you set out to observe. Incessantly. Again and again and again – validating what you saw, though you received confirmation upon the second instance long ago. Sure enough, each day he reveals different parts to a whole. Excrescent spines and lofty feet. Things that have been urging for a spot in the sun, pressing under his skin. 

It’s the nesting doll all over again. Little matryoshka faces, each opening to reveal a smaller version of itself within. If you are the innermost one, then Ghost is the sisyphean effort to close them over each other in descending order. Unfeasible. Too large to comfortably remain within his confines. The wood will eventually snap in your struggle, and all the painted pieces will scatter across the floor. 

(You remember him just then. Craggy charm and blue eyes. Crafty hand – the same to restore your mother’s staircase – whittling the doll when you suggested he couldn’t. He wore a cross no matter the day, a habit of his father’s doing, and the silver pendant would sway with the paring motion of his hands. Lustrous against tanned skin. No doubt forged by him, too.

He used to call you macabre. Though it was footling fun at the time, you can’t help but grasp at what he meant as you track the steaming slaughter outside.)

“Do you like it?”

Water rushes into a tin basin, its metallic clang a forceful, echoing percussion. The noise is insufferable, grating on your ears, but you would rather it than have Ghost tow the pungent smell of death into your home. With his back turned to you, he washes his hands and mouth of dinner’s remnants, faucet spitting frigid reserves into the kitchen sink. 

His head twists a fraction, pupils coasting to assess you in his peripheral. Small talk is not commonplace. In the weeks you have coexisted, you can count your conversations on both hands. They always seem to prefer the path of internal dissection instead, judgments flung at one another through glares and body language and not much else. 

“Be more specific.” He grunts, facing his task again. From your place on the couch, you can see the way he picks his nails for stubborn shreds of fat. 

“Fox.”

A sliver of pale skin, bared where his mask ends at his nape, twitches. “No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ammonic. Greasy. Tough all ‘round. Slippery little fucks, too.” His voice is softer when he isn’t being caustic. Skipping over enunciations, the typical rumble in his chest quieted to a hum. “There are easier, more rewardin’ meals.” 

You imagine what he may be referring to. Of every creature on this earth, only one does not have the benefit of evasion. Predators are sheltered by hierarchical canopies, demons like Ghost so powerful that they do not have to watch their backs. Birds of prey have their wings, fish their slippery scales. Even deer – slender and pregnable – are granted fleet-footed instincts rivalled only by the Pantheon’s messenger himself. It is only you, human, that is condemned to spindling, slow inelegance. Perhaps it is why so many are intellectuals, worshipers, terrors – why you yourself are a witch, sapping nature for her wares of which you do not come by naturally. That is the way things turn. Assuming the offensive to offset one’s shortcomings.

And turn back again; your effort has only imperilled you further. There is a cannibal, a monster, a man inside of your home. And you beckoned him here. 

Even as the revelation occurs to you, you can’t stave your ambition. Of course you do not parley with Ghost for the sake of it. There is nothing this new knowledge grants. But since he left to do his day’s errands, your stomach has made its presence known. Opening up like an early grave, emptiness gnarled beneath a soil bed as with roots of a tombstone tree. Every moment, every word, you are reminded of its cavity. Too long, it says, you’ve ignored the pangs of hunger that seized this trench in an iron fist. Priorities, you would reply, as you surrendered food to brew your poultice. And so your nose is healed, great, but your shelves are empty and your head is faint. Hunger surplants the cold as your imminent killer.

“My mum taught me how to fix a good stew.” You begin, rolling your sticky tongue and tucking both hands beneath your bottom, cautious not to set this mousetrap off yourself. The pressure is grounding, at least; you match your breathing to the pulse you feel in your fingertips. “I trust it would be better than raw meat.”

A pause. Ghost’s spine straightens. Then, a panic. You’re thrown off your conviction when your chest flutters and you feel it in your brain. Where is that wily being? The woman who cheated her familiar into a season’s worth of labour? You feel as though you have regressed; screeching infant, lungs flaring with a rush of new air. You cannot face this, you think, but you’re already halfway out into the world. The sink squeaks off. 

You just pray your stomach doesn’t make noise in the new silence. 

“Is tha’ so?” He says, though does not turn to look at you just yet. 

“I could try.” The words bubble like bile in your throat. It is in your best interest to stay quiet. Say no more. He’s being ambiguous so you will reveal too much in turn. The game is transparent. You can see the water-worn rocks on the river bed, so clear it’s like they’re clasped between your hands instead. Yet– “If I had the ingredients for it, ‘course.” 

There. The lip of the cliff. How odd of you to see it only as you plummet towards a frothy scree. Ghost snaps, live lightning in heated air, or otherwise like the rocks that impale you on landing. In two strides, you’re cornered by a creature with scorn harrowing the space between its brows. You were stupid not to plan an escape route, stupid to arm yourself with nothing but flimsy subtlety. There was always the risk of it coming to this, you knew that. 

“You think y’can rummage for loopholes, hm?” He leers, eyes searing holes into yours. “A trick is only charmin’ on the first go, pet. More than once and y’start to stink of stale piss.” 

“I don’t–” 

He snatches your jaw, thumb and ring fingers digging an aching grip onto either side. Your protest warbles pathetically, dies, chokes you with its rot. It’s difficult, no– impossible to decipher what he's mad at. A small, fresh part of you actually hoped he’d see your cunning as artful. But it seems your station has come back to haunt you; another mortal whose brain cannot keep up with her heart. Even if one is in the right place, you will go about chasing it in the wrong direction. Artful is too shiny of a laurel, then. Trick, too, is being charitable 

“Do not play coy with me, girl. I do not take kindly to underhand deals.” Snarled right above you, spit spattering across your face. Your mandible squeaks, bone-deep pain flaring where he tightens the pressure around your face. Fox blood flavours his breath. There is a ringing in your head – shrill, like water in the tin sink. “If you need something from me, you will admit it and cope with the terms I have in turn.”

“I-I’m sorr-eeeee.” Your apology wheezes thin when he thrashes your head in place. It is either that or the relentless force on your jaw that tears a new world of pain down your neck. The tears are reactionary, then. Hot and foggy and not at all a sign of fear. “Ah- I’m sorry! I won’t– I didn’t mean to offend y-you.” 

“S’too fuckin’ late for that. You’ll follow through, before I take wha’ I want anyway.” He shakes his head. “Ask nicely for what y’need then, pet. Go on.” 

“Nothing! Nothing anymore, please. Jus’ let me go, Ghost.” Perhaps the universe disdains your insincerity, because in a hand dealt by its inexorable irony, your stomach buckles and purls a foul sound. Like it heard your words and protests the withdrawal, gurgling out loud to whoever will address it instead. 

And he does. He does. 

“You’re hungry, hm? That it?” He shoves your limp body onto the floor, dismissive of the pleas you now regulate to your feet, thrashed wildly to strike at his shin. Everything he does is callous, mean, agitated like the sulphur and magma that run thick beneath the earth’s crust. And though it is not your first encounter with a creature of that ilk – you have had your run-ins with over-excited men – the intentionality behind it has never been more flagrant. Ghost does it to hurt you. “Yeah, been neglecting you, haven’ I? Forgot pets couldn’ feed themselves.”  

“I’w scrounge somefing up mysef.” You struggle, speech impeded as he crushes your cheeks inwards. Pearl dust flakes your gums. 

“Should ‘ave thought of tha’ before. Even if I end up breakin’ every bone in that fine skull of yours, I won’t let up. Say it, then, you daft thing.” 

The scaling of your options is instantaneous. Even as your immediate conscious lags behind, activity lights the back of your head and cracks its way out of your mouth before you can catch it. It took weeks for your nose to heal, much less your skull. You’re consuming fuel quicker than you can replenish, running on a backlog of quick-burning fat. And all of it can be taken care of if you just give in, to what will likely only be a few hours of degradation. 

(Cavewoman. Primordial. Primitive impartiality, or survival of the fittest. The world has only come so far since then, and even within its concentrated civilizations, there is no aegis but for those who come up on top. You cannot expect your liberties to be met anywhere. That, you know too well.

But here, in this feral forest, at least you can use the violation to your benefit. At the very least, you will not be exiled, cast as witch for taboo of saying the greater word. 

You are already macerated on rock bottom. And at the barren abyss of all leasts, Ghost will not hang a cross pendant above you as he stomps it in.)

He must see the surrender wet your eyes, for the grip on your jaw lessens. 

“I am hungry.” You cry, finally, lashes fluttering shut so as to guard your tears. “I am hungry. This winter has dashed my garden and I do not know how to hunt. The cushions jab into my ribs when I sleep. I feel as though my stomach will consume me from the inside out, and I’m desperate. I am desperate, and I am so, so hungry. And I am asking for your help. Please.” 

If there was any part of you that still believed he would choose pity, it is muffled and killed. You hear the scratch of fabric as he undoes his pants. Final, failing. Rustled hand behind confines, stench of musk stiffening the air. For a few seconds, you opt to remain blissfully ignorant – keep your eyes closed and imagine that the presence before your face is something different. A purifying flame, tender cut of meat, a smiling face before things fell downhill. It all sounds too good to be true, and they are. Sooner or later, you tell yourself, you have to face the misery. 

So, you force yourself to behold it before he takes that upon himself. 

His cock is heavy. Fat and oversized, length not having suffered for its breadth. Ruddy where the head peaks from an uncut tip, hard already, but bowed under the weight of itself. If you had anything to expel, you would’ve done so by now. A thicket of hair fledges his groyne – a shade of dark that pales his scarred skin in comparison – and it reeks of sweat and miasma. 

He taps it on your cheek, prespend sticky and warm. You flinch as though you have been beaten. 

“Just one thing af’er the other with you, pet. Think this’ll give y’something to fix yourself on.” 

“I don’t– I’ve never–” His thumb hooks over your bottom teeth, prying your trap as wide as it can go. Drool slicks the cracked hinges of your lips. “Don’ know how.”

“Not what I’m lookin’ for.” He purrs, cruel humour gracing his tone. Somehow, it is not a reassurance as much as it is a snub. “Jus’ keep your teeth out of the way.” Humiliation washes your neck and ears, rush of blood like white river rapids behind your ears. It is the final swatch, trumpet to armageddon, before your ruin. You suck in a breath and bring your mouth to him.

Ghost meets you halfway, treating the crown of your head as an anchor to thrust forward. Immediately, you let slip his only rule, teeth snapping reflexively at the intrusion. You expect to be backhanded, have your hair ripped from your scalp in relation, or worse. It is a relief, then, when the only force you receive is a knock against your jaw. The rapping shakes your cotton-lined skull, snaps you out of your stupefaction, and you slack all muscles to accommodate his demand.

The mass feeding down your throat vibrates, an appreciative hum coursing through his body. “There you are, little jezebel. Look a’ you takin’ my cock so well.” 

You make no effort to glide your tongue along his veins. To make this pleasurable for him beyond what he takes for himself. True to his word, your familiar does not punish you for it. He knots his hands around your head and fucks your face, careless, cock rearranging the anatomy of your neck as it bludgeons a straight path down. You sway, ragdoll with the motions, knees rubbing abrasively across the floor as he slides you back and forth over it. 

Hypoxia spots your vision, lungs clenching furiously at the obstructed flow of oxygen. You would fasten it all shut, close yourself off from the world, but your eyes bulge a little at the edges, stagnant blood keeping them arid and open. It’s hard to dissociate. Hard to pretend that the steel-wool friction at the tip of your nose, the pendulum-consistent slaps on your chin, are not his pubic hair and balls searing unmistakable marks on your skin. And your series of gags are sloppy, lewd out in the confined air of your home. How could they be anything but damnation? There is no deluding the Maker. 

(No matter how fervently he tried. Marry me, proposed down on both knees. It’ll set this whole fankle right. We’ll hold hands an’ seek penance at the kirk before th’ceremony. My pa will officiate. Yer ma will be thrilled.)

Snot bubbles from your nose, cheeks slick with tears and wayward spit. When he batters forward, it amalgamates in the soft palate beneath your spasming tongue. When he draws out, he takes it with him, viscous strings of saliva bridging the gap. It streams down to your neck, glosses your lips, webs your lashes together. You feel buried beneath its stifling coat, set down into your grave at last. Maggots worm their way into the soft matter of your brain, eat away at the tissue until there’s nothing left but suffocation. Death. Throttling void. 

Your hands flail out, seeking an end to it, but all you find is Ghost.

He slows down once he nears his end. 

The bruising pace he set stutters, balls tightening against your submental. It catches you off guard because, for the past ten minutes, you accustomed yourself to the patterns of his push and pull. For every plunge, there is a retreat, where you will greedily feast on fresh air before being choked back down on his cock. It is a break of tide, an opportunity to paddle your way above water to clear sea-salt from your hollows. A bay to hold onto so you do not drown.

Until now; his forearms twitch and you’re kept in place, forehead squashed onto his mons. You panic, hold on your breath breaking. The heady scent of sweat sweeps over you, laced with the tart products of your mouth – saliva and blood from where your canine pierced your cheek. Prespend, too. The undiluted stink of him. Hair tickles your lips. Your cunt flares, sudden, slickening the chafe of your thighs, but the unwelcome arousal does nothing for you. 

He holds your head down and spurts his load into your gullet. 

There is no room to swallow. It goes in the wrong direction, then – upward – and out your nose. You squeeze your eyes shut, disgusted scream gargling around his throbbing appendage. Distress bloats your head, temples feverish and sweating, nails digging deep impressions into your palms. It’s futile. Useless. Nothing thwarts him but the last dregs of semen spitting out onto your tonsils, pumping himself dry until finally, finally–

Ghost pulls out. You collapse onto the carpet and hack up cum until your throat bleeds. 

The silence afterwards is mortifying, tension palpable enough to writhe up against. Drained, you’ve since pressed your cheek into the puddle of filth, urging pearlescent spend to seep into the fibres below. It'll be a nightmare to clean later, you process slowly. Perhaps you’ll use the bleach, and take the same sponge to your lips.

The monster above you tuts at the display, crouching to your level when you exhibit no interest in rising to his.  

“C’mon, sweet. Wouldn’t want to waste your dinner now.” 

But you’re too weak to lift your head. So Ghost gathers your hair, puppeteering – in a manner rather gentle for your assailant – until you can lap his essence off the floor. 

It tastes like raw venison. You snivel your thanks, and imagine it is exactly that.

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

[hearts-hunger]

affection || jake kiszka x reader

Read on AO3 | Masterlist | Standalone in the Cabin Fever universe

Summary: Nothing hurts when you're with Jake.

Pairings: Jake x Reader | Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, non-graphic smut | Word Count: 1k | Warnings: light talk of depression, non-graphic smut (minors begone!)

A/N: My very first standalone fic for Jake and Sparrow! I hope you like it! ♡

Tick, tick, tick. 

In the darkness of your bedroom, you listened to the quiet sound of Jake’s pocket watch and tried to settle your breathing to the rhythm of it. Usually the sound was soothing, a reminder of the way Jake had filled up the quiet parts of your life and your home with a heartbeat of dependability and comfort. You tried to remind yourself of that now as you listened to the soft coppery music of it, but even its steadiness didn't help quiet the knot of sadness and anxiety in your chest.

You didn't know why you felt like this. Sometimes it just crept up on you, a tangle of feelings that had no explanation or obvious cure. They’d come less frequently with Jake, but nothing could stop them completely; you just had to ride it out, hanging on to what you knew was true, letting it wash over you until it was through.

You turned towards Jake, saw the soft curve of his bare shoulder in the moonlight filtering though the curtains. You didn’t want to wake him; you knew he was tired from a long day at the studio, and he needed his rest. You moved close to him, pressing against his back, wrapping an arm around his waist as you tried to get warm against him.

He moved his hand to rest over yours, holding you securely against him. Even in sleep, he was attuned to you; you felt a sob catch in your chest and rested your head against his back.

“Sparrow.” His voice was gravelly with sleep, soft and soothing. He drew your hand up to rest near his heart.

“Sorry,” you said softly, even as you felt the sting of tears. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

He turned his head towards you a little. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lied. “Go back to sleep, honey.”

“Are you sick?” he asked. “Bad dream?”

You shook your head. “Just...” You felt so guilty for waking him, for not even having an explanation when you did. 

“I don’t know,” you said brokenly. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He turned to face you then, pulling you close, tangling his legs with yours under the blanket.

“You’re crying,” he said, brushing tears from your face. “Are you sad?”

“I guess,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t feel good, Jake.”

He hummed and brushed your hair back from your face. “In your body? Or in your heart?”

You couldn’t help a wobbly little smile, endeared to the simplicity of his questions while he was still half-asleep.

“In my heart,” you said. “I can’t sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

He didn't say anything for a few moments, and you’d thought he’d gone back to sleep. You didn’t hold it against him; you knew he was tired, and you knew this didn’t constitute a real crisis that he needed to be awake for. 

Then, with a sleepy sigh, he pulled you close and hugged you tight.

“I think you need a hug, sparrow,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” you agreed, moving close to him.

You were a little surprised when he pulled away then, and you were confused when he sat up and started to pull up the hem of your sleep shirt.

“It’s like that kangaroo thing,” he said. “We should try that.”

Bemused, you let him ease your shirt off until both of you were in nothing but your underwear.

“What kangaroo thing?” you asked, wondering if he was maybe still asleep.

He lay back next to you and drew you as close as he could, your bare chest against his. His skin was warm and soft, and just the contact made you feel better.

“You know how they do for babies right after they’re born,” he said, running his hand up and down your back. “I think it’s called kangaroo care. Skin-to-skin contact.”

You gave a soft laugh, finally understanding. “Oh. Yeah, I guess you're right.”

“I’m always right,” he said. He kissed your face. “Is it helping?”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

You lay like that for a while, chest to chest, listening to the rhythm of each other’s breathing in the quiet of your bedroom. It was intimate, tender, patient; as he knew it would be, it was exactly what you needed. Gentle touches started to wander, and you eventually felt him warm to your touch.

“Jake,” you said mildly.

“Yeah, I know,” he said with a slight grimace. “Sorry. Ignore it.”

You smiled. “What if I don’t want to ignore it?”

You drew your leg over his thigh and heard his sharp intake of breath.

“We don’t have to,” he said, and you knew he meant it. “I wasn’t trying to get frisky when I started this. I just wanted to help.”

“It is helping,” you said softly, pressing your mouth to his in a gentle kiss. It wasn’t what you’d planned either, and you knew his intentions had been innocent, but you couldn’t think of anything you wanted more than to be as close to him as you could.

His hands moved lower on your back, trailing between your legs, slow and patient. 

“We can stop any time you want,” he reminded you. “Really, sparrow.”

You kissed him again. “I know. I don’t want you to stop.”

You enjoyed long moments of his touch, warming to your desire, comforted and soothed by the tenderness with which he traced you like a beloved thing. When both of you were completely bare and vulnerable to the other, he moved to hover over you, cradling you close with one hand on the small of your back, tucking you into the protective lee of his body.

“Go slow,” you said.

“Of course, my love.”

He eased into you slowly, patiently, never thinking of himself as he filled you and held you close. You breathed a sigh of relief as he settled, awash in the comfort and familiarity of the feeling of him inside and out.

“Thank you,” you said. You held him close. “I needed this. I needed you.”

He kissed you. “My sweet sparrow. You always have me, you know that.”

He kept you there for a while, waiting patiently for you, telling you how much he loved you, his voice a lullaby. 

“Beautiful,” he said softly, peppering your face with gentle kisses. “You’re so beautiful. I love you, Sparrow.”

“I love you,” you said. You started to move against him, and you loved the way his breath caught.

It was slow and soft and gentle, pleasure cresting with all the tenderness of a wave against a shore. You felt tears come again, your chest tight with love for him, and he brushed them away with a soft touch.

“Don’t cry, sparrow,” he said, his voice soft with compassion. “Are you alright?”

You kissed him, trying to tell him in more than words how much you loved him, how thankful you were for him.

“I’m perfect,” you said. “Thank you for loving me like you do.”

He sighed, relieved and tender for you, kissing you with every gentleness, and his touch eased every bit of the tangle in your chest until all you felt was warmth and safety.

“I love you, Jake,” you said softly.

He kissed you again.

“I love you too, sparrow. More than I could ever tell you.”

(i'll reblog with the taglist tomorrow bc it's late and i'm lazy! <3)

[abandonedpost]

My Highest Worldly Bliss: Chapter Two

Pining, a lil’ bit of backstory, and some mandatory filler for pacing purposes later on 🫶🏼

Tw: Minor cursing

——

002 was heaving as she raced back to her holding cell. What on Copper-9 was she thinking?! Talking… to a worker drone?! If the Doctors ever found out about this, she’d never live to see another day.

But, the strange man with the white eyes confused her in a wonderful way. His concern seemed… genuine. Almost as if he wasn’t afraid of her. The thought engulfed her in the same fuzzy feeling that seeing his face for the first time did. She felt her core skip a cycle and the blush momentarily return.

“Snap out of it, Nori!” She whisper-yelled, using her real name now, not the number the humans had mandated for her. As she approached the holding cell she shared with 048, she breathed a sigh of relief and opened the door.

“[And where might you have been?]” The Russian drone was right in front of Nori’s face as she opened the door, looking unamused.

Nori jumped, “Oh my frickin’ god, Yeva! Warn a bitch before you jump-scare her! Nearly gave me a core attack!”

“[You’ve dealt with worse. Now tell me, where were you? You were supposed to be back 30 minutes ago.]”

“I got… held up in the chamber. Passed out after treatment.” She tried to make it sound as convincing as possible, but if anyone could see through her, it was her best friend.

“[You are a terrible liar,]” the taller woman scoffed, “[fine, don’t tell me.]” Yeva turned back around and walked toward her bed, brow raised in anticipation.

“Ugh, it was noth- it’s stupid, okay! Just some… dumb architect guy from the surface.”

“[Uh-huh,]” 048 said with a grin.

——

“You there, boy! What are you doing?” A low-pitched voice rang through the hallway, momentarily distracting Khan from the empty feeling in his core. The pretty lady was gone…

He turned around to tell the human what had happened, “Uh, I finished surveying the damage. As you can see it’s very minor,” he pointed up at the, now fixed, ceiling, “but there’s damaged wiring behind that wall. So I’ll need to come back soon.”

The drone nervously watched the human’s expression, waiting for them to notice his lie and send him to the dump for it.

“Ugh, fine, fine.” The person scoffed, “Just go back up to the lobby. They’ll have to send the mines another request to loan you for the day. Otherwise you won’t get clearance to come in.”

“That’s fine! I best be on my way, good day to you!” Khan quickly disappeared down the hall, a hopeful feeling in his chest. Maybe he’d see her again after all.

——

For the next, god knows how many, days, Nori’s processor actually… calmed down. She couldn’t pinpoint why, but she wasn’t complaining. It was rare for her mind not to show her visions of inescapable doom.

“002, report to the interview room. I repeat: 002, report to the interview room,” came a Doctor over the lab audio speaker

“Ughhhh,” Nori groaned as she pushed herself up on her bed, “screw you!”

Yeva turned and laughed, “[Seems like someone’s in trouble.]” she teased, “[Don’t suppose it had to do with some ‘dumb architect guy from the surface’?]”

“Y’know what? Screw you too, 048,” The violet-haired spitfire replied curtly, “It’s probably because of the scene I caused, storming out and all. That guy has nothing to do with it.”

“[Whatever you say, best friend.]”

Nori mentally cursed Yeva. She’d gone through all the trouble to convince the Doctors not to change her room number, and this is what she got in return.

It was embarrassing, but she couldn’t help but smile at her friend’s incessant teasing.

“Out I go. See ya soon, jerk.”

——

A week had passed, and Khan had yet to be contracted to go back to the Cabin Fever Labs. He grabbed his clipboard every day, flipping through the pages in hopes of finding it as his assignment. And every day, he was disappointed.

The man was miserable. But he didn’t feel it was justified.

“C’mon you big idiot,” he muttered to himself one morning when he woke up, “it was just some random girl. You barely even spoke.”

Khan swung his legs out of bed, and found his task for the day. He silently hoped it was good news, and then scolded himself for being so stupid.

“Great, office work, again.”

——

Nori sat before an array of pictures. One of two Doctors in the room came and cuffed her hands behind her. She resisted, trying to use the symbol to get him away from her, until the other stuck a magnet on her head to sedate her.

“No more… incidents.”

“Bite me! What do you asses want anyway?!”

“No need to get so feisty. It’s only inkblot testing today.”

That surprised her. Just inkblot testing? After all that? She calmed down momentarily, before her tranquility was replaced by an awful, gnawing gut feeling.

“O-okay,” she said with uncertainty, “let’s get this over with then, I guess.”

The first image was laid in front of her, “We want you to tell us the first word that comes to mind when you see each photo in the lineup.”


It looked like the symbol that her processor always showed her; the same one that appeared in her hand at will.

“Control.” She replied so quickly it scared her.

“Next.” One of the voices said. This time, it reminded her of one of the demons from her visions. A tall frame, pinched at the waist, wings that broke out of its back and stretched far into the sky, and a tail filled with some kind of fluid that seemed to glisten, even though the picture was in black-and-white.

“Doom.” Another immediate reaction.

The third one stumped her. For a moment, it looked like… her? No, not her. To the untrained eye, it may have seemed as such, but it wasn’t. Not quite.

“Shorter. No dress? Boots and leg warmers.” She mentally recited as she observed.

They looked like they had on a beanie… and were holding a gun?

And then Nori became 002 again as the visions flooded her processor.

——

“God forbid.” Khan muttered to himself as he perused the day’s paperwork. His office was a cluttered mess. He was a cluttered mess. Papers with scribbles and illegible writing were strewn on shelves, the floor, and connected to each other on the walls with red tweed.

All he wanted was to do something extraordinary. Something meaningful. He’d spent months trying to narrow his ideas down to a single project, but nothing spoke to him. And it wasn’t like the humans ever gave him a day off so he could actually think.

Plus, a certain someone had been occupying his mind lately.

She was all he could think about and he didn’t understand why. It wasn’t as if he was a monk, having never seen a woman before. He’d worked with much of the fairer sex in a professional capacity, so why was she any different?

His thoughts were interrupted by one of his superiors barging in.

“Khan,” they said, panting, “they need you back at Cabin Fever. Now.”

[aelinslegend]

⭐️ cabin fever. . . 𖥔 ݁ ᥫ᭡

❝ i look to you, and i see nothing ❞ — FADE INTO YOU, mazzy star

IN WHICH. . . 🍓 following a six-month struggle to find her feet after graduating from college, naomi packs her bags and flies to aspen, colorado to spend four months working at a luxury ski resort. her plan for a quiet winter is soon disrupted, however, as she is entwined into the lives of the sturniolo family, who are none other than the resort's owners. despite being warned to stay away from them, naomi finds herself repeatedly forced into close proximity with chris, who doesn’t hold back in informing her of how much he despises her presence.

❝ you know what hurts even more than losing you? the fact that you’re not fighting to keep me.❞

💌 . . . not available to read yet !

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Cabin Fever 12

Warnings: this fic will include dark content including rape/noncon, age gap, drinking, violence, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You come home from college for a family trip at your neighbour’s cabin, but not all is how you remember it. (a sampling of dad’s best friend and best friend’s dad in one)

Characters: dilf!Bucky Barnes

Note: This week can’t go by any slower, ugh. Pls help me.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all. Take care. 💖

The cabin is silent. You’re alone. A terrifying thought as the chirping of birds and soft gales are your only companions. You remain as he left you, bound to the frame, hands coiled in the cord, body worn from his vile attentions. He’s gone, on his way back to act like everything is fine. Like nothing has changed.

You don’t cry. You tried. The tears won’t come. You don’t care if you die there. You probably will. No food, no water, no freedom. Even if you weren’t tied like an animal, there’s no hope for you. Out there in the wilderness, every direction is a mystery, every shadow cloaking some unseen predator.

You stare at the ceiling until the exhaustion drags you down. Like all else, you have no choice in the matter. Your subconscious takes over, reiterating the horrors of reality, contorting them to deep tone and static hues. His voice, his touch, his suffocating presence.

You wake at the noise. A snap, a click, or a figment of your imagination. You’re not sure. The blanket tangles around your middle, legs bare, arm sore from their restraints. Is he back already? Your stomach lurches as you hear the scuff on the floor.

The bottom stair creaks and you tug on your wrists. The same futile effort you gave up on hours ago. Another step, another, another, like a drum beating your impending doom. You wrap your fingers around the elastic cord and steel yourself.

The open door darkens, a stranger stood across from you. You whimper, speechless. You could ask who? What? Why? It doesn’t matter. The dark ski mask obscures him for a reason. He’s here to get rid of you, to clean up what Bucky’s begun. You’re not stupid. Naive, yes, but not that.

He grips the doorframe and looks you over before letting his eyes scour the space. He moves forward with certainty. He bends at the foot of the bed and gathers up your strewn clothing. He sighs as he dumps it in the tall wicker basket. He stops and looks in the mirror hung from the wall, rubbing his face through the fabric.

“He always makes a goddamn mess,” he says as he turns to you. You watch him, waiting. It’s cruel to draw it out.

“Please, just… get it over with.”

He doesn’t respond. He paces around the room and stops at the window. He looks through the panes and flips back the latch, sliding it open with a loud scrape. A mellow breeze drifts in around his broad figure. He takes a deep breath.

“Get what over with?” He crosses his arms, the black turtleneck no doubt stolid in the heat.

You sniff and shake your head. You don’t move. You have nothing left. 

“Killing me,” you croak.

His laughter startles you. He claps his gloved hands before bracing his hips. Your head lolls and you watch him approach. He stops at the edge of the bed.

“Shit, he’s done a number on you,” he muses, “what do you want first? Water or a piss?”

You squint at him. You shake your head. You resume your observation of the ceiling planks. He spins and sits on the side of the bed. He scratches the mask.

“You didn’t already–” He glances behind him and slides to the edge, touching the mattress around your legs.

“Please,” you murmur.

“Right,” he draws his hand back and stands, “let’s get you up, princess.”

You flinch as he plants a knee on the mattress and unhooks the bungee cord, unwinding it from around your wrists. Your skin is chafed and raw, your bones ache as the circulation slowly flows back to your fingertips. Cautiously, he lets you go and you pull your arms to your chest. You sit up, muscles taut and sore.

“I brought some clothes, they’re downstairs. Come on,” he offers his hand. You sneer at the gesture.

“You’re his friend? You’re okay with this?”

He tilts his head and clucks, “it’s a fair trade.”

He doesn’t wait and takes you by the wrist. You wince and he pulls you to the edge of the bed. You clasp the blanket against you and lift it with you as you stand. He lets you go and helps wrap it around you. You hug yourself to keep it in place.

“I’ll give you five minutes in the bathroom, I’ll even bring you the clothes,” he rests his hands on your shoulders, “then you should eat something.”

“Why?”

He scoffs, “that doesn’t sound like ‘thank you’.”

You bite the inside of your lip and swallow, “thank you.”

He reaches and taps your head, a gesture to encourage you, like a pet, “good.”

You let him guide you. Your resignation scares you more than the stranger. You try to muster an ounce of resistance but you don’t have it in you. Every move brushes against some nerve, some tender spot, and reminds you of him. Of Bucky.

He closes the door behind you, shutting you in the bathroom, and you stand unmoving before the small walnut counter. You can imagine Bucky, driving up to the cottage, pretending just like he did before. Smiling as he assures your parents he got you home safe. Your mother will believe him, your father won’t care. 

Your legs turn to jelly and you turn, sitting on the wooden lid of the toilet. A shiver rolls over you and you grip the edge of the square sink. You fold over your lap and heave.

How long can he keep you here? How long will this strange man play along? How long can you take it?

There’s a knock but no pretense. The door opens and you sit up. The man places a folded dress on the corner of the counter. You try to see past his mask just before he shuts you in again. You run your hands down your face and gasp. This can’t be real.

It is. It’s like a twisted horror movie. They always said the real monsters are those right next door. Whoever they are, they know everything. 

You use the toilet as your bladder squeezes. Then you dress and try to gather a semblance of sanity. The whole world feels like it's filtered through a hazy sheet. As if a curtain surrounds you, casting shadows all around.

No knock this time. The door whispers on its hinges and he waits in the hall. You step out and he waves you down the hall. You march along like a prison between cells. Down the stairs and into the kitchen as he directs you from behind. He points you into the chair and you obey.

“Well, seems you had it rough, but does he have any other mode?” The man snickers as he goes to the stovetop, “He was right though, you do look good in pink.”

You look down at the short dress. You didn’t pay much attention. You shrug and fold your hands over the table, rubbing your knuckles as your skin tingles. He takes out a carton of eggs and cracks several over the pain, the sizzle spitting back at him.

“If you’re not going to kill me, what’s with the mask? Or is this my last meal?”

He laughs again. There’s a lilt of humor to his voice despite the dire situation. He scrapes a spatula over the pan as he scrambles the eggs.

“I know Bucky doesn’t really stick around for cuddles and pillow talk, so I’m here,” he says, “to keep you company for a few hours. It’s easy to get a bit stir crazy here.”

You hold back a shudder. You didn’t think you could feel any worse. He makes your skin crawl as he coolly works, acting as if it’s just another day. The idea that there’s two Bucky’s in this world sinks deep into your gut.

“Yeah, you’re quiet now. That’s how it goes. I get it. Usually how they are when Bucky’s brings them–”

“What? They?”

The toaster pops and he butters the bread, “oh, I see he didn’t do much talking. Well, he always leaves the hard part to me.”

“There are others?”

He scoops the eggs onto the plate and nears, setting it down in front of you.

“Just you, honey,” he answers with an unseen wink.

The smell of the eggs tickles your stomach. He puts a fork down and you consider the long tines. His hand lingers on the handle.

“I dare you to try it,” he snorts.

You lift your chin defiantly and grasp the fork. You point it upward and drop your eyes to the plate of eggs and toast. You’re starving. You’re also fucking irritated. You’re tired of waiting for you don’t know what. Of being used. Of being the stupid little girl.

You bring your other hand to the fork and jab it up, closing your eyes as you aim for your throat. As quickly as the thought rose it flits away, the tines glancing off your shoulder as the desperate stab is deflected. The man swears and knocks the fork to the floor. He clutches your wrists, nearly taking you off the chair.

“Don’t be fucking stupid,” he snarls, “what did I say?”

“I didn’t go for you.”

“This ain’t good, sweetie,” he tisks, “gotta put the kiddy gloves on now.”

He lets you go roughly and retrieves the fork. He goes to the sink and rinses it off, wiping it dry with the checker cloth. You shift, the bruises on your ass panging. He comes back and drags a chair around, sitting with a sigh.

“Open up,” he scoops up some eggs and holds out the fork.

You glare at him. “So, you’re just like him? Do you know how old I am? That I’m his neighbour? I babysat his k–”

“It doesn’t matter,” he pokes your lips, “have some. I can hear your stomach.”

You purse your lips before stubbornly parting them. You take the bite of eggs, the texture just right. They’re good, your hunger adding to your reluctant delight. You chew deliberately as he watches you.

“Really, why the mask?” You swallow.

“Because I’m still making up my mind.”

“About?”

He offers another scoop of egg. You accept it. 

“You,” he trades the fork for a piece of toast, “you ask a lot of questions.”

“You don’t have a lot of answers.”

“Let’s get this meal down then worry about all that. I never think very well on an empty stomach.”

You frown then bite off the corner of the toast. He gives a nod of approval. You lower your gaze to the plate and try not to scowl. You get it. You can’t make that choice, no, they do. Another mean consequence of male ego.

🏡

Like Bucky, the man leaves you. Rather than a bungee cord, you’re leashed to the bed by a single wrist, a padded cuff to keep you trapped. The length is long enough to allow a trip to the bathroom. You get water and some granola bars to tide you over, a cold dish of chicken and rice to have for dinner.

He comes back the next day. He feeds you, sits with you, gives you a couple books, well worn but likely nothing he’d read. You thumb through the grocery store best sellers when he’s gone. You distract yourself until you’re tired enough to sleep.

The tupperware he left in a cooler lasts several days without him. When you run out, you begin to worry. That whim is gone. You don’t want to just give up. You don’t want to sit here and die all alone.

When he comes again, you’re relieved, almost frantically so. He brings you cereal with cold milk. The Cheerios are more delicious than anything you’ve had before. He sits patiently as you eat.

“So, you like the books?” He wonders casually. You struggle to see him past the mask.

“They pass the time. A lot of them are the same. Scorned woman out to live her best life, or destroy someone else’s.”

“You must relate to that.”

You laugh, hoarse and salty.

“Anything you like in particular?”

“Hm?”

“Authors? Genres? Admittedly those aren’t my flavour, I borrowed them from… a friend.”

“I’m not much of a romantic thriller type,” you say, “think I’m a bit below the demographic. Fantasy? Or… I dunno, anything else.”

“Noted,” he nods, “so, you missed me?”

You chew your lip and look away. You put the empty bowl down. You don’t want to admit it. 

“You think I could have a shower?”

He narrows his eyes and taps his fingers on his knuckles. “You got any favourite movies?”

“I… I guess? Mean Girls? I usually just watch whatever’s on Netflix.”

“Mhmm, I’ll see what I can do.”

You consider him and run your nails along your throat, “so, you’ve decided?”

“Decided?”

“About me?”

“Not exactly, but I can’t have you wild like a banshee when he gets back.”

“Oh, yeah, him.”

He chuckles, “so you do like me better.”

“I don’t know you,” you counter.

“And how well do you know Bucky?”

“Fair.”

He drops his shoulder and stands. He nears and bends to pick up your bowl but thinks better of it. He rises and rolls his shoulders. A long breath escapes him and he reaches up to the mask. He peels it off to reveal himself.

“Sam,” he supplies, “now you know me.”

He tucks the mask in his pocket as he stares at you. His dark eyes draw you in and the hint of humour in his dimples comforts you despite everything. You nervously twiddle your fingers. No going back for him now. You still don’t trust him, you’re not that easy. Well, not anymore.

“Sam, you sound like a Sam.”

“Thank you?”

“So, that shower?”

He blinks and nods as he takes your bowl. He sighs and hesitates by the door. Your nerves wind into clusters as you see the thought wrinkled over his brow.

“The food, that’s non-negotiable, but the shower, there are rules. You gotta earn it,” he explains.

“What?”

“Well, obviously, you earned the bed. Bucky would have you on the floor otherwise. A shower…”

You gulp and watch him. That sliver of humanity fades and you see the same glint in his dark eyes as Bucky’s. That heartless determination. His meaning is laid out plain as your eyes meet and hold in silence.

“Will that make up your mind?” You ask softly as you cup your chin.

He looks down at the bowl, his jaw ticks. He doesn’t need to say it. His true face isn’t as terrifying as Bucky’s. Because you expect it, because that illusion has already been cracked. You bite your lip and hang your head.

“Gimme some time,” you murmur and wait for him to go.

[deliciouskeys]

What do you think of Hughie x Homelander?

It might be my favorite crackship for HL.

It's surprisingly touchy feely lol:

I can't locate the original artist but I love this:

[bug-decal-kissing]

Hey friends!

Come Earn a Place in My Heart, by biteof22, was updated today, with 4/? Chapters released! It has a rating of Teen And Up Audiences and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Slow Burn, Unresolved Tension, Denial of Feelings, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Mutual Pining, Auditor!Prismo tomfooleries, i pre-wrote this fic a month ago so posting is easier. i swear i'm not doing magic."

You can read it here:

Scarab's denial of his own feelings is going to give me rabies/silly. 'I'm not in love with Prismo,' he says as he goes into his car and went to a cafe and fell asleep in front of him literally yesterday and/j. COSMIC OWL APPEARANCE WAHOOO !!!

Light! Camera! Action!, by Zalupa2005, was updated today, with 2/? Chapters released! It is Not Rated and Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, with additional tags "Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Deviates From Canon, Homophobia, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, Humor, all people, overtime, Office, Friends to Enemies, Enemies to Lovers"

You can read it here:

Scarab his own office now as he deserves <3. Seeing a normal-looking and acting Golb gave me whiplash he's not supposed to be normal!!!/j I love Prismo asking if Scarab hates him and Scarab not giving a direct answer it's very 👀 do you have something you want to share with the rest of the class, Scarab?/silly

Wrath of the Wishmaster, by Void_Ink_Studios, was updated today, with 7/? Chapters released! It has a rating of Teen And Up Audiences and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Scarab has identity issues, Orbo is the worst, Prismo gets mad, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Chronic Pain, Scarab has Chronic Pain, Established Relationship, Reminiscing, Backstory, Filling in gaps in the worldbuilding, Worldbuilding, Head cannon nonsense: GO!"

You can read it here:

FUCK ORBO ALL MY HOMIES HATE ORBO!!! Beloved Nightmo appearance as well, I think Prismo should get angry more often, defend his boyfriend :]. I love Scarab going to calm him down; I don't care if the 'cooldown hug' trope is overused I LOVE IT !!!!

This chapter is also on Tumblr !! You can find it here :].

NSFW works are below the cut :].

A new work, Cabin Fever by phoenixash234flames was published today, with 1/1 Chapters released! It has a rating of Explicit and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Rimmingits hard to describe with these two"

You can read it here:

They're universe travelling together <333333 They're so happy and soft together it's making me want to cRY/pos. I feel like we need to come up with a new word for having sex with a wall sticker when you're a 3-Dimensional being/j. I LOVE THEM TRAVELLING THROUGH THE MULTIVERSE DOING IN-LOVE THINGS IT BRINGS ME JOY !!!!!

A new work, Blackened Heart, Blackened Soul by Rachrar was published today, woth 1/? Chapters released! It has a rating of Explicit and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Alternate Universe - Human, Priest/Demon AU, Priest Scarab, Demon Prismo, Catholicism Religious Guilt Slow Burn Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Cock Piercing, Dacryphilia, Virginity, I tagged the kinks even though it might be a bit until they happen so nobody is surprised, More may be added however"

You can read it here:

THE DEMON/PRIEST AU HAS A FIC NOW WAHOO !! I know therapy wasn't a thing in this setting but Scarab needs therapy. Prismo is Doing Things to him and it's making me go heeheeheehee.

A new work, Boys Will Be Bugs by NeilEatsRaccoons was published today, with 1/1 Chapters released! It has a rating of Explicit and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Post-Series: Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Top Prismo, Bottom Scarab (Adventure Time), Light Dom/sub, Dom Prismo, Scarab is a hermaphrodite, Hermaphrodites, Body Horror, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Gay Sex, Bug anatomy, Anatomy Lessons, Prismo and scarab are in physical forms for the duration of this fanficWings, erotic wing touching, Wing Kink? - Freeform, Adventure Time - Freeform, your honor theyre gay, The story has nothing to do with the cave town song I just couldn’t think of a title, Penis In Vagina Sex, Penis Licking, Tentacle Dick, Sub scarab, Dom/sub Undertones, Healthy Relationships, scarabs kinda mean but it’s jokey, Consensual Sex, Light Petting, Kissing, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, he/him scarab, Bug Scarab"

Prismo and Scarab have so much potential for their anatomy, it's always cool to see what people do with it. Like yeah, they're not gonna have normal genitalia they've been around since before genitalia was even a thing/j. Fellas is it gay to confess your love only after you've fucked?/j

A new work, Stab Me Gently by Thehyperfixationking was published today, with 1/1 Chapters released! It has a rating of Explicit and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Somnophilia, Blanket Permission, blanket consent, Tentacle Dick, I'm so sorry, Spreader Bars, Sex Toys, Vibrators, Cock Rings, I had a vison so bad that god should take my sight away, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, Voyeurism, kinda sorta, Prismos kinda a freak ngl, The Author Regrets Everything, I Can't Believe I Wrote This"

You can read it here:

PRISMO GOT HORNY AGAIN :(/j. I wanna see Scarab's reaction it would be funny; jumpscare!! now you're horny :-)/j.

[randomingoftherandomness]

🏘️ could we have a sick fic? 💕

🏘️ Cabin fever (literally) 

There’s sweat beading on the back of Yuanzhi’s neck. It darkens the fine hairs on his nape and sticks the collar of his loose sleep shirt to his skin. The skin is a little flush, probably from Yuanzhi’s fever that has yet to break.

Shangjue leans in. Carefully rearranging Yuanzhi’s hair so that it isn’t liable to be tugged on and pulled. It’s been two days like this.

“Don’t—“

He dips his hands under Yuanzhi’s shoulders and the backs of his knees, hauling him up to a seated position. With patient tenderness, he starts to help Yuanzhi undress.

“You can leave this for the maids,” Yuanzhi croaks, swaying in his arms. Blinking mulishly, he weakly holds on to the cotton sleeve of Shangjue’s blue robe. “Aren’t you bored of being stuck in the room with me? This isn’t something you should be doing for me.”

His breath is heavy with the scent of medicine and not for the first time since he’d been told by one of the Zhi residence’s Jade Guardians that Yuanzhi had collapsed in his lab, he wonders how stupid his beloved Didi can be.

“I want to,” Shangjue says. “I am willing.”

Carefully untying the knot that keeps the front together, he has Yuanzhi lean against him while he strips him of his shirt. With deft hands, he gently wipes Yuanzhi clean — armpits, inside his elbows, torso, his neck — and not so subtly takes his pulse and checking the way he breathes a little rasping on the exhale as he redresses him in a fresh new shirt. Shangjue is not half the medically gifted his Didi and Elder Yue is, but he can manage when he has to.

Then with some well-practised manoeuvres, and not a small amount of whining from Yuanzhi that is quickly quelled by a glare, he has his trousers off to do very much the same. Wiping down his legs, hips all the way down to toes. Running the damp cloth over the soft skin of his inner thigh, smirking a little when it makes his Didi shiver.

“Get better first. Then I’ll let you do whatever you want, you brat.” Shangjue laughs, moving quickly to dress him again.

“Ge...”

Shangjue focuses first on switching out the basin of water for another one with water that is a little cooler from being left out. With a fresh cloth, he dampens it and starts to wipe at Yuanzhi’s face. Brows, eyelids, cheeks. Down the line of his nose. The backs of his ears, then back to his temple.

“Gege…”

“Hm?” Shangjue answers, looking into Yuanzhi’s eyes. He smiles when he sees the flush on his cheeks that has decidedly nothing to do with his fever.

“Thank you, Gege,” Yuanzhi mumbles. It’s adorable when he gets all shy like this and the knowledge that he is and will always be the only privileged enough to see this doesn’t escape him.

Wrapping him up in his arms, he moves Yuanzhi back while he strips their bed and lays a new sheet. Dumping all the water into a bucket and gathering all the laundry in another, he sets them by the door for the maids to come collect.

Climbing back onto the side of the bed, he helps Yuanzhi lie down, brushing a kiss over the crown of his head.

“I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to do this for you,” He starts. “No one could have taken care of you as well as I can.”

Yuanzhi scrunches his face at that. Shangjue has to laugh.

“Too cheesy…”

[mountain-in-springtime]

might celebrate the end of the week tomorrow by rereading cabin fever <3

[usaonetwothree]

Cabin Fever (The Karate Kid 3/Cabin in the woods/only one bed AU) coming your way very very soon (hopefully today yet if I can string together the spoons).

[moondirti]

wip wednesday because i've been depriving you all warnings: injury, blood, mention of childbirth

The tide pushes back out. In a great swell of loam and brine, your hatred crashes vengefully onshore. You muster all of it, dipping pails into the water and letting it weigh heavy on your shoulders. It is almost negligible, you find. You scarcely feel its burden when fuelled by a focused point to your antipathy. Your teeth stop chattering. You glare daggers. 

“Let me go.” 

Your final plea rolls over him like all the ones before it. “But you’re a witch, aren’t ya? Brew up a little poultice to pull yourself through the whelping. Maybe then you’ll realise how much you long to stay alive.” 

Your neck snaps back. Before you can think it through, you thrust your head towards his face. There’s a crunch, a dizzying moment of choked silence, then a hot burst of moisture down your face. For a naive moment, you think you must have struck gold. You imagine drawing back to find his mask sticky with blood, or tar, or whatever demons have thrumming through their veins. A raw testament to your resolve, if he should ever underestimate it again. 

But the mirage is as naive as your mother. Eventually the pain catches up to you. You realise the iron-tang at the back of your throat is not the dreg of satisfaction. The tears slipping past your lashes no longer wrought from misery. Everything, rather, an immediate response to the sore condition of your nose. Misshapen and swelling already.

Ghost hums. You hoped to see him grovelling in pain by now. The battered expectation somehow makes his condescension worse. 

“Good to see y’find your spirit,” His head tilts, bullying yours into remaining still, fingers knitted firmly in your hair. “but it’s misplaced.”

[hearts-hunger]

Read on AO3 | Masterlist | Cabin Fever Masterlist | Join my taglist here!

Summary: You have a surprise for Jake.

Pairings: Jake x Wife!Reader, Josh x Baby, Sam x Danny | Genre: domestic fluff, slight angst | Word Count: 3.7k | Warnings: pregnancy, morning sickness

A/N: I have to throw in a little angst, you know me. But here you go! Jake and Sparrow are having a baby! ♡

Sitting on the edge of the bathtub, you listened to the steady roll of thunder and patter of rain and tried to will yourself into feeling better. So far, it wasn't working very well; rocky and nauseous, there was little you could do but hold your head in your hands and be as still as possible. One wrong move and you'd be down for the count, just like you had been yesterday morning and the morning before that.

You know what that means, a little voice said in your head. You grimaced.

“It’s just the flu,” you said to yourself. “Some weird flu with no other symptoms that only happens in the morning.”

The power of positive thinking seemed to be a useless venture, but you kept it up anyway. You couldn't be pregnant. No way you were ready for that.

There was a knock on the bathroom door, and as you quickly straightened up and made yourself promise that you weren't going to be sick, no matter what, you were reminded of somebody else who wasn't ready for you to be pregnant either. You and Jake hadn't really talked about it — the occasional tipsy proposition to get started having a bunch of little Kiszkas wasn't exactly a serious discussion. Neither of you had pictured it this way, on the cusp of a tour and new album, and you decided to stick with your useless positive thinking for a little bit longer.

“Come in,” you said. Jake made his way in, drowsy and sleep-soft, dressed only in his black boxers and the necklaces he never took off. He looked at you in the mirror as he started to brush his teeth.

“Feel okay, sparrow?” he said around his toothbrush.

You nodded. “Fine. Just don't want to be up this early.”

He hummed in agreement and spit toothpaste into the sink. “You were the one who booked us a flight at the crack of dawn.”

You couldn't deny that. Though Josh and Baby had given you plenty of notice on the date of their son's third birthday party, and though you knew the date by heart because you’d been there the day little John Denver Kiszka was born, you’d procrastinated booking a flight until the early-morning option was the only one. To be fair, you'd had a lot on your mind.

Jake turned on the shower. “You wanna save water and jump in with me?”

You smiled. “I love it when you talk conservation to me.”

He smirked and pulled the shower curtain aside, ushering you in. You felt yourself relax in the quiet morning ritual of showering together, washing each other’s hair and gently bickering over who was getting the most water.

“Can you believe JD is three already?” you asked. His present from the two of you, a pint-sized pirate sword you'd gotten at the ren faire a few weeks ago, was neatly wrapped and packed in your suitcase. “It doesn't seem like it's been three years.”

“Seems like it was only yesterday,” Jake crooned in a teasing voice. “The first baby of the Kiszka-Wagner clan.” He shook his head. “It could be us, sparrow. Can you imagine us with a three-year-old? Holy cow.”

All the tension you’d thought had left quickly made its way back into your body. A nervous hand fluttered to your tummy, somehow worried that a pregnancy that you weren't even convinced was real would show itself. 

“It wouldn't be so terrible,” you said weakly.

He smiled and kissed your cheek, turning the shower off and grabbing you a towel. “No, it wouldn't be so terrible. But not right now. Soon, but not right now.”

You felt nauseous again as you toweled off and dressed. You didn't talk much as you both readied to leave, putting your suitcases in the back of the car and patting Gibson, your cat, goodbye. A kind, cat-loving coworker of yours was coming by to feed Gibby while you were gone, but Jake gave him snuggles and kisses like it was the last time they were ever going to see each other.

“You be good,” Jake said, stroking Gibby’s head as he purred like a car engine. “Mama and I love you very very much.”

Some weird, clawing thing stuck in your throat at him calling you “mama” even though he'd always referred to you that way to your cat. You kissed Gibby’s head and went out to the car, taking a few deep breaths as you watched the rain slide down the passenger side window.

“Five-thirty?” Jake groaned as he backed the car out of the driveway. “Sparrow, we gotta get some coffee.”

Your mood was pensive and distant through the drive, checking in at the airport, and boarding the plane. Jake got away with just one request for his picture and signature in the terminal; the girl was wearing a Mirador shirt, and Jake grinned at her promise to get his signature tattooed right where he’d signed it on her arm. 

“Never gets old,” he said, slinging his arm over yours as you stood in line to board. “Tell me you like being married to a rockstar.”

You gave him a weak smile. “I like being married to a rockstar.” You did, and you wouldn't trade the constant enjoyment of Jake’s skill and success as a musician. But the rockstar life made some things difficult, and you didn't dare think of what problems would arise if you really were pregnant.

Jake very sweetly gave you the window seat, intending and quickly managing to fall asleep against your shoulder. You looked out at the rainy tarmac and thought of Josh and Baby, two of your dearest friends, people who had not only managed to start a family in the middle of the rockstar life but become very good at it. Their son was the light of their lives, and they'd integrated domestic life into Josh’s whirlwind schedule of recording, touring, and constant limelight with every ounce of joy and patience a couple could ever hope to have. They would help you and Jake, happily, if it turned out that your positive thinking came to naught.

You tried to push the thought out of your head and rest against Jake, readying yourself for a day of summer birthday fun with your family. Your friends and your precious nephew deserved the best version of you, and by the time you pulled up to Josh and Baby’s beautiful old house in Frankenmuth, you were ready to jump right in.

The theme was toddler-friendly life on the high seas, and sweet, colorful, swashbuckling decorations adorned every inch of the house. Coming in, you heard your family in the kitchen and out on the back deck, the sliding door wide open to let dripping, bathing-suited partygoers come back and forth for snacks and popsicles before another splash in the pool.

“Ahoy, mateys!” Jake called, following you as you came into the kitchen. Baby looked up, a bright smile on her pretty face, and abandoned the cubes of watermelon she was spearing with tiny plastic swords.

“You’re here!” she said happily, throwing her arms around you. “Oh, I was worried — Josh said you might have bad weather coming out of Nashville.”

“Just some rain,” you assured her, so relieved to be here with her and the rest of your family. You hugged her back tightly. “How’s the party so far?”

She laughed and gestured to the back yard, accepting an affectionate ruffle of her hair from Jake. “Ready to get started, now that you're here. Have drink, put on your bathing suit, enjoy yourself.”

You went to say hello to your brothers, and JD graciously paused his relentless jumping into Sam’s arms in the pool to hug you and Jake. Dripping wet, his curly hair wreathed with sunshine, he looked up at you and your husband like you’d hung the moon.

“I so happy you're here!” he said gleefully. “Is’ my birthday!”

You smiled and kissed his chubby cheek. “It is! Happy birthday, honey.”

You let him get back to swimming and went to change into your bathing suit. Before long, you were happily drawn into sun-soaked hours of lounging by the pool, talking about everything and nothing with your family. Rosie, who wasn't as spry as she used to be but still patient and amenable to JD’s wet hands mussing her fur, thumped her tail as she lay under the shade of Danny’s chair.

“Sam wants another puppy,” Danny said, taking a long pull from a Corona. “He told his mom we're going to be parents, and she almost lost her shit until she figured out he meant another dog and not a baby.”

Sam planted a kiss on Danny’s forehead. “No babies until we're married, Wagner. I've told you this a hundred times.”

“He’s old fashioned,” Danny agreed, giving you a slightly wistful smile. “But he’s right. We’d have our hands full with a bunch of dogs and a whole entire person.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad,” Josh called from the pool, holding JD as the little boy paddled and splashed and giggled. “You should go for it. All of you. Me and Baby feel kinda left out being the only ones with bedtimes at seven-thirty.”

Jake laughed. “No thanks. I've still got some partying years in me.”

Your throat felt tight. “Maybe partying’s not all it’s cracked up to be.” 

“Speak for yourself,” Sam teased.

Baby seemed to notice something was off with you, and she put her hand over yours. 

“Will you come help me get some stuff from the kitchen?” she asked.

You went with her willingly, needing a break from the sun and the harmless teasing that seemed to twist like a knife in you. You took the Capri-suns and sub sliders from the fridge as she mixed a pitcher of what was appropriately labeled “Jack Sparrow’s missing rum punch”.

“You want some?” she asked.

You bit your lip. “Better not.”

She poured herself a drink and joined you at the counter where you half-heartedly put pirate-sail toothpicks in the sandwiches.

“All the decorations came out really cute,” you said, meaning it despite your quiet tone.

She smiled. “Thanks, sparrow. You know Jake’s had JD into pirates since the day he was born, and now that he's finally old enough to enjoy it, I figured it was time to pull out all the stops.”

She brushed your hair back from your face. “Sparrow... are you pregnant?”

You felt a vivid blush rise to your face. Was it pinned to your dress like a scarlet letter? But meeting her eyes, seeing sympathy and understanding there, you slowly nodded.

“I think so,” you all but whispered. “I — I haven't taken a test. I don't know for sure.”

“But your period’s late?” she asked calmly.

“And I've been having morning sickness,” you managed. “It — I mean, it could be the flu, but —”

She laughed, but it wasn't unkind.

“It’s probably not the flu, honey.” She squeezed your hand. “I have a test in the bathroom if you want to take it.”

You were surprised. “Are you pregnant?”

She shrugged. “Not at the moment. I’m not planning on it, but...” She gave you a wry smile. “Sometimes these things happen, sparrow. It’s not the end of the world. It might actually be the start of something really wonderful for you and Jake.”

You felt the sting of tears. “I haven't said anything to him. I didn't want to if I wasn't sure. I don't know if he’ll...” Tears spilled over. “If he’ll be happy.”

“Of course he’ll be happy,” she said, and it was so confident and so sure that you felt a buoying of hope. “He’ll be over the freakin’ moon, sparrow. Don't let all this nostalgia for partying get to you. Josh was happy when we found out we were having JD, and Jake will be happy if you find out you're having a baby too.”

You swallowed. “You think so?”

She smiled and brushed the tears from your face. “Yeah, I think so. Go find out if you are.”

You did as she said, finding the Clearblue test under the sink. Waiting was agonizing; you forced yourself to wait longer than you were supposed to, not sure if you could bear it, whatever the result was. You wanted a baby with Jake; nothing would give you more pleasure than to make him a father, to start a family with the man you loved. But was he ready? Were you ready?

Finally, you looked at the test. There, in little black letters: pregnant.

A gasping sort of sob escaped you. You clapped a hand over your mouth and sank to the floor, holding the test in shaking fingers, reading it over and over. Pregnant. You and Jake were having a baby.

You cried, but whether they were happy tears or just a sign of how overwhelmed you were, you couldn’t tell. Sitting on your best friends’ bathroom floor, you watched your tears blur that one little word that would change everything.

Eventually, you collected yourself enough to wash your face at the sink and tuck the test in the pocket of your sundress. You ventured out to the back porch and found your family in a safe, comforting chaos; Baby and Danny were swimming with JD, and the twins were soundly beating Sam in garbage. 

Jake looked up as you came out, a handsome smile lighting his face. “Hi, sweetheart. You wanna play the next hand?”

You looked over at Baby, and she grinned when you gave her a little smile. She nodded towards Jake, urging you to tell him.

“Um...” You twisted the fabric of your dress in nervous fingers. “Actually, can I talk to you for a second?”

“Sure. Let me just...” He laid out his cards and was met with groans from his brothers, and he smirked. “Read it and weep, fellas.”

Josh gathered up the cards to be dealt again, and Jake was careful of the empty beer bottles on the table as he stood and came inside with you. He was a little tipsy, his piratey swagger giving it away more than anything else, sun-kissed and smiley and so beautiful to you that you thought you would never get tired of just looking at him. Would your baby look like him? You hoped so, and it was the promise of another someone like Jake Kiszka in the world that made you brave enough to speak.

“I need to tell you something,” you said, your voice a little wobbly. 

He pulled you close and gave you a kiss. “Don’t tell me. You want to ravish me.”

You gave a soft laugh. “Not exactly.” You led him to the guest bedroom, though, wanting it to be just the two of you with no one walking in accidentally. 

“This is... not convincing,” he teased when you closed the door behind you. “I guess you’re feeling better than you were this morning, huh?”

You were, but the reason wasn't what he thought. Now that you knew, now that you were sure and had the confidence and encouragement of your best friend, you were feeling much better. Now you just needed Jake to tell you it would be alright.

“I think I might not be... over that,” you said cautiously. “Like, it might be a recurring thing. Every morning.”

He frowned, searching your face. “What do you mean? Is something wrong?”

You shook your head. “Nope. Nothing's wrong.” 

“What is it, then?”

You pulled the test out of your pocket and handed it to him. “Um... I think that’s what it is.”

You waited for him to speak, to do anything, but he just looked at it in silence, cradled in the palm of his hand. Then, after a moment, he looked up at you.

“Are you serious?”

You couldn’t read his tone. Shock, surprise, maybe a little fear, something you hoped was excitement — all of them bled into the color of his voice.

“I'm serious,” you said, starting to feel like you were going to cry again. “I just took it. It's... I mean, it's pretty clear.”

He closed his hand around the test. Almost like he’d taken a blow, he stepped back and sat on the edge of the bed.

Your heart dropped right to the floor when he hid behind his free hand, leaning over his knees. Tears blurred your vision.

“I know it’s not the best time,” you said, desperate for some kind of reassurance. You came close to him. “But I think if we — if —” You didn't know what to say. “I think we can do it, Jake. I think we can have this baby.”

He lifted his head and met your eyes, a big, bright smile shining through a tearful haze. 

“You’re really pregnant?” he asked, and it was all joy.

You all but collapsed against him then, putting your arms around his neck, holding him as he tested your head against your tummy. He put his arms around you and held you close, caught somewhere between laughing and crying.

“I’m really pregnant,” you said softly. “Jake, are you happy?”

He stood and spun you around, exultant, laughing like a little boy on Christmas morning.

“Yes, I'm happy!” He stopped spinning you to kiss you, sweet and messy and so in love with you. “Are you crazy, sparrow? I've never been so happy in my whole life!”

You looked up at him with your heart in your eyes. “You don't think it's a bad time?”

He hushed you with another kiss. “No way. It's the perfect time. Forget everything I ever said about it being a bad time.” His smile was so big and beautiful. “I can't believe we're having a baby, sparrow. You're gonna be such a good mom. I love you, and I'm so proud of you. I love you so much.”

“Oh, Jake,” you said gently. “I love you too.”

He held you close and you melted against him, safe, loved, so happy you were delirious with it. You were having a baby! It sang in every part of you, and you joined in his joyful tears and watery laughter.

“Let’s go tell everybody,” he said, taking your hand. “You want to?”

You nodded, feeling that you'd never been more in love with him than you were just then.

He led you back out to the porch and tried to keep the suspense up as your family watched your giddy, excited entrance. Everyone was sitting at the table now, JD fast asleep on Josh’s lap; Jake was grinning to beat the sun, bright and shining with pride and contagious joy as the two of you stood before the people you loved.

“I don't mean to steal the little man’s thunder,” Jake said, looking with heart-rending tenderness at his brother and his baby. “This a great birthday for a great little guy. But...” He looked to you, and you gave his hand and encouraging squeeze. 

“Well, I guess we’ll be planning another birthday party soon,” Jake said, the words fairly bursting out, “because... we're having a baby!”

Your family erupted into a wonderful cacophony shocked questions and joyful hollering, chairs protesting as they were pushed back, pirate decorations toppling on the tabletop as you and Jake were surrounded with hugs and kisses and congratulations. JD woke, a little uneasy at all the happy noise, and Josh cuddled him close with a beaming smile and told him he was going to have a cousin very soon.

“Oh,” was all the little boy said, one hand tangled in Josh’s shirt as he looked on the gathering with a bleary smile.

Baby fairly tackled you, telling you how much she loved you, how happy she was for you. You stood in the circle of your family and couldn't help a few tears, but they were nothing but happy now.

After the boys reined in their joyful rowdiness and you had been hugged so many times you felt the pressure of love on you like a warm blanket, it was time for cake and presents and celebration of the first little Kiszka your family had been blessed with. JD loved all his presents, running around in his too-big pirate outfit from Sam and Danny and waving the sword you and Jake had gotten him, and the adults settled at the table to enjoy each other's company. In the light of the setting sun, sun-flushed cheeks sore from smiling and music playing and drinks flowing, you family was as beautiful to you as they had ever been.

Jake patted his lap, and you squeezed with him in the chair and welcomed his protective, loving arms around you. 

“So, what are we naming this baby?” Sam asked, dealing out a hand of cards. “Jake junior?”

“Jack Sparrow,” Josh offered.

You laughed. “Maybe. I think it’ll be a girl, though.”

Jake looked up at you. “You know already?”

You kissed him. “Not officially, honey. I didn't mean to get you all excited. But... I don't know. I can feel it.”

Baby nodded as she gathered her cards. “I could tell with JD. Sometimes you just know.”

“It should be a bird name,” Danny suggested. “Since you guys are into that sort of thing.”

Jake smiled. “Yeah, it should.” His hand rested on your tummy, and you put your hands over his. “What about Robin?”

The name washed over you with a special kind of peace. “Okay,” you said softly. “Sparrow and her Jake-bird and their little Robin.”

Your family cooed over the name as you gave Jake a gentle kiss, and you knew it was perfect for your little girl. 

Cake was eaten, drinks topped off, and music cranked up until it was well and truly a party. JD, with all the enthusiasm he could muster while falling asleep on Danny’s lap, joined in the various cheers and groans as you played cards together. You couldn't wait until you had another little Kiszka to join the party — your Robin would be around five months old at JD’s next birthday bash, and maybe there would even be another Kiszka-Wagner baby on the way. For now, though, everything was perfect, and you rested in it as you spent time with the ones you loved.

Jake pressed a kiss to your shoulder.

“I love you, sparrow,” he said gently, just for you. “And I love our little bird.”

You touched his cheek and drew him up to kiss your properly, loving the feel of his smile.

“Jakey,” you said softly. “We love you too.”

taglist: @viagvf @allieisacrybaby @itsafullmoon @spark-my-nature @anthemheatwave @xserenax-13 @musicspeaks @mountain-in-springtime @stardustsecret @alwaysonthemend @madneedshelp @josh-iamyour-mama @dannythedog @thecoldwind @woyayaofdreams @joshkiszkapunchmeintheface @lostoverseer @jakesguitarpick @heartcannotsow

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[abandonedpost]

Chapter Three of My Highest Wordly Bliss!

@electronix-arts

[the-lady-writes-what]

Ladies, Gents, and Non-binary Pals, I have an announcement:

I'll shortly be reopening the series I started last year (yikes). I edited the pinned post as I have discontinued my patreon (though donations to my ko-fi is still available if you're willing and able to). I've also, as you can tell, added a couple of names to the MHA section of the series. I'm going to take a nap and get started shortly afterwards. See ya later!

[sunlighticarus]

Title ~ If Anything I'm Restless

Prompt ~ Cabin Fever

A NineRose fic for @doctorrosebingo

[shutupdevvie]

crying thinking about thanksgiving josh