#furnace making strange noises

[goheatingairplano]

(via GIPHY)

[shares-a-vest]

I feel like over the past week and a half, I have been any given one of the trio in this ficlet. So yeah, I'm projecting onto my blorbos. Enjoy!

Eddie can sense Steve isn't in bed when he blinks awake. It's still dark out and the apartment is freezing. Well, Eddie is freezing without the furnace-like warmth of his boyfriend curled into his side.

He looks over at Steve's nightstand to find that the alarm clock only reads a little past 3am and that's when he begins to panic. It's nowhere near time for Steve's early morning run, nor is it a reasonable enough hour that he might be pottering about in the living room.

So, Eddie hops out of bed and is immediately hit by the winter chill of the two-bed apartment he and Steve share with Robin.

He shivers as he walks into the hallway, where he finds the apartment still shrouded in an icy darkness. He chances a peek into Robin's room, where he finds his housemate sound asleep and snoring, lying in the middle of her bed and certainly without the company of her best friend.

Steve has nightmares – hell, the three of them do. But Steve usually ends up with Robin if the situation arises.

Eddie continues on, now tucking his hands under his armpits, hugging himself as he dips his chin into the loosened neck-hole of his oversized sweater – a maroon-coloured former Harrington Classic.

He tiptoes along so as not to disturb Robin, almost sliding his socks along the floorboards as he makes his way into the living area, his path illuminated by outside street lamps.

Eddie tsks under his breath when he comes across Steve, curled in on himself as he lays soundly asleep on the couch, his nail bat close by on the floor.

Steve hums, or more shivers – visibly freezing as he sleeps in nothing more than an old pair of gym shorts whose material Eddie suspects might evaporate the next time they find themselves in one of the building's shoddy washing machines.

He sits by his boyfriend's side and places a hand on Steve's shoulder, desperate to stir him enough to coax him back to bed, but not spook him entirely.

"Sweetheart," he stage-whispers as Steve grumbles.

"Hmm?" he murmurs before startling awake. His eyes snap to attention and he looks up at Eddie as he speaks full volume, his voice groggy, "I heard a noise."

Steve rubs at his arms, the iciness of their surroundings hitting him now that he is (at least, partially) conscious.

"Love, I need you to come back to bed, it's freezing out here."

"But, I heard a noise," Steve whines, sitting up now.

Eddie can't help it, he presses his palm to Steve's cheek and his heart skips a beat at just how cold he feels.

"Shit," he curses and loops his arm around Steve's middle, commanding, "Bed, now."

Steve grumbles, but complies, lazily reaching for his bat before they both stand up as one. Eddie takes his boyfriend's weight, the bat dragging along by Steve's side as they shuffle back towards their bedroom.

Steve shivers and continues mumbling something about the noise he heard. And Eddie can't tell if it was an actual noise or something heard in that strange (and admittedly, scary) space between wake and sleep. Whatever it is, Steve seems both frightened and stubborn all in one.

He shudders again and Eddie can't bring himself to bite his tongue any longer.

"Baby, why aren't you wearing a shirt?"

Typically, he'd be all over Steve in such a state of undress – with all that hair and muscle. But right now, his arms are peppered with goosebumps and his eyes are starting to droop with every step.

"Got hot before," Steve explains, weary.

They pass by Robin's bedroom and the door opens fully, revealing a duvet-covered mass and in the darkness, Eddie can still spot a frown.

"What's going on?" she asks, voice like gravel but nonetheless worried.

"I heard a noise, Robbie."

His tone pains Eddie from his heart down to his gut and the same must happen to Robin too because, in an instant, she retreats to her room in haste.

Eddie continues on to his and Steve's bedroom and gently lowers Steve onto the edge of the bed before he takes the baseball bat. He makes a show of rolling it back under the bed but Steve isn't watching. Instead, his boyfriend is looking over at Robin, who has reappeared, cradling a handful of items and hunching her shoulders in a feeble attempt to keep some kind of hold on her blanket.

Eddie flicks on the bedside lamp and crosses her as he heads off in search of a sweater. He rifles through a drawer and listens on to what sounds like Robin crowding the nightstand with her stuff before she swishes about the excess bedding. Steve whines and Eddie turns back to find Robin with her arm around her best friend.

"Alright," Eddie says, holding out a navy sweater, "Time for bed."

He gestures for Steve to lift his arms up and he complies. It takes a moment, but Eddie wrestles the near-dead weight of Steve into a cozy sweater before he lifts his legs to help him into bed.

"In the middle, Dingus," Robin instructs, "And don't snore."

"How about, you don't fart," Steve quips, shuffling into the middle nonetheless.

There's a bitchy lilt to Steve's voice that has Eddie relaxing a little. He rolls his eyes, thinking the pair burrowing under the covers will probably bicker on. But honestly, he'd prefer that to the balled-up, half-naked, scared Steve he found out in the living room.

Eddie exchanges a glance with Robin before she reaches for the nightstand and grabs a hot water bottle, her Walkman, a notepad and a pencil.

"What the hell are you doing?" Eddie grouses, rounding his side of the bed – thankful to slip back under the covers.

But he pauses mid-way, distracted now as Robin juggles with her wears.

"I need my things," she grumbles as she places the hot water bottle on her stomach and dry sobs, "Oh no, it has gone cold!"

Steve rolls his eyes in Robin's direction, more sleepily than annoyed.

"Eddie, go get some hot water," he mumble-commands, turning to snuggle in close to his best friend.

"What?"

"Eddie..."

"Fine," he reaches for the hot water bottle and snatches it from Robin's grasp.

Eddie thinks he must love his boyfriend a lot, considering how he freezes his ass off to a doubled-over, teeth-chattering level in the several minutes it takes for their stupid kettle to warm up. And by the time he gets back to the bedroom, Robin is quietly snoring with Steve tucked into her side, the two of them forming a single hair-filled mass of platonic soulmatedness.

Eddie tucks the hot water bottle under Robin's covers as best he can and resumes his spot, giggling at the thought of the inevitable drool that is going to make its way into Steve's hair at some point. He snuggles in behind Steve, forming a cocoon around him and his boyfriend snuffles at the touch.

"It's okay, Stevie," he says, kissing him just behind the ear, "Get some sleep. Don't think about the noise. You're safe here with me and Rob."

"What about my ba –"

"It's back under the bed, sweetheart," Steve hums at that, relaxing against him, "We'll figure out the noise in the morning, I promise."

"'Kay," Steve breathes more than speaks as sleep overcomes him, "Love... you."

"I won't let anything hurt you, Steve," Eddie says, hugging him tight.

[ambrozjas]

hiiii could i request sfw sleeping w/ dallas or just relaxing w him in bed 😛

“can you, like, crank your body temperature lower? you’re like a fuckin’ furnace.” a thick new york accent hit your ears, an accent that could belong to someone no other than dallas winston. despite his snarky comments and jabs, he had you snug against his side with an arm wrapped around you and his head turned to the side, his one act of compliance. he knew you hated when he blew smoke in your face.

“i’m not a robot, dal.” you stated calmly, your eyes still closed as you didn’t feel him stiffen under you. if he really had a problem with it, he would’ve shoved you off a while ago.

he simply huffed. you hummed as it got quiet for a bit, the only noise radiating off of the small television in the front of your room as it played an old recording of ‘the andy griffith show’, which dallas only sat through because you liked it so much.

even though he had claimed to hate the show, it never failed to have him sat in front of the tv with his eyes glued to the screen. he claimed it was because, “there’s nothin’ to do ‘round here” but you knew dally. that was just a ruse, another way of accepting a part of you into his life slowly but surely, breaking down the walls he had so carefully placed after sylvia had penetrated them with her unfaithful behavior.

dallas always had an itch, an itch he could never scratch. he wasn’t sure what for or how this itch developed. all he knew was that he needed to scratch it. one way to look at it is; just like someone who couldn’t put sunscreen on their back, dallas could never reach this itch. no matter how much he smoked or stole or got thrown in the cooler, he could never scratch it.

dally could also never shut up.

“at least change this thing? i can’t stand watching—“

you groaned and flipped over out of his grasp, covering your ears and returning back to your fetal position as he chuckled. dallas liked making you tick. it was like a dog cocking its head at a strange noise, he watched you with intense eyes as he studied your facial expressions. dal always took mental notes, even if you didn’t think he did.

dallas leaned back against the assortment of pillows you had displayed on your bed, eyes still glued to you and a smile still evident on his face. maybe you could scratch this itch that dallas always craves to scratch, maybe you can complete the empty space that remained in him. maybe he’d actually give you a chance, he thought.

˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ stip because why do i always add these metaphors that don’t maje sense in my writng

kiss kiss ˗ˏˋ꒰ 🍒 ꒱

[were-changing-cake-vaults]

Gem would like to pretend that things are normal around Magic Mountain.

Or, well, that everyone else is normal, and she’s keeping all the weirdness to herself. She’s the one who decided to go a little creepy this season, after all, and as far as she can tell, she’s the only one smelling the rot coming from the river. All her neighbors should be fine, and have only commented that her boat burns a lot of coal fumes that sort of reek. It’s definitely not rot, and things are normal for them, and they are decidedly abnormal for her.

Which is fine! Gem wants her friends safe! Sure, she’s been hearing weird gurgling noises from the flooded caves that line the beaches, but she’s probably just hallucinating. Or maybe Scar is smacking salmon heads on note blocks again, despite living on the other side of the mountain. And sure, Impulse died and came back completely washed of color, but that’s just a demise thing. It’s just the creepy she dragged along with her- Joel’s totally fine, and that’s enough evidence for her.

Well, it would be if not for the fact that the salmon she’s been getting from fishing are starting to look…strange, all sharp-finned and much slimier than normal. And the cod, too, have far too many gills, like gashes down their sides. Grian pulls up a fish one afternoon and Gem swears it’s got six eyes, but Grian only remarks them as “weird patterning” and shoves it right into the furnace for cooking.

He’s been eating a lot of fish, recently, straight from this very river, the one that smells of rot. Caught them all himself. He’s also been fishing a lot- Gem doesn’t know the last time he worked on his base. He keeps trying to dredge up a book. She asks him one day why he keeps going if he’s already got a ton of books from the water, and he sounds haggard when he replies:

“The book, Gem. I’m not looking for a book. I’m looking for the book. It’ll give me all the answers I need. I haven’t found it yet, but the ocean will provide for me. I know it’s the next one.”

Something in the way he looks at her makes her gut twist. His eyes are empty, glossed over, and she knows the joke is that he looks like a cod, but it’s- he’s different, now, washed out and shiny skin, little to no meat on his bones, bags like pits under his soulless eyes. Something about the way he phrased that—the ocean will provide for me—makes her spine recoil back, feet dragged backwards towards her boat. A fear-stricken laugh bubbles up Gem throat as she tries to remember the last time he wasn’t fishing. When was the last time he slept?

Come to think of it, when was the last time she slept? Isn’t there a warning for those who stay up too late?

And when she tells him it’s an addiction, Grian just laughs it off, throws his rod into the sea, and pats the seat next to him. And then there she is, fishing alongside him, like she was always doing. She was planning to do this, yes. More and more of Magic Mountain arrives, plus Etho, who brings along a disc to put them in the mood. It’s a swan song.

The ocean sings back. It gives her an image of a great tall lighthouse, cherished by watery angels, who dance around it. It gives her the size, the colors, the materials to recreate it in verse. She smiles. It tells them all to knock another hermit off the list of survivors. She grins.

Before turning to join the group on their quest, Gem looks into the water one last time. Staring back is a well-kept woman with long, shiny red hair.

There is a book in her hand.

[kindasleepywriter]

An Unexpected Visit (Cal Kestis x Mechanic!Reader)

Summary: You find a little metal friend in your lonely workshop on Koboh and you have no idea where he came from. The answer to that question brings you more hope than you thought it would.

Warnings: Small blood mention.

Words: 3.8k

Note: Thought I'd post a little something while I work on the next few chapter of BoP! Pretty sure this is gender neutral, but if im wrong don't hesitate to point it out!!

Koboh was a hot planet to live on even on its coldest days. There was no such thing as frost here, and snow was out of the question. The native population of the planet was used to it, buildings designed to keep out the sweltering air and clothes made of the thinnest materials.

You, however, hated it.

You’d been warned the planet was warm, but no one had quite mentioned how high the temperature really was. You regretted trusting the Ihi Tib that had brought you here more than anything, but you’d used up all your credits on that trip and there was no way in hell to make that money again to leave, not while working here.

You longed for Habo, the little planet you’d decided against in favor of this one. No raiders, no empire soldiers, just nature and its shy inhabitants. No droids either, but there wasn’t any here either, so you didn’t care. Sometimes, you dreamt of reaching its lush forests and mountains and feeling cold drops of rain on your skin.

The metal roofing of your shop did you no good either, heat waves often visible above it. Its only room felt like a furnace even at the best of times, and you weren’t a stranger to the feeling of sweat-soaked clothes sticking to you uncomfortably anymore.

You tinkered with a metal detector that some prospector had brought to you, taking the opportunity of the night’s barely detectable coolness to work on a project. Apparently, it had stopped functioning properly after it’d been dropped into a chasm. By the looks of it, you were surprised it even was in one piece. Well, mostly in one piece. Maybe the revenue you’d make from this might be able to pay for new boot soles, yours having almost completely disintegrated because of the burning sand that covered the entire region.

The only sound in your workshop was the harsh grating of your screwdriver against the detector’s metal, as you tried to pry open its chassis. The thing just wouldn’t budge, and you considered whether the boots were even worth it.

A whistling sound startled you, the old screwdriver slipping and taking a chunk out of your palm. You swore and tugged a rare oil-free cloth from the toolbox beside you, hitting your head on your work lamp in the process and swearing again. You pressed the cloth against the wound to stop the bleeding and looked towards the open room to determine where the whistling had come from. The door to the shop was locked, you’d triple-checked it while closing. Was this one of the raider lackeys trying to draw you outside again? You’d fallen for it exactly once and promptly learned not to investigate strange noises you might hear outside, but this sounded like a mechanical whistle, not a breathing being.

The strange whistling sounded again, this time from behind you. You spun on your heels, tied the cloth around your hand, and reached for the rusty rebar you kept by your workstation. Nothing seemed amiss at first glance. Had you imagined the sound? Maybe the heat was getting to you, you hadn’t refilled your water canister since this morning. Dehydration hallucinations were rare for you, but you’d still had your fair share, especially when you’d just arrived to Koboh. Getting used to this planet had been a challenge.

Suddenly a flash of red and white crossed the room, hiding behind a wooden bin you used to store your own unfinished projects. The whistle came again, followed by a few beeps. A droid, you realized. He’d been speaking binary! You’d hardly recognized it, not having heard it since your arrival. Lots of droids, the Ihi Tib had assured you, the bastard.

“Hey little buddy, can I help you?” you called, slightly lowering the rebar but still holding it tightly with your free hand. A series of beeps followed in response. It was mostly unintelligible, but you could make out the meaning of some of it.

“Yeah, I’m the mechanic here, do you need something fixed?”

A scared whistle. You crouched, putting down the rebar at reaching distance from your hands.

“I’ve let go of the iron, I won’t hurt you as long as you don’t hurt me, deal?”

You received no response, but the droid tentatively stepped out from its hideout. It was a cute one, you thought, a little flat head and cubical body supported by its two lanky legs. You could see his eyes focusing and zooming on you, no doubt examining you for any sign of aggression. You raised your hands as a peace gesture, and he stepped closer. He emitted a green light from his position. You laughed at the sudden scan but didn’t move.

From up close, you could see the damage he carried. The side of his left leg was blackened as if burnt, and its small body had a gaping hole that revealed his inner components. No wonder he’d been scared, one more hit and he’d be fried. He looked mostly intact on the inside, but you’d need him in your hands to determine if that was the case. You went to speak but got cut off by the loud noise of your door slamming shut behind you.

“Beedee, I told you to wait while I left to find a spare-”

You squealed at the man’s voice, grabbing the piece of rebar again, wincing as it rubbed against your clothed palm, and jumped to your feet.

A man stood at the entrance of your shop, only a few feet from you. You shakily held up the rebar between the two of you as a threat, the droid incoherently beeping behind you and hitting you with his little leg. You ignored him, and the intruder raised his hands, showing you that they were empty. You could see a metal baton at his side and a pistol strapped to his thigh, but he wasn’t reaching for them despite the threat of your rebar.

“Whoa, easy,” he exclaimed rapidly, “I’m not here to attack you!”

“What do you want?” you called, “Shop’s closed at this hour.” It was fairly late in the night, and not many people were still up at this time apart from you. No one with good intentions, at least.

He took a less defensive stance, increasingly unimpressed at your choice of weapon, or your unsteady hold of it. “My name’s Cal, I’m just here for beedee.” He gestured to the droid. “Come on buddy, we’ve got to get back to Greez.”

The cantina’s owner?

“How do you know Greez?” you asked with narrowed eyes. You’d never seen this man, and he’d never been around here. News spread fast in a village this small, you would’ve heard about it in less than a day. The cantina sometimes welcomed suspicious or dangerous individuals, and you wondered if this new guy was one of them.

“It’s a… long story. I’m just visiting. Beedee, let’s go.”

You examined the man closer, as he was clearly only interested in the droid. Now that the adrenaline had mostly run its course, your mind pointed out how attractive the man was. Sure, his armor-looking leather garments looked like they had seen better days, but it was hard to ignore his soft-swept hair, scatter of freckles and sharp jawline that his stubble didn’t quite manage to hide, not to mention his lean yet muscled build.

The droid, beedee, didn’t make a move to leave. Instead, he pushed into your leg again and emitted a series of noises you couldn’t understand.

“Is he always this unclear or is my binary just rusty?” you asked the man hesitantly, keeping the rebar in hand and taking a few steps back to put space in between the two of you.

“He got shot in the middle of a fight, his vocabulator got damaged,” he said. Your grip on the metal tightened. A fight? “I was going to fly to a relay point to find him a new one, but this guy,” he shot a reproachful look at the droid, “Won’t stay put long enough for me to go.”

The droid continued his monologue. The only word you could make out was ‘Mechanic’.

“I’m a mechanic, beedee, is that why you came to see me?”

He near-violently nodded his head.

“I’m sorry he disturbed you, like I said, we need the new component to fix it.” Cal said, shrugging.

You crouched and took a closer look. You could view the injured piece now, its main area intact but its outer edge clearly burnt out. You shook your head. “You don’t need a new one, actually.”

Cal looked at you like you’d grown a third head. “Have you seen the chip? That thing is as good as dead.”

“Not if you reroute the circuit towards his internal commlink instead.”

He blinked. “You’ve worked on droids before?” he asked cautiously.

You nodded. “It’s what I trained for as a teen on my home planet, but I had the great luck of finding a dishonest pilot who promised me there were a lot of droids here.” You gestured to your near empty workshop, embarrassed. “As you can see, not quite the reality of the area. The only ones here are those the raiders keep, and I’ve made it quite clear to them on multiple occasions that they could shove it. Being on their bad side isn’t the greatest, but at least I’m not helping them loot and kill people. Used to work on ships too and loved that, but those are also lacking here.”

He looked at you as if evaluating your body language. You weren’t exactly hard to read; you wore your emotions quite visibly. “Why haven’t you left?” he asked.

“A droid mechanic on a droid-less planet doesn’t exactly have the revenue to jump on a hyperspace voyage. Maybe in a couple years, but at this rate the raiders will have found any stash of money I could keep. Anyways! what I’m trying to say is I can fix beedee if you want.” The droid beeped approvingly from where he stood, jumping up and down in triumph.

Cal seemed to weigh the risks. You didn’t blame him, some unknown mechanic on a near empty outer rim planet didn’t exactly inspire confidence, but you knew you could make the repairs easily.

“Alright,” he said defeatedly, “but if a single electrical filament is damaged, I’ll know, and you won’t get a cent.”

You shrugged, his threat not scaring you. The droid already had enough injuries as is, you weren’t planning on adding to them.

Beedee jumped up to the worktable you’d been working at earlier and you pushed aside the metal detector with a wince. The movement pulled on your palm painfully. The droid didn’t miss your reaction and pushed on your injured hand with a foot.

“Just a cut, little guy, nothing to worry about.” You said, perhaps unconvincingly. The screwdriver you’d used was a bit rusty, and you knew you should get a bacta patch to keep an infection from spreading, but you couldn’t afford one. You’d wash it out with water later and hope for the best.

The droid didn’t miss a beat at words and a little vial was suddenly flung up in the air. You didn’t manage to catch it, not having the reaction time you might have with more rest and water in you, but a calloused hand caught it before it could hit the ground. Cal stood next to you, offering the tube in an open hand

“A stim?” you exclaimed, picking it up and examining it, “I haven’t seen one of those in years, they cost a fortune.” You glanced towards Cal.  “I’m not sure the cut warrants using one.” you added.

The man just folded his arms and leaned against the table. “If beedee says you need one, I wouldn’t argue, or else you’ll be arguing with him all night.” he said.

You mumbled a soft thank you as you injected the stim, your hands already feeling much better after only a few seconds. You took off the cloth and despite the dark red that coated your hand, the cut had all but disappeared, leaving only a thin pink line behind. You scrubbed the dry blood off as best you could and turned towards the droid again.

He sat in front of you, presenting his exposed wiring. You picked up your smallest welder and started working, self-conscious of your beat-up tools. You could feel Cal leaning in with each detailed movement you made, unquestionably watching the process to learn how to do it himself. You worked as diligently as you could despite your focus trailing occasionally to the man that held close to your side. The slight reprieve the night air provided seemed gone, his warmth seeping into your skin.

It wasn’t a complicated job, you just needed to reroute the processor to the commlink to translate the droid’s processes into clear binary code to then bypass the burnt translator located on the edge of the vocabulator. It was a trick that was specific to this type of vocabulator though, so it wasn’t a well-known process.

You finished with the rerouting, satisfied by the clear binary beedee could now emit as he properly introduced himself to you. And idea shot through you and you slipped out from Cal’s side to reach for your spare parts bin. You rummaged through it for a moment, the droid sending you a questioning whistle.

“Wait a minute! I know I’ve got it somewhere here…” you grumbled. “Ah-ah! Here it is.”

You held out a grey piece of thin durasteel as you sauntered back to the waiting duo, grabbing your heat gun along the way. “I think I can give you a temporary fix for your casing, let me just… There! It doesn’t match your colors, but it should do the trick.” You slid a newly shaped metal plate over the spot where the casing had melted away, grinning at its sturdiness. “This won’t fix it forever; I’d need a little more time to make an entirely new one and to make it the right color, but this should keep your components safe for a while!”

BD-1, as you now knew him, spun around in circles as he tried to check out his new part. You took out a small mirror from a drawer and held it up to him so he could see. He let out a string of excited beeps and whistles, repeatedly asking Cal to look at his ‘cool looking patch’. You glanced to the man on your side and discovered him watching you intently with a small smile. You felt your cheeks heating under his stare and scuttled back a few steps.

“Uhm, I hope this all works out until you’re able to find new parts, you guys! I could get started on a new custom permanent case too, so beedee doesn’t lose his usual flair.” BD-1 whistled in approval. “Shouldn’t take me more than a few days, maybe 5 at most, if you’re interested.”

Cal nodded, his intense gaze not faltering. “I think that’d be perfect. How much for today’s work?”

“Oh no, consider it as a repayment for that stim and for the opportunity to work on a droid again. Honestly, I had forgotten how much more interesting it is than working on the prospectors’ tools. As for the pickup, if I’m not here when you come back to get it, that means I’ve gone out to trade for parts. I’ll leave the finished casing in this drawer here,” you pointed to the right one, “and you seem to know how to get past the locks. Just close it back up when you leave!”

He laughed at the remark and thanked you for your work on BD-1. The droid gave you a sharp farewell whistle despite its clear disappointment at having to leave already. He climbed onto Cal’s back as the man moved toward your shop’s door.

“Hey,” you called, “if you come around this corner of the galaxy again after picking up beedee’s casing, don’t hesitate to swing by! It’s always nice seeing someone new.”

He turned on his feet, walking backwards for a few steps. “I have a feeling we’ll see each other again, don’t worry.” He winked at you, leaving you at a loss for words, and turned back to walk through the door.

After you calmed your elevated heartbeat, you locked up after him, deciding the two unexpected guests were enough for one night. You leaned back against the door and sighed. Maybe you should’ve accepted the money. Cal seemed like a nice guy, but Koboh was getting harder every day. Habo was still on your mind, but you’d settle for anything other than this damn planet. Kriff, you’d even be willing to join a crew of wandering space pirates if that meant you actually got to do something other than retrieve and fix the same old tools over and over again. Maybe one day luck would favor you, you thought, or maybe it just wasn’t meant to be.

-- 9 days later ---

The walk back from trading was always exhausting. The prospectors that held the best materials were currently residing on a high cliff that hid a cave’s opening. Getting up there was arduous, but if you left early enough it was manageable despite the climbing you had to do. By the time you made the trek back, however, there was no escaping the sun’s rays, and the only thing keeping your hands from the burning rocks as you scaled down the cliff was an almost ruined pair of leather gloves. They wouldn’t last another climb, you thought, and neither would your boots.

You’d have to find something to barter with the one villager who made most of the prospectors’ equipment. You didn’t even have money for food this week, but you’d make do, like you always did. Maybe you’d go back to the cantina tonight to offer maintenance on Greez’s bartender droid. His cantina was apparently bringing in more customers this week, so maybe you could find some other work there too.

You were also looking forward to hearing more of the village gossip. You’d heard rumors of a Jedi taking down raiders all over the region when you’d gone for a drink the night before but given that the source of that information was Turgle, you were far from convinced. A Jedi would be hunted down in a minute by the Empire, especially if they used their famed weapon and left witnesses. The fisherman you sometimes saw hanging around the streams, Skoova, had however confirmed that there was indeed a newcomer hunting down raiders for sport.

He hadn’t been very talkative, only describing him as a short-haired man of average height that fought in a poncho. You didn’t know how you felt about someone wearing a poncho on a desert planet, though you did find humor at the idea of the raiders getting their ass kicked by some new guy in a raincoat. Either way, if there was a chance that this not-a-Jedi-even-though-Turgle-says-he-is guy had arrived here by ship, you wanted to find out more no matter his unusual taste in clothing.

You entered your workshop after the long walk back from the prospectors, bracing for the intolerable heat of your metal cage. You stored what little you’d brought back in its rightful place and dragged your feet to your worktable, ready to start working on another tool a prospector had given you to fix. You remembered distantly that Cal still hadn’t swung by to pick up BD-1’s new case.

You peeked inside the drawer and found it empty of the custom case. There were a few credits in there, thankfully enough to cover the material you’d used for the case, plus a couple more. Despite the much-needed money, you couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Of course, the one day you left your workshop had to be the one when he decided to come here. You sighed and pushed the drawer away, rubbing your eyes with your palms, hoping (and doubting) that he would visit again. You didn’t even know what region of Koboh he was from, you didn’t recognize his accent at all.

A glimpse of white caught your eye before the drawer shut completely. You reached towards the unknown object and found a folded note that you were sure hadn’t been in therebefore you left. You opened it and didn’t immediately recognize the handwriting.

-

Thank you for the case, BD-1 is practically begging for a couple more designs (to match my ‘rizz’ - I have no idea what that means. He convinced me to wear an old grey poncho I had just so we matched and I fear giving in to the different colored cases will be the start of a slippery slope, but how could I say no to the little guy?)

I’ve gone off-track – What I mean to tell you is that if you still want to leave Koboh, there will be a ship (it’s mine) at the landing pad until 1500 tomorrow. Bring what you need, but I have all the essentials on board. Food and water I mean, and maybe I have a spare toothbrush somewhere too?

Anyway. We’ll figure it out.

I can drop you off somewhere if you want, but I wouldn’t mind a mechanic on board if you’re interested. Can’t guarantee regular hours or absolute safety but hey, still more interesting than metal detectors, right?

This might be my last visit to Koboh in a while.

P.S.: BD-1 wants you to know you’re the only one allowed to fix his leg, and that he ‘requires you on board’. His words, not mine. He shot an electric dart at the last person who tried to repair it (me).

Cal

-

You couldn’t help but let out a loud celebratory shout as you read. He had a ship, and you were finally getting out of here! No more prospectors whining at the time it took to fix their tools, no bedlam raiders trying to kick through your door in the middle of the night, no need to refill your water supply from the well that stood well over a mile away.

You’d happily make BD-1 a thousand little metal outfits to match Cal’s ponchos if he wanted-

Your mind screeched to a stop. Hadn't that been the outfit Skoova mentioned?

You remembered what Turgle said about the second newcomer, the one he had called a Jedi. You didn’t remember ever reading about that order using guns, but… Cal had been carrying another weapon. The metal handle, you now realized, that was hanging at his side.

Oh kriff.

Had the idea while building the BD-1 Lego set. I meant for this to be just a little 1k meet-cute oneshot, Of course, me being me, i wrote 5k. Edited it a little, and it's as short as I can tolerate lmao

My first time posting for Star Wars! Still not over Survivor despite having played it more than 100 hour in the first two weeks i got it, and having done reruns since. The double-bladed stance has me in a chokehold.

Tell me what you think, and check out my masterlist!

[sequinsmile-x]

Noise Pollution

Emily's snoring keeps Aaron awake, but instead of upsetting his very pregnant wife by telling her, he comes up with a solution. And it works.

Right up until it doesn't.

-x-

Hi friends,

I had this idea about the snoring, and then the lovely @section-chief-prentiss tagged me in a post from Reddit where someone finds out their partner sets their alarm early just to snuggle with them...and I just had to write it in!!

Anyway, I hope you all enjoy this slightly silly Saturday evening fluff.

-x-

Words: 2.5k

Warnings: Pregnancy

Read over on Ao3, or below the cut

Aaron huffs out a breath as he checks the time on the alarm clock on his nightstand and then rubs his tired eyes.

3 am. 

He had to be up in three hours for work, and he’d barely slept. He sits up in bed and looks over at his wife, smiling softly at the sight of her fast asleep and curled around her pregnancy pillow. He was pleased she was sleeping, that she was getting the rest she so desperately needed in the lead up to their daughter being born in just 6 weeks time, but there was one side effect that, sadly, meant he was unable to sleep himself. 

She snored. Loudly. 

She always had snored, but not quite like this. It was something he’d picked up on their first night together. She’d fallen asleep first, half lying on top of him, her skin pressed up against his and her face against his neck as she dozed off. Her snoring was soft, bordering on cute - something he’d never tell her - and he very quickly came to find he couldn’t sleep without it. His very own form of white noise. One of the many things he’d learnt about her over the last few years, bits and pieces that he treasured, memories and facts about her stored away for when he needed them the most. He’d always been able to sleep through Emily’s snoring, so he’d never mentioned it to her. He didn't want to embarrass her or make her feel self-conscious, already aware at the start of their relationship of how big a deal it was for her to trust someone enough to sleep next to them. 

He jumps slightly when she snores again, the sound loud, rattling around the room in such a way he has no idea how she sleeps through it and he sighs. 

He used to be able to sleep through her snoring. 

Ever since she’d hit the third trimester of her pregnancy the snoring had got a lot worse. He knew it was a common symptom, something that happened to a lot of women, but he was still shocked at the sound his beautiful wife made whenever she fell asleep these days. He had decided not to say anything, partially because he knew she couldn’t do anything about it. She was already forced to sleep on her left side, curled around a pregnancy pillow that he was strangely jealous of, so telling her when she couldn’t switch sleeping positions seemed nothing short of cruel. He also didn’t want to tell her because he didn’t want to upset her, her usually famous emotional control left somewhere behind in her first trimester, and he didn’t want to make her upset, or angry, if he could help it. 

He’d touched on sleeping in the spare room a few weeks ago, albeit for an entirely different reason. She was hot and uncomfortable and entirely unable to relax enough to sleep, grumbling under her breath that he was a furnace, something she’d always historically loved. He’d offered to go and sleep in the spare room so she could get comfortable, and the irritation she’d clearly been feeling towards him and his body temperature just moments before disappeared, and her face had collapsed, tears shining in her eyes as she’d asked if he didn’t want to sleep with her anymore. He’d quickly assured her that he wanted to, reminded her that he loved her, and bought a cooling blanket for her to sleep under. 

He leans over and presses a kiss to her cheek, smiling when she snorts, a sound he knows she’d never believe she’d made if he told her, and he stands up, yawning as he stretches before he picks up his cell phone from the nightstand, planning on going to get a cup of coffee and starting the day immediately. 

It’s only as he walks past the spare room, his limbs uncoordinated in a way they hadn’t been since he was a teenager who had recently gone through a growth spurt, that he considers it. The sound of Emily’s snoring dulled by the closed bedroom door in a way that made him even more grateful they’d made Jack’s bedroom the one furthest from theirs. He walks towards the spare bedroom, almost led by his body, his legs taking steps of their own accord, as he slips into the bed. He pulls his phone out of his sweatpants pocket and sets an alarm for 5.45 am, enough time to wake up and get back into bed with Emily, and he falls asleep within minutes.

It works. For a week or so it works and he is able to get back into their bed before she wakes up, meaning she’s none the wiser to her snoring or the fact he had taken to sleeping in the spare room. He uses the time to snuggle with her, wrap himself around her so she’d wake up surrounded by his love and warmth. 

He hates that he’s keeping a secret from her, something he’d never done, but it feels like the right thing to do, especially when she smiles at him first thing in the morning, reaching out for his hand as she presses it to where the baby is shifting beneath her skin. 

It works, right up until it doesn’t.

___

At first, she isn’t sure what wakes her up. Then the baby kicks her bladder and she feels the overwhelming urge to pee.

“Okay, kiddo,” she says, groaning as she sits up, her hand on her bump as she does so, “Let’s go.” 

It’s only when she gets back from the bathroom that she realises Aaron isn’t in bed. She frowns and decides to go and look for him. She was planning on starting with their home office, he often went there if he couldn’t sleep, but she stops just outside of their spare bedroom when she spots the door is slightly ajar. She pushes it open and huffs out a breath when she sees him sleeping in there, still on the side he usually would with his hand reaching out to where she would be sleeping if she was in there with him. 

She turns on the light and he doesn’t move, doesn’t wake up even the slightest bit, and she grumbles, walking towards the bed. She picks up one of the pillows and hits him with it, feeling a strange bit of satisfaction when he wakes up immediately, his eyes going wide as he sits up and clamours out of bed, an edge of panic around him that she thinks she’d find amusing in any other circumstance. 

“Em,” he says, standing up, his hands reaching out for her, “Are you okay?” He asks, looking her up and down, his eyes fixed on her bump, “Is she okay, is she coming?” 

She rolls her eyes, and crosses her arms, “We’re both fine. Why are you sleeping in here?” 

He falters for a moment, his brain still not entirely online, and he clears his throat, saying the first thing that comes to mind, “I just thought you’d be more comfortable if I slept in here.” 

She hates the wave of emotion that washes over her, making her feel unsteady in a way she still wasn’t used to almost 8 months into this pregnancy. She’d always prided herself on how she was able to control her emotions, one of the few lasting side effects of how she was raised that she liked. Aaron was the only person she’d ever let fully let in. He’d broken down every single one of her defences, snuck under them and learnt what made her tick, something no one else had ever bothered with. And he wanted to do it, he’d made it his mission to know her as well as possible and she loved it, loved that he’d taken the time to know her so intimately. 

She knows he doesn’t need that to see how upset she is right now, that even her mother would be able to see that she was on the verge of tears, and she hates it. Hates that she’s so out of control, that she’s about to cry over the fact she’s found him sleeping in the spare room. 

He reaches out for her and grabs her hand, grateful when she doesn’t flinch or pull back, “Oh, sweetheart-”

“Is it because you don’t find me attractive anymore?” She asks, her voice breaking, her greatest insecurity in all of this immediately at the forefront of her mind. It was something she’d worried about for months. 

At first, she’d loved the changes to her body. She’d stand in front of the mirror, facing sideways as she desperately looked at her belly, keen to see it start to curve. She was nothing short of excited when she realised she had an actual bump, not something that could be mistaken for bloating, but things had changed. She felt massive now, almost endlessly uncomfortable, and she hated looking at herself naked. The scar on her abdomen had warped as her bump got bigger and she worried what it would look like when her daughter was here, how it would settle back down, the landscape of her body seemingly constantly changing. She worried he felt the same way, despite his reassurances that he didn’t, and finding him sleeping in here had set fire to those concerns, her cheeks burning with embarrassment as tears she can’t control slip down them. 

“Em, baby, no it’s not that,” he says, guilt rolling in his gut. He guides her to sit down on the bed and he wraps his arm around her shoulders, tugging her close as he places his other hand on her bump, smiling softly when he feels their little girl shift around, “It’s never going to be that. I’ll always find you attractive. Even when we’re both old and yelling at each other because we can’t actually hear each other anymore.”

She chuckles, the sound catching in her chest as she wipes at her cheeks, “Then what is it?” 

He sighs and he kisses her forehead, and he knows he has to tell her the truth. He rests his forehead against her temple and closes his eyes, “You snore.” 

She frowns and pulls back to look at him, confusion painted across her face, “What?” 

He smiles tightly at her and tucks some hair behind her ear, “You snore.”

“How…how long have I snored for?” 

He clears his throat, preparing himself slightly before he answers, “For as long as we’ve been together.” 

She chokes on a laugh and covers her mouth, trying to remember if anyone had ever told her before that she snored, and she shakes her head, her smile turning incredulous, “Why did you never say anything?” 

“Because it was cu…” he trails off as she clears her throat and raises an eyebrow at him, a clear warning sign he doesn’t ignore, “It was never very loud before. But as we get closer to the end of your pregnancy…”

“It’s getting louder,” she says for him and he nods. She groans and she covers her face with both of her hands, “This is so embarrassing.” 

“It’s not, sweetheart, I promise.”

She looks at him sharply, anger flashing through her “Then why didn’t you tell me?” 

“Because I know you need your rest. And you can’t help it or switch positions,” he says, placing his hand on her thigh and squeezing gently, “And I didn’t want to upset you,” he smiles wryly, “Which clearly I achieved.” 

She tries to suppress a laugh but it breaks free and she shakes her head at him, “I can’t decide if I should be pissed or if I think this is sweet,” she says, tilting her head at him, her smile turning curious, “So, how long have you been sleeping in here?” 

He sighs and scratches the back of his head, “About 8 days,” he says carefully, “I wait until you fall asleep, come in here and set my alarm 15 minutes before your alarm and then I sneak back in.”

She narrows her eyes at him as she takes in what he’s said, her tongue pressed into her cheek, “And I never woke up?” 

He shakes his head, “Not once.”

She presses her lips together, love for him threatening to burst free. She knows all he was doing was trying to protect her from getting upset, something she would have yelled at him for just a few short months ago, but for a reason she can’t fully explain, it makes her love him more. She furrows her brow as her eyes meet his, one more thread of curiosity she was yet to pull at coming to mind. 

“Why 15 minutes?” She asks, and he looks at her curiously, “Why did you give yourself 15 minutes in the morning? It takes maybe 20 seconds to get from here to our room and you’ve never been someone who needs time to get going.”

He clears his throat, embarrassment he doesn’t expect filling his chest, “Well,” he says, avoiding eye contact, as if he should feel any kind of shame for how much he loved her, “I missed sleeping next to you. So I used that time to just…hug you.” 

His admission hangs over them for a moment and a smile breaks out across her face, her gaze drifting to her side of the bed, to where his arm had been lying when she’d first walked in. “Okay, now we’re definitely edging into this being the sweetest shit you’ve ever done for me.” 

He laughs, “Really? You’re not mad?”

She shakes her head and cups his cheek, dragging him into a quick kiss, “I’m not mad. I wish you’d told me. And if there are any recordings of me snoring on your phone you’re never having sex again,” she says, raising her eyebrow at him, “But I understand what you were trying to do. It’s sweet.” 

He leans in and kisses her, resting his forehead against hers as he pulls back, “I love you.” 

“I love you too,” she replies, stamping a kiss against his lips, “I’ll buy some of those snoring strips in the morning, see if they help. If they don’t…just make sure you keep giving yourself those 15 minutes, okay? I like waking up with you there.” 

“I promise.” He kisses her nose, laughing when she scrunches it up, “Want to go back to bed, or shall I make us some hot chocolate?” 

She hums, the sound turning into a laugh when the baby kicks, “I think she wants hot chocolate.” 

He stands up and offers her his hand, helping her up and wrapping his arms around her  shoulders as he leads her to the stairs, “Whatever my girls want, they get.” 

-x-

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[ballimeracy]

Moonlight Love Pt. 1

A Werewolf! Toji x Reader fic!

2.6k words Content Warning: Breeding, use of derogatory language (slut is used once), use of the terms 'mama', 'baby doll', and 'baby girl', knotting (smut in the second part) read part two here and part three here!

You always knew Toji was, well, difficult. From his not so good childhood, to his illegal dealings which you thankfully got him to stop in favor of a more respectable job. However, none of his issues ever stopped your heart from fluttering every time you laid eyes upon his face. Everything has been going extremely well in your relationship with your boyfriend. You had just gotten a promotion at work, and the two of you moved into a nice quaint two bedroom house on the outskirts of the city where the edges of the forest slowly crept up onto your property. Well…everything WAS going fine. You started to notice subtle differences in Tojis behavior and changes in his body. Firstly, Toji was a naked sleeper. Quite frankly, you didn’t care. Seeing his toned muscular body underneath the faint moonlight was heaven, but you started to notice more and more hair appearing on his arms, back, and legs. You just shrugged this off, thinking it was just some normal guy thing. You also noticed that his senses seemed to have been heightened, if that even was possible. You could make the littlest sound from across the home and in an instant, Toji would be by your side in an instant to see what you were doing. It was all strange, but then again, you didn’t mind or try to pry because if Toji seemed fine, it must be…right?

“...Toji?” You murmur, shifting underneath the covers of your shared bed. Your furnace of a boyfriend was no longer laying beside you, causing you to shiver from the coldness of the bedroom. Sitting up groggily in bed, you squint and rub at your face, looking around the dimly lit room. Straining your ears for any signs of your boyfriend, you purse your lips when you hear some shuffling from the bathroom. It wasn't just normal sounds, it was as if a feral animal had broken into the house and was currently wrecking the place. You let out a little sigh, climbing out of bed and shivering more at the coldness nipping at your skin, shuffling over to the bathroom. Gently, you knock on the shut bathroom door, looking at the light pouring out from the crack at the bottom. “Toji baby? Are you in there?” Your voice was thick with sleep, a yawn catching at the end of your sentence. At the sound of your voice, all noise coming from the bathroom stops abruptly. “Toji?” You repeat yourself when you get no response, knocking once more. Finally after what felt like ages, you hear the gruff voice of your man on the other side of the door. “Sorry baby doll. Had to take a leak. Go back to bed.” His voice sounded strained, which made you frown. Toji normally didn’t lie (at least to you), so you frown and place a gentle hand on the doorknob. “Toji, I'm coming in.”  You stated, turning the knob and pushing the door open, squinting at the bright fluorescent lights of the bathroom. The look of pure panic and shock on your boyfriend's face when you pushed the door open was alarming, but what was even more alarming was the set of fluffy black ears on the sides of his head and the large fluffy black tail near his tailbone. You both stand in silence, with your mouth agape as you take in Toji’s form. Along with the fluffy black ears and tail, he has grown a significant amount of hair on his arms, chest, and legs. His nails were longer, and you couldn’t help your eyes from traveling down. His cock was definitely bigger than normal, the appendage straining against the black briefs. “...I can explain mama..” Toji sounded insecure for once, his eyebrows knitted with worry as he took a step towards you. “Remember all that shit I did, yknow, before we moved in together?” Toji asked, a large hand gently placed on your shoulder. You stare dumbly up at him, giving a little nod. “Yeah…yeah I remember..” You manage to squeak out, eyes trained on the wolf ears which twitched at the attention. Tojis cheeks reddened, his tail wagging subconsciously from being so close to you. “Well, one of the missions…I didn't tell you but I got pretty damn hurt.” Toji let out a sigh. “I didn't want to freak you out mama, I should’ve told you. I don’t know what the hell that thing was, but ever since, I've uh…been turning into this.” Toji stared at you, eyes examining your face to gauge your reaction. You stared blankly up at him, processing the whole thing. “So…you're a werewolf?” He seemed hesitant to answer, giving a little bit of a nod and scratching the side of his neck. “I guess…yeah.” Toji actually looked worried, looking down where you continued to examine his new features. You stood on your tippy toes, a hand hesitantly coming out to pet one of the ears, which twitched and pivoted away. That made a smile spread across your face, a soft laugh emanating from you. “Aw…that’s pretty cute…you're like a puppy.” Toji turned red, a bit of a snarl appearing on his face while his ears flattened. “I ain't no dog, mama.” He loomed over you, which just made you giggle more as you saw his tail wag. “Sure, okay big guy. Cmon, let's go back to bed.” Toji just grumbled, allowing you to grab at his wrist and lead him back to bed.

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

[glossysoap]

⛓️📝: ooo another angsty rtc hc while you wait for chapter 7:

warnings/notes: reveal of readers trigger words, moreeee of reader not remembering the boys, and reader has a russian accent now lol picture yelena belova’s accent if ur more fem or bucky’s accent when he speaks russian if ur more masc!

the picture perfect soldier.

ready to take orders, eliminate targets at any moment. ears listening for those ten phrases that trigger your bloodthirsty instincts. those instincts always remain, even without the phrases.

longing. rusted. furnace. daybreak. seventeen. benign. nine. homecoming. one. freight car.

you’re always, always listening for those words. in everyday conversations that don’t even involve you. in conversations that you overhear on the street. a random person talking about their rusted engine. a random person mentioning how they need their home furnace repaired before winter rolled around. a random parent talking over the phone, making arrangements for their daughters seventeenth birthday.

in those situations, you have to force yourself to shut down at any mention of those phrases. you tune out the noise and steel yourself.

at the strange base you’ve been contained in, it’s no different. you steel yourself and ignore any hushed conversations or barked orders that don’t pertain to you.

your face bears no emotion. brows never furrowed, eyes never crinkled, mouth never quirked up.

your teeth are always bared and your jaw is always set, keeping your mouth almost wired shut in order to remain quiet and obedient.

eyes are always blank and focused straight ahead, never making eye contact with anyone. even when addressed or ordered by the unfamiliar soldiers, you never make eye contact.

especially not with the tall man in the skull mask or the loud man with a weird hair cut who act like they know you. you can’t shake the feeling that it’s another manipulation tactic.

maybe hydra had started recruiting from the united kingdom, you thought.

you’re the exact same when you are brought into 141’s custody for the first time. where you undergo a mandatory psych evaluation.

you’re stone faced the entire time (truly from the very moment you see any of your old team), head held high, jaw set and eyes staring straight ahead. sporting a perfect posture, one that was seared into your memory no matter how many times your brain was put back in a blender.

back straight, head up. handcuffed arms resting on the table. when you eyed the metal rings locked around your wrists, you almost scoffed at the thought of that being strong enough to restrain you. even without your metal arm, you could shatter it in five seconds flat.

even as the bearded man and the blonde woman sat across from you, you sat up perfectly straight and stared straight ahead.

of course, they wanted to test your memory. they probably needed intel, probably wanted to see how easy you would be to break.

they started with asking for your name.

“do you remember your name?” the bearded man asks, voice gravelly. another brit. maybe hydra really has moved their operations.

“first name? last name? anything?” the blonde woman asked, almost pleaded. it almost sounded sincere.

you couldn’t place anything, no name or ranking. so you gave them the one ‘name’ you can ever remember being addressed by. your serial number.

“zero nine, zero one, two zero two zero.” you ground out, voice different than before you were captured.

your tongue curled as you pronounced each syllable when you spoke. your handlers and doctors had fed the russian language into your ears for months, almost two years. their voices had conditioned the accent into you, permanently changing the way your mouth moved and the cadence in which you talked.

your voice didn’t hold that warm pattern anymore or that twang from the states. it was now tainted with the same coldness and ruthlessness that you had experienced in the cold russian winter.

the bearded man’s piercing blue eyes widened a fraction when you spoke, and the blonde woman’s lips fell into a frown.

“right.” the bearded man sighed. he sounded dejected as he stood from his chair and left the room with the frowning blonde woman.

the second they left the room, they were bombarded by questions by the task force.

“how the hell did they get that arm?” gaz.

“why don’t they remember us?” soap.

“how are they? are. they. okay?” ghost.

“all they said was zero nine, zero one, two zero two zero. nothing else.” price answered, dragging a hand down his face.

“what the hell does that mean?” gaz muttered, brows crinkling.

“zero nine, zero one..” soap muttered the string of numbers under his breath, trying to figure it out. like it was a riddle.

ghosts’ eyes were shut as he leaned his head back against the wall. he was already running every possibility through his mind. was it a passcode? a serial number? a date?

his eyes snapped open. it was a date.

“zero nine, zero one, two zero two zero. it’s a date.” ghost muttered. everyone looked at him to continue.

“january ninth, twenty twenty.. the day they were captured.”

©️ glossysoap 2024. please do not steal, copy, plagiarize, translate, or repost any of my works without my permission. do not steal any elements of my theme without permission.

[jar-of-maise]

stellaron hunters found family (i)

Blade thinks to himself for a moment, in truth he has an inkling about the so-called “power” and it’s origin, but keeps it to himself for the present. For now, he contents himself with watching Silver Wolf and Kafka argue. It’s a rather one-sided affair but entertaining to watch nonetheless. 

Sam returns from a mission later and Blade gets the honour to witness one of the duo’s legendary video game duels. It’s fun to watch and Kafka joins him on the couch as the Silver Wolf and Sam battle it out. Sometime, when it’s late in the night and Silver Wolf has finally dozed off, Kafka puts on a movie. It’s an action packed one, with horrid flashing lights and cinematics that has Sam worked up to the nines. 

“That’s not how it works in real life.” He grumbles, pointing at a rather risqué interrogation, “movies aren’t made the same anymore,” he adds unhappily when the following escape scene ends with the lead actor bursting out through a window. 

“Oh well, it’s value is in entertainment. Realism is secondary,” Kafka says delicately, she’s examining her nails carefully though Blade isn’t sure how she is given the dim lighting of the room. 

He hasn’t been paying a lot of attention to the movie, more preoccupied with not moving so Silver Wolf doesn’t wake up since Kafka always insists he be a human pillow. 

“You’re just comfortable Bladie, don’t overthink it,” she once said to him after a mission where she had insisted on sleeping on his shoulder. 

Even now, she’s leaning against him on the couch, legs thrown over to the other end of the sofa. Silver Wolf is resting against his other side, snoring lightly, somehow oblivious to the noise and explosions of the movie. It’s not like they try to turn the volume down either. She’s also got his coat draped over her lopsidedly like a blanket. No one had wanted to get a blanket when asked and naturally it just happened to be the day when all their couch covers were in the wash. 

So Blade sacrifices warmth. Not that he runs cold, it’s a strange juxtaposition, because the heart beating in his chest is certainly cold, but his body itself still runs hot. Warmer than the average human for some strange reason. Perhaps he’s simply keeping the furnace fire he can no longer use in his body instead. 

It seems it comes in handy, as Kafka and Silver Wolf always use him as a pillow. Even Elio, for all his prissy, posh cat ways, isn't immune. Maybe Sam is the only one who doesn’t see Blade as a portable heater…then again, Sam is self-sufficient, relying on machinery alone to accomplish tasks. 

Speaking of Sam, he’s sitting on the ottoman. Blade isn’t too sure why, there’s space on the couch – there was a reason they had needed to upgrade it several times in the past, but when he sees Elio stalk into the room from the hallway, he thinks he knows, especially when cat-Elio jumps onto Sam’s lap to get scratches. 

The night wears on and soon, not one but two people are fast asleep on each of Blade’s sides. He’s pretty sure Kafka is faking it, but knows very well that Silver Wolf is dead to the world. Not even a hard shake would make her wake up. The ending credits of the movie are rolling on the screen and still, neither have woken up. 

Blade gestures at Sam, who stands up and takes Silver Wolf back to her room, coat and everything. Elio is perched on his broad shoulders, amber eyes gleaming as they walk away. Thankfully, Silver Wolf sleeps deeply. Blade supposes it’s one of her many strengths, especially since she is still a child. 

Left alone with Kafka, Blade thinks that it really would be rude to leave her on the couch, even with a blanket and pillow. Well he doesn’t have a coat to give her and the one Kafka wears is much too small for the night so he takes her back to her room. He makes sure to remove her sunglasses, pistol(s), jacket and katana. 

The door is carefully shut, done in a way that wouldn’t make a noise and wake Kafka up. They share a trait there, that they are both light sleepers. With Kafka and Silver Wolf secured, Blade begins the trek back to his own room. It’s dark in the hallways, but occasionally, a window opening into the starry seas appears.

[oftenwantedafton]

the dark of the woods | dave miller x female reader

rating | explicit

part 3/?

words | 5.4k

cw | sexual content

ao3 link

You leave the campground behind you and enter the darkness.

There are no lights along the path leading back to the road. Dave has said he’d meet you here, but it’s difficult to see much of your surroundings. It’s eerily quiet tonight. No nature sounds. Even the noise from the other campers doesn’t reach here. You wrap your arms tightly around yourself, hoping the forest ranger will make an appearance sooner rather than later.

“Well, what do we have here?”

You jump at the voice, pressing a hand against your racing heart. “Dave! You scared me half to death.”

You can just faintly make out the tall, slim figure of the forest ranger, a deep woods sentinel who detaches himself from the forest and appears by your side.

“Not waiting too long, I trust? You know, this would have been a lot easier if you had just left the campsite with me. But you’re so worried about what the others will say…” You can hear the faint chiding in his tone. A reprimand mixed with amusement.

“I just don’t want people minding my business,” you grumble. His body heat radiates towards you and you refuse to admit how much you want to pull that warmth over you; how each subsequent encounter with the strange man makes you more and more addicted. “And why don’t you park next to the cabins like everyone else?”

You hear him cluck his tongue. “Already complaining and it’s been less than a minute. I enjoy the walk. It also allows me to scout for things on foot that I’d miss while inside the car.”

“What kinds of things?”

“Oh, you know. This and that.”

You swear he’s intentionally being vague just to frustrate you. “How are we supposed to find our way? It’s pitch black out here.”

“I know the way. It’s a rather straight shot to the exit. But, as I’m sure it will make you feel better, here.” You feel Dave’s hand blindly reaching out, copping a feel of one breast through your jacket that you know is entirely deliberate before something is pressed into your palm. Weighted. Cylindrical. A flashlight. “I beg your pardon,” he says, but the apology doesn’t sound the least bit remorseful. You know he’s wearing that crooked grin of his, even if you can’t see it. You wish he’d touch you again, and the hopeful thought makes your skin vibrate with anticipation.

You feel for the grooved switch of the tool and a beam of light illuminates the ground. You can see fresh sets of tire tracks etched into the dirt, there until the next rain storm decides to obliterate them.

“Ready to go?” You’d been right about the smirk. You can see it in the glow as you sweep the light around. He’s changed out of his uniform, opting for jeans and a long sleeve charcoal shirt. The clothing clings to his lean frame. It seems inadequate shielding against the cool night air, but then again, the man emits heat like a furnace. Your eyes don’t know where to focus. Those long legs. Narrow hips. The notch at the base of his throat. That pale column itself before the jut of his jaw, parchment pale. Glittering quartz eyes. His messy hair looks like spilled ink in this near darkness.

You shake yourself. “Yes, let’s go.”

“You should stick close to me. Just in case.”

You think back to his previous warning about dangerous things lurking in the forest and you follow his advice, allowing his spindly fingers to slot through yours. He takes wide steps and you find the pace brisk. After a time he slows down and tugs on your hand and you realize you’re being led off the path.

“Careful. Watch your step. My car is over here.”

You train the beam of light over the ground, trying to avoid any tree roots or fallen branches or anything else that might be a trip hazard. You’re relieved when you see the metallic sheen of an automobile. Your dark trek through the woods is at its end.

The older man releases your hand and digs into his pants pocket to find his car keys, then unlocks the passenger side door of what looks like a standard issue sedan bearing the logo of the forested area. You slide inside the vehicle, noting the vinyl seats feel cool even through your jeans. Dave gets behind the wheel and reaches over for the flashlight still clutched in your hand.

“Won’t be needing this now.” He shuts it off and tucks it behind your seat.

Still no start of the engine. You wait expectantly, staring through the windshield into the darkness. You think maybe you can make out the outline of the guard shack nearby, the moon finally peeking from around a cloud, but the illumination is very faint.

A creak as Dave shifts in his seat draws your attention to his face. You can barely see him, mainly just the sparkle of his eyes, the bits of pale skin that are exposed. You’d been so frightened of him yesterday; now you’re more afraid of admitting the prospect of leaving tomorrow is no longer quite so pleasant.

“What are you thinking?” His voice is quiet.

You shrug. “Wondering why we haven’t left yet.”

“We’ll go soon. What else are you thinking?”

You squirm in your seat. Persistent as always. He’s not letting you get away with such a bland response. “I was thinking about what happens when I leave tomorrow,” you admit.

“What do you think will happen?”

You fiddle with one of the strings on the hood of your jacket. “I don’t know. I’ll leave. You’ll stay.”

“I won’t be staying. I’m not here once the site is closed for the season.”

“Well, you’ll go do whatever you do the rest of the time.”

“Another job elsewhere.”

“Okay.” You let your hand fall into your lap. You wonder what he does during the winter months to supplement his income. What his home is like. Maybe it’s just an apartment. Small and filled with creature comforts. Cozy. But a little empty. Something missing. Someone.

“What would you like to happen?”

“I don’t know.” You chew your bottom lip. “You said…” The words will not come. He’s right. You do leave your thoughts hanging. He doesn’t understand what it’s like. You can’t be like him, so bold and brazen. You’re always cautious. Reluctant. You’re so accustomed to not having an audience that when one does appear, you suddenly don’t know how to react to the attention.

“What did I say?” He’s pulling the answers from you, little by grudging little. You don’t want to release them. It’s a defense mechanism you’d built up long ago. Don’t let people know how you feel. Don’t get close.

You want him close. Madness. He’s a stranger. Creepy. Yet…there’s something there. Another layer. Perhaps he’s shored up his own barriers. Hidden behind all of his eccentricity and uncomfortable brashness and quirky humor. The tiniest crack, the smallest chink in the armor. Have you found a way in? Was that a place you really wanted to explore deeper?

“You said not to mistake this for something it wasn’t.”

Dave exhales loudly, as if his breath has been held this entire time, waiting for your response. “Yes, I did say that yesterday.”

“This morning, technically.”

“That sounds like something I would say. I’m rubbing off on you already,” he murmurs, a hint of something that sounds like fondness in his words. But that can’t be right. You must be mistaken. This isn’t…that. Not anything like it. In the early morning hours he’d cornered you in a public bathroom. Had his way with you. Then you’d gone seeking him out of your own accord later this afternoon. How has so much happened in such a short amount of time? Why are you so drawn to him?

Your features grow solemn. “What are we doing, Dave?”

“Sitting inside of my car. Talking.”

You shove at his upper arm, feeling the underlying muscle through the thin fabric of his shirt. “Smartass. You know what I mean.” You wouldn’t have been confident enough to do this earlier; just reaching out and touching him. But it feels more natural than awkward now.

“I think we are two people enjoying each other’s company.”

A simple, safe response. “Okay.” Your voice sounds tiny in your own ears. Defeated.

“You’re disappointed by that answer.”

You clear your throat. “No. It’s what I expected.” You’re giving away too much. You’ve given away too much to him already.

“To pursue something else…I don’t know that it will turn out the way you might hope.”

This reply feels genuine. Considerate. “I feel like…I feel like there are two sides to you. Two completely different aspects. And I’m not sure how to feel about them. I’m not sure how to feel about you,” you confess. “I don’t really know who you are, Dave Miller.”

He is quiet for a long time. “You’re not wrong. There is an entire history, an entire life…It’s more than I can tell you about in one night.”

You wish it wasn’t so dark, so you could see his features better. “But you would tell me?”

A heavy sigh. “I can’t promise you that.” His hand reaches out, settling against your cheek. “But I can promise that you have my undivided attention and I intend to make the rest of your trip as memorable as possible. Let’s go have some fun.” His lips brush yours. You lean to capture his again, your fingers finding his thigh, curling over the denim clad extremity. He huffs a gentle laugh over your lips. “Careful, sweetheart. You start that and we won’t make it to Freddy’s.”

The restaurant. You’d nearly forgotten it these last few moments. You’re going to the site of some alleged murders. With this strange man you’re barely acquainted with who’s as much as admitted there is a past you know nothing about. Why did you agree to this, exactly?

Dave’s fingers wrap around the nape of your neck and drag your mouth back to his.

Oh. This is why.

***

You’re not sure what you’d expected the abandoned children’s pizzeria to look like.

Perhaps the outside covered in graffiti. A roof caving in, exposing the inside to the elements. Boarded up windows. Peeling paint. An overgrown parking lot choked with weeds and littered with broken asphalt.

Instead the parking lot is suprisingly tidy. There is no intruding vegetation. The exterior is brick and mortar, solid and unscathed by vandals or the ravages of time. A sturdy iron gate protects the glass front entrance. You’re even surprised to realize how well lit everything is. You’d been imagining a dark, dreary place. The sign depicting a bear mascot above the front doors is intact, still waving jauntily, a welcoming grin on its features. It doesn’t look like a business that’s been shuttered for years; it looks as if it’s merely been closed for the evening.

“Wow. Someone’s been keeping this place up,” you remark as you exit the vehicle.

“Yes.” The older man rifles through the ring of keys clutched in his palm until he locates the correct one, inserting it into the sturdy looking padlock and then dragging the gate to one side.

“So how did you get a key to this place, anyway?” You’d asked earlier and he’d brushed you off, but it seems as if he’s going to be a little more forthcoming now.

“Simple: I used to work here.”

“You did? As what?”

“Oh, a little bit of everything.” Okay, maybe not quite so forthcoming. He waves a hand in the air before pulling the door open and gesturing for you to enter the building. You step over the threshold cautiously, reluctant to venture too far inside. It’s dimly lit with some light panels set low on the walls. There are far too many unknown shapes in the shadows for your liking.

“I don’t suppose you could be a touch more vague,” you mutter. You can’t envision the older man slinging pizzas. Waiting on customers. It just doesn’t fit his image.

“I worked behind the scenes. Dry, technical stuff.”

“You think I won’t understand.”

He tips his head to one side. “No. Just think you’d be bored. Unless you have an interest in operating an animatronic stage show.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Hmmm.” He hums but doesn’t elaborate. You realize then that he’s not going to surrender any more details. He enjoys keeping secrets.

“I can’t believe someone’s still paying the electric bill. Water. Heat. Even minimally supplied, it’s gotta be pricey when there’s no revenue coming in. What’s the point?”

Dave moves to stand beside you and the door closes with a thump. “Ah, I hear the owner is quite nostalgic. Perhaps there’s still a hope that someday, when memories aren’t quite so fresh, it can reopen and resume its former glory; surpass it, even.”

“You really think people would want to come back here after what happened?”

“Why not? We have.”

“I guess so,” you grumble, unconvinced.

“I’m going to go switch the power on. Wait here for me.”

Once again the man seems to be able to find his way in virtual darkness with ease. You shove your hands into the pockets of your hoodie and wait for your guide’s return, casting a glance over your shoulder to view Dave’s car waiting patiently for your return.

When the power is fully restored, it’s a sight to behold.

Section by section the pizzeria comes alive in washes of light and color and sound. You can see dozens of tables and booths in front of you, and a large stage enshrouded in heavy drapes. The obvious arcade section offers a variety of clashing sounds all competing for attention. And there is Dave at the heart of it all, teeth spread in a triumphant grin, thrusting his arms out theatrically and even sketching a mock bow.

“Welcome to Freddy Fazbear’s Pizzeria.”

You remain hovering near the entrance, still more than a little hesitant to trespass any further, no matter how much the older man has emphasized you’re welcome to do so. He sees your reluctance and he frowns a little, holding out a hand towards you.

“Come on in. Nothing’s going to harm you here.” He’d made that same promise at the campsite. So far he’s made good on it, but this is quite another story. You don’t budge and the scowl deepens. “Look, I’ll be honest with you. I may have embellished that ghost story a little. They never found anything to suggest foul play. There was no evidence. No footage of the animatronics roaming about. Just a lot of paranoia and blame shifting.”

“That’s not what you said before. You said kids got kidnapped and murdered and shoved inside the animatronics,” you reply doubtfully.

“Ahhh, as I’ve said. Embellished the details to make the tale more exciting to captivate your fellow campers. You coming in?”

You fold your arms across your chest, as if that meager barrier will offer any significant protection. “So you lied.”

Dave shakes his head. “Lie is such a harsh term. I just made the facts a little more colorful to further supplement the experience. Look, you’re already here. You might as well enjoy yourself.”

You chew your bottom lip, still hesitating. The older man abruptly shifts gears, abandoning his previous attempts to reassure you. He threads his way back through the dining room tables and wedges a hand behind your crossed extremities, gripping you tightly and pulling you flush with his chest. There’s a gleam in his eyes. He’s enjoying this.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart? You were keen enough to come here with me.”

“I just don’t want to get into any trouble.”

“You’re not going to get into any trouble. Not the legal kind with the authorities, that is. If you’re talking about a different kind of trouble, well then, I’m more than willing to accommodate.” His fingers abandon their grasp of your arms and tug the zipper of your hoodie down playfully.

“How do you have so much stamina? Jesus,” you curse in a combination of disbelief and admiration.

“I happen to have keys to the back offices as well. I’m sure there’s at least one desk I could bend you over. Whenever you’re ready.” He grins.

Your cheeks flush hotly. “Let’s just view the front end of the restaurant for now.”

He hums over your lack of enthusiasm regarding his offer but it doesn’t truly seem to deter him in the slightest. You’re quickly led past a wall covered in layer upon overlapping layer of children’s crayon drawings to the prize counter, where Dave releases your hand and hops up to sit on top of the glass cabinet, reaching down behind him to retrieve something with a look of practiced ease. He’s clearly done this before, dozens of times, able to feel around blindly and lift up a plastic tumbler decorated with balloons.

Your eyes rove over the last sad trinkets that are left in the display bins: kazoos and Chinese finger traps and cheap plastic keychains, children’s reward treasures that will never be claimed. The forest ranger swings his feet slightly, letting the heels of his Timberland boots bump against the case. Despite his age and his extremely tall stature there’s something almost childlike in his appearance now; his eyes have a kind of feverish glow to them, his cheeks washed in color, and whatever scant signs of aging he’d previously borne on his features seems to have melted away. Perhaps it’s just the neon lighting. Maybe you’re just imagining things.

Dave rattles the cup and it actually startles you. He tips the lip down slightly so you can see it’s filled with arcade tokens, a hefty pile of bronze colored coins that have the same mascot image as the sign above the entrance imprinted on them.

He eases back off the counter gracefully, his feet making virtually no noise on the carpet, and guides you to the stage, his lips twitching with barely controlled mirth as he slaps a large red button on the wall. The curtains slide back and you jerk to a halt, surprised to see the trio of animal mascots still in working order, miming a peformance in time with the children’s party song that comes through the speakers. They certainly seem innocent enough, in spite of those rows of teeth that are bared a bit too wide for your liking. There’s no way there are bodies stuffed inside those suits. You’d be able to see them, surely. And you don’t smell any decaying remains. Maybe it really was just a tall tale you decide; an urban legend that Dave added a little extra flair to, just like he’d claimed. You’re being silly. There’s nothing sinister about this place.

As if sensing your thoughts, your companion’s voice sounds beside you. “See? Nothing to be afraid of.” His fingers brush your sleeve as he passes by you. A prerecorded announcement follows the performance, declaring the next show will be in another hour.

The arcade proves far more interesting to you. You’re no slouch at the old Atari offerings, only too happy to thumb tokens into the machines and give the former employee a show of your own. All of your childhood favorites are here: Pac Man and QBert and Frogger and Centipede. The controls still work perfectly. The cabinets are dust free. Someone must have been hired to keep the place tidy. Hopefully they won’t choose tonight to visit and perform those duties. You’re feeling more relaxed now, but there’s still a slight nagging worry at the back of your mind that you shouldn’t really be here.

The older man has you beat at the pinball machines and air hockey, but you’re content to allow him exert his prowess for now. You regain the upper hand during a series of skee ball matches, although you’re not entirely convinced he isn’t holding back just a bit.

Nearly all of the tokens from the cup are now drained as the top of the lane you’re standing in front of is illuminated by flashing crimson lights announcing your high score. You turn to face him, grinning, and he smiles indulgently.

“Having fun?”

You nod. “Yeah, actually, I am.”

“Good.”

“And not just because you cheated and let me win that last round,” you add, shoving playfully at his arm again.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” He winks at you, then takes the cup from your hand and rattles the tokens. “What do you want to do with the last of these?”

You chew your bottom lip thoughtfully and then your eyes light on something at the other end of the room.

“Got any cash on you? Like real currency, I mean.”

“Yes. Why?”

You point. “Photo booth.”

The amusement fades from his features. “I’m not really fond of having my picture taken.”

“Oh, come on. It’s not like anyone else is going to see them. Come with me. I was a good sport and did everything else with you, didn’t I?”

“Well, not quite everything,” he counters, his eyes glittering. “We still have a little more exploring to do.”

“Alright, fine. Just do this first, okay?” You’re not about to admit it just yet, but your body is getting more and more interested in his proposal.

He frowns but nods. “If you insist.”

“I do.”

“Spoiled,” he mutters, but he sets the cup down and follows you to the photo booth. A worn looking leather billfold is extracted from the back pocket of his jeans and he retrieves a pair of crisp looking dollar bills from the interior, handing them to you.

“You should go inside first. It’s going to be a snug fit.” His voice changes when he utters the word snug, almost as if it’s being caressed sensually, and the implication is strong. Another little warm tingle of anticipation runs through your core. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

You push aside the curtain and tuck yourself against the far corner of the bench. Dave joins you, one long leg braced outside the booth, the rest of his body pressing closely to you, one arm sliding around your waist. You squirm and writhe a bit as he continues to push, forcing you to keep adjusting your position.

“Dave, stop, I’m already over as far as I can go,” you protest, giggling until he leans over to kiss you.

“Are you going to sleep in my bed with me tonight? Or will you still try to pretend you’d rather be alone in that boring, empty cabin of yours?”

You swallow nervously. People would see. They’d know. Does it really matter all that much? You’re starting to think maybe not. “I’ll stay with you,” you agree.

“Good. Take your pictures. Then we’ll continue the tour.”

You feed the bills into the machine and select the option for the photo strip of four pictures. Unsurprisingly, you’re assaulted with mock antennas behind your head before the first shot is snapped, forcing you to exact revenge by digging a knuckle between your partner’s ribs. Before the final image is captured he settles down, his face pressed alongside yours, looking straight into the camera.

“That last one came out really nice,” you murmur as you retrieve the photos from the slot, your gaze lingering on the developing image at the bottom of the column.

“It did, didn’t it?” A pleased little sound escapes his lips before he snatches the strip from your fingers and exits the booth. You shove at the curtain impatiently and follow, reaching for the pictures he now holds high out of your reach.

“Dave, don’t you dare do anything to those. Come on, they’re mine.”

“What if I wanted a memento?” He teases.

“You didn’t even want to get your picture taken in the first place.”

He sighs, lowering his arm. “Fine. Take them. There’s probably still a shopping bag left at the gift center you can stash that in. Hang on.” He ducks into a small area that you hadn’t been offered a tour of. The window displays are all empty and you imagine it’s been picked clean long ago. You’re offered a paper bag that’s about the size of a greeting card that’s perfect to slip the photo strip into.

“You can leave that on the counter there and we’ll grab it on our way out.” A pair of doors marked for Employees Only at the opposite end of the dining room becomes your next destination. Dave’s wrist snaps the key in the lock quickly and he backs into one of the doors, creating an opening for you to pass through.

All of the good humor you’d enjoyed previously evaporates as you step into the corridor.

The lighting is much poorer here; more than one of the fluorescent bulbs overhead has gone out. The walls and floor are a drab gray. Dave appears as confident here as he had in the more cheerful, colorful part of the establishment, but you can’t share the same sentiment. You shiver, reluctantly following him deeper into the back of the building, past the kitchen and employee restrooms and an area marked Parts and Service which is as dark as the woods you’d left behind to come here.

It’s the manager’s office you’re ultimately led into, the door snapping shut loudly behind you after you’ve stepped inside the room. The furniture here is as dull as the exterior. Office chair. Steel desk. Filing cabinet. An outdated phone and computer monitor. The only colorful variant in the room is a series of children’s drawings tacked to the bulletin board on the wall. They depict the mascots. A family, two adults and three children of varying sizes. You see the name Evan on one of the pictures and Elizabeth on another. Not a patron’s gifted handiwork, as you’d first thought. The owner’s offspring created these. The wax and magic marker scrawls are fading, the bottom edges of the pages curling. Where were those children now? Grown up with kids of their own, most likely.

Your eyes shift to find Dave staring at the pictures as well. For the barest, briefest moment, there is the tiniest twitch near the corner of his mouth; not the customary smirk, but the beginnings of a grimace, and the corners of his eyes begin to crease and crumple.

Then his expression clears and his gaze meets yours.

Suddenly you’re that creeped out girl at the guard shack at the campground; the scared girl in the public bathroom being groped and kissed and ravaged. Your breath hitches when he steps closer, one arm curling around your waist, drawing your body against his.

“You’re still afraid of me.”

You swallow thickly. “No.” You know you’re not convincing anyone. Your voice warbles around the denial. “Why do you have keys to the manager’s office?”

“I have access to everything in this entire facility. It was necessary for my position.”

You don’t understand the rationale there, but you decide against arguing any further. There’s a dangerous glint in the older man’s eyes that you haven’t seen before.

“If I wanted to hurt you, I wouldn’t have to bring you all the way here to do it.”

“That’s not exactly reassuring.”

His fingernails scrape the back of your head and then he grabs a handful of your hair and jerks your head back, eliciting another gasp.

“I enjoy you,” he says, each word punched out forcefully, as if it’s straining him to admit it. The hand at your waist trembles. “I’m not going to destroy you. But I am going to fuck you, very hard and fast and deep over this desk, do you understand?” His breath is warm over your throat before his mouth sucks hard and you whimper, fingers curling into his shirt. Your assent comes out broken, almost two syllables, Ye-es, and then it is all teeth and lips and tongue, yours and his, crushing hard. Fingers scrabble to open your pants and shove them over your hips, your panties jerked along the same path, and then you’re pushed face down against the desk blotter that bears an outdated calendar. You hear Dave’s fly unzip, feel the hot smack of his cock against one cheek of your buttocks and then he impales you in one swift, firm thrust.

Your nails scrape and tear at the paper beneath you, a wild, gutteral series of moans dropping from your lips each time he cants his hips and the tip of his prick strikes your womb. It borders on painful but you welcome it; welcome the hand that strikes the curved globe of flesh, the ringing slap sharp and shocking in that cramped office space. Then his hands worm their way beneath your torso, snaking beneath the layers of your jacket and shirt and bra, pinching nipples and tugging you upright, back and back and back while he’s still buried inside of your pussy.

Your clit is his next target, rolled and mashed in perfect circles while he continues to pump in and out of your body. Your throat burns, the repeated moans into the stale air exhausting your vocal cords and robbing you of moisture. Everything wet is concentrated further south, spilling out around Dave’s cock. His breath sounds ragged as the lewd noises of your colliding bodies continues.

“Fucking cum for me,” he growls, his caress of your bud now sloppy with your arousal, no longer drawing neat circles but flicking in quick, short strokes down the smooth pink flesh and over your swollen clit. Your body obeys, the first sizzle along your nerves driving your head back. You throb and clench around him, letting him support your weight as your orgasm crashes over you.

You feel hands on your waist, his cock escaping your cunt and you mewl a brief protest at the sudden vacancy but then you realize he’s changing your position. You allow yourself to be turned and lifted onto the desk, still kept close to the edge while he shoves right back inside your welcoming nether maw. You cling to his neck and shoulders, your mouth wild and sloppy against his as your knees squeeze the slats of his ribs. One of you is bleeding; maybe both. You taste metal in his frenzied kisses but it doesn’t deter you from sucking and biting and laving at his lips and tongue. Amidst the chaos is the single clarifying thought that this time with him, as strange and frightening yet intensely satisfying as it has been, is nearing an end. The weekend nearing its finale. The season is almost over.

You knot your hands in his hair and outline the arch of one cheekbone with your tongue, tracing your way to his ear. “Dave…”

“Fuck, I’m so close. You’re…”

“Yes, Dave…”

Your head is tugged back again and you see the moment of his release, that internal rupturing supernova of pleasure that makes his eyes go hazy and his jaw slack, lending softness that makes all the harsh lines and angles blur. Then his face is tucked against the space between your neck and shoulder and you remain like that, still joined together, panting and shaking because fuck, that had, in some ways, been your best session yet. In spite of its brevity, the intensity had more than made up for it.

There’s something almost bashful about the way he’s hiding his face, avoiding your gaze, sooty lashes downcast as you insist on helping him straighten his clothing when your bodies finally part. You tug his shirt back down over the waistband of his jeans once he’s been tucked back into place and the fly refastened, marveling again at how slender those powerful hips are.

You wait by the entrance while the forest ranger shuts the power back off, clutching the paper bag with your photos. The heavy drapes draw shut across the stage once more, the lights extinguished and the sounds muted throughout the dining room and arcade. The pizzeria is ready for another slumber.

You don’t need Dave to guide you to the car. There is still ample lighting in the parking lot and it’s only a short walk.

But he still slips his hand into yours.

[greenorangevioletgrass]

openin' up | b.r.b.

pairing: bradley 'rooster' bradshaw x actress!reader

summary: it's an ordinary morning in their new house, and bradley gets enlisted for help with an... extraordinary warm-up for a morning rehearsal. [part of "the actress & the aviator" universe but can be read as a standalone]

word count: 1.8k

warnings: established relationship, domestic fluff, bradley is a simp but so is the reader, they're engaged y'all, language, smut [blowjob, dirty talk, switch!rooster, switch!reader, brief daddy kink, spit kink, cum eating, this is really filthy but soft i promise]

notes: i'm BACK, Y'ALL! i literally started this fic back in early october but life happened (i worked out of town, got out of a relationship, got into a new relationship. whew!) so i've only got around to finish it now. im a little rusty, so however much love you can give me would be greatly appreciated <3 thank you and happy reading!

✨ follow @ficsbygreenorangevioletgrass to get notified for my latest words <3 happy reading and please reblog if you liked it! ✨

***

The house in San Clemente is new. The novelty of the living room furniture is apparent, bright and shiny and smelling faintly of packing boxes, save from Goose’s old piano they brought home from Virginia. The fridge only has three takeout menus pinned onto it, from the first week you moved in. The shelves and displays have barely gathered any dust on the books and awards and vinyl collections that newly inhabit them.

But the rhythm in how the two of you go about your day in this new home— your shared home… It's effortless and familiar. Tried and tested. Bradley’s alarm sounds off early in the morning, way too early, but you’ve learned to tune it out. But the prolonged absence of the human furnace you sleep with makes the bed all cold and empty, and it’s hard to go back to sleep like that (you wish you were being dramatic, but it’s true.) By the time Bradley gets out of the shower, you’re usually there, sleepily brushing your teeth and giving him a minty kiss good morning.

This morning, you’re already in the kitchen by the time he’s dressed for work. He hears you first; a cacophony of strange noises that would otherwise be alarming if it weren’t for how routine it is now. All the hums and sirens and lip trills and are those meows you’re doing for warm-up? 

“Morning, songbird.” Rooster saunters in with a kiss to your temple. Then, as he pours his coffee, nearly back-to-back as you hold a steaming cup of tea, he chuckles to himself.

You groan, catching the amusement right away. “Whoever thought it was a good idea to have a singing rehearsal so early in the morning is clearly not thinking,” you grumble, voice still gravely from sleep.

“Whoever thought it was a good idea to stay up late and binge Fleabag like she hasn’t seen it 4 times is…” you level his cheeky comment with a glare and he backtracks behind his coffee cup, “…clearly regretting it now.”

You pinch his side, scowling but not really. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

Bradley does a shoulder wiggle in response, so bright and chirpy so early in the morning. A multitude of fun contradictions; tall and broad and imposing in his flight suit, sleeves tied up around his waist, yet at the same time…

Soft and domestic and adorable as he puts the bread in the toaster and cracks a few eggs to scramble (he does it with one hand, too, that cocky fuck.)

You love him so much, it’s ridiculous. It is so ridiculous, in fact, that it gives you an idea…

“Hey, what time do you have to be at work?”

“0900, why?”

You hum, taking a thoughtful sip of your magical concoction of ginger, honey, and lemon. And then…

“Can I suck your dick?”

He bursts out laughing. But then, seeing your completely straight face, he stops. “Wait, for real?”

“I’m serious! For singing purposes. I need to open up and warm up my throat.” He opens his mouth again to comment, but you cut him off, “And don’t ask me how I know this works. But it does.”

People would say your love story is one for the movies. A movie star and a naval aviator falling in love while filming thousands of feet in the air. The two worlds collide, and your lives are intertwined forever. It’s a grand Hollywood romance.

Nobody would ever expect that your happy-ever-after is a comedy.

“Well, jeez, buy me dinner first, ma’am.” He rolls his eyes playfully, as if his heart rate wasn’t picking up. He tries to keep it cool, teasing her right back. “Also, is that the only reason? I am hurt.”

“Well, what do you want me to say?” there’s an air of innocence in your reply —a stark contrast to your request. You come up behind him and wrap your arms around his middle. “That you look so good in your uniform, and I want you to fuck my face? Come down my throat?”

Okay. Maybe it’s a slightly raunchy comedy.

There’s a heavy three-second gap. Three seconds of Bradley’s tightening grip on the spatula and the pan, from the three seconds of your figurative grasp right where you want him.

Three seconds of his slow, bracing draw of breath.

“Honestly?” He pipes up, “Yes.”

Click. You turn the stove off and he has to remind himself to let go, and let you turn him around. Amusement, intrigue, lust, and love painted his face like a swirl of colors. God, you adore him.

You back him into an empty counter, careful not to bump into any hot mugs or pans. “You know I like seeing your suit half done up like this...” Your voice is still rough from sleep, and he swears it’s the sexiest sound his brain can comprehend. “Makes really, really wanna swallow you whole ‘til I choke on your cock. Will you let me do that?”

His Adam’s apple bobs. His lips fall open slightly, but no sound comes out.

You love him like this. All dazed and dumb when you’ve barely done anything to him. It makes you feel powerful. And there’s no power trip quite like knowing you hold the reign.

Even when you give it up.

You bat your eyelashes, sighing just a little when his dick, now fully erect, flexes against your belly in attention. “Please… Daddy?”

Fuck. 

Bradley Bradshaw is still just a man. And as stubborn as he is (and he is plenty stubborn, ask anyone), he is running out of reasons to believe that this is a bad idea. Then again, who is he to deny his fiancée a blowjob for her own sake?

He groans, guttural as he grabs a handful of your ass. “‘Course you can, baby.”

You lean in for a kiss, tender and loving despite everything, and he wants to melt into your touch. It’s oddly comforting to see that amidst the absurdity, it’s still you and it’s still him. And wherever you are, whatever you do —be it having breakfast or doing weird things for warm-up—, this is home. 

And home is where you sink down to your knees, taking his pants and boxers down with you on a random Thursday morning. 

His cock stares right at you, veins running along the sides as it curves ever so slightly to the right. A pearly bead leaks out of his pinkish tip, and you dart out your tongue to taste him. And a taste is never enough —you want to devour all of him.

He can feel the ground pulling from underneath him. One hand with knuckles white on the counter, the other cradling the back of your head. Not quite pushing you, just… caressing you as you adjust to his girth.

Bradley is a big boy, and you say this with no exaggeration whatsoever. It always hurts a little at first when he fucks you, no matter how much he’s made you come before that, and giving him a blowjob is no different. Exhaling slowly through your nose, you relax your jaw and draw yourself closer inch by inch…

“Shit, baby…” His dick is all snug in your warmth, his dream woman on her knees, and he feels on top of the world. “You gonna be a good girl, take all of Daddy’s cock? Come on. Open up, that’s it, that’s… fuck.”

He reaches the back of your throat, making you gag, and it takes him everything to not lose it at the blissful sensation of you tightening around him.

“Breathe, breathe…” he rakes his long fingers through his hair, although he’s probably partly saying it to himself, too. “You okay? D’you need a minute?”

Your glassy eyes look up at him, and he’s praying please please please I might not even last a minute like this… 

It’s a strange, delicate balance of your relationship dynamic. In your obscured vision and compromising position, it’s Bradley who surrenders himself to you. Gentle. Careful. Vulnerable. It makes you feel fucking glorious. 

So you shake your head slightly, and drag your mouth along his heavy shaft.

“God, baby, you feel so fucking good… so perfect, my baby’s so perfect, Jesus fuck—” he swallows heavily, and groans just as heartily. “You’re all mine, aren’t you? I’m the only one who gets to fuck your mouth like this. I’m the only one who gets to come inside you— forever. Fuck, I can’t wait to marry you…”

You look up at him when you hear that, and he finds your gaze, catching the humorous, mischievous glint in your eyes. His brain is in your mouth, and he couldn’t care any less. If you’re gonna tease him all week for what he said, so be it. Because the truth of the matter is, he means it.

With his whole damn heart.

And as the pounding in said heart picks up, so does the rush of blood all over his body. Your hand joins your mouth at the base of his cock, stroking him closer and closer to his release. And he all but loses his mind. His fists open and close as tingles run all the way to his fingertips.

“Baby, baby, baby…” he chants, almost feverishly, “I’m so fucking close, baby, pleasepleaseplease, can I come, please baby, I need to— fuck… fuck. Fuck!”

Warmth pours into your mouth, and you make sure to catch every last drop of pearly white he’s giving— surrendering— to you. Not letting him go until he rides out the very last waves of his orgasm. And when he does, you rise up to your feet and face him.

All flustered and fucked out just for you.

You cup his chin between your thumb and forefinger, motioning him to open. Bradley leans back against the counter, tilting his head up and sticking his tongue out for you. His brown eyes are fixed on you, waiting, wanting like he hasn’t just come less than a minute ago. And when you spit his release back into his mouth… he closes them like he’s coming again.

He takes every single drop just like you did, and swallows it all. But even that’s not enough. He pulls you in by the back of your neck for another searing kiss.

“I love you,” he murmurs into your lips.

“I love you, too.” You kiss him one last time and pull away. Taking a hearty sip of your tea and humming a simple five-note scale. “Mm, much better.”

Bradley watches on, all dumbstruck, as you continue your vocal warm-up while washing your hands and grabbing plates to set up on the table. Carrying on and minding your business as if nothing had happened.

Well. 

Apart from the cheeky look you share as you continue your ordinary morning routine. Making your new home a little more lived-in everyday.

And then, he grins widely, pulls his pants back on and turns the stove back on to finish cooking. “Man, I love morning rehearsals…”

[goheatingairplano]

(via GIPHY)

[venusthepirate]

like any unloved thing part six : nothing’s gonna hurt you baby

Masterlist \ ao3 \ part one \ part two \ part three \ part four \ part five

taglist :  @avocado-writing @little-sunflower-bug @evangelineflowers @humbug5 @yume904 @sarcastic-sourwolf @chloeforde @illusionsnfantasies @cupofstarss @mystic-mara @staceysmomsposts @thatcharmingmushroom @www-interludeshadow-com @gingersass @hungoverhellhound @dunaahahah @raye2000 @eonnyx @supervoldejaygent

so sorry for the late update, I meant to post this wayyy earlier !! I hope you’ll enjoy it, please tell me what you thought :)

Fawn wakes up feeling very warm.  She blinks against the light filtering in the room through the half-closed curtains.

Tangerine is pressed against her, legs tangled with hers. His face is half mushed against the pillow, curls fully broken out of the perfectly slicked back hairstyle he usually does.

He looks younger like this, face relaxed. There’s no crease between his eyebrows, with the way he’s always frowning, as if the world personally made something to offend him. She raises a hand and gently brushes the pad of her thumb on the patch of skin.

Tangerine huffs in his sleep, mumbling incoherently, before turning a bit more to the other side, mushing his face even further into the pillow. Fawn can’t help but smile slightly.

After a while of staring at the ceiling and then at his back, she starts feeling overheated. The man is like a goddamn furnace, and the sweatpants he gave her are not really helping. She slowly disentangles away from him, wondering how it’s possible for a human being to radiate this much warmth.

She sits up on the mattress, feet against the warm carpet. There’s a small clock on the nighstand. It’s already eleven in the morning, but they did get here pretty late last night. It must have been… What, two a.m. ? Three ? She doesn’t even know.

The weight of everything that happened dawns on her. The dead man, somewhere. Tangerine, soundly sleeping next to her.

She should maybe wake him up, ask him if she can go home. She has a thousand things to do. She needs to check up on Violet, to… She doesn’t exactly know what. She wants to hole up in her small flat and not go out again, for maybe a few years, until she’s sure the world’s forgotten about her.

At the same time, she doesn’t really want to leave this place. Here, she feels like the real world doesn’t really exist. Like time stopped, and she’s here, in a safe cocoon. She strangely feels like she is safe here. Nothing would happen to her.

Which is maybe not a healthy way to feel, especially seeing as the man asleep beside her is an assassin.

She shakes her head, trying to put some sense into her thoughts, and decides to get up. Maybe she can make herself some tea. Make him a cup as way of saying thank you.

She stands up and pads silently towards the door, trying to make the less noise possible. She steals a look back at Tangerine, unable not to. She can’t even see his face where it’s buried into the pillow, only the mess of curly hair peeking out from the sheets.

There are faint noises coming from the kitchen, but her mind is so wrapped around last night, whatever the hell she’s feeling right now, and Tangerine, that she doesn’t really pay attention to it. It’s only once she’s stepped into the living room that she notices the man standing behind the counter.

She freezes, so surprised that she’s unable to act, or do anything, other than stare at him. The man is tall, with dark skin and bleached short hair. He’s pouring what looks like cacao powder into a mug.

He must have sensed her presence, because he looks up and startles a bit, the cacao power he was holding in the spoon spilling everywhere around the mug. Fawn is torn between the need to laugh or not.

“Shit”, the man murmurs, looking very dejected at the mess he made on the counter. Then, he brightens up, looking back at her. “Hi”, he tells her, extremely jovial, which makes everything even more confusing.

“Hi ?” Fawn replies, confused.

“Want some hot chocolate ?” The man asks, as if this is the most normal thing to ask to a stranger. “I can make a second mug.”

Maybe she was hit harder than she thought yesterday, because she simply nods, dumbfounded at the way things are going, and walks further inside, until she’s standing on the other side of the counter, across from him.

She watches as he takes another mug from the cupboard behind him and busies himself with pouring chocolate powder into this one too. The spilled powder is still on the counter. He doesn’t even bother wiping it, and Fawn resists the urge to tell him to be careful, but the sleeves of his white shirt are already stained with it.

“Oh ! I’m Lemon, by the way”, the man says. “I’m Tangerine’s brother.”

She doesn’t really do a great job at hiding the surprise on her face. Lemon chuckles, batting a hand.

“Yeah, we get that a lot. Grew up in foster care, yaddi-yadda.”

“He did tell me he had a brother”, Fawn murmurs. She doesn’t comment on the obviously fake name. She can’t help but think that it’s sweet, the way they chose matching code names. Both fruits. Citrus, even. Tangerine and Lemon.

It does have a nice ring to it.

“I’m Fawn”, she tells him, then.

He looks up at her, arching an eyebrow.

“Fawn ?” He repeats. She nods, unsure. “Like, baby deer fawn ? Bambi fawn ?”

This is the weirdest conversation she’s ever had.

“Yeah.”

Lemon snorts, nodding to himself. “That’s a pretty cool name, actually. I like it. Bambi’s an amazing movie, y’know. The message, the scenario”, he adds, gesturing with his hands. The microwave beeps behind him, and he pauses for a moment to get both their mugs out of it, depositing Fawn’s in front of her. “I legit still cry when I see that scene. Don’t understand how those rich assholes can enjoy hunting animals after watching that movie. Shit, killing animals really is fucked up.”

“Yeah, those rich assholes really love hunting”, Fawn murmurs, taking a sip of her drink. It tastes amazing. She wants to ask him how he makes such a good hot chocolate.

“And I love killing those rich assholes”, Lemon says.

Fawn nearly strangles, struggling to swallow her next sip of hot chocolate. She stares at him, coughing a little. What the fuck is she supposed to respond to that ?

“I’m a vegetarian.” It sounds kind of like a question. She absolutely did not mean to say that, nor did she mean to make it sound like she’s asking herself.

Lemon nods, completely serious.

“I should really become one”, he muses. “I really love animals. Always wanted to get a cat or a dog. But Tangerine makes a really mean lasagna, and he says he doesn’t want hairs on his suit.”

Fawn is faced with the mental image of Tangerine in the kitchen, cooking. The vision is so oddly domestic. She doesn’t really know what to do with the information that Tangerine actually know his way around a kitchen.

“Maybe I should start small”, Lemon continues, rambling. “Maybe a gold fish, right ?”

Fawn coughs, trying to clear her throat.

“Tangerine told me you didn’t have time to take care of your plants, though. That’s why you got fake ones.”

He sighs, looking disappointed, and Fawn feels suddenly very guilty for crushing his hopes.

“You’re right. Oh ! But I could adopt one, and you could drop by to feed it when I can’t !” He sounds so excited and happy at this idea that Fawn just stares at him, unable to say anything, like, what the fuck.

“I-”

“That reminds me”, he adds, serious again, not letting her answer his previous statement. “I don’t mean to be rude, but, who are you exactly ? I know only three things about you : your name’s Fawn, you somehow know Tangerine, and you killed a guy yesterday.”

Fawn tries to swallow around the sudden lump in her throat. She takes a sip of the hot chocolate, trying to take her time, while her mind desperately scrambles to find an answer. The last two parts of his sentence are things she doesn’t really know how to address.

But she really doesn’t want to address the murder part. Not now.

“I’m just a friend of Tangerine’s”, she finally manages to reply. She wishes she could sound more confident. She’s usually much better at lying, but now her voice sounds pathetically weak, even to her own ears.

Lemon arches an eyebrow, looking unconvinced.

“You came out from his room, though.”

Fawn winces. She can’t well say that she’s a hooker and he hired her, right ? If his own brother doesn’t know, then she should really keep her mouth shut. Also, it would be pretty difficult to explain what exactly the deal between them was.

She’s not even sure herself what the deal between them is anymore. She knew, at the beginning. Now…

“It’s… Complicated”, she settles on offering him, trying to hide her uncertainty behind her mug.

Lemon stares at her still, looking extremely unimpressed.

“That doesn’t sound ominous at all”, he comments, sarcastic, but he seems to let it go, swiveling his stool around to put his empty mug in the sink. He stands up then, extending his arm to grab a small craft bag, and offers it to her. “Pastry ? Bought them this morning, they’re fresh.”

Fawn realizes that she hasn’t eaten for maybe twenty hours, and that she’s really, really hungry. She sends him a grateful look, taking a small round pastry out of the bag. She takes a bite, surprised to find that it’s filled with whipped cream.

“Shit, this is delicious”, she blurts out, wiping some crumbs from her mouth.

Lemon gives her a beaming smile.

“Right ? It’s from a small French bakery, just around the corner. It’s fucking awesome. Tangerine always pretends he’s above things such as pastry, but half of them always go missing when I’m not looking.” He looks at something behind her shoulder, and grins. “Well, speak of the devil. Would it be that sleeping beauty finally woke up ?”

Fawn whirls around. Tangerine is standing at the entrance of the living room, messy curls falling in front of his face. His eyes fall on Fawn, and there’s a brief look of relief on his face, as if he’s glad to see that she’s here. Something in her chest constricts, staring at him. It’s painful, like her insides are twisting themselves.

“Oh, fuck off”, Tangerine mumbles, raking a hand to pull his hair out of his eye. His tee-shirt rides up a bit, exposing a patch of skin at his hip. Fawn tries not to look at it.

“I hope Lemon here isn’t going on about Thomas the tank engine”, Tangerine tells her, passing by her to join his brother behind the counter. He grabs a mug from the cupboard and sets it down beside the sink.

Fawn has no idea what that even means.

“I was not”, Lemon protests, sounding offended.

Tangerine snorts. Lemon turns to Fawn, almost pleadingly.

���Tell him I wasn’t.”

“He wasn’t”, Fawn says, trying not to sound too uncertain. He definitely didn’t mention any Thomas the tank engine, she’s pretty sure she would have remembered it.

Lemon nods at her appraisingly, before addressing his brother again.

“Want some hot chocolate ?”

“Absolutely not”, Tangerine replies. He sticks a coffee pod into the coffee machine, presses onto some button, and turns back towards Fawn. “Let me get some coffee, and I’ll drive you home, alright ?”

Fawn nods. Tangerine stares at her for a few longer seconds, before focusing back on his coffee. He frowns at something on the counter.

“Fuck’s sake, Lemon, there’s fucking chocolate everywhere.”

Maybe these two aren’t related by blood or share any common features, but there’s absolutely no doubt now that they’re brothers, simply by the way they act around each other.

Lemon’s eyes widen. He winces and stands up.

“Right”, he says, “I really need to get a shower. It was nice meeting you, Bambi.”

Fawn offers an awkward little wave and a smile as Lemon scurries out of the kitchen. When she swivels back towards the counter, Tangerine is leaning against the sink, looking at her with an eyebrow raised.

“Bambi ?” He repeats.

“Yeah, uh, you know, Bambi”, she replies, circling the edge of the mug with a finger, for lack of better thing to do with her hands. “Bambi the fawn. From the movie.”

Tangerine snorts, shaking his head.

“Should have guessed.” He takes a sip of his coffee, before pointing with his mug towards wherever Lemon went. “Sorry about him.”

“Oh no, he was nice”, Fawn protests. She actually means it. He seems… Sweet, which is maybe not the right word to describe someone who apparently kills people for a living, but she can’t find other words to describe him. Their conversation was definitely the weirdest one she’s ever had, but she doesn’t mind. Weird is nice sometimes.

“Yeah, he drives me fucking crazy”, Tangerine sighs. “Always leaves his fucking mug in the sink.”

Fawn can’t help but smile slightly. They fall into silence for a few moments, before she speaks again.

“So, Lemon and Tangerine. Matching names ?”

He groans aloud, thumping his head back against the cupboard.

“Please don’t start with this too.”

“It’s cute.”

“Fuck off”, Tangerine says, but without any heat to it. He swallows the rest of his coffee in one go, head thrown back. Fawn catches a glimpse of his golden necklace, hanging around his neck beneath the collar of his shirt.

He puts the mug into the dishwasher, then hers and Lemon’s. She doesn’t know why, but seeing this simple action sends her lungs into another painful twist.

“C’me on”, he tells her. “I’ll drive you back.”

She waits for him to get dressed, and follows him out. She wishes she could have said goodbye to Lemon, but when she retrieves her purse, the door to the bathroom is closed, and she can hear water running.

Tangerine opens the door for her, letting her slip inside the passenger seat, before closing it behind her and circling around the car to sit behind the wheel. She gives him her address, and finds that she’s not as freaked out as she thought she’d be at giving a client her personal address. Especially one that does end up being a murderer.

Just as he’s putting the key into the inhibition, Fawn realizes she’s still wearing his clothes.

“Shit, what about your clothes ?” She asks, gesturing at herself.

Tangerine glances at her with a shrug.

“Yeah, you can keep them, love, don’t worry.” He looks at her again, before looking quickly back at the road, as if he’s feeling guilty for looking at her and getting caught. “Also, don’t worry about the whole… yesterday. Lemon took care of the body, and any cameras that could have caught a sight of you.”

She nods. “Thanks”, she murmurs, fiddling with the hem of the too large sleeves of the sweater.

The rest of the drive goes in silence. Fawn stares out of the window, while Tangerine taps on the wheel absently, rings clinking softly together. She steals quick glances from time to time, staring at his profile, the way he looks like this, disheveled, hair unstyled.

Before she knows it, Tangerine slows down the car in front of her building. She hides her surprise when he gets out of the car too, but is actually glad he’s walking her up. She doesn’t know exactly what she’s supposed to say when he leaves.

He follows her up the stairs to her floor, and waits behind her as she finds the keys from her purse. Maybe she ought to feel self-conscious about the fact that he’s going to see where she lives, but she was just in his home, so she figures turnabout is fair.

She lets him in, closing the door behind him. He takes a few steps inside, looking around, and brushes a finger against the leaf of one of her plants at the entrance.

“Real plants”, he says, turning back towards her. There’s a hint of a smile in the curl of his lips. “You got a whole lot of them.”

She smiles back, unable to stop herself. “Lemon is right, it’s good to have them around. For the purity of the air.”

He rakes a hand in his hair again.

“Yeah, maybe I should buy him real plants. But they would die.” He glances at her. “You could always drop by to water them, or some shit like that.”

Fawn is so stunned she remains silent. She’s suddenly reminded of Lemon’s earlier suggestion for her to come feed his potential gold fish. The image is so ridiculous she wants to laugh.

But here, staring at Tangerine, at the way his eyes are wide, honest, his expression full of something like uncertainty and… Vulnerability ? She doesn’t know what to say. She doesn’t know how to act, face with his openness, how she’s supposed to feel. Someone carved a hole in her ribcage and left her bleeding.

“I should go”, Tangerine murmurs, expression guarded again.

Something in her chest catches, panic flooding her senses, and she grabs his wrist when he tries to pass by her to leave. He stops, eyes flicking up to hers. He looks as uncertain as she feels, but he doesn’t pull away from her grip, and she doesn’t let go. She slides her fingers from his wrist to the palm of his hand.

His eyes are very blue. He’s standing very close.

“Thank you”, she says, quietly. “For helping me.”

He nods, looking at their joint hands. She can almost feel his pulse.

She asks the question she’s been agonizing over for the last few hours.

“What now ?”

His eyes find hers again. He seems to be searching her face for something.

She doesn’t know if she means to ask about what happened yesterday, or about the two of them. Maybe both.

“Carry on as usual. Wait a bit for the bruises to fade. And then… You can go back to your life.”

She swallows around the lump in her throat, nodding. She feels… Disappointed, that he didn’t catch on to the other meaning of her question. At the same, she doesn’t know if she’s ready to address the situation.

“Hey”, Tangerine murmurs. He raises a hand to settle at the back of her neck, not pulling, just… Holding. Fawn’s breath catches in her chest. “I’m sorry about last time. And about yesterday. I’m... I’m an asshole, I know that. I’m really shit at excuses and whatnot. But you deserved better than that.”

Fawn is, once again, at loss for words. She hates it. She’s not used to it. Usually, she’s the confident one, taking the reins with her clients, making them comfortable. She’s the one to give them affection and whatever they desire. She’s not used to the other way around.

She realizes, with startling clarity, that she craves the same thing he does, and that he paid her for. And she wants it from him. Not someone else.

“Take care of yourself, alright ?” Tangerine tells her, softly.

He pulls his hand gently from her grip, and steps back, his other hand falling away from her neck.

Her skin feels cold in the absence of his touch, even though she can still feel the ghost of his fingers. She shouldn’t miss his touch this much, but she does. Fuck, she does. She doesn’t want to, but there’s not so much denial one can do. Her palms are empty, weightless. She feels like she’s floating away without the weight of him grounding her.

She doesn’t need him. She doesn’t need anyone. She’s always lived her life this way, alone, walls between her and others. Protected, safe, but alone.

She doesn’t need him, but she still wants him all the same.

She remains standing there for a long time, even after he leaves. Even more uncertain on where both of them stand.

[delopsia]

Warmer | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 3600 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, Fem!Reader, blowjobs, oral (reader receiving), slight snowballing if you squint, implied risk of getting caught by ye ole parents! :D

"Goodnight!" 

The candle in your palm flickers vibrantly as you ease the door to a shut, set into a frenzy by the subtle breeze born from even this tiny motion. In your grasp, the icy metal of the knob burns right through you, eating away at your already cold hand. 

Aside from this singular sugar cookie-scented candle, your bedroom is nothing but darkness. Not a singular light, even from your cellphone, lying on the bedside table with its empty battery. Some good that the portable power bank was; charging by about five percent of your battery life per hour. 

A hamster on a wheel would be faster than this.

Fortunately, it's much warmer under your sheets, and the discomfort that comes with being under so many heavy sheets is much easier to ignore. It's hard to complain when you don't have any other options.

The only other options you have are starting a fire right here in your bed or snuggling into the never-ending furnace that is Rhett Abbott. Neither are feasible options, unfortunately. Not when a fire risks burning the house down, and you have no way of contacting Rhett. If he's responded to your texts about the surprise snowfall, you haven't received anything.

Thank you, phone battery, for running dry just minutes after the snowfall knocked the electricity out. 

You wonder if Rhett's got power over on his ranch. Surely he doesn't; usually, if one house in Wabang doesn't have electricity, the rest of the town is having much of the same luck. Fortunately for him, though, he always has the luxury of packing up and moving into a motel for the night. 

You don't. Not when your father is the local pastor and makes it a point that you all stay because there is always a family to help. Someone always needs shelter, he says.

Outside, the icy wind blows harder, howling as it whips around the house, squeezing through the tiny cracks of your window. You can feel the already low-temperature drop even further; any lower, and you're sure that it may start snowing in here. Another gust of wind and your window audibly clunks, perhaps contracting from the cold. 

Just as you're snuggling further into the heavy blankets, the window makes that sound again. Strange, is it cracking? Can cold wind even break a window? Flickering your eyes open, you peek over at the window. It doesn't exactly look broken; in fact, it looks just the same as it always has. 

Something black pops up from below, striking the window. There's that noise again.

Oh.

Every fiber in your body screams at you to get back into bed, crawl under the covers, and hibernate until Spring, but your feet hit the cold floor all the same. Only beginning to regret it when you raise the window, letting all that damned cold air in, just for the sake of foolishly sticking your head outside. 

"Rhett, what the fuck are you doing?" You hiss, wrapping your arms around yourself. 

Even in the dark, you can see the whites of Rhett's teeth as he smiles up at you, giddy. "Hi."

There's not a single footprint on the lawn; you're sure he's walked through the tire tracks rather than across the yard. He's gotten smart. Last time, he did leave prints, and your father called the police to file a report because he thought someone was trespassing to peek in the windows at night. 

The rope fire escape ladder is just as cold in your hands as you remove it from its box and lower the end of it out the window. It's so quiet in the house that you're almost afraid that even the soft clicking of the material against the wall will disturb your parents. Nobody comes, though. Not even as Rhett clambers up, gracefully smacking the back of his head up against the windowsill.

"What in the world are you doing here?" It's late; you don't know how late, but it feels late.  

There's that goofy grin again, so big that his eyes crinkle with it, and he can barely form his next words, "well, how else am I supposed to make sure my baby is safe and warm during a blizzard?"

If it were physically possible, your eyes could just roll right into the back of your head and never come back out. 

"Is that so?" As you slowly shut your window, careful not to make any sounds that will disturb your parents, Rhett wraps himself around you. 

Wandering hands wrapping around your waist, drawing his warm, firm chest up against your back, "what? You don't believe me?"

"Oh, I believe you," turning in his grasp, you're pleased to find that he's already bending down to meet your eye, allowing you to rub your cold noses together with ease, "I just think you wanted to cuddle."

He can't argue with that, not when he's proven in the past that he can and will make a two-hour trip just to sleep with you in his arms one more night. The gentle nudge of blunt fingernails and flickering of eyes, dancing between you and the bed, is enough all on its own. Just a few wayward steps and you're falling back into the nest of blankets you've accumulated.

A nest of blankets that, suddenly, wasn't worth your time because a walking furnace is settling right next to you. His head settles onto the same pillow as you, legs tangling together as big arms encircle you once more. You're sure he'd draw you into his chest, your head tucked just under his chin if he wasn't so keen on kissing you right now.

"What the hell..." his eyebrows furrow, leaning in to steal a kiss from your lips again. It's hard to talk when he's kissing you again, pausing and then stealing one more, stubbornly trying to figure out this conundrum on his own. "Why do your lips taste like mint?"

Oh, that. 

"Candy cane flavored chapstick," you offer, "you can taste it?"

Humming, he comes back to get another taste of you, "sure can, sunshine." 

If you'd known he was coming, maybe you would have put on one of those sparkly lip glosses your Aunt gifted you for Christmas. You still remember the last time you wore one. When Rhett kissed you silly before a rodeo, and he had to get on a bull with his lips still sparkling from you. How they still glistened in that dingy bar, and how pale that girl's face got when she realized why. 

That's a memory you'll savor when you're alone. Right now, you're too distracted by the soft suction at your bottom lip, the teeth that nip at it. His presence so warm that you can feel your cold bones begin to thaw, replaced with a growing, flaming need for something you can't put your finger on.

These little fleeting pecks aren't enough, short, chaste lip locks that don't fully allow you to savor the man that's tracing his nails up and down your spine. It's not enough, not when his thigh unintentionally squirms higher, pressing against you in the subtlest of ways. Your hands knot in his shirt, pulling him closer to you, trying for something more. 

Rhett chuckles against your lips, "and here you thought I had ulterior motives."

Nonetheless, he gives you what you want. A flush of relief rolls through you as he pushes you onto your back, effortlessly rolling on top of you. Rhett's never denied a request such as this, not when he's actively holding himself back from bending you over every time he sees you, but it still makes you nervous to ask. 

The weight that settles on top of you is so deliciously familiar; him, all of him pressed up against you, so close that you can smell his aftershave and the artificial strawberry of his shampoo. Hungry lips tangle with yours, licking at your lower lip with each kiss but not quite letting your tongues meet. 

A calloused thumb strokes at the meet of your jaw, gentle but firm, holding you there whilst he does as he pleases. Your hand twitches against his neck, overcome with the urge to tangle your fingers into those long curls resting against his nape and to pull. And that is exactly what you do.

Rhett's lips fall open with a gasp, and that is truly all you need to surge up, your impatient tongue tangling with his. They dance together with perfect, needy synchrony, meeting and exploring with each long, messy lock of lips. His hand dips down, effortlessly slipping its way under your shirt and creeping upward until it cups a soft breast. The rough drag of his thumb against your soft nipple is enough to have you squirming below him.

"So impatient," he mutters, smile forming against your lips, "love when you get like this."

One more peck against your lips, and then he's kissing his way across your cheek, taking special care to nibble at your jaw as he passes over it on his way down. Wet tongue tickling down the sensitive skin of your neck, bypassing in favor of sinking his teeth into your exposed collarbone, hard enough to leave a subtle indent that his tongue quickly soothes over. 

Cold air nips at your skin as he pushes your shirt up, high enough for him to have access to your breasts but not quite asking you to take the garment off. Even in the dark of the room, you can see the fond twinkle in his eye as he plants a kiss right between them. 

"So pretty," he praises, and oh, what a wondrous feeling his tongue against your nipple is. 

It doesn't stay long; a few swirls of his tongue, and then he's moving on to give the other one equal treatment. You can just about feel the ice forming in the saliva he's left behind, and you suppose that's why he's so sparing with them for once, tucking the shirt back over them when he's done. 

Your hips rise at the same time his fingers hitch over the hem of your panties, tugging them down with such ease, only taking his mouth off your skin long enough to get the fabric fully off you. 

"Rhett—!"

"—shh," taking his mouth off our cunt for just long enough to get his words out, "don't want your parent's wakin' up, do we?" 

His tongue is so hot against you, like a wet flame. It spreads you open so easily, tickling at your entrance and then up, up, up until it can swirl around that already swollen bud. If you weren't wet before, you are now, downright dripping with his saliva as he settles into a comfortable routine. 

"Poor preacher would have a heart attack," speaking directly into you, deep voice vibrating against where you're most sensitive, "seein' a man eatin' his daughter's sweet little pussy." 

As if to emphasize his filthy words, big hands settle upon the backs of your knees, raising them up until they're comfortably settled over his broad shoulders. Thighs caging his face as he sucks on your clit like it's candy. 

Again, your fingers itch to curl into his messy hair, and that's exactly what you do; grip locking the back of his head and weakly holding him there. Rhett groans directly into you, leaning further into you as if he can't get enough. That tongue swirls back and forth, over and over, until your hips squirm in an effort to escape it. 

He has a little bit of mercy on you, momentarily leaving your pulsating clit in favor of tracing the thin rim of your entrance. Then dipping in, once, twice, the tip of his nose nudging your clit with each motion before he pulls back just enough to wet two of his fingers with his own tongue. 

"Such a tight little thing," he cooes, thick fingers easing into you as he speaks. 

They're already crooked, so well-versed that they don't even need to try to find the little spot resting against your gummy inner walls. Perfectly rough callouses spiral right against it, leaving your thighs spasming and clenching around Rhett's head.

It's hard not to miss that big smile, barely concealed by your sex, as he returns to working your clit. You're whining, squirming helplessly below him as he devours everything you have to offer him and then some. It's too much, too much.

Darkened eyes flicker up at you, eagerly drinking in your expression, "come on, sweet thing," pausing to suck gently at your clit, fingers quickening, such simple actions that make you tremble, "cum on my face."

You barely even feel it coming on; just a few simple words, and it's snowballing into an avalanche. One, two, three, four more flicks of his tongue against you, and your back is arching, legs just about locking around his head as you cum with a barely concealed whimper. Hips convulsing as Rhett pushes harder against you, licking you through it until your back weakly hits the mattress.

"So good for me," kissing your inner thigh, he sits back on his haunches, finally letting your legs fall from his shoulders. Even from just his fingers, you can feel yourself clenching around nothing as they ease out of you, so starkly empty compared to before. 

You can't see it, but you can feel a familiar hardness press against your hip when he comes back up to you, wet lips pecking your own. Your open palm finds him, pressing lightly against the bulge in his slacks, and now it's Rhett's turn to whine into the quiet, open air.

"You don't have to worry about me," he murmurs, hair falling into his face as he speaks, "you should be tired, yeah?"

The very notion of it has you yawning, unintentionally triggering one from your sleepy-eyed cowboy as well. Even so, you don't think you can ever be too tired to see his eyelashes flutter as he cums on your tongue. 

"Not too tired for you," as if to emphasize your statement, you pat your chest, "just don't feel like sitting up, is all."

Rhett's eyes flicker, back and forth between your chest and you, as if he's waiting on you to change your mind. Even as you reach up to push his hair back behind his ear, you don't falter on your words. 

Slow, he sits up, swinging a leg over your chest to straddle you so close that you can just barely catch glimpse of him straining against the material of his pants. Still too hesitant to put his weight down on you, but that's just fine, all you have to do is push yourself up against the headboard a little, and you've got the perfect angle. 

There's no hesitation in the way you find the zipper of his pants, the soft fleece giving so easily as you gently reach inside. All you do is grasp him, nothing more, but he lets out a heavy breath, dropping his head into the arms he's folded atop your headboard. 

"Sensitive?" To which he nods. 

"Just a little," and you're sure he'd fuss more if it weren't for the circumstances. 

It's clear in the way he hides his face in the crook of his arm that this simple change in position has flustered him. All of that confidence long melted away. Yet, he's still just as hard as ever, heavy in your palm as you work him out of his cotton confines. Already leaks into your loose grasp, easily slicking your thumb as you run it along the soft skin of his head. Usually, he's only like this when...

"Something tells me you've been like this for more than a few minutes," you observe quietly. Tentatively, your hand circles around him and slowly strokes downward, and he just about jumps out of his skin.

"More or so the past week," his voice strained. There's a slight tremble in his thighs as your hand glides back up, one you're certain hasn't been brought on by the cold. "I hope you're happy that you've ruined my hand for me, doll."

It's a blessing that there isn't a singular light on in the room because you know damn well he'd give you hell for smiling at such a statement. His problem. Your compliment. 

With a firm grip on his chiseled hip bone, you nudge him forward, silently asking him to raise his hips up and toward you. They follow your lead, timidly drawing closer until you can comfortably bring your tongue to his tip, wetly swirling around it and reveling in the breathy gasp it elicits. Then, urging him forward once more until the plush head slides past your parted, swollen lips. 

"Baby," Rhett's just barely audible, even as he groans under the wise workings of your tongue, soft swirls, and chasings of veins that run along the underside of his cock.

Hollowing your cheeks, you bring him closer, those muscled hips ever so pliant and willing under your grasp. It's so easy this way, able to do nothing but focus on leading him and sucking in each and every inch he has to offer until he's bumping the back of your throat. You hold him there for a moment, adjusting to the sensation, then draw him back. 

Above you, Rhett pants like a dog, hips beginning to tremble in your hand as you lead him into a rhythm that, even despite the slowness, he struggles to maintain. So sensitive, you reckon the last time he got off was the last time he saw you. When you surprised him at an out-of-town rodeo two weeks ago, and he just about missed his ride because he was too busy laying you down in the front seat of that old GMC. 

He's still too quiet, even with the risk of your parents overhearing; you need to hear him. Breathing heavily through your nose on this next slow thrust of his hips, you push your head forward, easing him just centimeters further down your throat. Draw him back, and then again, further this time. 

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," finally, he peeks out from behind the crook of his elbow, keening high in his throat as you hold him there and swallow around him, "feels good." 

It's not the furthest you've managed to take him, but it's the most comfortable, and by God, he does not complain either way. Baby blues glisten as they watch you take him, slowly but surely becoming more confident in his motions until he's properly fucking his cock in and out of your eager mouth. 

Outside your bedroom, the floorboards creak under the weight of someone, likely your mother, on their way to the bathroom across the hall. Rhett's breath hitches. You keep going, downright smiling around him as you intentionally bring him even further down your throat for a fleeting second, just to feel him jolt above you. 

God, isn't it a hell of a sight to see Rhett Abbott reach up and clamp his own hand over his mouth to stay quiet. 

Those footsteps continue past your room, pausing momentarily, and for a second, you're concerned that maybe they can hear you sucking idly at the head of his cock like it's a damn lollipop. Then, you're blessed with the sound of a bathroom door creaking shut.

Rhett's cock twitches in that telltale way it always does when he's close. You draw him back in, jaw aching as you suck him down once more. Those pretty eyes screw themselves shut with the tiniest whimper, just barely concealed. Keening higher and higher in his throat as you work him with everything you've got. 

Drawing back once more, your tongue spirals, once, twice, thrice, before his entire body twitches above you, and hot, salty cum hits your waiting tongue. You swallow around him, with each and every spurt and twitch of his throbbing cock. His whimper just barely concealed by the sound of water flushing across the hall. 

You don't have time to let him go; one tap of your tongue at his sensitive head, and he jolts backward, popping out of your mouth, a small rope of pearly white hitting your lips. 

Breathless, he leans down the best he can, hands gripping your chin and lifting your head just high enough for him to kiss you. Unphased by the cum that winds up mixing between your lips.

"Rhett—"

"—don't care 'bout it," and by God does he not, eager tongue licking into your mouth the same way it always does, teasing at your bottom lip until you grant him access. 

It's dizzying, your already breathless lungs burning as he kisses you, and you're sure he must taste himself; hell, you can still taste him. 

"Can I stay with you?" He murmurs, ever so quiet as footsteps squeak back to their respective bedroom. 

"I'm not sure how well I can hide you," both of you frown at your words; you both know that the bedroom door doesn't lock anymore, the mechanism probably as old as Perry. And no amount of made-up stories can cover up for when one of your parents walks in.

That knowledge doesn't make the downward turn of his lips any less painful; even running your hands through his hair, nails scraping his scalp in the way he likes, doesn't make it go away. 

"...but I can stay with you," you offer, timid all of a sudden, "can lie, say I went somewhere to get warmer, and hope for the best." 

The corner of his lip turns upward, "I take it; I'm that somewhere to get warmer?"

Neither of you needs a verbal answer to that; you already know just what warmer might entail. 

[definesanity]

Pretty When You're Crazy

She fell to her knees disgracefully, hidden from sight, dirtying the floor with fluids.

Sonetto breathed heavily, hand on her heart as the vibrations inside her grew more and less powerful every few seconds, sometimes a gentle flame, and then a roaring fire.

And Sonetto herself felt like a furnace.

Oh, she felt like she made a mistake, telling Vertin to use a vibrator on her--

Her mind went empty for a second, gushing once more, her legs shaking as she fell further down.

"It's good training," she had said. "It will help me with being influenced by other forces."

She lied through her teeth. And now, she's paying for it, one mind-numbing orgasm at a time.

---------

It was midday when Vertin head a knock on her door. It was weak.

Walking over and opening the door, Sonetto fell into her arms.

And she looked beautiful.

A feral look was in her eyes, looking at Vertin with many emotions; madness and affection most of all.

Her thighs and pants were drenched, it dripping down her thighs and clinging to her body.

And of course, a slow buzzing noise between her legs.

"...pl...e..." the poor girl couldn't make a sentence, never mind a thought. A feral look, but one that was clouded.

Vertin held her chin, tilting her up and hugging her. "Shhhh... you did good, Sonetto. Good job."

Sonetto sobbed into her shoulder, but was one made from happiness.

It was a strange bond. But they would not trade it for anything in the world.

[idiotwithanipad]

How Agatha met Rogh

(TW: Death, Injury detail, Panic, Trauma from past abuse, Blood)

Agatha couldn't feel anything. No pain, no weight about her chest and middle, no saturated burlap sack against her face. Her eyes adjusted and could see nothing, the candles must have burned out. The basement and it's lack of ventilation became a furnace flue in the dark, fresh air a blessing in this part of the manor.

Her hands still remained bound above her head, but she could no longer feel the rough ropes. Almost as if to test her luck, she tugged her arms forwards quickly and felt no resistance. They weren't tied anymore. Agatha sat bolt upright, reaching her hands up to the sack covering her head. She wrenched the foul bag from her head and dropped her legs from the side of the table.

A man stood before her. A different man from the last two. He looked strange, Agatha didn't get a chance to take a closer look at him, as the burlap sack somehow, in the blink of an eye, materialised itself back over her head, plunging her back into darkness.

Agatha released a shrill scream at the sudden realisation that another man was with her, and at the fact that the terrible bag was back over her head. Did he put it back there? Was she to be punished further? Yet, there was no time to worry about the bag. Agatha fell from the wooden table and splattered onto the floor on her side, quickly gathering herself and getting to her knees, her hands grasping and feeling around on the floor for the strange man's shoes.

"Oh please, sir, no more! I hath taken such beatings on this night, sir, I hath wailed so! I can take no more weight, sir!" Agatha pleaded and sobbed, tears pouring from her swollen eyes. Her little hands grasped onto an object, a soft object; it felt as though she had gripped onto an animal. The silence that followed only made her sob and quake even more, her shoulders and covered head wincing and shying away at every second.

The softness of whatever her hands grasped began to move, shifting slightly and brushing against her fingers and wrists, the heavy aura the man gave off seemed to hover over her like a giant. Unseen to Agatha, the man hand crouched down and began to inspect the heavily blood stained sack.

"I hath been falsely accused, sir. I committed no such crime nor sin, I hath only breathed for 11 years, sir. I hath never bedded another, nor hath I wished so". Agatha sobbed, her fingers still clutching onto what she assumed to be a large, fur lined coat.

A small sound caught her attention, even the snuffling of a mouse would've alerted her in this state; the slightest noise making her picture those two awful men charging back into the basement to tie her hands again and lash her with leather.

The sound rippled above her head, slight at first, but it's volume and intensity grew by the second. Fearing her pleading sobs had been taken as an offense, Agatha retracted her hands and held them together before her covered eyes, reciting the prayer that her mother had taught her in times of sorrow.

The sound was of a man, the man she had just managed to catch a glimpse of before her vision became clouded by the blood soaked burlap. Breathing. Inhaling and exhaling. Sniffing.

"Look like it hurt..." Definitely a man's voice, the gravely drawl of it seemed to send shards of ice through her flesh. Agatha froze as she heard the scraping of fingers against the burlap above her head.

"I beg of thee, sir... No more, no more... I cannot take no more..."

Her cries were cut short when a warm, somewhat calloused hand came to gently hold onto hers, the thumb rubbing softly over her bloodied knuckles.

"No more" The voice agreed. The tone and depth of the voice changed to one of pity and understanding, the kind her father would take to her when she would cry.

"Why does thou seek me? I am but a scullery maid, sir. Hath I overlooked a chore? The dogs hath their meats? The candles hath been lit? The fires been stoked? I should cease my tongue, lest I wish to have it torn from my throat" Agatha winced. The unseen figure remained silent for a moment, for what reason, Agatha couldn't tell, nor see.

"Not maid no more. No pain no more. No more blood. Bad man not squeeze feet in rocks no more. Is done now. No more"

Come to mention it, Agatha didn't feel anything, she could barely even feel the Rocky basement floor grazing her knees beneath her skirts. All she could feel was the man's hands slowly and gently move to her underarms, lifting her off of the ground and onto the table again. Carefully, being gentle so as to not frighten her.

"Feet in bad shape. Pressed too hard. Snapped. Broken like stick" The voice seemed full of pity and concern, yet Agatha couldn't feel anything which the voice described. The description the voice gave made her mind conjour images of what her abused feet would look like if she could see them, the very mental image of it turning her faint.

Agatha rose her hand to pull the burlap sack away once again, before the man's gentle hand came up to clasp at her wrist to stop her.

"No. No look. Won't lie, it big bad, but me not want little girl to see it"

Agatha jolted at the sudden contact.

"How am I to go about my chores, sir? I hath work to tend to. Must be nearing my time to awaken, I must light the fires to warm the house before the family rises for morning prayers" Agatha panicked, fearing another lashing.

"No need to work no more. You ghost now, same as me" The voice spoke, reassuringly. The word rattled Agatha's pounding brain.

"You die on table with two men putting heavy rock on chest, you stop breathing and spit blood. Now you ghost, so no more work and pain"

The man couldn't see, but beneath the burlap sack, Agatha's eyes bulged in horror and confusion. Agatha had always been taught that St Peter would greet her after death. But there was no St Peter here.

"Bad men, bad death, painful. Even other ghosts didn't want watch" The voice commented, followed by a stirring from the floor above. A second voice called down into the basement from the wooden steps.

"Have they stopped yet? I couldn't bare to watch it, turned me stomach and that's sayin' a lot" A man called, his face peering between two balusters, his jagged and awkwardly set teeth chittered in his protruding jaw.

"Looks like they're gone now, Mick" A woman's voice soothed.

"They were 'oribble to 'er!" The strange looking man, presumably 'Mick' cried.

Agatha turned her covered face towards to source of the noise, but she still couldn't see past the burlap.

"Sir, this wretched bag will not keep itself from smothering me, sir. I cannot remove it" Agatha remarked, her fingers toying with the frayed fabric.

"You stay how you die. You die with bag on head, you stay with bag on head" The man said, almost too calmly, like he was well experienced. Agatha wasn't ready to accept that word, 'die'. Had she died? Is that why she felt nothing? How could she possibly survive a crushing that would kill even a grown man?

"Sir, I doth need air, sir. I must excuse myself" Agatha croaked, bowing her head slightly to the man and shuffling to drop herself down from the wooden table. Her twisted feet landed on the floor but soon after buckled when she took a few steps toward the stairs. She went hurtling forward, her arms flailing to find something to grab onto for leverage, only to collide with the stone floor.

"Oh. You okay?" The man called from behind her, shuffling closer and patting her back with his hand.

"I cannot seem to walk proper, sir. I'm to be given the boot, sir? Cast out to become a woman of the night?" Agatha whimpered, rubbing at the palms of her hands from her rough landing on the floor; she expected a few grazes, but felt no damage at all.

"No. You ghost, me told before. But can still go up there, come me show you" The man chimed. He carefully gathered the eleven year old maid into his arm and began up the stairs. The sickly looking, boil covered ghosts backed themselves against the walls as they watched the caveman pass. They looked at the state of the young girl, although they didn't see her face, they saw the state of her chest and feet, their eyes bulging in shock. One of them even started crying.

Agatha made sure to turn her face away from the man's; she was terrified that he too would scream and yell at her, her fists still clasped together as extra measure just in case she needed to say a quick prayer.

"There, this a big room, I call it 'Big Room'" The man finally spoke, Agatha could feel that he stopped walking and stood turning left and right in place.

"Sir, I cannot see much through this bag. Tis a task" Agatha mumbled.

"Oh... Well, is big room, red walls, picture of ugly man on wall with ugly woman and ugly boy, got swords on hip-"

"I should like to go back downstairs now, sir!" Agatha blurted, a harsh rattle in her voice.

"Ey? But only just got here. Said needed air-"

"Yes, sir, indeed I did, sir. And I hath gotten air now, sir... " Agatha's arms came up about her chest, forearms crossing over each other, the lace of her leather corset tickling down her cuffs.

The strange, still unseen man gave a small grumble of confusion and mild annoyance and turned on his heel, Agatha still in his arm. She flinched and practically buried herself under her own arms, snapping her face away from him and shielding her head with them.

"NO no, I beg thee, sir, don't!"

The man froze, his wide eyes stared at the state of panic the girl had gotten into from a mere few seconds; surely she didn't think that he'd hurt her, did she? Had he given that impression?

"Ey, me not hurt, have I?" He spoke, gently, being careful not to panic her further. It took a few seconds for Agatha's trembling to stop, her arms slowly lowered to rest neatly in her dirt covered lap.

"No, sir. Thou hath not risen thy hand to me in fury, sir..." Agatha agreed meekly.

The man began slolwy walking back towards the basement steps, carefully trying not to jostle her anymore, he didn't want her to think she was in danger.

"And my name not 'Sir'. It's 'Rogh'..."