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pauking5 · 6 months ago

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Runaway 🏎️ Chapter 1

Pairing: Naozumi Hiyama x fem reader oc

Synopsis: There's no place for women in the world of racing. Let alone rally. Until you show up - the daughter of a racing legend who lost everything out of nowhere - ready to stir the pot of competition and throw fuel to Naozumi's fire, burning wild in more than just one way. Just how far will you go to take your rightful place in the world of rally, restore the team to its glory and change things for the better?

Genre: racing AU, enemies to lovers, rivalry, suspense, a whole lot of teasing, gender power games, dating in secret

Word count: 4.5k+

A/N: Here it finally is. I can't believe I got to write about one of my passions in this way. Though I love rally, getting the technicalities right was rough but I researched as much as I could on it so it feels like the real thing, though there might be some minor inaccuracies, not really affecting the story.

This one has been in the works for a good period of time and though this first chapter is short and fast-paced, there's so much more coming. Trust the process cause god knows I do. I hope I can make Naozumi justice and I can't wait for you to read the next ones. Enjoy lovelies.

Now Playing: Edge of Seventeen - Wuki

Next Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5

It's not about how fast you go.

It's about how long you go fast.

Fast like-

A knock reverberated against your helmet, interrupting the pre-race mantra before you even finished reciting it, bringing you back to the chaos prior to the race start.

Chaos you wanted to avoid at all costs.

Blinking your eyes open, you took in the smell of burnt rubber and the atmosphere, fully packed with the deafening roars of the crowds in the stands soaring over the music heard all the way to your station. Another voice joined in the noise, demanding your attention.

"Raiko, are you ready?"

Letting out an exasperated breath, you waved off whoever spoke to you and closed your eyes again.

"Give me a minute, will you?"

Okay, where was I?

It's not about how fast you go-

A drilling noise came from your right, annoying the living daylights out of you.

Ah, fuck it. Since we keep getting interrupted...

How about I tell you a little bit about me.

Name's Raiko Suruki.

Yes, that Suruki. Here we go again.

I'm the daughter of the famed Hiro Suruki, five times Japan World Rally Championship winner, consecutively if I may add.

Proud podium sitter for thousands of times.

Also kind of a living legend of the primetime of the rally world.

The same Hiro Suruki that started one of the best teams in the history of Japanese rally, snatching six more titles under his directory. WRC'S Golden Boy.

After his personal fifth title, he decided he wanted something more. Something that would fulfill him, beside his love for driving at the most insane speeds known to man and having his first and only child - that's me, in case you didn't know.

Anyway, without any second thoughts or doubts, he retired from the sport out of nowhere, changing the fireproofs for the laid-back team principal shirt and a cheap very 'dad' baseball cap. At barely 35 years of age, he took the biggest leap of faith of his life and Suruki Racing was born out of fuel and passion for rally.

He poured everything he had into the team and built it from scratch, taking it so high in his prime that everyone wanted a piece of it. Be it driving in a seat for the team, changing parts as a mechanic or simply having shares in it.

It was basically the shit. The pinnacle of rally in the whole of Japan.

The team became a national sensation. So many influential people, from mere businessmen to politicians, even foreigners were so interested in it and helping it expand. It genuinely felt like the only way for him was up, flying like a rocket towards the legends' hall of fame.

It went like that for a while. He was beaming with happiness, unable to understand where all that luck came from. But like everything good, it didn't last. Once he started to question it all, it was like a switch flipped inwards and it all fell to ruins.

Everything started going wrong.

All of a sudden, the cars started missing parts the night before races. They had engine failures mid-race in almost every stage, followed by DNF's on every scoreboard.

And those aren't even the most shocking things that happened. You name the disaster and it definitely happened to Suruki Racing at one point. Disastrous, life-changing, career-ending type of things.

The mess piled up more and more and it showed despite dad's efforts to stay afloat.

Contract deals with sponsors started falling through, losing funding for a lot of parts and investments in equipment. Then the drivers got fed up with the constant failed races and blamed the car or the team if they felt like it. They terminated their contracts way before their terms were up under the pretense that they wanted different things... which were not related to Suruki Racing. The mechanics chose to stay, well, a few of them anyways, but it wasn't enough.

The team ripped at the seams and slowly but surely ran into the ground and dad couldn't find at least one reason why it happened.

It was like a curse you couldn't get rid of and I saw it happen first-hand.

The late nights he would spend in the garage trying new parts that kept failing with every test on the car. The way he would go as low as begging the drivers to come back offering them money he didn't have because no driver, rookie or experienced, didn't even bat an eye once the name of the team was mentioned.

Lost, penniless and with a heavy heart, he had to watch the one thing he loved the most on earth rust little by little, no matter what he would do to prevent it.

Mom called it karma for his reckless racing days because as talented as he was, the road forgives no one. That you can be God's favourite and still lose everything. And he didn't want to understand that. He never did.

I was too young to help back then. Too young to understand what Suruki Racing meant to him. Too young to do the only thing I could to save it.

Until now.

So, let's try that again, shall we?

Name's Rai Suruki, driver for Suruki Racing 2.0.

Another knock to your helmet, echoing in your head louder than the first, brought you back to the real world for good this time. Mechanics rushed around you to finish the set up on the car before you were called up to take your spot in front of the race marshal, which from a quick glance at the scoreboard would be soon.

Looking to your left, you were met with a set of dull brown eyes, messy jet black hair, a funky moustache and an extremely creased forehead for his middle age, all belonging to your co-driver, Don Tanaka. He's another legend of the sport.

Former training coach for some of the current biggest teams in the WRC, with a CV of experiences surpassing most people that have been in rally for longer. On top of all that, he is an even bigger friend of your father's. When he called him up asking for an old favour to train you, he couldn't say no.

But if it was up to commenting, you'd say he was one of the biggest fools for giving up a lavish salary with so many perks for one favour, especially for your old fart of a father.

Driving with him was great, but training with him was hell on Earth.

"I was doing my mantra," you reasoned, trying to get him off your case.

"Your mantra sucks."

He is an absolute joy to be around, isn't he?

"Well," you turned to him in your seat with a tight-lipped smile, "you're the one choosing to be co-driver to a young adult at your ripe age of 40. If I was you I would've picked something more calming, like gardening."

Bringing his hand to his chin in thinking, he sat in silence for a moment before he spoke.

"That doesn't sound so bad right now," he went on trying to push your buttons.

"Oh, shush," you waved him off, turning back to the wheel.

If there was one thing he liked doing, it was keeping you in check by poking fun at you. He was like that one uncle you could always go to with your secrets or to ask for extra pocket money, but in return he liked to tease the fuck out of you for it. Every. Single. Time.

As much as you hated his antics, you did kind of owe him a lot. He was the one who caught your talent for racing early on, back when you would drive plastic mini cars made from scraps around the team garage like you had years of experience. A few drifting maneuvers around old tires done like a pro at the cool age of 8, and he was sold on you and your potential.

Amongst all the teasing and the pain of having to train like a man, you've spent enough time with him to know you could count on him for literally anything. He was the best co-driver you could ask for and you wouldn't want anyone else in that seat directing your fate for the world.

He knew what it took to annoy you greatly in order to deliver on the dirt track and prove yourself. Especially now, since you were the only woman on highly occupied male territory.

Racing is a man's world. With as many female advancements in motorsport as there were today, the majority of the community was still not convinced that a woman could drive better than a man or even compete alongside a whole grid of their species. They can regard you, acknowledge your existence, but they would never accept you.

Your father knew your entry to the championship would stir up a lot of unwanted attention, besides the fact that he was basically reviving a cursed team and you happened to be the poster face for it this time around. It sounded like a catastrophe in the making.

Frankly, you were ecstatic to get to drive an actual race car outside of the junior series and helping the team get back to its rightful place, restoring its deserved glory. But you knew it wasn't going to be easy work. Especially, since public enemy number one - the press - was going to try and tear you to sparkly shreds for a lot of reasons. An attack that they started before any official information was out.

A few months ago, when the announcement of Suruki Racing's comeback after ten years of inactivity hit the WRC, the media had a field day with it.

They criticized your father for being a nutjob that didn't know when to quit. They smeared Don Tanaka's name like he didn't make most of the drivers currently selling their dying papers. They even tried to get paid scoops from anyone involved with the team in the slightest.

But the team had one wildcard left to play before pulling the curtains for good and giving them the satisfaction that they ruined it.

You.

The press didn't know about you. No one in the other teams knew about you. Thanks to your father's extremely private life, no one even knew of your existence.

The only people that did were your team in the garage, from the mechanics to your PR agent.

Even walking into the circuit grounds this morning, long hair down over your shoulders, sporting the team gear in plain sight, no one batted an eye at you. Even if they did, they would think you were involved with technical or marketing - though even that was a rarity in this universe - or worse, just another groupie looking to get one of the drivers under your hood.

Your father wanted to give everyone a show they'll never forget by having you drive the first race in the calendar without a proper introduction. No car reveal. No interviews. No pre-race press conference. Just a car and its driver.

This way they would judge your driving before they actually got to judge you for being a woman at the wheel of a three hundred horsepower beast. He trusted you and your judgement on the track far more than the lousy press setting you up for fail. They would get a proper car show and speech after the race anyway.

It was out of the ordinary but that kinda summed up Hiro Suruki and his bipolar personality.

The distorted sound of a megaphone, followed by the voice of the race marshal called you to the start line.

"Car 7, Rai Suruki for Suruki Racing, you're up next!"

You could already see everyone turning their eyes to your station, booming cheers going quiet, turning into sharp murmurs.

Time to get this show going.

Rolling up your windows to block the world, you put the car in gear and drove to the start line, waiting for the green light. Looking out at the lines in the road ahead of you spotting the first hazard ahead, the nerves climbed up your spine faster than your engine could pump the pistons for pressure.

You prepared for this for most of your life, but if you were being honest, it all got a little too real now, sitting with your foot hovering above the gas pedal ahead of the moment that could make or break your career before it even started. The very moment that could be a step forward to restoring your father's name, getting the team back on track in a new age of rally racing. The moment for a change.

No pressure, right?

"Raiko," your co-driver called your name, but you couldn't tear your eyes away from the road, gloved fingers tightening on top of the wheel with a small snap. "Do you remember the course?"

"Yes."

"Good. All set?"

"I think so."

"Raiko, look at me."

"You're not my style."

"Raiko," his voice turned more serious and deep with warning. With another sigh into the small, cramped space for breathing your helmet provided, you turned to him.

"You've got this. Let's prove everyone wrong."

He was right.

Let's prove everyone wrong.

The race marshal started the countdown, walking from the front of your car to the side, each number in the count descending with your nerves. You loosened the hold on the wheel, stretched your legs to the pedals and let out a deep breath.

"3."

It's not about how fast you go.

"2."

It's about how long you go fast.

"1."

Fast like lightning.

"GO!"

A soon as the lights went green, you hit the throttle and took off into the dirt, raising the dust behind you. You skidded off to the side a little due to the gravel but you got control of it before anyone could notice.

Tokai was a pretty difficult course to rally depending on which stages got picked for the day. More forest terrain gave way to hard roads, receding in wheel control, gaining insane suspension pressure. This one was more of an open valley terrain, which was a bit safer, but the later you got the okay to race, the more dust and gravel from other drivers would pile up in front of you, making visibility dangerously low. The corners were way too tight and one second off from Tanaka's directions or a mishap of your footing could cost you and put your car on the sidelines.

"5 left over crest," Tanaka paced you for the upcoming hill and you prepared to release the throttle.

"1 left 100."

Wheels back on the ground, you resumed pressing the pedal as a hairpin portion came into view. The cloud of dust in front of you was chalky and you had to get through it before it raised higher. Putting the car in second gear, you got ready for the drift portion.

You had to be extra careful here. The mechanic in chief told you to go easy as the rear could send you into oversteer, throwing off the balance of the car and fuck up the race completely.

Listening to your gut, you waited for the right time then tapped the brake, cut the wheels and pressed the throttle, sliding across the portion. Loud cheers and whistles erupted as the crowd in the stands got up to watch you complete a perfect drift.

"3 right don't cut."

Reduce pace and prepare for a possible road hazard.

You slowed down and sure enough a bump in the road came up. If you missed that one and took it at 120 kmph, it would've projected you off the track, crashing the car hard into the rocky wall like a cereal box. Thankfully, you swerved around it, feeling the car lift off the ground on the left for a bit before it fell back down.

"6 right very long."

Hard left into a tight corner.

"Cut 8 left."

Tight corner requiring you to follow a straight line in the curb.

This was the last and worst corner on the track. You were lucky it didn't rain because this is where your car can skid off into the stands. You caught the straight line pretty fast, cutting a few seconds off your lap time without slowing down.

Following the rest of Tanaka's directions and focusing on the rest of the road, the race finished before you knew it. You liked the state you were in as you drove, mind clear of everything else because as soon as the adrenaline in your body decreased, your brain got bombarded by all kinds of issues.

Did I push the new suspensions too hard? God, I hope I didn't scratch the rear in the hairpin. Was my timing too off on that last corner? I should've practiced it more.

Driving back to your team's station, you sent all those worries at the back of your head and got out to watch the screen showing the score board just as it updated to display the new track times since you were the last to go.

1. Akira Shinkai - Sigma Racing Academy - 1.23.40

2. Naozumi Hiyama - Spica Racing Factory - 1.23.59

3. Rai Suruki - Suruki Racing - 1.24.25

"WE BAGGED THIRD PLACE?!" you yelled throwing off your helmet onto the car seat.

"WE SURE DID," Tanaka high fived you, beaming with energy just like you.

"That's 15 points on the first stage! Well done, lightning strike," he ruffled your hair as you snickered, nose scrunching up with a smile at the gesture you were already accustomed to.

"The car held up a lot better today than in testing. Maybe we lifted the curse," you wiggled your eyebrows at him at which he flicked your forehead. "Ow, what did you do that for?"

"Don't jinx it. We still have two more stages to go."

"But-"

Before you could say anything else, you were interrupted by angry shouting coming from the station next to you.

"I told you to not touch the third gear," yelled a strained voice.

You walked to the side of your station, peeking your head by the team banner, and watched the heated exchange between one of the drivers and his mechanic. Your eyes wandered to the car sitting in the middle, not one hand touching it for the regular post-race check up. From the different strokes of sky blue layered over stark white, the red and blue sponsor stickers and the carbon spoiler, you recognized it to be Spica Racing's.

"It doesn't matter now," shouted another voice, so annoyed and sure of themselves as if they owned the place. "I got a good lap record this time."

"What would you do if you had to retire in the middle of the race?" shot the mechanic, chastising the driver for being careless.

He got up in his face, towering over him though the other was much taller than him.

"We won't win if I don't attack!" he yelled back, throwing his hand in the air to make a point. "The moment I think of being scared I will lose. I won't make that mistake. So just do your job and fix the car."

With that final remark, he rounded the car to walk away from the station until he noticed you in the corner, now standing in full sight just at the line between your stations.

Quickly replacing the scowl on his face with what was probably his natural smirk, he came to you, stopping short of the barrier separating you.

"I don't do autographs, but for you I can do more than that," he added a daring wink, flashing his cocky smile at you.

Ew.

Taking a small step back hoping his vibes wouldn't envelop you, you uncrossed your arms from your chest and lifted an eyebrow at him.

"I don't want your autograph."

Taken aback at your response, he backed up slightly too and looked you up and down, taking in your deep blue and dark gold team fireproofs and the suit tied messily around your waist. The old, way out of fashion colours seemed to ring a bell.

"Suruki Racing...," he started doubtful, "the shithole that revived from the ashes? Are you a mechanic, a co-driver or something for them? If you are, why don't you jump ships? I wouldn't mind having you on my team instead," he finished his speech of intent with another shit-eating grin.

Who the fuck was this guy?

The audacity that wafted off him must definitely make him popular with the ladies.

"I don't think we've met before," you extended your hand out to him, curt and polite, like a normal person would do, introducing yourself.

"Rai Suruki, driver for Suruki Racing," emphasizing your role in the team so he got it through his head that you weren't some bimbo.

If you were, you'd make sure your fist decorated his face in pretty red tones before anything else.

He straightened back, smirk gone from his face in all sense of the word. It got replaced by some kind of curiosity. Looking between you and your palm hanging in the air he looked confused to say the least. He's heard about female racers before and seen some working in technical around the place, he's just never seen one stand against him on track.

Tired of being polite to someone who obviously has never heard about manners, you were about to retract your extended hand when he caught it in a firm grip and pulled it towards him, just holding it instead of shaking it. The move sent you forwards, almost barreling into him when your reaction response kicked in to steel you a safe distance away.

Maybe Tanaka's intense survival program pays off sometimes.

"So," he began and you wondered if he was about to say something intelligent or spew more shit with that mouth of his. He decided to choose the latter. "You're the one driving the Beetle dupe right there?"

Eh, come again?

Your eyes widened at him, looking at where his finger was pointed to confirm that he was pointing at your car and not anywhere else, then you whirled your head back at him appalled.

"B-Beetle dupe?!"

"I thought you were a guy."

Wouldn't be the first time I heard that one.

You took your hand back from his hold, wiping it on the sleeves of the suit hanging on your hips in the hopes that it would wipe off the disgust you were feeling too. It didn't but it was worth a try.

"It's the name," you replied through gritted teeth.

He backed up some more to scan you again, though more attentively this time, like you were some kind of illegality, cooked up from the pits of his imagination. You gave him your best front, hardening your jaw and rolling your shoulders backwards, proving you were more than a pair of boobs and a vagina, which was apparently his deranged first impression of you.

You deserved to be here. No amount of stares from the male specimen, surprised or with sinful intentions, could ever make you back down from this. This was yours to take on. No man could take this from you. Not him anyway.

So, you stared him down too, trying to find something else beside the extreme big dick energy and unsurmountable lack of scruples surrounding him. Struggling to see anything else but some disdain in the way he crossed his arms over his broad chest, a rich prick attitude from how he shifted on his legs like the world owed him golden lingos every time he breathed, and some leftover rage from the screaming match with his mechanic still present in the tick of his jaw, you let your eyes meet his own in conclusion of your very own analysis.

Yeah, there's nothing else in there. An ambulant douchebag. Just like I thought.

Flashing cameras were suddenly thrown in your faces, interrupting the intense stare-down between you. The press and some people, potentially fans of other teams by their t-shirts, surrounded you from every corner of the plastic barrier around the two stations, pushing each other over the race marshals that tried their hardest to keep them away. It wasn't long until they pushed over the barrier.

Too absorbed in the chaos, you didn't notice he leaned down to your ear but when you did, you stilled in your shoes, all blood draining into your pounding stomach. He spoke close and low, so only you could hear his words.

"Don't get too comfortable around here, rookie," he whispered, hot breath hitting the shell of your ear making shivers run down your extremely clothed spine. "Let's see how long you last in here because this season might just be your first and last."

Pulling away with another one of his smirks that were starting to get on your nerves, he regarded you once more before he walked off in amusement to his cool-down room, giving you a full view of his broad back.

Oh, just you wait -

A reporter shoved into the human barrier of orange and green safety vests reaching the railing, yanking it back and forth repeatedly until the poor plastic seal broke off, letting everyone else pool in around you.

Uh-oh. This wasn't good.

They packed around you like wolves on their prey, all shouting different things at you while shoving their big cameras, recording devices and phones in your face. The flashes blinded you, turning the world white and too bright for it to be natural light from the clouded sky above.

Your hands shot up on instinct to cover your eyes from the flaring lights as your ears focused on filtering through the blaring sounds of camera clicks and voices. Then the countless questions registered clear as day, hitting you like a truck at full speed.

"Are you Rai Suruki, daughter of Hiro Suruki?"

"Where did your father get the money to restart the team?"

"Is your car even going to last a season?"

"Do you consider yourself a challenge to the rest of the drivers?"

I guess that was it for mystery, dad.

Some of the other teams passed by the ruckus, sparing quick judgmental glances or sending disgusting sneers your way like that was the way they initiated your welcome ceremony at the gates of the jungle.

If this was any other series, you would've been so welcomed by the rest of the grid and treated somewhat better by the media and the fans. But this was the World Rally Championships.

Driving was dirty.

Talk was filthy, full of disrespect and unspoken trials of envy between each driver.

The press competed to see who would get your head on a pike first and parade it as the story of the century.

Respect was fought for, not earned.

It was a different game. One where you needed to play even if you didn't want to so in turn you wouldn't get played. Survival of the fittest truly.

You steeled your gaze, waving the reporters off and digging a hole through the crowd, successfully escaping away to your pit crew. Helping with packing up bits and pieces and taking your own stuff, you headed back to your team quarters, aware of the intensifying stares belonging to the rest of the teams still around their stations, talking about the first day in this season's calendar being an interesting one.

You had a feeling you and the team were the hot topic of conversation since you could feel their eyes searing deep holes into your back, burning hotter and doing more damage than flame-lit arrows aimed straight at you ever could. Tanaka wrapped an arm around you giving you his curled moustache smile, sympathizing with you.

Looking up at the sky darkening in mauve and pink, you let a small smile grace your lips. At least today was done. Your rally racing career has officially started. The team was back in business.

However, this first stage was just one of the many challenges still to come. Who knew what else was on the way?

As you trudged on the warm asphalt, warmed by the mid-spring warmth of March, there was one thing you knew for sure.

This is gonna be a long season.

Thank you for reading :) As always leave a like, comment or reblog!

#Runaway #Naozumi Hiyama #Naozumi Hiyama x reader #Naozumi Hiyama x you #Overdrive x reader #Overdrive x you #racing au #Overdrive Mackenyu

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deblklesb · 11 months ago

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[Phantoms of Past — Abby x Reader]

[AFAB!reader, friends to lovers, Christmas themed, br!reader, angsty, MDNI]

a/n: well, is this late for Christmas? yes. but do i care? also yes bc i'm paranoid and have some need to make stuff on time, so imagine my despair when i couldn't finish this. but i ALSO know that I'm doing my best, and for that i have to pat my own back. anyway, this is for my brazilian besties out there!!!

cw: reader is brazilian, usage of phrases in pt-br with the translation after and between parenthesis, owen mentioned (this man is a cw by himself idc this is not a owen appreciated blog), mutual pinning, Abby understands portuguese and even talks some. let me know if i forgot something.

not proof read | word count: 3,274

reblogs are highly appreciated!!

While you drive through the recently cleaned streets of the neighborhood you grew up, thanking the heavens that it stopped snowing for now, the radio plays a seasonal song and your murmur along. The traffic on the main roads were chaotic, almost as congested as your uncle's arteries, but now the decorated rooftops and doorsteps replaced the headlights on your peripheral vision. In front of a house stood a snowman, or at least his body stripped of arms and face.

You park in front of a house with simple adornments and flashers around the main door, a LED deer standing next to it and a small table with fake cookies and milk on top. All the energy was so reminiscent of the years you'd spend a whole day decorating the house with your mom, mainly inside, just so your father and sister could take care of the outside. Now that you both were grown and away, the couple occupied itself with the house interior and resumed the exterior with a simple approach. It never failed to take a smile from you, though, especially seeing the way they would adhere to simple things just because it looked cute, even if it had nothing to do with their native traditions.

Coming from Brasil, for the first part of your life you had hot weather and sunny days on Christmas. Maybe a night of rain, but never snow. Fireworks and catholic mass were on the list, but your parents went just to go along with the rest of the family and friends. They weren't religious, so in the end Christmas was simply another holiday, but with presents and - as all the other holidays - a family gathering. The main difference now was that you were studying in another city, becoming one of the absent relatives; you know, the ones that mainly go home for the holidays and vacations. It wasn't bad, but they definitely missed you a lot and the feeling was mutual.

Using your key to get in, the sounds of Simone’s “Então É Natal” (“And So It Is Christmas”), a brazilian holiday song, hit you immediately. You chuckle, taking off your boots and coats. From the front corridor the ornamented tree is visible, carrying innumerous lights and details. There's probably not a single empty wall, the seasonal decoration filling every inch of your field of vision.

“There she is!” Your father shouts as you appear in the living room smiling. The man goes into your direction with open arms, holding you tight. You smell that same cologne he wears since you can remember anything, and along with the warmth of the house, it truly feels like home. Some of the tension from university and work just falls on the carpet, leaving your body to receive all the good things inside that place.

“Carlos, you'll smash our child and I cannot have another one”, your mom yells somewhere from the kitchen direction, making you laugh.

“I can get another one anywhere, Marília”, he finally lets go, an arm around your shoulders. “Won't be as nice as this one, though”

“Of course not, she's irreplaceable”, your cousin Felipe says, approaching. “Prima, você tem feito falta!” (“Cousin, you have been missed!”) He holds you sideways with an insane amount of exaggeration, taking an embarrassed chuckle from you. Felipe was a lawyer with a lot of charisma, but inside he was just your cousin that your mom liked a lot. You both used to play together growing up. “From some people, a little too much”, he whispers playfully before running away, not letting you scold him for bringing up something you were not prepared to deal with this earlier, especially when the person implied wasn't even around. Yet.

Your father doesn't seem to notice, now talking with your mom again.

“Hey, Alice”, you wave to Felipe’s wife sitting on the couch, drinking something on a Christmas themed mug.

“Hey, sweetie! How's uni?”

“Tiring”, you shrug. “How about the kids?”

Your name is once again shouted through the house, and as you turn around three kids are running into you. Camila, Jorge e Rayana hold your waist, almost making you fall with a laugh. Camila is the oldest, at five years old, but the others are at the age of three. They're simply the most precious people in that family.

“Meus pestinhas!” (“My little brats!”) You start messing their hairs and pinching their ears playfully.

“Eu perdi um dente, olha!” (“I lost a tooth, look!”) Camila smiles widely, showing the first little window on her mouth.

“Ela tá ficando banguela e feia” (“She's getting toothless and ugly”) Jorge points out, and by Camila's reaction this isn't a new saying.

“Well, that's too bad. Because you'll get toothless and ugly too, just wait a few years”, Rayana and Camila laugh as the boy pouts at your response, looking at their mom.

“Vamo, vamo, abram espaço. Preciso abraçar minha filha” (Come on, come on, clear the way. I need to hug my daughter) Your mom’s voice finally reached the living room before her arms were wrapped around your torso. It's warm and familiar, you've missed her so much.

“Oi, mãe” (“Hey, mom”)

“Você tá tão magrinha, filha. Aposto que não anda comendo direito na correria, né?” (“You're so skinny, child. I bet you haven't been eating well in all the rush, right?”) The caressing she does on your back is reassuring, and by that you can tell you're going back with bowls filled with food. “Sua irmã vai chegar só mais tarde, seu pai vai buscar ela na estação” (“Your sister will arrive just later, your father will pick her up on the station”)

“When will uncle Jerry get here? He said he would get me new crayons”, Rayana mumbles while playing with one of the numerous ornaments on the lit up tree.

You try not to react to what that phrase implies, going with your mom to the kitchen to busy your hands and your mind with something else. She would probably kick you out of there soon anyway, she never liked having other people in the kitchen with her unless very necessary. But the need to act normal, smile and not think about family friends coming over it's bigger than the prospect of being scolded out of a room.

While the conversation continues in the living room and the song plays to never leave an empty place in your audition, you hover around the place talking with your mom about the neighborhood news and her routines in the morning walks group. It's comforting to know about what's going on, even if it doesn't really affect your life.

You help her cut the bread to make rabanadas (french toasts), looking forward to finally eating them. It's one of your favorite things of this season, even though you could actually find it anywhere at any time of the year. But the memories of having a plate of those on the supper table, covered in sugar and cinnamon, it's one of your favorites. So you're dividing your attention between the chore of slicing the bread and listening to your mom speaking, when a name being yelled in the living room catches your ear and you almost cut the tip of your thumb.

It's Jorge’s voice. “Abby!”

It's a blessing your mom didn't notice it, but now you have a bigger motive to stay inside the kitchen and never leave it.

No matter how much your mother talked, or the music filled the air, or the people in the other room got into different conversations within the group; her voice seemed louder than any other thing to you. You would swear she was next to the table you had the cutting board on, chatting with the children and playing with them.

You could swear you could listen to her whispering to you about lonely nights and missing pieces of a puzzle.

“Tia!” (“Auntie!”)

Your mom stops speaking just to turn around and look into the tall woman's direction. “Abigail!” Her comforting, mothering arms hold the strong torso, and the blonde needs to be in a not very straight posture to fully embrace your mom. What could you say, hightness wasn't in your family's genes.

“One of these days you'll be able to carry me around, with how big and strong you're getting!” And they both laugh as if Abby didn't live at the end of the block and they saw each other constantly.

All the while, you're trying to avoid the upcoming, inevitable moment. Your eyes glue on the bread, but you're not really looking at it. They're talking but you can't decipher the words, just assimilate the sweet voice making your cells tremble in vibrations. Cutting another piece, and another, then another, then-

“Puta que pariu-” (“Motherfucker-”), a drop of blood falls onto the cutting board when you pull your hand away, thumb red and hurting.

“What happened?” Your mom asks, concern in her voice.

“I cut my finger”, the running water of the sink makes the wound sting when you put the finger under it, the blood keeps coming out.

“I can take care of that if you need to”, Abby says, making you look directly at her for the first time of the night.

And you have to give the lack of air to the pain. You have to, because otherwise you would be admitting that looking at her takes your breath away.

“Yeah, Abby is working as a nurse in a school now. I bet she's used to this type of thing”, Marília goes to the cutting board, taking the pieces you've cut already.

There's nowhere to run over this. What will you say, that you don't want her to take care of your wound? That you can't be next to her, orelse all the coherent thoughts in your mind will fade away, leaving room for her voice? That your fingers ache to touch her?

You look to your still bleeding finger under the open faucet, then to the tall, blonde woman again. And while your mother wasn't looking, you both had a silent conversation about something, everything. She could see the doubt in your eyes, but you could see the pleads in hers.

“Sure, I think it wouldn't be much…” You try to smile, finally turning the faucet off and grabbing a towel to wrapp around your finger.

You both go upstairs, she tells you how there was a first aid kit in the bathroom and your stomach jumps at the realization that she knew your house more than yourself probably. Looking forward at all times and trying not to pay too much attention to her careful hand touching your arm like she was guiding you around the place.

“Go to your room, I’ll take the kit”, and you don’t even look at her to see how she was looking at you. You don’t know how that hurt her, mainly because you’re trying to get out of this situation as fast as possible.

The room is just like you always leave it after the breaks, bed neatly covered and books on the shelves. Some stuffed animals that you couldn’t bear to donate were aligned on a shelf next to a poster of a band you liked, the black and red contrasting with the creamy colors of a small giraffe. You saw the table where once you were pressed against, the lamp giving a soft light on the room as you felt a pair of lips so close to yours after all those years of yearning and silent pining.

“Okay, let’s give this a look” she was back using that voice, the one for the workplace. Tender, but firm; like she was trying to be secure, but reassuring.

Abby pulled the chair next to the table so she could sit in front of you, her knees together between your separated legs as she carefully took your hand and unwrapped the towel. Crimson drops started to flow down your finger, and the blonde woman never took the blue eyes away from the cut.

The distance wasn’t enough. Her scent would haunt the bedroom all night, making you dream about her just like it happened before, during your late school years, when she came to spend the day and left you numb and daydreaming. Her touches were so gentle, featherlight.

“It wasn't that bad, we can handle it”, she muttered like she was talking to one of the students from the school she worked at. “So, how's college?”

“It's okay, I guess”, with eyes glued on your own hand, you tried not to notice her thighs too much. “I've been working my ass off to write a paper while keeping up with classes and the monitoring thing”

“You'll get this, I'm sure”, you looked up just in time to see a smirk on her lips, but then returned to look down again before being trapped on that hypnotizing expression. “After all, you've always been very good with your words”

“It was easier in school, though”

“It always is”, she cuts the bandage before wrapping your finger with it. “But that's the thing, right? We start to realize how school was maybe easier, but then again, would you rather be back?”

“Oh, fuck no”, you chuckle as she finishes the curative. “I wouldn't change this for that”

“Yeah”, you finally look up more confident, meeting her indescribable expression. “I would change some things, actually”

“Like what?” You're just keeping the conversation, just trying to let it flow well enough for it to be bearable. You surely weren't expecting the next phrase.

“I wouldn't have dated Owen”, she sighs.

Owen was Abby's boyfriend. They started dating in the last year of school, and looked very much in love, for your displeasing. He wasn't a bad guy per se, but the fact that you already had a crush on Abby made you think that your feelings towards him were totally based on jealousy. So every single thing you had to say about him would be shoved down your throat immediately, and you'd just smile and nod to your friend anytime she mentioned him. You told her he was nice - couldn't bring yourself to say more than that - and supported their relationship with the most painful role in that whole story: the best friend with an unrequited crush.

By fall you found out she and Owen had broken up. Right after…

“Why is that?” Her eyes wander from the quilt to your hands, then back to your face. They were so beautiful, you could spend the rest of the night admiring them. Or the way her hair would fall around her face with soft lines, how her freckles were so attractive to the touch, especially on her arms.

“Don't think I was really into him… At least not in the right way”, Abby was the one not looking at you now, almost more interested in putting the stuff back on the kit box. “I could've been honest with him… And with you”

“Abby-”

“That's fine…” She shrugged. “He was a little bit of a dumbass anyway”

Silence falls around you both, filling the room with an emptiness.

The image of them both in your living room, last Christmas, haunts your mind as soon as you remember how you knew nothing and was too caught up in your own thoughts at the time. The way she laughed at his jokes, making your stomach turn as you smiled politely. Or how you saw them kissing next to the coat holder by the front door, and all the food you ate wanted to come back in awful bitterness.

You never told anyone. Never said a word, as always, rather keeping the green feeling on the back of your mind in order to not do something stupid - like being rude or start crying.

But then, you came home for the summer break. You dad was making barbecues in the backyard, you mom decorated the house with all the stuff your cousin brought from Brasil on his last trip, and you'd listen to pagode in the living room while the kids were playing and running, waiting for the meat to be properly roasted so they could finally eat.

Internally, you were ready to deal with that same gut-rotting feeling all over again. The plan was to sustain the fake expression until the time allowed you to pull the tiredness card on everyone and go to your room to watch some old telenovela.

Abby showed up alone, greeting everyone as usual. And when she looked at you, you could swear that was something in her eyes that could make you shiver. How she took your figure in before hugging you, how she held you so tight and for a little bit longer. How she was always trying to be next to you. You couldn't decipher, though, and the whole day went by mixing the confusion of her being without Owen and not even mentioning his name, and the rush of being that close to her again.

That night, in your room, she kissed you. Right there, where you were sitting now, she held your face between your hands and your skin shivered, while her lips touched yours.

You waited for years. Kissing her was probably one of the only things you wanted to do every time she was around, flesh craving hers. And it finally happened… But she had a boyfriend.

So you never talked about it again. You went back to college and texted her less and less.

“Abby, Abby, Abby!” A childish voice came from the corridor, the door opened to show Rayana. “Come here, I need your help to defeat Jorge and papai” (dad)

“Okay, I'll be there in a second!” The blonde smiled before the girl ran back downstairs. “Well, it seems like a have a duty”

“Can't let her down, she'll never forgive you”, you both chuckled while she got out of the room, first to leave the kit back in the bathroom and then to go to the living room again.

Sighing, you laid back on the mattress. Just like that summer night, you were alone in your room trying to collect your feelings about an interaction with Abby. Heart beating fast and a familiar warmth on your chest, wanting to curse every single entity for putting you in this position.

You came down maybe 15 minutes later, mask back on to decorate your face with a smile. You saw the tall woman on the mat with the younger children on top of her, attacking her while laughs filled the place.

“Okay, okay, saiam de cima da Abigail” (“Get off of Abigail”) Your mom didn't have to say it twice before they were sitting next to her. “Abigail, I need a favor. Remember that bowl I lent to you last week?”

“Sure”, her arms seemed stronger now that she was supporting herself on the elbows. Why was she so gorgeous?

“I need you to get it for me, darling”

“Okay, I got it”, Abby got up and immediately went grabbing her coat again.

And you were about to go back to the kitchen to make yourself useful, but it couldn't be that easy.

“Filha, vai com ela. Está nevando bastante, não é bom dirigir sozinha nesse tempo” (“Daughter, go with her. It's snowing a lot, it isn't good to drive alone in the weather”)

“Oh, it's not necessary-” She really tried, but your mom wouldn't take a negative answer.

“I'm not asking, you won't go alone!”

You nod and start putting on heavy clothes. It was okay, all good. You both would get in the house, grab the bowl, and get back in no time. It would be fine.

[dividers by @cafekitsune]

#abby x reader #abby anderson x reader #abby tlou2 #abby the last of us #abby tlou #abby anderson #tlou abby #tlou2 abby #abby the last of us 2 #christmas theme #deblklesb #abby anderson the last of us #abby anderson tlou #abby anderson the last of us 2 #abby anderson tlou2

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sinsandsweetness · 1 year ago

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Girl I have a weird fantasy about Daryl being a trucker before the world ended, like he’s older and picks me up on the side of the road after I’ve left home and tells me if he’s gonna take me where I want I go, I’ve gotta give him somthing to make it worth it.

Then giving him sloppy road-head and getting fucked in the cab till I’m dumb

Absolutely love your writing babe 😘

I actually rlly love this. especially since I’ve dated a truck driver who looks like young Norman and will literally sleep the whole time in the cab when he goes on jobs…

I imagine you sitting in the passenger seat, cross legged and snacking on some licorice from a gas station. You’re almost 6 hours into the drive. Still another two nights until you’re in the state you actually want to be in. Nice and far from all the bullshit you’re running away from.

Daryl keeps glancing over at you reading your book, leaned up against the window. Paying special attention to how short your denim cutoffs are and how tight your white tanktop is. Leaving almost nothing to the imagination. The thought dawns on him that in two hours, when the sun has set and both of your eyelids are getting all heavy, he’ll have to pull over at a rest stop. And when he saw you with your duffel bag and your bright red boots, sticking your thumb out as you walked along the shoulder of the highway, he didn’t think about the fact that there’s only one bed in the cab. One, tiny, little mattress, and two of you. You’re way too far in the middle of nowhere to find a motel either. No service. No trace of civilization for at least a couple hundred miles.

Wow. You must be stupid or something. To get in a truck with a stranger. Hell, he could have been some kind of creep. Have you seen any horror movie ever?

He looks back over at you during his internal questioning. Gosh you’re pretty. Effortlessly stunning. Hair a little wild and undone. No makeup on that he can tell at least, but he’s never really been good at noticing that stuff anyway. You’ve got layers of mixed metal jewelry. Necklaces and rings and earrings. All glimmering in the golden hour sun. You kicked your boots off hours ago. Blue polish all chipped off nearly all of your toes. Truthfullt, you’re kind of a mess. A pretty one though.

“What?” You ask him, your honeyed voice brings his brain back to earth.

“Oh- uh… nothin’,” he looks back at the road. Where he should be looking anyway. “Just, it’s gonna be dark soon. Won’t be able to read.” He keeps darting his gaze over at you while he talks.

“That’s ok. I’m sure I’ll find something else to entertain myself with.”

“You should try and sleep. Don’t think we’ll pass a motel until tomorrow night.”

“Oh that’s okay, I’ll just sleep when you do.”

He was hoping you wouldn’t. He was hoping he could avoid the awkwardness of the sleeping situation altogether.

“Yeah, I mean if you want. There’s only one bed so I just thought-“

“What, you don’t wanna share?” You’re giving him a look that he can’t decipher. Are you… flirting with him? You toss your book into your bag and unbuckle your seatbelt.

“Uh- what are you- what are you doin’?” He asks as you climb into the back.

“Well since you’re kickin’ me to the floor I guess I’ll try and catch some z’s before you pull over.” He’s glancing back every few seconds. Trying to keep his attention on the road, but a little too intrigued by you peeling your shorts off to succeed in doing it.

“I’m not- I wouldn’t make you sleep on the floor, I just didn’t- I don’t want to -“ fuck. He didn’t want you to feel like you had to sleep with him. Like you had to share the dingy little sleeper cab that can barely fit his own broad shoulders, let alone another person. An incredibly attractive and insanely good smelling girl. One that’s bending over to fix the sheets and baring her lacy hot pink thong in the process. His eyes widen and get all shifty. Should he look? Should he pretend he doesn’t see?

“Don’t want to what? Sleep with me?�� You scoff as you sit back on the bed thing your hair up into a messy blob at the top of your head with a hair tie.

“No I-”

“Don’t worry, I know what you mean. But I really don’t mind. In fact, I probably owe you anyway.”

“O-owe me? I already told you I’m going your way anyhow.” He says, reminding you of his refusal to take any cash.

“I know, but you’ve been so nice and sweet for picking me up in the first place. Wanna make it up to you.” You’re voice is low and sultry. And your words go straight to the tent in his jeans, the one that’s been half hard and ignored since he first invited you into the truck. He glances back at your half naked frame, relaxing into the sleeper cab mattress. Seeing your tanned legs and pretty panties. Wild hair and a playful, up to absolutely no good look in your eyes.

He wants to focus on the road. He does. But his mind is racing with all the ways you could make it up to him. Since you’re offering that is. And he really doesn’t know how much longer he can pretend he doesn’t want to pull over and plow you til the sun comes up. Especially with the way you’re looking at him, hand trailing down to tickle at the waistband of your underwear, biting your lip and flipping through your own filthy fantasies about the handsome, young trucker who’s been kind enough to help you out.

He catches your gaze as he glances back once more and the lustful look in his baby blues sends a jolt straight between your legs. You smile and lick your lips, wanting to be extra clear of your intentions,

“I’m ready whenever you are, pretty boy.”

#daryl dixon x reader #Daryl x you #Daryl x reader #daryl x y/n #preapocalypse daryl #daryl daydream #daryl imagine #daryl Drabble #reader insert

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h0p3l3ssromantic · 1 year ago

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i need to taste it

✨Masterlist coming soon✨

This is a work of fiction intended for readers 18 years of age and older

Please do not copy, translate or share my work here or on other sites

Synopsis: to be very honest. I love sweaty Hyune. He just does something to me and me personally? I’d drink a gallon of his sweat.

Not too much smut. Word count? Not too much lmao

Sensual: relating to or involving gratification of the senses and physical, especially sexual, pleasure. That would be you, positively sensitive to touch, taste, sound and…smell. someone who loved having her senses removed or intensified. Though not always in a sexual way, that was your favorite way to be sensual. You loved how your man touched you. Every caress, feather light touch, every grip, grab and squeeze, had you doing just that. Squeezing, clenching on him, whatever toys he used on you and sometimes on nothing. Walls begging to be massaged..

Mhmm and sounds. Sounds that only the two of you knew. Your moans, screams and begging that you knew he loved so much. The sound of the wetness from your arousal as your man pleasures you…fucks you in every way humanly possible. Always 2 towels underneath you. You tend to make quite the mess. The sounds of his heavy breathing as hes trying to pace himself, you need to cum at minimum 3 times before he can even think of allowing himself to. The sound of his moans…those are rare but fuckkkk do they always get you even more excited. Even more dizzy. Even more soaking fucking wet at the thought of him enjoying himself in your pussy so much that he breaks his dominant demeanor. Your favorite moan of his is the one he lets out whenever he has his face deep in the side of your neck, losing more control within himself with each warm stroke. You always know when hes close…”fuck daddy, do i make you feel good? Are you going to cum in me huh? Come on baby, please, please cum in me”

“Ughhh ohh f-fuckk baby”

There it is, that moan that has you cumming at the same time as him, putting your hips at an angle that allows him to penetrate deeper…finish harder…push his cum farther up inside you...

Taste. You have tasted every single crevice and inch on his body, never leaving a single body part un tasted, unloved by you. By far your favorite sense to explore with him. You love the taste of his salty cum, usually never swallowing immediately. Letting it marinate on your tongue. You swear you could taste all of the things that made him him. You never want to forget his taste for as long you fucking live.

The soft thud of the front door bringing you out of your horny, lustful thoughts

Finally your baby is home, you couldn’t wait to see him, as you decided to surprise him at his place for dinner. But upon seeing him post what looked to be a very strenuous practice…you felt a whole new dizzy sensation…

“H-Hi baby!” You say with excitement as you jump out to surprise him

And surprised he is, “hi my love, what are you doing here?” He says, walking up to you, smirking…drenched in sweat…

There’s a strange…pheromone literally oozing from his pores, drips of sweat still clinging to his skin

This scent, this sight, his voice it’s driving you fucking insane

And the sweat..an untasted bodily liquid…is this what’s causing that dizziness?? you had to change that…you had to know what it tasted like…

“I-I just wanted to surprise you, I missed you so much” you say jumping into his arms, straddling him, kissing him on his neck…his sweet spot. Soft kitten licks, between the soft kisses, tasting the liquid resting on his warm skin, “fuck is sweat supposed to taste like this? He smells so…fuckable. You always need and want him but this feels more raw and animalistic the way you need him.

“I missed you too baby, mhmm” he moans “I see someone really missed me, I’m all sweaty baby let me clean up and you can have me however you need me”

“Mhm mhm, I know baby and I don’t care” you beg, “please let me taste it, let me taste you, I want you just like like this”..

Should there be a part 2 to this??Or is it good alone??

A/n: Im trying very hard to not make everything I write about Hyunjin but im down so bad for him. All of them to be honest. The Hyune brainrot is honestly so real I’ve cried about him like 3 times this week. I need him in a pre historic way

As always pls feel free to like, reblog or comment all feedback is good feedback still getting my bearings around this site and smut. Thank you for reading, smooches💋

#skz #stray kids #skz imagines #skz scenarios #skz smut #skz x reader #skz hyunjin #hyunjin smut

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winn-schott-throughtheheart · 4 months ago

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For the headcanons thing (that you posted 6 months ago - sorry)

Winn Schott

If you’ve already done him (which is highly likely) give me another character you haven’t done and please tag me in the Winn one :)

I COMPLETELY FORGOT ABOUT THIS LMFAOOO thank you for reminding me that's so embarrassing

anyways, I'd had Winn and Lena requested but Kara is my second fav blorbo after Winn so I did her too <33

also, this is going off the premise that both Winn and Kara are autistic, it's canon because I said so I have lists you can fight me on this

Winn

Realistic: Winn is notably the only analyst (in the main cortex at least) that wears dress clothes instead of uniform. At the beginning he really did try to stand the uniform, but he ended up convincing J'onn to let him off because he just couldn't deal with the feeling of it on his skin.

Hilarious: Being the only human member of the Legion of Superheroes, Winn got asked A LOT about human culture. A blatant lie that originally stemmed from being asked the same ten questions a billion times, snowballed into a complicated lore about humanology and Gods and belief systems (because he was too embarrassed to admit to the original lie) and he ended up being the accidental cause of organised religion in the 31st century.

tldr: Winn Schott manages to shitpost his way through space and time

Also, he's asthmatic as fuck. He has to carry an inhaler in his bag and he hates it.

Awful: He hates the smell of teakwood and tobacco because it reminds him so viscerally of an abusive foster home that it genuinely makes him physically anxious and nauseous.

Unrealistic: He's actually really good at handling spicy food. He's even out-performed Alex a handful of times.

Lena

Realistic: Lena actually really hates chess. She hates how everything needs to be calculated properly, how everything needs to be thought out exactly, and it just reminds her too much of how she was brought up.

Hilarious: She has a peanut allergy. Similar to Winn, she has to carry an epi-pen in her bag. This is not public knowledge, of course, because that would probably bring her quarterly assassination attempts up to weekly.

Awful: Lena can only fall asleep with a nightlight- she isn't really sure why, all she knows is that her bed feels less like frigid, murky water when it's on.

Unrealistic: She doesn't know how to cook or how to drive. Her whole life she's had people cook for her and drive her places, so she never had to learn how to. She'd like to one day, though.

Kara

Realistic: Kara LOVES dinosaurs. She didn't have birds on Krypton, which implies either all the dinosaurs were wiped out, or there never were any in the first place, and she was immediately enthralled and fascinated by them when she first learned about them.

Hilarious: She's dyslexic. She relies on Grammarly like it's lifeblood.

Awful: She's insanely afraid of thunderstorms. It takes everything in her not to have a flashback or a panic attack or a meltdown, and she will point blank refuse to patrol if it's storming.

Unrealistic: After Red Daughter was killed, Kara's heat vision stayed permanently purple, and her eyes were purple too for a very long time afterwards.

maybe that first ones a bit of projection, i fucking love dinosaurs

#supergirl #headcanons #winn schott #autistic winn schott #kara danvers #autistic kara danvers #lena luthor

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peachyloveswriting · 2 years ago

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wow!!! the immortality post was so good!! you captured every character so well 🫶 im glad that for nai’s part he stopped himself before he accidentally killed reader—i wonder how insane that would’ve made him. i’m tempted by how angsty that would be …

Anon: *Slides angst onto table*

Me: (in a very suspicious and obviously trying to not be obvious outfit) *snatches the angst and runs away with an evil cackle.*

If you can't tell, angst is my favorite and OMG I absolutely love this idea I'm drooling over it as we speak. Sadly though I feel like my last knives fix was rushed so I'm going to try and write this one better for you.

IT'S A GOOD THING I CAN'T DIE --- Millions Knives

SUMMARY: How could he ever do something like this. And why to you of all people?

WARNING: Death, descriptions of death, mutilation, trauma.

⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝

He has always seen himself as being incapable of caring for someone else. Humans are especially at the top of this list, they are the very thing he's worked so hard to get rid of and yet, he let one walk right into his life. You slowly took over everything he did, his planning became filled with ensuring you had food to eat, finding you a place to sleep and keeping you safe. He kept you in his company, even while you slept, just in fear of what others might do to you. He knows his disciples don't like you, they'd even go as far as killing you, but Knives, he would never hurt you. Never has the day come that he has ever thought about laying a hand on you and if he dared, he might mutilate himself.

The time for that day fills with its unprecedented arrival and it swallows him whole, eating him alive with guilt. In this moment he stands frozen, unable to think or move. Beyond the door he attacked had come a name, his name, in your voice of all things. In his worst nightmares he's dreamt of this but... was it really you?

Just hours before this he had seen a horrific sight, one he hopes will be wiped from his mind forever, an image of you laying in a pool of blood. Impaling every open spot of your skin is nails, each of them driving through to the floor and mangling you beyond recognition. Maybe it wasn't you that he saw, his mind was just playing a trick on him. At this point, he's too scared to break himself from this trance, he doesn't want to know what dead body lies outside that door. He knows he has to check it soon or he might lose his mind at the thought of killing you.

Pulling out of the trance, his tendrils hook the door and relieve it from its place upon the hinges. It snaps with a loud crack as he pulls it away and sets it to the side. Even with the ability to see the body laying in his doorway, Knives is too scared to look. He refuses to bring his eyes forward, and looks away. If the blood seeping into the carpet was yours, what would he do? Would he actually kill himself? Without you, what would he do?

Knives begins to gather the courage to look down at the body in his doorway, casting his eyes to the figure, it runs his blood dry.

The blood covers the whole room outside, it makes his stomach churn at the sight. Saliva fills his mouth, Knives keels over from the sudden intrusion and opens his mouth to let his stomachs contents pour out. Without it being any substantial food at all, it burns the back of his throat with bial. Tears build and blur his eyesight, keeping him from making out the full body, but he didn't have to look that long to know who it was.

Falling apart around him feels like the world, his last line of sanity, the only thing he cared for has been stripped away and by his own hands. If only he had inspected the first body closer he might not have killed you in a fit of rage, he might be able to salvage any sanity still left over, but it's long demented. Simmering in the juices of hysteria.

To his knees, he falls. First Vash and now you. This couldn't really be happening could it? The body before him smells of you, but how could it really be you? Why did you step in at the wrong time? Why did he fail?

From his throat erupts a scream of raw, unadulterated, pain. It's sad and pulled with sorrow before it delves back down into a low sinister cackle. Hysterical to no end, Knives finally loses it. Everything he's lived for up until now could go to waste, and everyone else better swear to God for their safety, if anyone touches you he might not step back over the edge. Any drop of sanity he might just have left, will be gone. Not even Vash would be able to bring him back.

#millions knives x you #millions knives x reader #knives x reader #millions knives #trigun stampede #trigun x reader #trigun stampede x reader

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unofficially-ace · 4 days ago

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Star thoughts/liveblog (spoilers ahead ofc)

- If Splashtail is holding kittens hostage have you guys tried….driving him out? It’s literally one guy against the whole of Riverclan, just keep him away from the kits and there won’t be an issue???

- The conflict is kinda stupid I can’t lie, this could be solved if everyone in Riverclan wasn’t such a dumbass

- Cloverfoot is going to die in this battle I can smell it

- I can’t believe we’re getting fascism explained to us through warrior cats

- Berryheart fell down the crunchy mom -> alt right pipeline real

- This book is making me like Tigerheartstar wtf

- Frostpaw I would die for you

- Harestar you’re the most annoying mf ever please die

- What is it with Riverclan and their camp being turned into a prison every other series

- Graysludge and Mistslime are objectively hilarious names

- What happened to Splashtail being compelling why is he just cartoonishly evil and insane now

- There are not enough supporters of Splashtail to make give this any stakes come onnnn, he has like 5 people actually on his side

- I love Berryheart she’s so fucked up

- Wtf is Owlnose doing, why is he siding with Splashtail for no reason??

- Sunbeam you are so stupid my god

- ‘She didn’t realise what she was doing’ yes she did lmao

- RIP Berryheart you were the most compelling villain of the series

- That makes 2 dead female villains and we’re stuck with the boring male one….

- Owlnose you just killed someone don’t try and make me feel bad for you

- ‘The last thing she ever did was save you’ just like Curlfeather….the parallels…

- This feels like setup for Froststar ngl

- I can’t believe Nightheart is the only guy with a braincell here

- Is fogstar going to be a thing??? She hasn’t even been mentioned once before this book

- Riverclan is so stupid it actually pains me

- Why are we still calling them Greysludge and Mistslime that’s literally so mean lol, just call them by their apprentice names

- The tension is actually really good

- Not exactly liking how Splashtail seems to be genuinely mentally I’ll and that’s why he’s evil…

- He’s fuckin dead and we’re only halfway through?? Now what?

- So glad Frostpaw got to be the one to kill him though, that was so satisfying

- Riverclan you can justify all you want but at the end of the day you’re fuckin stupid

- The second he started doing murders y’all should’ve turned on him and it would all be fine

- Hi Mothwing when did you get here

- Lol fuck those guys (fognose and breezeheart)

- Goddamn Berryheart’s funeral scene is some of the best writing I’ve seen in a warriors book for a while, these are genuinely interesting emotions to explore

- Ewww I don’t wanna think about frost having a crush on splash stop bringing this up my god

- Oh fuck yes Frostpaw and Curlfeather angst

- If the rest of this book is just emotional conflict I will be more than happy with it

- Don’t kill off Frostpaw I swear to god

- Kate Cary I’m putting my trust in you

- This scene would make an incredible animation

- Might be my new favourite chapter of warrior cats ever holy shit that SLAPPED

- Fuck off Nightheart I need more Frostpaw

- Having Nightsky and Nightheart is so confusing

- Thunderclan can’t go two seconds without an argument (usually started by Lionblaze)

- I kinda love this type of conflict, it’s much more interesting than Splashtail being crazy

- Podlight is still here???

- Tree does something as a mediator for the first time ever

- Who tf is emberstar (if they’re relevant in Riverstar’s SE then I haven’t read it lol)

- The fact that I genuinely can’t tell if Frostpaw will survive is so good

- Please let the rest of the chapters be Frostpaw I don’t gaf about the others right now

- Whistlebreeze is the cutest name

- Frostdawn!!!! Also cute as fuck

- ICESTAR REALLLLL LETS GO

- Oh my god this chapter is gonna make me cry

- Sunbeam is pregnant and I want to explode

- And that’s a wrap on ASC , genuinely actually enjoyed this book, especially the second half. The emotional conflict was really interesting I gotta be honest, Frostdawn’s almost-dead scenes were so fun and had really good tension. The conflict with Splashtail ended up getting really stale, I’m glad he was killed halfway through because I couldn’t have dealt with that being dragged out for a whole book

#warrior cats #asc spoilers #asc star #star spoilers

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kanekiobsessed · 2 years ago

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Absence

Parings: Kaneki x Reader

Warnings: Angst, Not Proof Read

Word Count: 433

He was right. A human with a ghoul could honestly never work. It was doomed to fall one day. You guys were different though. Weren’t you?

I mean, it was to be expected. The way he was going out more often to feast than normally. Something wasn’t right with him. Despite being half human himself he had the same exact cravings as any other ghoul did. You being a human around him didn’t help his case. The smell of your sweet blood being so close was already driving him insane.

You knew it. You could see it in the way he looked at you, no different than a regular ghoul would. No amount of blood or coffee could satisfy him. He wanted yours. You would of been happy to give up a little but you could tell he wouldn’t settle for less. With his patience going lessening each day that passed, you knew you were fucked no matter what.

Leaving wouldn’t change a thing. He would definitely find you. Confronting him was the only option.

“Kaneki..” You cooed when you heard him enter the house, attempting to seem calm. “Hm?” You heard him hum before walking towards you, grabbing your body and pulling it to his. His warmth was unmatched. Comparable to a fireplace on a winter day.

You cupped his pale face in your hands taking one last good look at it before saying, “Kaneki. Do you want to eat me-?” His eyes widen in shock from the words that just came out. The poker face melting off his face. At this point he couldn’t even deny it. He honestly did want to eat you. Your question was met by silence as he tore your hands off his face.

He kissed your cheek and replied with a simple “Yes.” Not sure whether you should be shocked or relieved that he isn’t lying. You stare into his black and red eyes that just confirm his answer. Before you could reply he started grabbing random items like clothes and personal items.

“I’m sorry, I should of told you earlier.” You heard him whisper under his breath before walking to the front door. Without even saying goodbye he walks outside. The darkness consuming him whole. 12:43AM. That’s the time your dear Kaneki left you. Did all these years just lead you to this? You ran to the window to watch the white haired boy walk off into the night. He had no idea where he’d go.

Maybe he’ll hang out at some abandoned factory. He just knew he couldn’t be around you any longer. Hopefully you’ll get used to his absence.

#tokyo ghoul kaneki #kaneki #kaneki x reader #tokyo ghoul #angst #kaneki angst #Spotify

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captain039 · 2 years ago

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PART 5 Giving in to the wild side

Dean Winchester x reader

Warnings: AOB, mentions of past trauma, family death, hurt/comfort, mates, claiming, eventual smut, lots of feels, not liking/wanting kids. Brief mention of dog fighting.

Continuation of Craving the wild side

Summary: after leaving the Dean Winchester case you quit your job you over your as normal as you could. You woke up, helped your mum, worked on the farm but you always felt that hole.

Not knowing if he show up or not you gave up on hoping till someone came knocking.

Last part <-

Dean was melting every part of your body. Soft kisses with warm touch’s as he explored your body. You had your eyes closed enjoying the feeling as he kissed down your chest. You felt him shuffle back and frowned opening your eyes thinking he was going to leave, he just grinned up at you making you tilt your head as he hooked your legs over his shoulders. You flushed furiously realising what he was doing as you covered your eyes and bit the back of your arm. Warm breath fanned your inner thighs before soft lips pressed against them gently. You wanted to squeeze your legs shut but he held them open.

“I wanna taste you” he muttered and you felt your heart jump out your chest. He groaned softly before a hot tongue swiped between your folds. You yelped in surprise before he began to eat you out. He was determined, sucking and licking, making unholy noises as he did. The alpha gripped your thighs, held you still as he ate. You whined and moaned feeling your stomach clenching. He stopped for a moment making you look, his eyes staring at you.

“Touch yourself” he muttered.

“I wanna taste you when you cum” he muttered going back to work. Your whole body lit up at the words and you hesitated greatly. You frowned though when his hand left your thigh and grabbed your hand, guiding it down to where your clit was. You gave in them, gently rubbing circles with one hand, hips stuttering. You added both, back arching as you quicker your pace.

“Alpha” you whined and listened to the growl that escaped him as you came. Your hips rolled in time with his movements as he continued to eat you out. You were in utter bliss, currently in a daze and over sensitive as he finally stopped. You sighed body trembling as Dean crawled back up your body.

“Ok?” He asked and you nodded. He laid down by your side tugging you to snuggle with him. You frowned slightly feeling him going soft against your hip.

“What about you” you asked and he shook his head pressing his lips to your forehead briefly.

“I’m fine” he muttered and you frowned. He smiled and you tilted your head in confusion, did he? Did he cum too? Untouched?

“Did you-?” You stuttered embarrassed as he nodded.

“Oh” you whispered feeling your body go hot.

“But-“ he hushed you gently, a chuckle leaving his lips.

“Get some rest ok? You deserve it” he whispered nose in your hair as he breathed deeply.

“Smell so good” he smiled.

“When I couldn’t smell you I thought I’d go insane, but now” he took a deep breath.

“You smell like apple pie and home” he muttered.

“Apple pie?” You asked.

“My Nan, Deana made this amazing apple pie when me and Sammy were kids, they were more like parents to us than our real parents. Dad would leave for work and mum would drink her problems away and send us to Nan and pops” he said sadly.

“Are they alive still? Have you seen them?” You asked.

“They’re alive, I haven’t seen them yet” he mumbled.

“We’ve got stuff on our plate though, we can do that later, for now just get some sleep” he ordered softly.

“Ok” you whispered nodding as you cuddled closer. You felt warm and calm, being like this, melded against Deans body, breathing in his scent, it was heaven.

The next day you awoke early, had breakfast and then took Champ with you to go to the hospital. You called the doctor asking and he said yes which you were thankful for. It was a hard drive, harder still leaving Champ through the hospital. He didn’t know what was going on, tail wagging as he greeted some people before you got to your mums room. You hesitated again at the door and looked down to him. Champ tilted his head in question like he knew something was gonna happen. Dean knelt down before you could taking the fluff balls attention.

“Hey bud” Dean scratched his head softly.

“Listen this is gonna be hard” Dean said emotions changing. Champ sensed it whining softly as he looked between you and him.

“Your Nan, she’s not gonna come back for a while” Dean whispered and you began yo cry.

“We’re gonna say goodbye ok? You’re gonna do so well buddy” he gave Champ one last pet before standing up. You sobbed softly making Champ whine and Dean kiss your head. You saw the receptionist crying too, giving you a sad look as she gave you an encouraging nod. You opened the door letting Champ in, he sniffed around before lifting his paws onto the bed.

“Come on bud” you said and he jumped up careful of your mum. He whined licking your face before sniffing your mums hand. He licked her hand nudging it and you sobbed softly. Champ lied down, whining gently as he tried to ask for pets. You leant down hugging him tightly as you cried. Deans hand rubbed your back as you cried against Champ. How could you explain this to him? He couldn’t understand what was happening.

After a few hours you went home again, you let Champ roam free, but he went to his kennel and laid down, head on his paws.

“He’s gonna be alright, we’re all gonna be alright” Dean said softly.

Watching Champ was harder than he thought, Dean never really liked dogs, his previous owners had little, yappy, white mop dogs that always barked and snapped at him. Or it was a big fighter dog thrown into the pen like he was. When he met Champ though, that big dopy look on his face as he stared at him made him melt. The big fur ball grown on him and seeing this was horrible. Dean knew he couldn’t fully understand but he knew what was happening, that nan wasn’t gonna be home, that’d just be mum and him. Dean let you nap once they got home, your emotions exhausted you, he didn’t blame you, he was barely holding it together. After last night, holding you was what he needed, feeling you calm in his arms, your smell not sour like rotten oranges, but that sweet homey apple pie smell. He enjoyed what he did, watching you come undone like that made him cum without touch. With all the omega owners he pleasured he knew what to do, what made a partner tick, he found it easily on you, that sweet sensitive spot on your neck and on your hip, between your thighs. When you came he came straight after, but continued eating you out like a hungry man, gods did you taste good.

Dean sighed bringing his mind back to the now as he went to go see Champ. He sat down by the kennel with him, softly talking about his childhood. Not that Champ understood, but Dean figured he could use the company.

You awoke groggily as always, sun in your eyes from the open curtain. You’d fallen asleep on the couch, after the hospital you came home and crashed on the nearest comfortable surface. You called for Dean but found no one. His car was still outside though. You got up slowly and headed outside seeing him feeding the Chickens.

“Hey” you said and he looked up.

“Hey, all animals have been fed and taken care of” he smiled softly and you thanked him quietly.

“I forgot about them, I didn’t mean too” you sighed and Dean shook his head.

“I don’t expect you to remember ok, I don’t expect you to do anything in this time unless you want too, I can handle this” he gestured to the farm.

“Ok I’ve got this, I’ve got this house and you” he said.

“Who’s got you?” You whispered, your doctor side coming in.

“Sam, You, Jess, nugget here” he pointed to the chicken by his foot.

“That’s not nugget, that is” you said pointing to the right chicken.

“That’s fillet” you said and he frowned looking between the two.

“Did you have to name them after chicken foods?” He sighed wincing.

“Yes” you chuckled shaking your head.

“You avoided my question though” you added.

“I’ve got you, I’ve always got you from now till I drop” you said.

“But you’ve been holding it together for too long, I keep breaking down and you have to be strong” you shook your head sighing.

“I don’t have to be” he said softly.

“But that’s what your mind set is, I know it” you whispered, throat tightening.

“Dean you can break, I don’t mind” you muttered seeing his eyes gloss over.

“She’s your mum too, even if she isn’t blood and only a couple of weeks” you added. Tears fell from his face as he laid down the chicken seed bucket and stepped out of the pen. You held your arms open and he slouched into you, like the day he attacked that guard. He rested his head on your shoulder and cried. He really cried, he poured his emotions onto you and you just held on tightly. Neither of you would ever be alone in this.

Next part ->

I literally keep crying as I write these parts

Tags

@spnfamily-j2

@globetrotter28

@deans-spinster-witch

@sassy-pelican

@bluedragonflylady

@lyarr24

@saranghaey

@kasrm67

@spnexploration

@leigh70

@crulycarley

@shadowcrowsworld

@iamsapphine

@katiebugg03

#Dean x reader #x reader #aob #supernatural #au #Sam and Jess #alpha Dean Winchester #feels

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jaxteller87 · 1 year ago

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my sunshine (teenage years)

Jax's POV:

Leaving the school grounds that day felt like I was escaping a prison, even though I had stayed long enough to make it technically count as a full day of attendance. The whole idea of school had lost its charm for me a long time ago, and my thoughts were constantly pulled in other directions – like the club, my family, and the unpredictable paths life seemed to carve out for me. But today was different; today held a weight that I couldn't ignore, no matter how strong the club's pull might be.

The bail was tempting – just ride out, hit the open road, and let the wind carry me away from all of this. But Gemma and Amber's mother insisted I go to school, probably fearing that sitting around the hospital waiting room would drive me insane. Given the rough situation in Charming and the ongoing tensions with rival clubs, they might've been right, so I reluctantly agreed.

Today was the day of Amber's shunt replacement surgery. Amber, the girl who had become an anchor in my life amidst the chaos of SAMCRO. She deserved all the support in the world, especially from me. And so, after a morning of restless fidgeting through classes, I found myself at St. Thomas Hospital.

After forty-five minutes of wandering around like a nomad, I finally found my way to the front desk. The receptionist pointed me in the right direction – down the bright, white hallway, past room 109, around the corner, last door on the left.

Standing outside her door, I looked in through the window. There they were, Amber's parents, flanking her on either side of the bed where she lay peacefully asleep. My emotions welled up within me – accompanied by an overwhelming sense of wanting to be there for her.

And then, unexpectedly, a gentle melody filled the air. It was Kim, Amber's mom.

You are my sunshine My only sunshine You make me happy When skies are gray You'll never know, dear How much I love you Please don't take My sunshine away

I remained outside the room momentarily, just watching. The connection between Amber and her parents was strong, and I couldn't help but feel like an outsider looking in. But I wasn't just an outsider; I was someone who cared deeply for Amber, someone who had found solace and companionship in her company.

As Kim continued to sing, I gently pushed open the door and stepped inside, the soft creaking of the steel door unnoticed amidst the melody. Our eyes met – Amber's, a mixture of surprise and relief, and mine, a silent reassurance that I was there for her.

Taking a seat, I settled beside the bed, my hand finding hers beneath the sheets. And there, amidst the beeping monitors and lingering smell of antiseptic, we sat together – a biker from SAMCRO and a girl from a different world – bound by circumstances that had drawn us together.

"I'm heading out to grab a drink," her dad said, "Do you want anything?"

"Nah, I'm good, thanks," I replied, "How's she holding up?" I inquired softly, my fingers gently combing through Amber's hair.

"She's doing well. She had a bit of trouble waking up from the anesthesia, but she's alright now. The doctor mentioned she might be able to head home tomorrow," I continued.

"Really? They just cracked open her skull, and she's ready to head home?" I asked.

"Yep," Kim replied with a chuckle. "The surgery wasn't as severe as when Amber was just a baby. Medical advancements have come a long way."

As Amber's eyelids fluttered open, I silently repeated to myself, "Hang in there, darlin'. You've got this."

"There she is," Kim said softly.

Amber's POV:

The world slowly came into focus, and I met my mother's comforting smile as I awakened.

"Teller," I whispered, my hand reaching out for his. He gladly clasped it in his own, a smile playing on his lips.

"Look at you with the cutest mohawk I've ever seen," he chuckled.

"Thank you," I whispered back, straining to smile.

"Is there anything I can get you?" he asked, his lips brushing a gentle kiss on my hand.

"Maybe a drink? If that's alright," I looked to my mom for approval.

"Sure, sweetheart," she nodded.

"Here you go," he said, handing me the drink with a reassuring smile as I took a sip.

"Thank you," I tried my best, struggling to keep my eyes open against the pull of sleep.

"It's alright, darlin'. You can rest now. I'll be right here," his soothing words reassured me, and I knew everything would be alright.

Jax's POV:

Gemma and I were making preparations for Amber's return home. Both of us had shared doubts about how soon she could be released, but low and behold, the moment was upon us.

"Welcome home," we beamed as Tim wheeled Amber into the house.

Tim lifted her gently and set her on the sofa, "Thanks, Dad," she smiled.

"Thank you both," Kim added.

"No problem at all, Kim. You guys are family," Gemma assured her.

"Jax, if it's alright with everyone, could you stick around for a while?" Amber yawned, glancing my way.

"I'm good with it, but Kim, if I overstay my welcome, say the word, and I'm gone," I chuckled.

"Thank you," Amber smiled sleepily, resting her head on my lap.

Over the next few weeks, I found myself spending a significant amount of time at Amber's place, assisting her mom and being there for her.

One night, I woke up to the sensation of a blanket being draped over me. "Jax, it's alright," Kim whispered. "You can stay the night." She turned off the lights in the living room, leaving me in the recliner while Amber rested on the sofa.

A few days later, Amber and I found ourselves at "Burgers and Sweets," She needed a change of scenery after being cooped up at home.

"Well, well, look who decided to join us," I teased, noticing Opie and Donna walking toward us from the parking lot.

Opie laughed. "Well, hello there, sweetcheeks."

"Come on, Ope, I thought we agreed, not in front of the ladies," I joked.

"It's only a matter of time until they find out about us," Ope whispered, but loud enough so we could all hear it.

"Cat's out of the bag, guys," Donna smirks, "We've known for years."

"What? Really?" I laughed.

"What gave us away? Was it the way my heart melts whenever Jackson Teller walks into a room?" Opie took my hand, but I quickly took it back.

"Alright, Ope, you're scaring me," I replied.

"Uh oh," Amber chimed in, "Looks like the honeymoon's over."

"How you doin', girl?" Donna asked, sitting next to Amber.

"I'm getting these stitches and staples out this week," She remarked, scratching her head through her hat.

Later that day, after our ice cream outing, I accompanied Amber home as I could see her running out of steam pretty quickly. She needed her rest, so as I placed her on the sofa to get some rest, I gently tilted her chin back and leaned in for a kiss. She giggled as I did, her arms wrapping around my neck.

"I love you," I chuckled softly.

"Love you too, Teller," she giggled back, sealing the moment with a kiss.

#jax teller x oc #jax teller fanfiction #jax teller x disabled reader

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turnyourgays · 1 year ago

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The Usher Foundation 1: Route 66

Hey, this is a fanfiction centered on the Magnus Institute's American counterpart, the Usher Foundation. It takes place in another universe - neither the one we know and love from the Magnus Archives series nor [spoilers] where they sent the fears, but a third one, that also has the fears. I know that feels confusing but I've got my canonical reason for that planned out, so if this first installment does well then you'll get plenty of that intricate lore.

[Smartphone recorder chimes]

[ARCHIVIST clears his throat]

If you're a researcher doing a paper on spookies, congratulations, you've found the very first Usher Foundation audio statement. I'm Donovan Ellis...[sigh]...'Chief Experience Organizer' of the Usher Foundation, Washington D.C. The boss just did a pretty substantial reorganization of the place - "..needs a hip coat of paint!" he told us, which includes me dusting off the statements and putting them on the cloud. In audio form; for reasons he danced around until I gave up. On the subject...

Statement of Nicholas Sill, regarding the highway between Amarillo and Albuquerque. Originally given November 17th, 2009. Audio recorded July 4th, 2022. Statement begins.

I learned to drive at 16, and I haven't stopped since. I'm from New York - upstate, not the city - and every year when the weather gets nippy I hop in the car and drive south down to Savannah, Georgia, then west (and north) all the way to San Francisco, stopping in my favorite cities and landmarks along the way. People think I'm insane to go all that way every year, but I never felt more free than on the road.

Until this year's trip. It was going great at first. I had a great kebab in Atlanta, saw some live music in Nashville, and after hanging out with a girl in Amarillo I was feeling on top of the world as I slid back onto the highway. The first odd thing came just before that, though. I was at an intersection, and a man dressed in a noticeably badly fitting suit was on the side of the road next to a stall that read 'DIRT OF GOD $1 / jar'. I thrive on weird social interactions, personally. Gives me stories to tell when I get home. So I rolled down my window and caught his attention, asking him what 'dirt of god' was. He shuffled awkwardly over to my car; he had very stiff legs. He was bald on the top of his head, but the hair growing on the sides was shoulder-length. He was very, very sunburned. He offered his hand, and I shook it with a smile. Up close, I noticed that his suit wasn't just too large, it was sagging. All his pockets were bulging, filled to the brim with something. He told me: 'God blessed that dirt much as he blessed this whole country'. He said it so earnestly. It felt folksy and quaint. Cozy. So I bought a jar and went on my way. I was excited for a good souvenir, but I regretted it barely a half hour later. It stunk. Like hell. I cracked the windows to help it waft out, but it barely made a dent in the, just, thickness of it. It was the smell of dirt after rain without the nostalgia. Without the fresh plants to accompany it. Just the desert. I opened my window, all the way this time, and chucked the jar.

It wasn't long before the haze started. At first, I assumed a gust of wind had blown up some dust. And then I thought a dust storm must be forming. But that wasn't it. It was a dust devil, a little tornado of sand and dirt, following alongside my car even as I accelerated faster and faster. But it span slow. Very slow, grains of it tickling the paint off my car. It then expanded gradually, not just twisting beside but twisting around. It covered my windshield, so I couldn't keep driving. I pulled over and lay down in my backseat, waiting for it to pass.

But I couldn't rest. What had once been a gentle spinning became a terrifying whirlwind. It whipped against the windows, against the roof and doors, clanging unbelievably loud. Worse, it started to blow through the air conditioner, bringing with it the smell. It wasn't just harassing me from the outside, it was choking me from the inside. The car groaned as it became gorged with dry dust, and even through my shallow breathing I realized that the car was now actively sinking. The sunlight could barely be seen through the windshield, and I watched in horror as the brown darkness rose from the bottom all the way to the top, eating the little remaining light as my car buckled and dented inwards. The windows shattered, and dirt flooded my car, my gasp of shock becoming my last clear breath for a long, long while. I crawled wildly through the ground. Every time I thought I'd gotten through a window I felt another piece of the interior, somehow turning myself around back into my flooded car over and over again, still sinking.

I barely remember what happened next. I was in a stupor of...starvation. And there was no air. But the next thing I knew I was being pulled from the ground and back into the open air. The guy who saved me called himself 'Watchman Kohr', and he gave me a ride to the airport. I meant to fly back to New York, but I decided to come here. I'm not ready for my yearly vacation to be over, even if I can't even think about getting into a car without hyperventilating. I think I'll catch a train back to New York.

Statement ends. The enigmatic 'Watchmen' make an appearance here, the completely un-researchable organization due to their shared name with a popular graphic novel. What we know is that they operate all over North America in apparently equal frequency, and that several people who've encountered them - Mr. Sill excluded - note their eyes as their most well-defined feature.

I'll be honest, I would be tempted to file Mr. Sill's experience under 'sudden psychotic break paired with odd weather', but the presence of a Watchman gives it more weight. I had Yvonne and Logan follow up on Mr. Sill, who - according to his Facebook - seems to have moved to New York City, and hasn't left since he got there in early 2010.

Recording ends.

#the magnus archives #magnus archives #tma #tma fanfic #tma fic

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sketchraptor · 1 year ago

Text

TW: mentions of abuse, sexual assault, and fighting after the cut.

———

The situation that gave Riley said offer had been very mundane, which had made it all the more bizarre. She had been driving when she spotted a slightly older gentleman, maybe 10 or 15 years older than herself, on the side of the road cursing out his phone. He seemed panicked.

She didn’t know what made her pull over, but she had the tools in her car to help and figured it couldn’t hurt. The man seemed suspicious at first, then rather embarrassed when he admitted to not knowing how to change it, though he did have the spare. So, Riley helped him.

He was littered with scars. He’d taken off his nice jacket and rolled up his sleeves, insisting on at least helping, and she couldn’t not see them. His whole vibe had been vastly different from his personality. Though she later found out why she got these mixed signals.

When the change was finished, he’d revealed who he was: William Balthasar. The William Balthasar. The one who lead the local mob and controlled a lot of the economy and social welfare in the area from underground.

But, he gave an offer to her instead of threatening or killing her like she’d expected. Told her that he owed her, one favor. One favor that she could call in whenever and gave her the number to a burner phone that he kept on him personally.

It took all of two months for Riley to feel like she was going insane with the weight of the offer, and she decided to just call it in and get it over with. She had a big move that she couldn’t quite afford, moving across the country for a job. And when she *did* call William, he’d laughed.

“This wasn’t what I mean’t.” He’d hummed, amused by the easy task she was giving him. Nonetheless, he’d arrived with a team of strong men and women alike and even personally drove her to her new home. They even stayed to help unpack, and Riley felt she at least should buy them some beer and pizza for the trouble.

As the group left, though, William hung back, a soft and amused smile on his face.

“I’m happy to help, but this isn’t your favor. Save it for when you really need it. I’ll see you around, Sweetheart.” And that was that. She still had her favor, but the weight felt less heavy having spent some time with him and some of his members. They’d all been kind, and seemed rather happy for the mundane, three-day job across the country.

It had been nearly five years since then, and Riley truly didn’t need anything from William in that time. She was beginning to doubt he even remembered her. The few opportunities she had to go back and visit her home town, though, she’s spot some of the members who helped her move, and they always smiled and waved. But things were good, and she had no need for such a serious favor.

Then it happened.

She had moved about six months ago, back home to be closer to family with a well-paying remote job, and with a boyfriend of three years.

She convinced herself that he wasn’t all that bad, Jackson, that he was just kind of a dick in the way that many family cops were. Riley was blind to it, never noticing the fear he struck into her heart, never wanting to admit how much she hated how aggressive he got. She ignored the dread when he’d ask for sex or tell her she wasn’t allowed to wear something or go out.

She didn’t want to believe it. Thought she could fix him.

One night, though, he came home pissed. Riley had been sitting on the couch reading, wrapped up in a blanket and half asleep. The front door slammed open and Jackson stormed in, immediately screaming at her.

She didn’t even catch why, exactly, he was upset. She smelled the alcohol wafting off of him and caught the gist. He’d said ‘cheating whore’, ‘don’t deserve me’, and ‘I’ll show you, bitch’.

She just sat and took the verbal assault until his hand met her cheek with a loud, hard slap. Riley had gasped, and it felt like time froze as her head whipped to the side. And that was only the start.

Jackson only hesitated for a moment before his tirade continued, this time more violent. He tore her up by her hair and threw her across the room, beginning to beat her for the mere perception of her cheating on him.

Riley didn’t know how she got away, but she had. She was stuck in a closet, sobbing and nursing several bleeding wounds and maybe a broken arm as Jackson pounded on the door, screaming. But she had her phone.

She couldn’t go to the police. He was the police for fucks sake. She didn’t want her family to come and get hurt or see her like this. And that left her with one option.

She called William.

It took three rings, being 2am, but he picked up. His voice was clear and sleepless. Clearly, he’d been up already for one reason or another. There was worry in his voice as Jackson’s screaming came through the phone.

“Riley?” She couldn’t get the words out yet, still sobbing.

“Sweetheart, talk to me. What’s going on.”

“He’s gonna kill me.” She managed, her voice no stronger than a whisper. She could hear the breath William took in on the other side.

“Address.” Was all he said, and she gave it to him without a second thought. He told her to stay in the closet and to cover her ears, that he’d find her when it was safe. Then the line clicked off, and Riley was alone again. She cried, but obeyed William’s instructions. She tightly covered her ears and couldn’t hear Jackson as much. She tried to control her breathing as she waited.

Riley didn’t notice when Jackson’s screaming and pounding had abruptly cut off, and that muffled threats came through. She couldn’t hear the silenced gun go off as it killed Jackson, nor the sound of her apartment being scrubbed clean of the evidence.

She did, however, flinch hard when the locked door quietly clicked open and light poured into the closet she’d been hiding in. Her eyes slowly trailed up, but didn’t have to go far to meet Williams worried gaze. He looked older, the five years looked like they’d been a bit harsh on him. A few new scars littered his neck, and she could see a nasty one still healing over his eye.

He was crouching to her level, his eyes scanning her injuries. He hadn’t said anything, didn’t need to, to have Riley lunging for him, burying herself into his chest as she sobbed in relief. He sighed, and returned the hug.

“He’s gone, Sweetheart. You’re safe.”

Years ago, you accidently helped a mob boss change a flat while transporting a corpse, being promised a “Favour” in return. Now, desperate, you seek them out to cash in your favour.

#👀#oop #writers #writers on tumblr #writing prompts #writeblr #writing inspiration #abuse #murder #hurt comfort

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charnelhouse · 3 years ago

Text

flesh

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x F!Reader Wordcount: 5K Warnings: Graphic Gore. Mentions of torture. Serious trauma. Very upsetting thoughts. Bad therapy. DARK subject matter. Smut. Angst. Ransom is probs OOC. Cheating. Drinking. Drug Use. The use of cunt in a mean way. This is bleak (sort of happy ending though :)) Summary: Ransom agrees to a road trip. A/N: I wrote a Ransom Drysdale/Texas Chainsaw Massacre mash-up. Don't ask me why. I started this a couple weeks ago after reading Kin and just had to get it done. Sometimes idk where my mind goes lmao. this is pretty messy bc I haven’t beta’d it. Tis a writing exercise

Ransom didn’t do road trips. He definitely didn’t do them when the whole ride was bathed in swampy heat. The air was so thick it stuck to the asphalt. They're in the middle of nowhere. Texas, maybe? He’d been drunk for most of it. He stashed expensive scotch in the trunk. Three bottles.

It’s a double date. You’re his childhood friend - a girl he’s known since he was ten years old. Harlan's goddaughter.

It’s the kind of friendship that was birthed out of necessity - force. Their parents did yearly vacations together and they just had to make something of it. Twenty years later and it’s him and it’s you and this girl, Lauren, he fucked like three times and then your somewhat-steady dimwit of a boyfriend, Paul.

Paul…the name gives him a rash.

Ransom appraises him from the backseat. The loser is tapping his fingers across the steering wheel as he hums to the music. He's like a ken doll with golden hair and tan skin and a baby-face. Ew. Lauren is riding shotgun because Ransom can’t deal with her right now. He’s just not in the mood to play his part for her today. He doesn't need her rubbing up against him as he tries to drown out whatever the hell is going spoiled in the interior of this car.

Why the fuck did he come here?

Ransom.

What?

You owe me.

For?

The millions of times that I’ve saved your ass from shit dates.

What do you want?

A road trip. New Orleans and all the way to Santa Fe. It’ll be fun.

You and me? How romantic.

No…no…bring someone.

He didn’t really bust your ass about it. He assumed that you thought that a one-on-one car ride with your kind-of-sort-of-boyfriend was just too much too soon. It’s not as if he had important things to do. He’d spent the entirety of the summer doing nothing, but jacking off to pornhub and developing a drinking problem.

As the red stain of the Texas sun bludgeons through his sunglasses, he takes another heavy swallow. The burn is more subtle now that he's reached a calming level of not-sober. It warms his esophagus, expanding throughout the shell of his chest. He’s buzzed and jittery and he can smell your flower market perfume.

At least - he was developing a drinking problem in motion rather than stretched out on his bed back in Boston.

Lauren reaches for him behind the seat - her long pink nails outstretched and waiting. He rolls his eyes and grasps her hand. He squeezes before letting go just as quickly.

You cast him an amused glance before staring past him and out toward the churning green-gold mass of the grass and fields and pale-blue sky.

Ransom can’t help but notice that you're sporting blunt nails and dark blue polish. Ugh. Lauren had been fine. She blew him in the backseat while you and 2005’s Abercrombie & Fitch rep were cuddling at a diner when they stopped in Round Rock. Lauren didn’t seem all that jealous of the fact that his closest friend was a chick and a hot one at that.

Wasn’t his fault that you grew into your face.

Also - wasn’t his fault that he’d fucked you a couple times.

It was easy for them. They were good with each other. They’d never gone beyond that because, quite frankly, he was a fucking bastard and you didn’t have the patience.

It's better this way Ransom. You'd drive me insane. We're too volatile.

You mean I'm too volatile.

Yes.

You don't complain about that when I have you on my cock.

Jesus. You're impossible.

He just liked you. He had memorized you. He knew your scent and your skin and the exact way you liked to come. Plus - you swallowed.

***

He may or may not have screwed you in the hotel back in New Orleans. They’d been out all day. Ransom had a sunburn and was surviving off a single beignet and a belly full of alcohol. Paul and Lauren had gone out to get more beers to bring back. Ransom had slipped Paul a bundle of cash to see if he could find any blow. He'd need it if he was going to get through the night.

You’d been lying next to him on the hotel’s garish crimson comforter. Both of them drunk off too many hurricanes as they rubbed against each other in that subtle way where they meant it to be platonic, but it turned into something too warm and too intimate. Your gaze met his and it happened as it always did.

His pants around his ankles and your shorts yanked off one leg so he could open you up. He spread your thighs wide and rocked into you in long, lazy strokes.

“You should break up with that guy,” he husked as he licked your jaw. The bed creaked and every punch of his cock made breathy little moans pop out of your mouth.

You didn’t answer him, but you did flex your cunt around his length so that he choked.

“Brat,” he growled as he hitched your knees over his shoulders and bent you in half. The room spun with the salt of their sweat and the wet slap of skin and his rumbling grunts. He pounded into your slick heat, feeling like he could die like this.

“C’mon, baby,” he taunted - his voice rich and smug. “You can’t tell me that someone gives it better to you than I do.”

You shook your head - eyes widening as he ground his pelvic bone into your clit. He really could make you cock dumb when he wanted. You’d be all noises - desperate uh uh uh ohmygod ohfuck ohshit -

“Ransom,” you gasped and he fucked you harder.

“That’s it,” he urged as he felt your pussy begin to spasm and twitch - milk him. He brushed his knuckles over your cheek. You were so warm - almost feverish. “That feels good, yeah? Fuck - you take my cock like you were made for it.”

It was the same song and dance. They’d date other people and then fuck once in a blue moon, which only served to remind them how sexually compatible they were. He claimed you. You claimed him. But all the rest - the emotional fallout - was sprinkled in the shadows outside the bed. Their friendship was too much to risk.

You dragged your fingers through his hair - the blunt nails scraping his scalp - before you lifted your hips so that he could plunge deeper. “Come for me, Ransom. Please…please…”

Afterward - they slowly fixed themselves. The air curiously sober. He glanced at your cunt - flushed and swollen and leaking the load he’d just filled you with. He traced his finger through your folds - making you shiver. He pushed his come back inside - his flaccid dick throbbing when you clamped around his knuckles.

“Do you use a condom with Paul?” He said his name like it was trash - like he was some nasty bothersome insect between them.

You blinked at him and the corner of your lips quirked. “What do you think?” There was no guilt in your eyes - no shock at what they'd done. This was just how it was with them. He wondered that if he ever got married - would he still keep fucking you? Probably. Your pussy was just too good. “I think they’re coming back,” you remarked with your legs still spread - your body boneless and your expression contemplative like it wouldn’t even matter if they did come back in and see them like this. He gripped the denim shorts and lacy pink underwear around your ankle and started tugging them up your leg - over the bump of your knee.

He kissed you - wet and messy and with too much tongue - until he heard the key card ping at the hotel door.

***

Ransom drops his forehead against the glass. It’s too hot here. Too sour with humidity. He shoots you a sidelong glance - grimacing as a wave of dizziness overtakes him. You're lounging against the other window, studying your phone. Weren’t you supposed to be enjoying the grand ole USA?

He swallows his spit. Too much alcohol had left him with cotton-mouth.

He wants to fuck you. Again. He wants to ditch Lauren and Paul and go back to a hotel and order expensive wine and lick your cunt.

He tips his bottle back and he feels the heat of you at his bare arm. You'd scooted closer when he wasn't looking. He’s dressed so casually. Jeans and a v-neck and he hasn’t shaved in a while because you said you liked it.

He takes another sip. Scotch really doesn’t fucking mesh with this thick Texas heat.

“You’re enjoying that,” you observe as you tap the bottle with your index finger.

You don’t chastise him. You never give him shit, which is why they work. It’s always just: Ransom. Ransom. Ransom. You’re a mess.

Sometimes you call him Hugh to really piss him off.

He smacks his lips and offers you a crooked smile. “It’s doing wonders for my boredom.”

“I heard this back way has some interesting spots,” Paul shouts over his shoulder - against the loud rolling beat of Semisonic. Lauren’s got her feet on the dash and the dude doesn’t say a word. It’s his car. If it had been Ransom’s he would have swatted her. But Ransom wouldn’t drive an SUV and Ransom wouldn’t fucking be here if it wasn’t for the girl beside him.

I can’t say no to you.

You’ve said no to me a thousand times.

Well - I don’t remember those.

You squeeze his thigh - cocking your head with a mischievous sort of gleam in your eyes. “Whaddya say, Drysdale? Want to go the back way?”

He shoves his hand under your ass and prods you through your jeans. You yelp. “I’d rather be up your back way.”

You punch him hard in the shoulder and he hisses. “Fuck you gotta lay off those boxing classes. That hurt.”

You laugh - completely unfazed by his dirty mouth. He catches Paul’s narrowed glare in the rearview mirror and smirks. Dork.

“I’m down,” Lauren yells over Third Eye Blind. Ransom winces. He wonders if he could get Paul to fuck Lauren. He already doesn’t like him for you. He’s not good enough. Too clean cut. He’s wearing a fucking polo.

Paul twists the wheel to the left and starts driving down a narrow dusty road. Ransom frowns.

Texas is too flat. It’s all long grass. It’s all sky. He misses the city and his $10k mattress and the Italian spot he could order $30 spaghetti from.

“We’re gonna get eaten by cannibals,” he grumbles but doesn’t protest. He’s really getting drunk and a part of him thinks he’s about to blow this whole thing up. He’s going to fondle you or kiss you or finger you regardless of Lauren or Paul. You lean toward him - your warm breath fanning across his face. You’d been chewing bubble gum and he savors the sweet artificial bite to it. “I’ll protect you.”

He’s definitely gonna fuck you again.

“You’re good at that.”

“I’ve got decades of practice.”

He pushes the bottle into your hands. “Get drunk with me.”

You take a sip - a second - a third. He could lurch forward and tug your bottom lip between his teeth. He’s hoping the look he’s sending you reads: fuck me fuck me fuck me.

There’s no one else in this car, but them and Stephen Jenkins.

You wipe your chin and hand him the bottle back. His mouth sticks to the print of your lip gloss around the neck. He downs another shot. The car bounces over the unpaved road.

“I feel like this is a bad idea,” he mutters.

You shrug. “You and I do nothing, but bad ideas.”

“Touché, bestie.”

***

Eight months later - he still can’t sleep through the night. He hates open doors. He always catches figures strolling through the hallway outside his bedroom. Shadows. The smell of rotting meat.The buzz of flies.

Sometimes he looks in the mirror and flinches because he sees another Ransom. His eyes bloody - the vessels blown and turning the sclera to red. He grips the sink until his knuckles turn white. He can’t breathe. His chest is so tight that it shudders and twitches and his lungs won't inflate the way that they should.

He crawls into your bed when it gets too bad, which is pretty much every night. You’d moved in with him after your parents had finally allowed you to. Your mom stays over more often than not. Sometimes his mom stays over, which is a shock in itself. Joni brings them healing crystals, which makes you laugh (not a nice laugh either). Meg won’t shut up about how often they’re on the news until he finally blocks her number. It’s not like it matters. Nothing really matters to him anymore, but you and the hard thrum of your heart when it beats beneath his ear.

You had been soaked in blood and he had tasted it.

Now they are in his sumptuous bedroom with its dark green walls and linen sheets. Egyptian cotton. The taste of riches and everything - everything - is ash.

“How are we here?” he murmurs into your neck - his fingers twisting around yours - careful of the dull nub of flesh where one used to be. You had screamed when it had happened and it had gutted him.

I can’t get to you. I can’t get to you. I’m sorry.

“Because we got out,” you shrug like it’s not a big deal - like they hadn’t been on the very cusp of death. Not even death. It had been an event. It had been oily and disgusting. The scent of rot and old fat and so much blood. He’d never realized that blood could literally have a smell and a taste as it filled a room. Metallic. Bitter. Like licking rusty pipes.

“Did we?” he asks. “Doesn’t feel that way sometimes.”

You don’t reply. You curl your fingers into his shirt. The Henley is soft on his skin. He can’t stand anything not soft. Starched fabric and paper gowns had caught on his stitches. They'd left him cold and shivering and vulnerable. Sometimes you’ll take his shirt off to drag your touch across the newly closed wounds - still pink and angry. His torso was going to be nothing, but scars. His muscles - so carefully built by his trainer and his protein shakes - had lost their thickness. They had to shave his chest when they attended to him at that horrific hospital in Texas. It’s all barely growing back.

His throat works. He wraps his arms around your waist - pressing the side of his face to your breast where he can feel your lungs expand.

“Do you think they know where we are?”

You make a soft, contemplative sound.

“Do you dream of them? Do you remember?”

“Yes,” you reply in a tight voice - your entire body locking up in Ransom’s hold. He’s a little loopy from his meds. He’d gotten bottles of anti-anxiety solutions: Xanax. Klonopin. Zoloft. Ambien.

He has a lot of doctors.

All the orange bottles stand on his bedside table like toy soldiers. He can’t drink Scotch anymore.

***

He’s not sure how you manage. You’d gotten the worst of it.

At least he’s pretty sure you did. You’d looked like something not living when you’d crawled toward him. They’d been separated into different rooms. Wooden backwoods huts. The monsters who’d done it were all yellowed teeth and greasy hair and yet there’d been something like mischief in their eyes when they took him apart - like this was all a game - it was all so fun -

“Whaddya say, Drysdale? Want to go the back way?”

You had come out stronger. He was tortured - unable to make sense. Sick. You were bitter and pissed off and so fucking quiet even though you had saved him. You had ripped yourself out of those chains and clawed your way to him. Your body broken. Your mouth bleeding. Your beautiful face distorted into something...unreal.

Your hands are warm on his cheeks and he flinches. He hurts everywhere. Agony in his stomach. He’d been stabbed more than once. He thinks. He can’t feel his feet. He hangs like a sack of meat. That’s what they are. They’re cattle. Pigs. He’s half-carved up. He’s missing something. He knows he is. His teeth even hurt. He doesn’t want to look down.

Ransom. Ransom. We have to get out of here.

Look at me, Drysdale.

His eyes are swollen shut, but he manages to peel one lid open. He tries to. For you. Your expression is horrific - disfigured. Still lovely, though. He can't fucking imagine what monsters do to beautiful things. He wishes he’d taken you to that hotel. Something hot and loud screams in your pupils. Your swollen lips curl into a terrifying sort of smile. There's blood in your perfect white teeth.

I killed one of them. We don’t have much time. I’m gonna get you down.

He’s missing two fingers and three toes and you’re missing fragments in vital places. Chunks. A screw loose. You’ll never be the same again and neither will he and that somehow works. They hadn’t fit together before. He was too sharp and narcissistic and you were too rounded and sweet.

Apparently, he’d been a coward and you’d been built for disaster. You’d thrived in it - blossomed and unfurled into something those pieces of shit could be scared of.

Ransom thinks they mold now - slip into each other’s openings. He’s honestly glad that he fucked you in that New Orleans hotel before they’d gone down that wrong road in bum fuck nowhere. He’s glad he got to have you as you were before. It’s always before now. Before that. Before the fall. Before Ransom discovered what true fear really felt like.

He’s glad he got to have you because now he can compare. The girl - the woman - he has now is galaxies removed from who she’d been. You are brighter regardless of what you are missing. You’re his. He tastes your grief when he drinks from you because it’s his, as well. They share this. There is no one else who’d understand because the others died almost immediately.

It should have been me. I should have saved you.

You didn’t have the opening that I did. I’m sure you would have if you got the chance.

He doesn’t have the same faith in himself that you do. He’d been pretty ready to die after your screams started to go quiet and he had lost track of the flesh he was losing.

***

A year passes and his grandfather strips him for stories. He’s not blunt or mean about it, but he does ask out of his own morbid curiosity.

Harlan waits for what he must think is the appropriate amount of time. He tries to shove his questions into his concerned observations at the dinner table

“My god - you’re lucky to be alive, Ransom! You poor boy. What did they use?”

What did they use?

What did they NOT use?

The question sends him right back to those manacles and those wooden walls and all that blood. He glares at the chicken on his plate. Vomit curdles in his throat. Something pinches behind his nose - his eyes.

Ransom starts crying and his grandfather shuts up - horrified. Marta even stares at him with something akin to pity - sorrow - as if he’s just a flattened animal on the road. His mother does this strange thing where she opens and closes her mouth like a dying carp.

You act quickly - scooting out of your chair, rushing toward him, and sweeping him up with the intensity of a rogue wave. You cradle his face to your warm soft tits and he hates that he’s thinking of your tits while you’re trying to rescue him from a panic attack - but then he thinks:

Shit - that’s somewhat close to who I was before.

His hand comes to rest on your ass and he inhales your cashmere sweater - the plush smell of detergent. He’d like to be inside you. He’d like to push himself into you and watch your face change as you stretch around him.

He’s suddenly overwhelmed with the thought of sex.

Yes - that’s a relief. Bits of Ransom still remain.

***

In his nightmares, he still hears the chains clink and tick. They’d hung from the roof of that shack. Rusted hooks. His wrists had been chafed to raw, red tissue.

The tires of Paul’s SUV had been torn to shreds. Ransom remembers stumbling out of the car and seeing the sun glint off a spike strip in the distance.

“Something’s wrong,” he said more to himself than anyone else. He’d sobered up almost immediately.

They’d trekked a mile until they’d come upon the lone house. He’d gotten a sick feeling, but he’d blamed it on the alcohol. The Scotch churned in his gut. Sweat sheeted down his shoulders and into the back of his jeans.

The house was dilapidated. Peeling white paint. A splintering porch. A threadbare rope swing in the trees.

They’d knocked on the door and Lauren was the first to die. Ransom still remembers the shock of seeing a skull get crushed in by a mallet. It had felt far away as if he didn’t know that the body in front of him was Lauren - that the wet spray that touched his face was blood and tissue and brain. Not sweat.

The sound stuck with him though. He can’t forget it. He can't eat melons anymore.

At that moment, he hadn’t really thought. He’d grabbed your wrist and yanked you down the stairs of that shitty porch and ran.

***

They sleepover at his grandfather’s because he doesn’t feel like driving home. He’s stunned that he had cried in front of them. He didn’t do that. He hasn’t cried in front of anyone since he was eight.

“Let’s go to bed,” you murmur as you touch his shoulder. He stares at the scarred tissue where your index finger was and grimaces.

They sleep together and no one says a word because that’s just how it is now. It’s you. It’s me.

***

Their parents are pleased that they’re together now. It's what they've assumed since they don't leave each other's side. Maybe - it really is true. That day had sewn them into one single body. They'd been close before. You were closer than anyone had ever been to Ransom. But, now, they were stuck. They were mated.

"We always knew you two would end up like this," his mother smiled before frowning - perhaps realizing what she'd said and what it implied seeing as they'd had to crawl through Hell to get there. "I just - I just meant that you're a couple. You're finally a couple. I always thought she was good for you-“

"Shut up, mom." Ransom hissed. "Just shut up."

Funny that no one in the family realized they’d been fucking since they were teenagers. The first time had been in the sand on Nantucket and you hadn’t even been beautiful then. You’d just been awkward and soft and it felt like a good idea. They’d shared ice cream afterward.

He stares up at the ceiling as you lie beside him. Your breathing is even and comforting. Harlan’s house makes too many noises, but Ransom likes the fact that it’s filled with people. Staff. His mother who had become overly maternal since Ransom nearly died. It was strange because it didn't fit her. She wasn’t the shape of a mother.

Without looking at you - he places his hand on your stomach. You jerk a bit before you relax. You put your palm on the top of his hand.

“I love you,” he declares like he declared it a year ago.

***

He hadn’t been the hero. You’d saved him. You’d gotten loose and shoved a shard of wood through one of their eyes and then had dragged him to the road. You had thick splinters stuck in the tender meat of your fingers.

Come on. Come on. Come on, Ransom. You have to work with me here. I can’t lift you.

Yes - yeah good job just like that. Fuck - don’t stop. The others might come back.

A selfish part of him - the old envious part - wondered if you would have saved Paul had he been alive. He doubts it. He hadn’t even thought of anyone else when he had tried to run from the house with your wrist in his hand. Paul didn’t exist. Lauren was definitely dead (there'd been brain on his shirt to prove it) and even if she had been alive, it still would have been you he tried to protect.

He could barely see. His eyes were swollen and blood sluiced down his brow from a cut reopening. He had broken ribs. A punctured lung. He was sure of it. He gritted his teeth against the pain and kept his focus on the dead grass and dirt beneath their feet. You'd had pink toenail polish. He was missing toes.

From behind them, orange light filtered over the green and danced across the white wispy cotton. He tried to look over his shoulder.

"Don't," you hissed as you wrapped your arm tighter around his waist - his bones shifting together. He bit back a howl. "Don't look. Just move."

He had smelled smoke. Acrid and harsh on top of the hundred-plus heat.

"Did you burn the house down?" he managed to ask - a caustic laugh riding his tongue. It was the first thing he had said since you'd freed him from the chains. He was grateful his tongue worked. His throat was violently dry.

"Hopefully," You growl. He never asked how you were able to do it.

He thinks they may have run a mile though "run" was probably not the apt term. Crawled. Stumbled. Jerked. Neither of them had shoes and they had to walk beside the road because the asphalt was too hot. A pick-up slowed. The driver had nearly screamed at the sight of them until Ransom had gripped him roughly around his overalls - staining the denim with dark black blood.

"Hospital.” He grunted. "Hospital. Now."

"Get in," the driver wheezed - fingers trembling around the steering wheel. Thank. Fuck.

Ransom nodded and turned toward you. You blinked owlishly at him as if you couldn't quite remember where you were. It took a moment before your face completely crumpled.

"Shit," he cursed in a low voice before grasping your waist. "C'mon, baby. I've got you."

You went limp - deflating with the final sparks of your adrenaline. He used his last bit of strength to lift you up and drop you into the truck's bed.

“They’re still coming,” you mumbled as you grabbed at Ransom - tugging him in after you. “They could still be coming.”

He stared at the horizon - where they had escaped from. The great stain of smoke rushed toward the sun from the burning house. He thought he saw figures in the distance. He might have. He also could barely see three feet in front of him due to his crushed eye socket.

"No one is coming," he assured you. "No one."

You were shivering. Your skin like ice. Your lower lip quivered in a way that made him inhale sharply.

The bed of the truck was covered in rope and a plastic tarp. It reeked of a farm: manure and cattle. He missed the city.

He collapsed, resting his head in your wet lap. Blood in his hair. The house - those rooms - had painted them in their smell: meat, urine and sweat. There were those splinters in your palm as you stroked his face - your breathing hurried and panicked. He said your name. Repeated it.

It was no longer about him. It was no longer him at all. It was you. It was only you and the sun felt raw and white against his closed lids. At the time, he really thought he was dying. He could have been. The hospital had said both of them were in critical condition when they’d finally arrived. He had been going cold - the heat in his chest beginning to dissipate. His mouth was dry as wool as he struggled for each gasp of oxygen. His blood was leaving him too quickly.

“I love you,” he said as he tangled his gore-ridden fingers around yours.

“You’re not dying,” you replied bluntly. There’d been no room for argument.

***

It had been that way ever since. It was a push and pull. It was an equilibrium of sorts. You went dark and he found you - yanking you to the surface. He broke down and you shoved him back together.

He was still selfish in so many ways. The only difference was that his selfishness was now projected onto you. His entire fucking existence revolved around your well-being. It was probably unhealthy. His therapist, Dr. Stephens, had used words like "co-dependent" and "love addiction".

Dr. Stephens had also pointed out all the things that triggered him like when he threw up at the sight of the Christmas Roast or when he sat in his closet for an hour because he heard the rumble of a chainsaw. The gardeners were just cutting down a tree in the front yard.

"Don't you think she's a reminder for you? You both dealt with so much that day. You're relying on her to the point where you can't function without her presence."

Ransom's mouth parted - his fingers digging into the armrests of the velvet chair. His lungs shriveled. His chest tightened. Blood pounded at his temples. His fury knocked him flat. It had been shades of the old him - bursting forth and off his tongue and it spilled out of his veins and guts and brain. The very idea of removing you from his life made him sick.

"She saved me, you dumb cunt."

He stood up and walked out the door and found another therapist.

***

He sits back on his heels - studying your face - your body - painted across his bed like Ophelia in that Millais painting.

He uses one hand to clasp your waist as he braces his other hand beside your head. You’ve lost so much weight from anxiety. You look like you’ve been carved out. The memories split your mask in two and this is the face you give him. The real one. The burnt-out one.

I'm tired, Ransom. I'm really fucking tired.

The terror for them had been just as real as the agony those maniacs had inflicted.

I know. I know.

He’s gentle about it. He slowly tugs your pajama shorts off. He tastes the skin of your stomach - drags his mouth over your hip and inner thigh before he slips his tongue between your legs. You even taste different - like there’s the tiniest flicker of spice at the base of you. There are scars and he kisses them and he thinks that he will now always see you as that girl who had yanked him out of that shack - coated in a thick film of blood - eyes wild and feral and furious as you led him to safety.

He’s very careful when he sinks into you. He covers your mouth with his so he can lap at the moan that escapes from your throat. It’s a slow pace. He draws his cock back before he pushes in again. The mattress creaks. You bury your nose into his neck and sigh with each stroke he delivers.

“Is this okay?” he asks as he peppers kisses across the edge of your jaw.

He doesn’t remember how to fuck hard - how to be rough and unyielding. He doesn't remember how to be a piece of shit asshole or how to wear his Rolex again (they had taken it and his mother had bought him a new one). What he does remember is how to make you burst around him - he remembers your tells and your kinks and your wants before you need to voice them.

“Are you okay?” he repeats to be sure.

“Yes,” You spread your thighs wider. You dig your nails into his ass to force him deeper.

He quickens his movements. He sneaks his arm between them and uses his thumb to circle your clit. Your breathing becomes more hurried - your lashes fluttering - sweat collecting at your hairline. Your eyes glassy with all the bushes tears you save for him. “Ransom,” you plead in a way that is nearly a sob. “Please.”

He claims your lips just as you come. Your pussy contracting around him - your knees tightening at his hips. He is soon to follow - wrung dry by your body as you swallow him whole. He rolls onto his back, bringing you along so that you’re lying flat on top of him. Chest to chest.

“I don’t feel like sleeping.” You trace the gnarled flesh of his shoulder where a dirty blade had pierced him and given him tetanus. He grabs a handful of your ass. You’re so warm - feverish with the afterglow of sex. Your heart pounds against his. He touches you all over sometimes. Just to make sure.

“Get drunk with me?” he proposes and it reminds him of the last time he had said that. His lungs wrinkle and distort. His stomach turns over. You lift yourself up to gaze down at him - fully aware of where his mind has gone. You clasp his chin to wrench his face to yours.

“Let’s do it,” You steal his breath with a harsh, desperate kiss that burns right through him. It kind of hurts and he kind of likes it. No surprise that their relationship to pain has been thoroughly fucked.

“No Scotch,” He brushes his knuckles over your cheek - right where another scar stretches under your eye.

“No Scotch,” you agree.

He smirks and it tastes like himself.

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