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watermelonlipstick · 3 years

Text

Stabbed

This was written following an anon request that read as follows:

Hello sweetie, can I please request a dean x reader one shot in which she gets stabbed during a rough hunt and it's a race against time to save her (maybe Sam is the one driving and dean gets in the backseat with her?) And dean is scared of losing her and he has a panic attack after she wakes up but she manages to calm him down?

Obviously everyone’s experiences with panic attacks are different, but I tend to think if Dean had one it might manifest more externally as a violent outburst; I think he would subconsciously feel like it’s a more acceptable way to express ~freaking the fuck out~. This fic is sort of loosely set during early season 3, partly because that contextualization made sense to me with what you were describing and partly because I feel like that tenderhearted, slightly-less-jaded Dean would be more likely to allow himself to be perceived as vulnerable in such a fraught moment.

I’ve also taken a couple liberties with the medical situation described for literary purposes. 😋 Don’t @ me, I know this isn’t exactly how hypovolemic shock plays out.

Title: Stabbed

Pairing: Dean Winchester x Reader

Word Count: 4206

Summary: Dean’s anxiety gets the best of him when the reader appears fatally injured on a hunt, and is soothed only after the danger is gone.

Warnings: canon-appropriate violence, description of panic attack, swearing

Sam slammed the door once Dean had hauled you into the backseat, propping you up like a mannequin next to him on the bench. Your vision was starting to fade in and out, but the sense memory of the muscles in Dean’s side and the leather seat underneath you were comforting anyway. It seemed like the car started flying before Sam had even closed the driver’s side door and you tried hard to focus on Dean’s babbling.

“You’ll be able to give me shit about this one forever, right, kid? Should’ve listened to you, you said they would’ve left the barn by the time we got there. Always so smart, when am I going to learn?” He was trying to chuckle but it came out breathy and wrong, Dean never quite able to actually hit the casual affect he wanted in moments like this. Honestly, it made you more nervous, knowing that for injuries he wasn’t worried about he wanted to look over you with clinical precision, chastise you for being careless. He only did this pretend calm when he was trying to keep it together—you used to think it was only for you or Sam but after a few years and more than a few bad scares you started to understand it for the defense mechanism it truly was. Not that you needed extra evidence that this was bad; you could feel the life leeching out of you like a water balloon with a pinprick leak.

“Hey, come on—open your eyes for me, lemme see those stunners,” he said, guiding your chin up where you had begun to slump onto his shoulder. “Perfect, yeah, just like that. Hey, stay with me—”

You mustered up everything you had to swim to the surface of the sleep-darkness your body so desperately wanted and straightened your spine to take a deep breath. Bad idea, the wounds in your side feeling like they were splitting you clean in half even through the haze. At least it woke you up for a moment to catch Dean’s eyes, fiery with panic even as he tried to smile.

“Dean, I—” you started, feeling like your throat was full of broken glass.

“Babe, don’t try to talk, it’s okay, you can tell me whatever it is when we get to a hospital.”

Sam turned his head away from the rural highway the Impala was absolutely sailing down to look back at his older brother. “We’re hours away from a hospital, we’ve gotta go back to the motel,” he said, low and serious.

“If we’re hours away from a hospital then I guess we’re driving for a couple hours, aren’t we, Sammy?” Dean was getting worse and worse at covering the hard edge of fear-driven anger in his voice as the seconds ticked by.

“Dean, we—she’s—we don’t have a couple hours.”

Dean closed his eyes tight and set his jaw firm. “We’re going to a fucking hospital.”

His brother swerved deftly around a giant pothole, somehow able to turn the wheel so slightly that the car’s path barely changed. “Listen to me. She can’t bleed like that for long enough to get to a hospital. We have to try to handle this one ourselves or there’s no chance—”

The whole conversation felt like it was happening to someone else, your senses starting to detach from your body, and you couldn’t hold onto those trains of thought for long enough to process them. You were forced to expend all the energy you had on what you needed to say, and reached for Dean’s hand with a weak grip.

“Dean, look at me.”

He sounded like a hurt puppy when he said, “please,” and you knew he was asking you not to make him listen but you were worried you were out of options, out of time. That frantic smile looked almost crazed as it started to quiver on his face, eyelashes clumping with moisture.

“Sam, can you hear me too?” you asked, frustrated in an abstract way at how frail your voice sounded.

He gave one tight nod in the rearview mirror with a jaw set firm as iron, and when he said “Yes—yeah,” it was choked.

“I love you idiots so much. These last—ow, Jesus—however many years have been some of the most fun I’ve ever had. I wouldn’t take it back for anything. Sam, I—you’re the best friend I’ve ever had and I—fuck,” you winced, something about the breath you took to keep from crying sending an electric jolt of pain through you and doubling you over.

“It’s okay, I know,” Sam said up into the rearview mirror, and you couldn’t tell if the way the headlights were falling on the trees impossibly fast was something about your sight being distorted, because if it wasn’t then you were surprised the Impala hadn’t broken some kind of land speed record. You made a mental note to tell Dean to start drag racing before remembering you might not tell him anything ever again. What you were nearly positive you weren’t imagining were the break in Sam’s voice or the reflection of tears on his cheek as he locked eyes with you in the mirror.

By the grace of whatever higher power the Winchesters were on the good side of at the time, you connected with him in the reflection, were able to absorb some fraction of the bone-crushing, pick-you-up-off-your-feet hug you wanted so badly from Sam in that moment. You tried to be thankful for what you got and drifted back to Dean’s gaze.

“And Dean, baby,” you continued, some bizarre flutter of second wind giving you enough force to clench your hand tightly around his and remember to keep your breaths shallow, keep talking even if your eyes couldn’t quite focus. “This was not your fault, you gotta—promise—me you know it wasn’t.”

“I, ah—” he faltered, throat vibrating as he tried to keep the inevitable tears down.

You gripped his hand tighter, felt your fingers going numb, and tried to smile hoping it didn’t look too grotesque on a face almost certainly drained of lifelike color. “C’mon, gotta obey a last wish, right?” The grief-stricken chuckle of surprise that dark joke punched out of Dean opened the floodgates, and tears burst forward to stream down his face. He gave an almost imperceptible nod.

You’d thought of some goofy punchline to try to give, some ‘no sleeping with random girls for at least a year, want you guys to pour one out for me every day’ bullshit but seeing the love and pain in Dean’s eyes as your vision came in and out zapped it away. “I love you baby. I just—thank you for—everything—and—”

It was getting too hard to take even those shallow breaths, your hearing gone fuzzy around the edges, and the last thing you remembered was seeing a streetlight on the edge of town as Dean took your face in his hands, “I know, kid, I know, come on—please,” fading out like he was being zipped away through a long tunnel.

You were completely motionless in Dean’s arms, pulse gone thready enough that Dean was having a hard time finding it through the rumble of the car.

“Fuck, Sam, FUCK!” Dean screamed, one hand wrapped up in the hair at the back of your neck as he fought desperately to keep you upright.

Sam muscled through the lump in his throat and tried to stay focused. “When we get there you need to be ready to go, okay, Dean? HEY, listen to me. Don’t quit on me like this,” he barked, trying to catch his brother’s eyes in the rearview mirror without taking his focus off the road, terrified at the speed of the Impala and the potential of repeating what had happened the last time he’d had someone he loved bleeding out in the backseat.

The car skittered around two corners and Sam prayed as hard as he had ever prayed for anything that there weren’t any Keystone cops looking to meet their month’s ticket quota by hanging around dark parking lots with radar guns, willed Dean to stop punching the window of the car with the hand that wasn’t clutching your head to his chest. He couldn’t decide if he thought it would’ve been better to have Dean drive, if he would’ve been able to hold it together any better than Dean was right now, if Dean could’ve focused if he was driving and not feeling you drift in his arms. There wasn’t time to figure it out and it ultimately didn’t matter, his brother turning into a bomb in the backseat and Sam needed to figure out a way to funnel Dean’s sheer panic back into the denial that would fuel him to keep moving, do anything to keep you alive, regardless of whether there was any hope left.

“It’s not over, you’ve gotta keep it together. She needs you. See, we’re right around—"

But he didn’t get to finish through the flurry of action as he pulled into the motel. He careened the Impala straight up to the door of the room, more than half of the car parked over a strip of grass intended to make the nondescript building feel more homey. By the time he’d torn the keys from the ignition Dean was practically leaping out of the backseat, carrying you into the room a quarter step after Sam half-busted the door open, laying you on a bed and tearing your t-shirt off with his bare hands like a cheap wrestling gimmick.

Sam didn’t bother closing the motel door, moving too fast to care as he ripped a cork out of whiskey bottle with his teeth and poured it all over your now-exposed side, grimacing with nausea at the way it didn’t make you draw back in pain even a little. Dean tried his best to thread a needle with floss and remember whether it was better or worse that the blood was still flowing fast and bright red out of those stab wounds rather than slowing or oxidizing—this is bush league shit Dad pounded in years ago why can’t I remember fucking any of it? His hands shook with too much adrenaline to get the floss through the needle but Sam was already working on patching the biggest wound, tying knots with the rapid precision of a surgeon.

It was only when he started getting in Sam’s way that the younger Winchester said anything more, encouraged that Dean was at least trying to pull himself together. He began talking through the stitches, muttering when he had to pull one tight with his teeth.

“We—Dean, look at me.” Sam drilled into him with those brackish eyes, struggling to maintain the appearance of being in control that his brother needed of him when he could feel you going cold underneath his fingertips. “We’re going to need to give her a lot of fluids when she wakes up; all we have is beer. Go get some stuff for her to drink—electrolytes, she’ll need electrolytes.”

“I’m not going to fucking leave, asshole!” Dean was strung out and not even pretending to hide it anymore, voice taking on that juvenile squeak Sam had only heard a handful of times since Dean was a teenager.

He took a deep breath in an effort to soothe himself before speaking as clearly and firmly to Dean as possible, no room for negotiation. “Dean. This is not helping. The best thing you can do for her is to go get some fluids. Gatorade, OJ, bananas too, if they have them. She’ll need iron but we can deal with other food once she wakes up.”

“What if she doesn’t—” Dean half-moaned, sounding like he’d been struck by something that was sucking all the oxygen from his lungs, looking like he was on the last ten feet of a hundred-mile race.

“She’s going to wake up.”

And Sam’s stubbornness actually did help Dean a bit in that moment, knowing that even if his life was about to change radically, that never would. “Go get some fucking Gatorade.”

By the time Dean came back—arms filled with so many bags of sports drinks that it would be comical in any other context—his brother had stitched up every wound, cleaned off most of the blood, and put all your limbs atop high stacks of pillows in an attempt to get as much blood to your vital organs as possible. Dean was near catatonic with the singular focus of a task, which was Sam’s intention. One thing at a time.

After about five minutes of sitting alongside Sam watching you, thick, viscous panic bubbled back up to the surface.

At first, he was muttering like he was talking to himself. “She told me, she fucking told me they wouldn’t be in the barn anymore, I didn’t listen. I should’ve been right behind her, Sam, what the fuck was I thinking—she was—she—she was alone, they wouldn’t have—” and then the way his voice built to a fever pitch matched his body, Dean perched on the mattress like a sailboat in a tempest, slammed against invisible waves of panic.

“It wasn’t your fault, Dean. You couldn’t have known—”

“She was alone against five of them, Sam, do you get that? I left her fucking ALONE!” Dean wailed, springing forward from the bed with eruptive energy and bashing the nightstand lamp hard enough that its base shattered against the opposite wall, coming clean out of the socket as easily as if it hadn’t been plugged in. Sam flinched but didn’t get up, instead taking a quick visual inspection that no shards of ceramic somehow bounced back to cut your still body. By the time he glanced up again he only had a millisecond to react as Dean threw a chair from the kitchenette against the wall, exploding the mirror there into shimmering beads of glass and ricocheting back, forcing Sam block it with a forearm lest it hit him or you.

“DEAN, enough!” he yelled, crossing over to his brother with a few powerful strides and grappling with him, battling to keep Dean still as the older of the Winchester brothers fought to destroy the room to match the chaos in his mind. Sam knew exactly what was going on, the way Dean’s brain converted fear to rage, but hated when his brother got like this, not only because it cut so deep to see him in pain but because the explosiveness was so similar to the knock-down drag-outs they’d grown up with, made it impossible to try to fix the root of the problem.

Sam tackling Dean to the ground was the first thing you saw when you opened your eyes.

“Do I pull this shit when you guys are sleeping?” you croaked from the mattress, trying to sit up and immediately abandoning that plan, stilling yourself and holding your breath until the pain settled a fraction.

Sam and Dean scrambled to get to their feet and ran over to you, hovering over the bed looking like their backs had a light dusting of glitter rather than a million tiny shards of glass.

“What’re—are you okay? What do you remember?” Sam blurted out, grabbing a bottle of Gatorade out of a plastic bag and cracking it open for you. He snatched a pillow and helped you sit up slowly, jamming it under your head so you could drink.

“Well, I’ve definitely felt better,” you tried to chuckle, but the tension it caused in your abdominal muscles made you wince. “I’m really sorry, you guys, I shouldn’t have—” you began, immediately stopped by the way Sam and Dean shook their heads, sucked on their teeth.

“I’m—ah,” Sam started, smiling self-deprecatingly through the shake in his voice and looking down at the ground for a beat with his tongue in his cheek. It was like his body knew that the worst of the crisis had passed and refused to let him hide his emotions for one second further. After a second he met your eyes again, faintest hint of tears in his eyes. “I’m really glad you’re up.”

Behind him, Dean collapsed into himself, his expression simultaneously complete relief and like he’d seen a ghost. You peered around Sam to meet his gaze. “Hey, dork,” you breathed, unable to come up with anything to match the weight of the moment.

He opened his mouth a few times and couldn’t find anything either, wincing and biting his lip hard as he rubbed the back of his head nervously. “I’m so sorry,” he finally choked out.

As always, Sam knew what Dean needed and snatched the car keys off the table as his brother tried in vain to keep his restless limbs still. He gazed at you with such naked thankfulness it made you smile involuntarily. “I’m going to see how much red meat I can find you, I’ll be right back, okay? Drink as many of these as you can and don’t stand up alone.” You nodded gratefully to him as he backed out the door.

When Sam left, Dean still shifted uncomfortably on his feet, clenching and unclenching his hands until he ultimately jammed them deep into the pockets of his coat with enough force that it shook loose almost all of the glass, sending it floating to the ground around him as if he was a mirage. You could see, even as he stood a few paces away from the bed, that his breathing was quickened from the rapid, shallow movements of his chest and neck. “I’m—ah, I didn’t think—I shouldn’t have—” he stammered against a jaw locked shut tensely enough to make the muscles bulge out of his cheeks, and the lack of the self-assuredness that was normally so Dean to you made him seem unbelievably young, made you want to leap across the room and wrap him up in your arms. As it was, you beckoned him over with a shaky hand.

He walked over to you hesitantly, only sitting down on the side opposite your injuries when you patted the sheets next to you. Awkwardly trying to move your torso as little as possible, you tossed the pillows on that side to the floor and motioned for him to lay down.

“I don’t want to hurt—”

“I’ll be fine. Please?”

Reluctantly taking off his coat and dropping it unceremoniously to the ground, he gingerly tucked himself under your arm and laid his head on your chest. You faintly dragged your fingertips down his back, waiting for his heartbeat and uneven, shallow breathing to slow down. When they didn’t and all you felt was a spreading wetness on the remaining upper half of t-shirt you still had, you twisted laboriously to see Dean’s face.

Tears streamed down onto you, Dean biting his lip so hard to keep quiet you were shocked you couldn’t see blood, the whites of his teeth almost matching the pressure-blanched skin.

“Oh, Dean,” you hummed, pulling him close to you with your one arm. “Babe, I’m here, I’m right here. Everything’s okay; I’m okay, you get to treat me like a princess for a few days and I’ll learn for the hundredth time that I shouldn’t go off by myself.”

“I—I thought you were gone,” Dean whispered between stunted sobs breaking the words off in short staccato, still fighting to speak as though he wasn’t crying even as his tears soaked you.

You craned your neck slowly to kiss the top of his head. “Not gone, right here. Always going to be right here.”

“You were bleeding so mu—just like Sam, it was just like when Sam—” he faltered, speaking slowly to try to grab the reins of his voice as it shook.

“Not just like Sam, baby, I’m still here. Everyone’s okay. And Sam’s okay too, right?” You waited for him to confirm what you knew was true and emphasize your point, drawing back to meet his gaze when he didn’t. “Right?”

Reluctantly, Dean nodded. The redness around his eyes made his irises seem almost unreal in electric green contrast and you couldn’t believe you were so close to never seeing them again. His lashes were even darker than normal, spiky black frames formed with salty tears like cartoonish mascara. You waited a beat then let him settle back into your chest before continuing, feeling the choke-hiccupping of his breath stop even if it stayed rapid. “Everyone’s okay. You’re okay,” you hummed into his hair. “You’re okay, baby.”

The two of you stayed like that until Dean’s breathing finally steadied, waiting past the clearly forced long held breaths and through to the point that he genuinely seemed like he’d hit the smooth rhythm you knew so well. “How are you feeling?” you murmured.

“Like a bitch,” he grumbled softly against your chest, and you couldn’t help but smile, thankful beyond anything for the glint of humor back in Dean, that shimmer of normalcy returning.

“Sorry for scaring you.”

“I’m never fucking letting you out of my sight again,” he said, words still sticky with swirling emotion and muffled by his cheek pressed against you. You knew he was only partly joking but also that now was not the time to push back, just kissing his hair in response.

There was no way it took Sam an hour to get you a diner burger but you were thankful for his intuition nonetheless, because by the time he got back Dean was calm enough to get up and had even helped you to put on a new t-shirt—one of his black ones; he said it was because it was looser but you suspected it was some kind of metaphor, covering you with part of himself—and shimmy into a pair of mesh athletic shorts. Standing up for a shower was still too ambitious, but the fresh clothes made you feel a little less gross. He was trying his best to clean up as much broken glass as possible when his brother opened the door and tossed him a paper bag with a bubbly illustrated hamburger on it.

Walking into the room without taking his jacket off, Sam set your food on the nightstand and grabbed a motel binder of local attractions (minimal) as a makeshift tray for you to eat off of before carefully helping you to sit up a little more. “Double cheeseburger—eat it before the fries, you need the iron. Oh, and I almost forgot—couple of these too.” He reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved two bottles in one big hand that appeared to be acetaminophen and an iron supplement.

“You’re the best, Sam.” It was nice to hear your voice sound more normal, lubricated with two bottles of Gatorade already, and you tried not to imagine how awkward or painful it was going to be to try to get up and go to the bathroom later.

The Winchesters sat on the other bed, still in their boots because of the rug of broken glass no one wanted to acknowledge, and Sam turned on whatever dumb comedy he could find first. For a fleeting moment it felt like any normal night on the road, nursing an injury and eating greasy food in a room you’d never see again past tomorrow morning, and you almost forgot that (minutes? hours? you still didn’t know how long you’d been out) earlier you thought you were saying goodbye to the two people you loved most, who’d moved heaven and earth and miles of rural highway to bring you back, whose superhero resilience you’d seen start to crack at the thought of losing you. A searing jolt of pain when you reached for another Gatorade reminded you all too much, and when you hissed both Sam and Dean leapt off the bed with faces contorted in concern.

“Just stretched too far, I’m okay.”

Watching them take twin deep breaths could’ve been funny and you hoped it would be in a few days—hoped in a few days laughing wouldn’t feel like being impaled. For now, you tried to drink in this little moment of peace and made a promise to yourself that you wouldn’t take another one for granted ever again.

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syubub · 4 years

Note

Rae I was hoping you could do a reading (nothing grand, it can be small) on BTS’ (each member’s individual) current post-Grammy energy? The past 24 hours have been a rollercoaster of emotions. I noticed a lot in their demeanors on both their vlive, and reaction to the loss they posted on Twitter. I have my own analysis and observations, but all that mostly comes from a psychological/logical pov. I want your take on the spiritual side and most importantly your thoughts on what the cameras won’t show us and what the members would probably never vocally/publicaly express (since bless their hearts, they’re such humble people). — 💼

That's such a great ask 💼 anon! I love the idea and I have to do it right now bc I need to know lol

bts post-grammy energy reading

Disclaimer: this is for entertainment purposes and not to be taken as fact. This is only my personal interpretation!

So first off we have the energy of the group.

The 6 of coins, the magician, ten of wands reversed.

Starting with the 6 of coins

This to me feels like they are happy to have preformed and likely feel very loved.

Like they're happy to have shown their talents to the world and spread some joy and love

The card itself Is a lot about give and take and sharing and I think they feel that with army

The kind of solidarity and appreciation of eachother

With the magician (this came up in pre grammy read too) it feels like the determination and drive to succeed. They probably are feeling motivated to come back again stronger.

I see this too as bts not holding back and doing what they feel they have to do (I'm excited for what it could be)

Then we have 10 of wands reversed

This talks about feeling relief about being able to release a burden

This makes a lot of sense

In a way they were kinda carrying A LOT on their backs with this grammy nom

And for it to be over I think now they can catch their breaths

Seokjin

Knight of wands.

This is so very him.

Passion, inspired action, energy.

It's the "pushing foward bc I have a thing that I'm going to do" energy

I see this as him being fired up and like "Okay so this is how we can do this and next time this will happen and we can do this as well"

Very much no time to dwell

It's the confidence and belief in himself and the group and their goals

Like he took his time to be be angry, sad, mad and whatever but I don't think it was at not winning. It was all the other stuff

And now hes ready to continue and push through

He could have a million ideas in his head rn

The knight of wands is one of my absolute favorite cards

It's also associated with sagittarius so maybe I'm just a bit biased lol

Renewed energy and passion

Love it

Yoongi

YOONGI

It's in caps bc im yelling

Ace of cups

You absolute pain

Yes this card can be about love

In this context though I see it as creativity

Ace is always the start of things.

The ace of cups is an emotional beginning

The beginning of a new creative project fuled by emotions and your emotions about your experiences

Yall

Yoongi is writing and making stuff and this might just be the new project that takes them to the grammys and win them the trophies

Yoongi had a planned we should always listen carefully to his words.

He technically said a 2021 grammy preformance and 2022 grammy win...

Ugh

Essentially I think that whatever project comes from the emotions of this time will be extremely significant for them

Maybe we'll get a song or album that talks about the shit they go through with interlude: FUCK YOU AND YOUR BULLSHIT

I hope we get swearing...

Probably not bc in true bangtan fashion they can form their emotions and experience into beautiful metaphors.

To sum up I think yoobi kinda knew what would happen so he sees it as an opportunity to take the emotions/creativity and create a very special thing(again, is he consciously aware of this shit??)

Hoseok

Wheel of fortune reverse

Hobi :(

Dissapointment and misfortune

It's that "the whole world is against me" feeling

I bet he was extremely excited and it was just an emotional blow to him

I think he probably can't help but be hard on himself

Like, "if we did this better" or "we should have done this"

But he knows that it's not his fault. It's just hard not to question yourself

It's feeling like they just can't catch a break

With this card though I feel like there's also an energy of no longer feeling like they have to "play the game"

Breaking the cycle

I think dynamite served 2 purposes

1. To bring joy and some sense of normality to a mid pandemic world

And 2. To play the game by its rules. Everything according to the book

Kinda an experiment

And to see that even doing everything right and excelling at the game didn't really change the scammys mind

Theirs freedom there

They did it the grammys way

And now they'll do it the bangtan way

Bc they've learned

Maybe they'll try another English song but it will be more them

Namjoon

Seven of cups

This card...

The first thing I want to talk about is illusion

The idea that an option you pick has a whole lot of things hiding behind the surface and it's not what it first looked to be

Being hyped up by the grammys and having a bunch of interviews and stuff only to be used

I think namjoon is dealing with that extra hard because as a leader I think he has this idea that he's ment to protect his members

I think he feels a bit like, "I should have seen this coming and been more careful"

Stuff like that.

When joon said "I told you" after they announced the winner

I feel like he told them that it was un likely bc the closer and closer it got he kinda started to see things for what they really were

I think too that joon is trying to decide where to go from here

Do they try a new English song?

Do they say fuck it and make a metal album?

Do they make an album focusing on the positives?

Do they make an album talking about the negatives?

Do they mix a bunch of ideas together?

Do they go back to their roots?

Very many options and namjoon is trying to choose the best one

However.

Everything has an upside and a downside

Jimin

Chim chim

The hermit

Soul searching and introspection

Listening to yourself

I think jimin might feel a bit down

Like, he needs time to re evaluate

I think jimin tends to base his worth on some external factors and he might have put a lot of his own worth on this situation

So now he has to go back and remind himself that this doesn't define him and that his value has nothing to do with the grammys or how others view him

Like hobi he might be bit hard on himself rn

But the hermit is such a powerful card bc you find yourself in the soul searching and you can asses how to move foward

I think also the hermit might also symbolize feeling shut out of the music industry and maybe too a bit of shame about not winning

JIMIM :'(

Taehyung

The high priestess

This whole situation did not pass his vibe check in the first place

I think he probably knew

Maybe his angel told him or he subconsciously knew

Very much trusting his intuition and will probably be using that to guide him going foward in what he will do with this situation

Creating and being vulnerable and open is important

Anything that has to do with intuition and creativity and empathy

He's probably also comforting jimin in preticular rn

He's also probably thinking about how to comfort us

(Maybe he's working extra hard to push the mixtape foward in order to comfort us)

(( we are trying to comfort YOU. You don't need to comfort us!!))

Regardless

It's a very intresting energy and it makes sense lol

Jungkook

The hanged man

Koo

A pause to re evaluate

Similar to jimin in that this is a time to reflect and to do some soul searching

Taking the time to see things from a new perspective that is desperately needed for him

Some new and important thing might be on the horizon (see yoongis reading) and he will be able to see it and see its potential because he's taking time to just

Exist

Gather his thoughts so that he can know what he's feeling and take that

Morph it into something beautiful

And use that to move foward with a new perspective.

I think also this could indicate feeling like this is a hurdle they can't get over.

Stuck where they are bc the obstacles are insurmountable.

Another interpretation is being made an example of publicly?

Like he might feel like they failed publicly and that it hurt rather than helped south Korea as a whole?

But overall feeling like he needs that new perspective and taking this as an opertunity to find that!

I hope this kinda makes sense! I only pulled one card bc I think they're all feeling A LOT of things and I wanted to focus on the main theme.

It's a lot more positive than I thought but that's bts for you, always looking to grow and learn and create. I'm really interested to see what kind of songs come from this emotional influx! I think it definitely differs some from what they've shown so I'm curious how this energy manifests for them!

#💼anon #bts #bts tarot #seokjinnie #seokjin #jin #suga #min suga #yoongi #hoseok #jhope #hobi #namjoon #rm #jimin #park jimin #taehyung #v #tae tae #jungkook #kookie #jk #bts reactions #bts imagines

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beggingwolf · 3 years

Text

hi so I've just eaten too much ice cream, feel vaguely ill, and I'm here to tell you All About How I Failed At Outlining for SGKF this year!

that's partially just a fun tagline, but it's also a bit true. I told my friends I'd be trying to use several different outlining methods to try and knock out a plotty piece for the fest, and things did not go to plan!

important to begin with: I am what is referred to as a "pantser." I tend to just start writing. this is strangely contradictory to my personality, which deeply loves plans. unfortunately, what often happens is plans and outlines ruin my excitement and drive while working on a project (it tricks me into thinking I've done all the work and resolved the plot), leading me to abandon it.

and though I can throw together pretty words and made a decent fic, my fics never turned out as good as they could have been. I kept telling myself that if I planned in advanced and worked out what I was doing BEFORE I did it, I'd be able to craft a fic with such care and attention as to make it really SHINE.

so, uh, kinkfest rolls around, and since I was a mod I could see all the prompts before they even got released to the public, so I basically had a WHOLE EXTRA two-ish weeks to start planning and writing.

did I? NO.

so, despite the fact that I collect writing advice like a magpie , I'm not the greatest at implementing it. if you go into my SGKF google folder, you'll find a few instances of me TRYING to implement writing advice like metawriting:

(and you'll see some fics that didn't get finished/make it into the fest!)

my issue was (and still is) that I think I value every little word too much. this is a bad thing: I'm an overwriter by nature. when I get words down, I want to keep them because I feel like I worked hard for them, even if they're not great or don't actually serve the story in the way they should. that's not to say all my metawriting was bad; it wasn't. I tried it out for A Drowning in California as well [which will henceforth just be referred to as "California").

I had a whole subfolder for California. what kind of amazed me is how different my initial notes for the prompt are from what the story actually ended up being. here, take a look:

literally almost none of this is in california. the WWE and UFC stuff made it in, and so did sid wrestling with horny, but that was it. I was going to start this fic in the locker room, with sid wrestling someone, and it was seriously going to be a story about sex—about sid wanting to hold geno down in bed. that was the premise.

and instead, we got a really emotional story about familial rejection and the isolation it can make people feel. SO! something happened along the way, right?

when I started getting into the plot that would support this supposed sexfest, this is where I went at first:

geno wants the relationship to get serious, sid is like mentally still a 12 year old who just wants to wrestle people and doesn't want to talk about his emotions, and prefers to use physicality to communicate. this doesn't work for geno, who wants ... more

we can start to see the actual emotions come through, the things I was interested in: sid using touch to talk, and geno desperately wanting more

what did the most good for me, in the end, was "doing" the metawriting by talking with my friends.

I told them what i thought this story was about ("I'm thinking about making this a story about relationship-defining, maybe? and the communication needed for a lasting adult relationship? I think I'm going to set it in california/LA, where Sid has invited Geno along for the first time for his California Summer Fun/Training/Escape, whatever, and Geno's going to be emotionally preoccupied with Defining The Relationship—maybe they've been on-again-off-again? maybe they're just new to this, like almost a year deep, and they're not getting younger—and thinking this trip is about that [or hoping this trip is about that, and realizing it isn't, and being disappointed].") and they told me what jumped out at them.

Jes told me what would ramp up the tension would be a deadline of some sort; "Geno’s going to break up with Sid or make some decision or something, or there’s something approaching where they have to make a will they or won’t they decision of some kind related to the core ‘defining the relationship’ issue. Geno’s going back to russia and in previous summers they’ve always slept with other people while apart? or Sid has a wedding coming up and he’s offhandedly mentioned taking someone else as his plus one?"

I liked her thoughts. it made sense to add an external pressure to all this, and that wedding idea stuck out to me the most.

Lis said I should add a jealousy angle, so you can largely credit her for the club scene: "one thing i like to sort of headcanon/imply about sid's california trips is he uses them to hook up anonymously. so you could have, like, sid and geno seeing sid's friends, but also accidentally running into some of sid's friends. and geno's like oh, great, so here i am doing this horrible summertime training that i hate because i don't need to train in the offseason actually, and i'm learning what exactly sid gets up to when we're apart."

My magical solution these days is GOING FOR WALKS. do it if you're able. it clears out your brain. so on my walks I ended up deciding that I wanted a taylor crosby wedding. I like taylor as a character, and as a person with sisters I just like writing her in. best of all, she and sid are close and I like writing "I'd do anything for my family" sid.

and then I was like. oh. what if it's not that sid is afraid/nervous to bring geno, it's that he can't.

I... wasn't as conflicted as I thought I'd be about writing sid's parents as homophobic. I prefer to write them as supportive; I think troy crosby's been eviscerated more than he should have been in older fanworks, and though I respect their right to make fictional!troy whatever they want, I've been a little skeptical of outlandish takes on him ("he doesn't say I love you to his son because a camera caught them mid-interaction once!") ever since I read how the media has found him a convenient narrative villain while he tried to keep his underage son safe from the media as a child and while they needed to cook up Spicy Stories about squeaky-clean sid.

uh, tangent aside, I always thought I'd never write a "parents are the villains" story, but I did here. it felt right. it was easier, too, because they're not PRESENT in the story. I didn't have to write trina actually being horrible to her son. I just had to skirt the edges of the wound.

which works well on two fronts: I don't have to actively write the crosbys being horrible to sid, and I also leave more to the imagination of the reader, and that almost never fails to make the work better. whatever the reader imagines them saying to sid, it's going to be 10x more hurtful than anything I'd write.

I dug really deep on some personal emotions and fears I experience as a gay person for a lot of sid's arc here. sid is deeply imperfect in this story, and he's internalizing his pain and the horrible thing that's happened to him, which is making him pull away from his partner, and sid is not responding how geno wants, nor is he responding well, period, though he's trying in his own wounded, stilted way.

and beloved geno, whose tender heart is so hidden away for fear of someone hurting it. I really like writing geno; he's huffy and emotional and sometimes bitchy and feels things SO deeply.

once I had more of an idea, I was already working on a more detailed outline. this is where I seriously took Jes's advice and WROTE EVERYTHING OUT! it made it so much less daunting, because I didn't have to be figuring out my next steps AND crafting sentences at the same time. also this is where I tell you that the title of this post is mostly a lie, it was metawriting I failed at.

This outline also meant I avoided writing large swaths of things that should've been cut. Another beta told me I should delete three scenes and condense a bunch of emotions into the club scene, and she was SO right. Cutting events out of an outline is WAY easier than cutting out pages of text.

Ironically my outline kind of deteriorated after the club scene, but that's alright: after I wrote the club scene, I actually had a clear vision of what I wanted the end to be. I just had to trust myself. I CAN do this, I CAN still just write intuitively sometimes!

I think California did what I wanted it to do. I'd love to try something out that's longer and has more story arcs in it (jes has a post for that too!) but I think that's best saved for another, longer project, though 18k isn't short.

next up is maggie stief's writing seminar that I bought a month back. I'm going to start working on that this month and see how I like it. I have a few halloween fic ideas, plus spookfest, so these next two months we should be cooking in the kitchen!

#on writing

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 4 years

Text

The Wages of Sin

Before I found tumblr, I seriously believed I was the only person on Earth whose pulse went up when Samoa Joe appeared. He just broadcasts pure dominant energy and power. I miss seeing him in the ring but I’m glad he’s still on my tv on a (mostly) weekly basis.

Pairing: Samoa Joe x reader

Word count: 3,732

Content advisory: BDSM smut

It was all you could do not to roll your eyes at his expression when you came in the door. It was always the same with men: they called to have a computer technician come over and when a woman showed up, they looked at you like there had been some mistake. Some would even be so gauche as to ask if you were qualified to do this sort of work. This guy wasn’t that bad but when he saw you, his eyes swept up and down over your body, lingering on your breasts longer than he should have before he waved you inside with nothing more than a grunt.

“The computer’s in the office,” he informed you. “First door on the left back there. Off the kitchen. It’s been slowing down for a while and now it won’t even start up.”

“Ok. Other than slowing down, have there been any other problems you’ve noticed, Mr…”

“Joe,” he grunts. “Joe is fine. And yeah, there have been a bunch of programs crashing.”

“Well, Joe, why don’t we have a look and see what the problem is?”

You head in the direction that he’s indicated and enter a neatly organized office space. There’s a desk in one corner, but the room is dominated by a large section coach flanked by a couple of odd looking benches. It’s strange, because there’s no television in the room, no books, nothing that would indicate this was a place where one would sit and relax. You shrug it off. Maybe he likes to take a nap after he’s done working. Maybe this is where he takes women to seduce them.

Immediately, you try to push that image from your mind. You hate to admit it, even to yourself, but when he gave you that once-over, you’d felt a shiver run through your whole body. He was massive and while at first glance he’d appeared fat, you quickly saw that he was just powerfully built. As he stood behind you and watched what you working, he unbuttoned the cuffs of his dress shirt, pushing them up and revealing forearms like iron girders, the kind of arms you could imagine holding you down with ease, choking you, forcing you to do whatever he wanted.

You try to shake those thoughts out of your head and focus on the task at hand. You boot up his computer in safe mode and, once you’re able to get a look around, it’s clear that the problem is a large number of files that have taken up so much space that the computer barely has any available memory to launch or run anything. On top of that, there are multiple malware programs that are deviously working away. You’ll have to work on those right away in order to get the computer stable enough for you to see the files and try to clear out some space.

He stands behind you as you start to untangle the electronic knots, his breath heavy and incredibly distracting.

“This is gonna take me a while,” you tell him.

“Well I’ll leave you to it then.” His tone is friendly but there’s a dark undertone to it, like he can see inside your mind and know that he’s having an effect on you.

Once he’s gone, you settle down and focus on the task at hand. He pokes his head in a couple of times but leaves you alone otherwise. It’s just as well because what he’s got is a real mess and it takes a lot of work to identify and then scrub the malware. Normally, you could run a program to deal with the majority of the work but his computer is so unstable that it can’t run anything, meaning that you have to do everything manually.

Thirteen programs. It takes two and a half hours but you’re finally able to remove all traces of the thirteen programs that have contaminated his hard drive. The early winter light is already starting to fade and now you have to start isolating files. Protocol is that you identify duplicates and separate them onto a second drive without ever looking but everyone takes a peek to see what secrets a client has. Nine times out of ten it’s porn, usually varying flavors of vanilla. It’s never happened to you personally, but a couple of the people you work with have found photos or videos of kids, something that immediately gets reported to the cops. (Peeking at a client’s files is unethical but not illegal, meaning that what the technician sees is fair game.)

When you see that the files are almost all videos, you figure you pretty much know what you’re in for. The nature of the videos, though, is more than you bargained for. This is hardcore stuff, all women getting flogged and bound and taken roughly in every hole as they scream in pain and ecstasy at the same time. There are dozens if not hundreds like this and mixed in among them are videos of Joe himself, proudly displaying his naked body and a thick cock that you can imagine would be rough to take even under normal circumstances.

Watching all this, you feel your breathing grow faster and that familiar wetness in your core soaking your panties within minutes. The fact is that you’ve desperately wanted a man who’d take you like this, who’d use you and brutalize you, but you’d never found one. You’d eventually had to dump your last boyfriend because the sex was so boring you found yourself repulsed by it. You’ve watched plenty of videos like these at home, but knowing you were only a couple of rooms away from a man who clearly indulged in these activities a lot makes you squirm in your seat, trying to get some friction against the seam of your jeans to relieve a bit of the pressure.

Your eyes flicker towards the benches you’d noticed when you came in and now you know what their purpose is. You open another file, Joe again with a woman tied up and bent nearly double, his hand wound around her pony tale as he pounds mercilessly into her.

Looking once again at the benches, you imagine him strapping you to one and whipping you, making you beg for him.

The woman in the video is screaming non-stop about how good he feels, how she deserves what she’s getting, welcoming every vile slur he hurls at her.

You’re so caught up in what you’re seeing and in what you’re imagining that you don’t notice that the sound on this video is a fair bit higher than in the others, and are caught totally off-guard when you hear the voice behind you.

“See something you like?” he drawls.

Right away, you feel not just your face but your whole upper body grow hot with humiliation. It’s one thing for you to be fantasizing but this is you getting caught invading a customer’s privacy. Even if it’s understood that everybody does it, you’ll be lucky to keep your job if and when he complains.

“Not really my scene,” you lie. “But I don’t judge. I just need to sort through stuff to free up some space. I’m going to install an external drive and move your videos there. It’s an extra charge but it’s not too much. You can call the office to find out the exact amount if you want.”

Joe gives a noncommittal sound and walks away without another glance. Your cheeks are still burning an hour later when you’ve dutifully moved the files onto the external drive, careful not to open a single one, even though you’re dying of curiosity. Trembling, you pack up your stuff and prepare to make a shame-faced exit. You’re wondering if you should just apologize to him, maybe say that you opened one of the files by accident and just started poking around, not quite believing what you were seeing. You’re unable to decide if that would be better than saying nothing and trying to pretend that nothing had happened. He’s standing in front of the door with an unfriendly look on his face.

“Well,” you begin unsteadily, “you haven’t lost any files. There wasn’t any permanent damage, so other than moving some stuff to an external drive, everything will be exactly the way it was, but it’ll run a lot faster.”

He folds his arms and looks down his nose at you without speaking. It takes you a few seconds to figure out what to say next under the weight of his stare.

“There were a bunch of malware programs I had to remove. That was what was causing most of the problem. There are certain sites that tend to… have… lots of those things. Anyway, I installed newer antiviral software that should block them.”

You sound completely lost and you are. You feel like, rather than registering a complaint with your employer, Joe is preparing to kill you and eat you for violating his privacy. In the interest of getting out before you’re made into a main course, you opt to stop speaking and to leave the subject of your intrusion out of the conversation.

As you reach for the doorknob, though, Joe presses his arm against the door and his scowl deepens.

“You lied to me,” he seethes.

“Excuse me?”

“Before. You were lying when you said you weren’t interested in those videos. I can always tell.”

“Oh,” you murmur, “about that. Look, I’m really sorry that I was going through your-”

“Yeah, that’s not what we’re talking about little girl.”

“It isn’t?” You feel yourself shrinking back from him and he leans closer as you do, until your back is pressed into the doorframe.

“No,” he purrs. “We’re talking about you and how you were turned on by what you saw. We’re talking about how your panties are probably still soaked because you were so excited.”

Your mouth opens and closes a few times as you fight to think of something to say. His broad chest is just inches from you, heat radiating from him and clouding your thoughts even more.

“I have to go,” is what you’re eventually able to croak.

“Is that so?” he hums. “Well I’ll tell you what. I’m gonna go get into something more comfortable. If you want to go, you go. I won’t stop you. But if you want to find out what I can do to you, what I can make you feel, then you get back in the office and wait for me.”

He steps back and heads up the stairs without another syllable, leaving you with a decision to make. There are assuredly better ways for you to find a man to dominate you. But you’ve seen what this man can do and you’ve felt the power and confidence roll off him, leaving you quivering inside and out. You take a deep breath and head back down to his office.

He makes you wait. It’s a good fifteen or twenty minutes before he reappears wearing nothing but boxers, a towel over his shoulders and an arrogant expression that says he never had any doubt you’d be here.

“Eyes down.” It’s an order, you know, even though he speaks as quietly as ever, and you immediately comply.

You’re able to see him toss the towel on the sofa and you hear him opening something- a drawer?- and then close it again a second later. Whatever he was looking for, he knew exactly where it was.

“Top off and hands behind your back.” His voice is behind you, even as ever.

You comply right away, stripping yourself of your sweater and t-shirt, hesitating a little at the thought of removing your bra.

“Everything off,” he whispers, much closer than he was before.

Keeping your eyes on the floor, you remove it and try to steady your breath. You feel a light line traced across your back by something you can’t identify. It’s thin and pliable, but has some strength to it, like the branch of a sapling. It makes you shiver as he continues to move it softly back and forth across the widest part of your back.

“So you like snooping around in other people’s things, do you?”

“No,” you stammer, “I don’t usually do that, I don’t know what I was-”

Immediately, there’s a sharp crack as he brings the branch-like thing, a riding crop, you guess, down on your back with force. You give a short scream and your breathing speeds up as you feel the pain leak from the narrow band of impact across your skin.

“You’re lying to me again,” he taunts. “We both know you do that kind of thing all the time, don’t you?”

“Yes,” you gasp, trying to focus on anything but the pain and at the same time feeling the juices pooling between your thighs.

“What a bad girl you are.” You flex your muscles, anticipating another strike but he does nothing. You let yourself exhale and relax just a little and that’s when the second blow comes, even harder than the first. The scream you give is louder and tears spring to your eyes. Behind you, you hear him hum in satisfaction and it reverberates in your core.

“You were watching quite a few of those videos. I saw you,” he continues, to your shame. “Tell me, what did you like the most about them?”

“I- I don’t know…”

This time, the strike hits the flesh of your inner arm, exposed because you have your hands clasped behind your back, the way he told you.

“If you’re not going to be honest with me, this is going to be a very rough night for you.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-” And there’s a sharp impact on your other arm that draws a sob and a long whine.

“Get to the point, little girl.”

“I liked seeing you. I got turned on by what you were doing to those women because I’ve wanted someone to do those things to me.”

He presses himself against your back, running his thumb roughly along one of the whip marks he’s made there. “Now was that so hard?”

You shake your head, struggling to keep your eyes fixed on the ground as he circles around you. He presses the handle end of the riding crop- you were right about that- under your chin.

“Look at me.”

You do as you're told, more tears dripping from your eyes as you lift your head.

“Already crying? Are you sure you want this?”

“I do,” you assure him, nodding your head vigorously.

“It only gets rougher from here,” he warns you. “So if you want it to stop…”

“I want to keep going.”

“So you think you deserve to be punished.”

“I do.”

“You know what you did was wrong. And you know that you’re a filthy girl for liking what you saw so much.”

“Yes.”

“That’s ‘yes, sir’” he corrects you sharply.

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you think about doing things like that when you’re by yourself? About big, mean taking whatever they want from you? About them hurting you and using you?”

“Yes.”

You hear the sound of the riding crop cutting through the air, but not in time to brace yourself for the impact. It hits right across your nipples and if you had thought that the blows to your back and arms hurt, they were nothing compared to this.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir,” you sob.

He snaps the riding crop across the same point, the center of both nipples, making you shriek.

“Show me your hands.”

You lift them for his inspection and he whips your palms repeatedly, like you’re a misbehaving child.

“Now take off the rest of your clothes,” he instructs. “And give me your panties.”

You move to follow the order, flinching in pain at having to use your wounded hands. He paces in front of you, seeming impatient but letting you take the time you need to get fully undressed. When you’re done, you offer him the garment he requested, which he snatches away from you.

He smirks as he rolls them around in his hand. To your relief, he places the riding crop on the desk behind him before he approaches you.

“What’s this?” he sneers, wiping the soaked cotton over your face. “Is this because of what you saw?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You liked it even more than I thought. You really are a dirty little slut. Do you think you deserve to be punished more?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ask me.”

“Please, sir,” you stammer, “I want you to punish me because I’m a dirty slut who got turned on watching your videos.”

He gives you a smirk that carries just a hint of approbation. “Very good, slut. Go kneel on the sofa, ass out, arms on the back.”

You scurry over and do exactly as you’ve been told. Once you’re in position, he follows you, hovering over you.

“Your eyes stay straight ahead,” he cautions.

He kneels on the sofa beside you and reaches down, producing a pair of handcuffs already attached to the old-fashioned heater, obviously installed for the purpose of chaining women in place. You let him take your wrists and manacle them, flinching because the metal is actually hot on your skin. Once again, he disappears behind you.

His hand comes down on your ass with a thunderous noise and you swear you can feel the reverberations in your skeleton. You let out a half-gasp, half-cry but before you’re able to regroup, he smacks your other cheek just as hard, if not harder. He continues this, increasing the pace as he does until you’re screaming and crying.

“Have you learned your lesson?”

“I… I think so?”

“I don’t know,” he muses, “your pussy is dripping. I think we might need to look at punishing you another way. I think I might have to pound that slit with my cock to show you what happens to dirty sluts who go looking at things they’re not supposed to.”

“Yes, sir, you should.”

“Is that what you really want?”

“Yes, please, sir, I want your cock.”

“What’s that?”

“Please fuck me, sir. Show me how bad I am.”

He bends over you, pushing his boxers off, and whispers harshly in your ear, “Well as long as you’re absolutely sure.”

You nod and he accepts that, grasping your bruised ass tightly and ramming into you like a jackhammer. He pounds relentlessly, leaving you with nothing to do but take what he’s giving, gasping and mewling in ecstasy as each brutal thrust seems to increase the sensitivity of your cunt, the sensation of pleasure flooding through you.

“Is this what you needed?” he snarls, panting.

“Yes, oh god, yes!” You’re a little shocked at the volume of your own voice but all you want to do is scream because what he’s giving you is what you’ve fantasized about for so long, what your body has always known it needed but could never get. You can feel every nerve rushing towards climax and just as you feel yourself teetering on the edge, he pulls out, pressing the tip of his dick against your tailbone, just above the crack of your ass, and he comes, the hot liquid trickling down between your ass cheeks and your swollen lips in streams. He traces the flow with his thick fingers, up and down, making you whine in need. Finally, he grabs the towel he brought with him and wipes you off. You’re still whimpering, moving your hips all around, searching for any kind of contract.

He gives a dark chuckle and you hear him walk away. You want to cry but he’s back in a moment, close by you. Immediately, he starts to wind a rope around your legs, soft like silk and strong. He binds your thighs to your calves, your ankles together and then he flips you over, the chain on the handcuffs pulling your arms taut.

You could not be more vulnerable, spread open before him. He wipes his dick across your chest to remove the remaining mix of your juices.

“I’ll bet you think you deserve to come, now, don’t you?”

“Yes, please sir.”

“Why should I let you.”

“I’ve tried to be good for you, sir. I’ve done everything you asked. I’m sorry I lied to you before but I told you the truth after. And you just turn me on so much, sir.”

He smirks again and plants his tree trunk of a thigh on the sofa between your legs.

“Like this,” he growls. “You want to get off? You fuck yourself on my leg like an animal who doesn’t know any better.”

Part of you wants to resist, but you’re so desperate for it that you press yourself against him and start grinding into his thigh. You can feel the powerful muscle beneath the flesh as he flexes, giving you a little more friction. It’s still slippery and the way that you’re bound makes it difficult to move the way you need to, but you’re able to make it work.

“Are you close?” he rasps.

“So close, sir!”

“And am I good to you, letting you cum on my leg like this?”

“Yes, thank you!”

You thrust yourself even harder against him to add just the little bit more pressure that you need, moving faster as you can feel your orgasm ready to burst through you.

And with a nasty grin, he steps back.

Your clit is so engorged that the sensation of air hitting it is actually painful. Although you’d like to remain composed and be angry, you just sob, tears welling up yet again.

“Why?” you cry at him.

“You don’t get to cum until I decide you’re ready.”

“Please, sir, I’m begging you, I need to.”

He laughs and shakes his head. “Not yet.”

He pulls his boxers back on and grabs the towel, heading towards the door.

“Wait!” you yelp after him. “Where are you going?”

He laughs again, deep and almost demonic. “I’m a busy man. I’ve got a lot of things to do.”

“Aren’t you going to untie me?”

He smirks and throws the towel over his shoulders again. “Oh no. You’re gonna stay right there until I’m ready to use you again.”

#samoa joe imagine #samoa joe fan fiction #wwe imagine #wwe smut #wwe fanfic #wayward wrestle writing

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elliethesuperfruitlover · 4 years

Text

Luba (Mute) NSFW Alphabet

A/N: This came to me very easily, and I’ve been wanting to do this one for a while. Soo, here it is. Enjoy!!

Warnings: BDSM, creampies, a lot of sex lol, roughness

Cheeky Tag List: @misskittysmagicportal, @joz-stankovich, @super-unpredictable98, @the-freckled-luba, @the-novel-on-the-left, @neuroticpuppy, @iamsexytrash, @wasabimia, @bisexualnathanyoung, @imagine-you

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex) I feel like Luba’s extremely caring after a nice fuck, y’know? Being in sex work, he has to make sure he caters to the person’s every need. If it was more rough, he’ll pop out the lotion and rub on the more raw places on someone’s body. If he’s tired, he’ll probably have a couple post-coital cuddles and kisses. Luba also likes candles. I feel like he might order food, and have calm music playing. Very chill.

B = Body Part (Their favorite body part of theirs and also their partner’s) I feel like Luba likes his chest a lot for some weird reason. Even when it might be fake, he really likes when people might place their hands on it, or slide them down his chest. Also, lay your head on that chest please, he likes it. Titties or not. On his partner’s, thighs. Small or thick, he really likes them lol. He likes to squeeze someone’s thighs, or gently kiss them. If you’re walking around the house with tight shorts on, or where your thighs are exposed, he’ll be all over them. Also, if he’s going down on you, he likes to be between them, and his head to be squeezed. He also likes slapping your thighs.

C = Cum (Anything to do with cum basically… I’m a disgusting person) Okay, so Luba’s a very quiet orgasmer (is that a word). Kat and I share a HC that all of Rob’s characters might not say anything, but their breathing will pick up, and it’ll just be hot and heavy for a bit. I also feel like Luba really fucking likes giving people creampies. He also likes getting sucked off to orgasm, so if you swallow, he’s in shock. If you’re covered in it, even better,

D = Dirty Secret (Pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs) He likes calling other people daddy or mommy. A form of praise. He really like spanking, giving or receiving.

E = Experience (How experienced are they? Do they know what they’re doing?) Luba is extremely experienced, he has to be for his profession. However, if you want something specific, or only get off from a particular part of stimulation, let him know, He wants to learn about what you like.

F= Favourite Position (This goes without saying. Will probably include a visual) I feel like Luba likes missionary a lot. He can slowly fuck someone, or have their legs hiked on his shoulders, and absolutely pummel them into the mattress, kitchen counter, whatever it may be that he’s fucking them into. He can also see them and their reactions. and titties lol.

G = Goofy (Are they more serious in the moment, or are they humorous, etc) I have a strong feeling that Luba doesn’t really like to fool around, especially with sex. He’ll tease you, but I don’t think he’ll pop any jokes, but one or two might come out.

H = Hair (How well groomed are they, does the carpet match the drapes, etc.) He’s clean shaven, but I won’t pass up the opportunity to say that Luba dyed his pubes once. (they were light blue)

I = Intimacy (How are they during the moment, romantic aspect…) Luba’s very romantic, and likes to focus on the emotional aspect of sex. So he’ll be very serious, and be focused on trying to pleasure you.

J = Jack Off (Masturbation headcanon) Luba doesn’t really touch himself, unless it’s something like mutual masturbation, or if he’s REALLY horny. And if that happens, it’s typically quite rough masturbation, and he’ll be extremely loud.

K = Kink (One or more of their kinks) Like I mentioned earlier, a hidden daddy/mommy kink. He also likes tits, so pls motorboat him. Also, PLEASE peg him. He wants it. Also, smack that ass all you want.

L = Location (Favorite places to do the do) He’s not too particular, as he really fucking likes to tease you in public. So, I feel like at home is first, the parlor is second, and anywhere public is next. Especially semi-public. He won’t hesitate to fuck you at a restaurant, or something where people are bound to see you.

M = Motivation (What turns them on, gets them going) He likes when you’re whining at what he’s doing, and when you’re getting impatient. He really likes teasing you. If you bite his neck, or kiss it, or start playing along, oh yeah, he’s hard. Or, if you decide to switch roles and want to top him. Also, if you’re wearing particularly titty revealing, or if you’re not wearing a bra, and he knows that you’re letting them be.

N = NO (Something they wouldn’t do, turn offs) Anything too BDSM’y. Like, no blood play, no bodily fluids other than cum, nothing like that. Nothing gross.

O = Oral (Preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc) Luba loves to fucking give oral. and he’s bomb at it as well. It doesn’t matter whomst he may be sucking or licking, he likes to see and hear how they react. However, I won’t rule out the fact that he likes to get oral too. He’ll have his hand on their head, and just lean back and enjoy them pleasing him. He doesn’t get much of that as an escort. He enjoys being treated, and given something he may want, especially sexually. ALSO, I’M ADDING THIS ON. I feel like Luba REALLY fucking likes getting head. Like, if you deepthroat him, it’s a done deal, he’ll be fucking your mouth. Or if you moan around him, he’s cumming down your throat in a matter of seconds.

P = Pace (Are they fast and rough? Slow and sensual? etc.) It depends on how he feels. If he’s particularly horny, he’ll fuck you nice and hard, and make sure you can’t feel your legs. If you’re in public, he’ll start slow, but then speed up, simply because he wants to hear you suffer. He’s a good mix though, but most nights, he’ll be really slow.

Q = Quickie (Their opinions on quickies rather than proper sex, how often, etc.) Luba really likes quickies, and if your job time differs, y’all might be having more quickies than actual sex. He likes actual sex though, but if you’re in a rush to work, but he’s really horny, he’ll fuck you on the car, or on the kitchen counter while you’re eating. Doing your hair? Doggy style. Simple as that. He’ll also finger you if you’re in a BIG rush.

R = Risk (Are they game to experiment, do they take risks, etc.) Luba does tease a lot, and that’s risky, especially if you’re in the verge of an orgasm, and he suddenly takes his fingers out and licks them clean. (slowly)Yeah, you’ll be wanting to fuck him REAL bad. I feel like he will experiment though, he’s open to a lot of things.

S = Stamina (How many rounds can they go for, how long do they last…) Luba lasts VERY LONG. He has to for his job, but with you, he puts extra in. 4, sometimes 5 rounds.

T = Toy (Do they own toys? Do they use them? On a partner or themselves?) YES LUBA OWNS TOYS. He also owns quite a lot of them, and likes to use them quite often. Mostly dildos and cock rings, but he does have vibrators, and likes to tease you with them. If you request it, he’ll fuck himself on a dildo as well. Also, a strap for obvious reasons.

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease) LUBA IS THE BIGGEST FUCKING TEASE OUT HERE AND I STAND BY THAT SHIT. I WILL DIE ON THIS HILL. Y’all could be in public and he’ll be kissing up your neck, or his fingers’ll be tickling your waist. If it’s getting to the main event, there will be fingers everywhere besides where you’ll most want them. And when you ask him for what you want most, you’ll get a short “What, I don’t think I’m doing anything?”, or a giggle from wherever his mouth may be residing. He likes hearing the desperation in someone’s voice, and hearing them beg. If you start pulling his hair, that’s when the tongue appears, the fingers start moving, all that.

V = Volume (How loud they are, what sounds they make) Luba is very fucking loud, thank you very much. I know I said heavy breathing, but my god, get behind him with a strap, he’ll be screaming. If you may be 69′ing, he’ll be really loud, as it does add to the sensation. If you’re sucking him off, yes, he’ll be very loud. Anything high stimulation really gets him going.

W = Wild Card (Get a random headcanon for the character of your choice) If you come into the parlor, he’ll fuck you after he’s done with a client, or if he’s free. That’s all I’m saying. He also likes external orgasms like squirting, and he WILL drink it. And if it got on your body, he’ll lick it clean.

X = X-Ray (Let’s see what’s going on in those pants, picture or words) Luba’s a little average, but I feel like he’s a little on the thick side. Not like you’ll look at his dick and be like “this won’t fit”.

Y = Yearning (How high is their sex drive?) It’s high, but not rabbit fuckingly so. He likes sex a lot, but doesn’t want it all the time. But, most days a week, y’all are fucking.

Z = ZZZ (… how quickly they fall asleep afterwards) If you two did something physically taxing like 69′ing or another complicated position, he’ll be tired, or if you went for more rounds than usual, he’ll be really sleepy. However, he does wait until you fall asleep to drift off. Every now and then he beats you to it though.

Masterlist

#luba x reader #luba smut #luba (mute) fanfic #robert sheehan character fic

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flightofaqrow · 3 years

Text

kiss with a fist

qrow + James ( @caeloservare )

“Let me remind you, how exactly I run my army is none of your business and you are not allowed to sniff around in Atlas.”

“what makes you think i care about how you run your army? i’m more worried about what you do with it. or is that just more guilt i hear?”

...qrow has a split second to dodge the punch.

everything about it is feral and raw, because that’s what happens when words don’t work.

They needed this.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Just cause that’s what I did doesn’t mean you have to accuse the others, Jimmy.

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“Oh, shut up, I bet you all did!”

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“yeah? and i bet you run background checks on alla your men, don’t you? this was just more of… an informal process.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“Let me remind you, how exactly I run my army is none of your business and you are not allowed to sniff around in Atlas.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“what makes you think i care about how you run your army? i’m more worried about what you do with it. or is that just more guilt i hear?”

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Qrow has a split second to dodge the punch. And to pray his cheek can take impact of metal prosthetics well enough, because crossing highly personal borders with shoes on is rewarded with this kind of greeting.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

qrow and Ironwood on similar grounds of skill, and yet even though qrow wins by leagues when it comes to speed versus strength, he never saw it coming. not from James, not from the barest of bait.

uses the tiny window to draw up aura while he takes it right on the cheek; iron-fisted by Ironwood in the most unpleasurable way. head knocked to the side, and body knocked back a few steps, he rubs a stinging pressure where metal knuckles landed and resets burning red vision.

“oh, ho ho ho…” a gutteral, rueful chuckle crawls up from his chest. so it’s come to this? of course it has. it always does.

…fine.

if there’s one lesson the tribe ever taught him too well, it’s that there are more ways to work out problems than with words.

qrow puts his fighting face on with a grin and glint in his eyes, and rocks back on his heel with the last of the energy sent at him before pushing off in a long-limbed lunge forward to return the sling; goes for the guts (the softer half) while Ironwood still has arms elevated.

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If anything, laughter and so confident, so pleased posture drives James even more angry. Not only this little shit dares to act like an absolute idiot and hit where he was trusted not to, but seems he has fun while doing it.

Sadly, Qrow is a little bit faster than James. He folds in half with a grunt, but that gives him a good position and little space to ram into Qrow, head first, push him out of closest proximity or maybe throw off balance.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

no one punches right to the face without intention to hurt, qrow knows better than anyone. especially with an opening declaration like that, if James expects him to play fair instead of dirty, taking whatever opening he can get, he knows him even less than how a spy’s job works.

a spy, allied under the same man as Ironwood, that’s supposed to be on the same side. a little trust would be nice.

partially metal forehead bashes against qrow’s shoulder eliciting a heave of air and pained groan. with the blood-colored web of his aura awake and glowing from the hit, he lets it wash across his chest and down his arms; falls backwards from the force, but grabs fistfuls of jacket and shirt with misfortune-laced hands to yank with him, turning lost balance into in a suplex.

Odds of escape not in the other man’s favor as entangled limbs crash into the floor loudly cracking beneath them, fractured and dented around their bodies, but not caved through - yet; windows rattle in the wake.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Well, the training grounds would be a much better spot for an impromptu wrestling session, but it’s bit too late to relocate now. Pulled down, James tried to avoid landing on his head, as someone’s luck was apparently aiming to let him knock himself out. He meets the floor with a pained grunt, but rolls over right after hitting the ground. Not wasting any second, James springs forward to slam into Qrow, pin him down with his weight, lock him in a any lever hold if possible.

From all possible types of problem solving, they chose this - least pleasant way to tangle limbs on the floor.

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as James rolls away, qrow uses the space to roll out, knocking into a table leg which bumps the surface off kilter and send a lamp crashing to the ground; its bulb pops and fizzles out. a little less light in the apartment, now.

he scrambles to all fours just in time to take a charging clothesline right to the chest with a throaty wheeze. but lanky, loose legs accept the shockwave and recoil to keep him steady, pushing right back as pairs of shoulders lock. arms raise to grapple with the man; muscles strain and sweat starts to drip down his face - full of focus and surprisingly calm, considering - from dogged effort of trying to push James down or roll him over while qrow growls in rough cadence along with the entropic pulse of his semblance flashing, threatening to drag everything down with; framed artworks clatter against the walls and ornamental figures fall from shelves.

chaos to combat order.

and while qrow is resilient, determined to break through, and awfully good at breaking things, James is stubborn, more than any other person on Remnant, solid in ways beyond just metal flesh.

grit clenches qrow’s jaw and grounds his feet, braces the entire frame of his physique, prepared to hold out and lash out as long as it takes for James to burn out.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Looking from time perspective, James might think they shouldn’t have gone this feral. He might be wealthy, but most definitely doesn’t sleep on money and renovating most of his apartment’s main room was not in his spending plans for this year.

But at the moment he doesn’t think about it, assuming he thinks at all in between anger and adrenaline running through him in pulsing waves, getting lost in pure fighting instinct. Rarely he allows himself to dive into something this far, to lose head and his cool, analytical thinking and yet, here they are - engaged in punching, kicking, wrapping and pulling each other so far, that nothing else matters. No snapping, crumbling and crushing around is relevant. Whenever dark blue eyes meets pale red, it’s like a challenge is thrown anew and another round starts, even when more and more exhaust creeps into muscles. Fatigue is too slow to cool the raw determination down.

Thrown on his back, James lands hard again, but this time, something stabs him between the shoulders. He bites down his own pained whine as impact echoes through his entire spine and body. Only then he realizes that his aura is in fact gone. Must have been for a while. He stops, letting his weight slide him to side, a little away from whatever part of former coffee table tried to impale him. Still keeping his grip on Qrow, he finally notices large amount of aching all over and how heavily they both are breathing by now. Brothers, this is bad. Slowly, he just lets go, not moving from the spot. They’ve had enough, haven’t they… He’s not sure what got into him, but sure he’s glad it got out.

“Enough…” He breathes out quietly, squeezing eyes shut. Doesn’t dare to look around yet, he knows already that externalizing inner mess went all too well. Only now he feels various swelling and aching in way too many parts of his body, blood dripping from his nose and a cheek burning wildly. He doesn’t want to think what’s left of his shirt and jacket. Just hopes Qrow’s semblance didn’t use him as outlet to hurt its bearer to play a bigger number on him. “You okay..?”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

everything about it is feral and raw, because that’s what happens when words don’t work. people speak just as well with their bodies, the flesh and blood container of their heart, and beneath all the titles, despite all the metal, James understands that better than anyone. if qrow has to surround him with collateral damage to show him how little meaning all this wealth and power has in the end, if he has to rip and tear apart every bit of pomp to remind him how human James Ironwood really is, then so be it.

qrow’s quite practiced in being climbed on, brow-beaten, deceived, and shoved aside by the people who are supposed to be protecting him. and still he reaches out a hand and an extra leg to stand on; maybe in the form of a fist or boot to the head, but little else needs to be noted about his intentions than the fact that Harbinger still rests idle on the sidelines.

qrow, belittles himself so easy, doesn’t mind being beneath, has no need for reputation or glory or having all the right answers all the time.

the only follower left in the midst of too many frantic leaders, and meanwhile getting shit on and actively having his clothes and his skin and his soul torn apart for being just that. who he is. just like always.

but qrow can think for himself, and this he makes his own call on, refuses to back down from. if James cannot work within the gray, only sees black and white, then this is a time to push, to push to their absolute limits, until they’re too exhausted for anything but the messy truth.

and qrow comes out on top as the last dregs of misfortune summon piercing blows from broken parts, spent in the from of aura flickering away just before the other’s dissolves, and he can only close his eyes and grunt. down to the fibers of every firing muscle, he knows how to tense and relax to absorb the hits, roll with the punches that never really stop. he takes the final desperate flails of James’s blows on the chin.

qrow can do that for him. knows what it’s like to have a semblance get in the way of things.

somehow manages that the only twist of fate to come back on him is how Ironwood gets his chance to ruin a pretty face wearing a smile with an iron fist, just how it started, after all.

qrow steadies as James squeaks, down on one knee, aching, tired, and heaving breaths as if he resurfaces in the middle of an ocean after going about a thousand miles too deep, sees shimmering yellow stars as the ring of a black eye blooms on his cheek, and red oozes to pool across the white of sclera as he stares the man down. sharp eyebrow raises as if to say are we done here?

Enough

they’re finally on the same page, then.

“just fine,” he hisses, even though the act of answering sends an acrid metallic copper draining down the back of his throat, “passed up enough from the start of it, James.”

he wipes his mouth, pokes tenderly at the side of his head, and sniffs against the stinging all over his body; plops down to take a seat, a breather, right on the spot. no energy left to move an inch. perfect.

“…so i think the real question here is, are you okay?”

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James covers his eyes with a crook of an elbow, at least mechanical hand comes of use now. Much easier to move than the flesh one, significantly devoid of pain. Takes a longer moment, time just for the labored breathing, before peeking at Qrow from under the hand. Mess. Now the guilt is real and it stings fiercely.

“Ice’s in freezer.” Doesn’t seem either of them can move much anymore, but he had to offer. Good he had separate small kitchen, toilet and bedroom. At least something survived.

Awfully lot of mess.

“I don’t know.” The confession is quiet, not much louder than a whisper over sudden lump in throat. He hides in the hand again. Can’t face bare truth, can’t face Qrow nor mess they caused because of him. Because of him, his pride, his stubbornness and fear that he’s mistaken, that he can sacrifice everything, do his absolute best and more, and it won’t be enough. Because she found a way in before and was a step ahead all the time. He pulled every string he could to assure it won’t happen again, but somehow, sometimes, he just couldn’t be certain.

Time passes as James just grits teeth and lays there, trying to focus on slowing down breaths and just resting.

“Qrow..?” He tries once he’s sure his voice won’t tremble. “I’m sorry.”

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yeah.

qrow is a mess. James is a mess. it’s always a mess.

but sometimes upside down and inside out adds new perspective. and James finally sees what he started. created a nice picture of how he feels. meanwhile qrow looks towards the kitchen, the freezer, and while first aid is certainly called for, it’s so far. maybe in a few.

more important things right now.

James, suddenly small and quiet, knocked off his high horse. he mutters three words, so very hard for a leader to admit. last time qrow heard it was from Ozpin, and it wrecked his world. somehow hearing it now gives him hope. hope that James can still be reached.

he’s closer than the freezer.

qrow crawls on all fours, drags himself with slow movements and griping groans, but he gets there, and flops over on his back next to his friend, shoulders of flesh touching. and they don’t need to talk, qrow doesn’t need to pry painful thoughts from his mouth, doesn’t need to hear what James faces in his own shadows, or the realizations he finds in twisting colors on the back of his eyelids; a metal arm over his face reflective enough of his state of mind to prove qrow’s plan a success. satisfaction rushes over him and salves what stings. he doesn’t like talking until he’s blue in the face only to be ignored, but maybe James will see reason if most of the words come from himself.

“don’t be sorry,” qrow grounds out, turns his head to look at the other man, and so his burning cheek finds some relief against the cool floor, “be a better person. listen to your team and your friends. things don’t have to be as unilateral as you’re makin’ ‘em, James. …and for brother’s sake, get some sleep before i conk you out for real.”

soon enough actions will demonstrate whether all this was worthwhile or not, better than any heart to heart they could have here.

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James lets out a quiet relieved huff. The touch is strangely reassuring, much more than he’d expect it to be. It answers the question, he’ll probably never ask out loud. It’s good to not be alone, especially in a very rare moment when he can’t be the leader and protector, because he’s exhausted, frustrated and insecure, and finally let it out. When he can’t keep anyone else safe and sound, because he’s crumbling himself. And yet, he’s clearly wrong to think he’ll have to face everything on his own. Mistaken that serving as kingdom’s pillar, he’s not allowed to falter and can’t be supported without any higher purpose to it.

It’s so strangely good to be wrong.

It’s good to have a friend by his side, even when he wishes Qrow didn’t have to push him this far to prove a point. But same, he’s glad he did. All the thoughts slowly settle - being ready and having plans for the future is one thing, but worrying about it should come only once it’s present, not earlier.

Snort and a quiet chuckle raises in his aching chest, releasing remains of tension.

“Please do. I could use it from time to time.” The longer he thinks about it, the funnier vision of Qrow knocking him out seems, especially now, laying down in the wreckage they created in a quite long fight.

“Fine.” That’s not much, but it is a promise. He will try to be better. The hand is dropped to side, as he leaves mental hide out and turns to finally meet Qrow’s eyes. James was never fond of repeating himself, especially when he’s told not to, so he’s not going to apologize again, but the lack of accusations nor impeachment in the pale red gaze, makes him relax more, washes the guilt away.

Something right above catches his attention and he reaches to carefully get a wooden splinter out of Qrow’s hair.

“Hmm…” A bit of bright paint indicates it once was a bookcase. “You got me good, didn’t you.” He chuckles again, throwing the splinter away. “Please don’t do that again though. I don’t want to sell family estate to afford living.”

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deep chuckles roll from his throat as James agrees to the terms for a solid sock to the noggin for a solid sleep, without more broken noses. still qrow hears only the surface of thoughts, but he can dive deep as he likes into everything unspoken when dark blue eyes meet his own, a shine of honesty and gratitude beaming through otherwise exhausted features. and yet his whole body looks better this way, scuffed up clothes and broken down postures compared to rigid structures built on a grounding of false securities.

the bigger they are, the harder they fall. and qrow doesn’t wonder if James has made himself an empire too oversized to carry on one man’s shoulders. bound to collapse in a heap.

he already said his piece, and offered his shoulders to help, and alights with laugher anew as his face goes soft and cross-eyed to watch a strong hand which swung out at him not long ago, affectionately groom him, until it pinches swollen tissues forcing a release of focus, but he can’t help to think again, please see the signs around you.

“You got me good, didn’t you.”

he huffs while fluffing palms through graying black plumage to knock any more debris out.

qrow breathes; takes air into his lungs like he hasn’t in a long, long time, while the weight of misfortune is still lifted from his chest, even if his sore muscles groan from a stretch unaccustomed to. soon, aura will creep back in and bad luck will stick stubbornly to his skin in blood red tendrils, warping surrounding realities once more, but for now he takes the long shot gamble of still believing some can turn away from a path of self-destruction.

of all people, qrow has. so why not.

“did i, James?” he goads, goofy grin flashing as his head flops back down, and his fingers lace together to rest over his chest, mirth looking perhaps out of place with the rest of qrow so busted up, but since when was anything he ever did appropriate?

“it was good for me. was it good for you?”

a response all joke and no promise.

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“Yeah.” James chuckles and shrugs, only metal shoulder doing the full movement. ��You definitely did and I take no complaints that I was the one to start the fight.” That’s half a lie - he knows he’s just as much to blame for the mess, i not more. He is the one who should know better than to let wounded pride and frustration get out like this.

“I’ll tell you once I’ll see the bill for repairs.” He huffs. There already was so much to do and now there’s even more. And the more he settled down after the fight, the more weary he felt. Can’t sleep on the floor though, however comfortable it was getting.

“I’ll fetch us the ice.” Relying mostly on his right side he sits up with a groan. Brothers, it aches. So he takes time for each movement before standing up and making way to the freezer.

They needed this. Time, vented mess, ice, all of it.

They also needed a shower and rest, but only one task at a time.

Takes some time to get back there and sit down by Qrow’s side. A bit ironic how fast can be destruction and how slow is the healing.

#* the man behind the militant machine = caeloservare ** james *#* we got work to do = ic *#* you've earned it = vol 7 *#* how do you think legends and fairy tales get started? = thread archive *#this thread was so important

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apharine · 4 years

Text

Blizzard in the Reach

Pairing: Reader/Argis the Bulwark

Fandom: Skyrim/The Elder Scrolls

Rating: Explicit

My Writing Commission Info | Please consider tipping me on Ko-Fi!

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Summary: The Druadach Mountains of the Reach are known to be dangerous for travelers - not only for the presence of the Forsworn, bandits, and monsters, but also for vicious blizzards that have killed many a traveler. You had hoped to get through the mountain passes as quickly as possible, especially with a snowstorm coming in, but now it looks like you and Argis might be in store for a night spent together on the mountains.

Notes: This started as part of a series of one-shots with Argis the Bulwark several years ago, back when I was writing for the kink meme still. Some of the one-shots have been lost to the Internet and to now-dead computers, some are still with me and in desperate need of re-working, but this one was always my favorite. I found it on an external hard drive recently, and thought I'd share it with the world - there's really not enough Argis content. I know he doesn't have a lot of dialogue, but he's always been my favorite Housecarl and follower, and I always marry him in-game. If anyone would want to see any of the other Argis one-shots, let me know, and I can see what I can dig up and re-work! I've certainly got a little more time on my hands with this coronavirus thing. Hope everyone is staying healthy and happy, and most importantly, stay at home <3

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“We need to make camp for the night, my Thane.”

You turn to face your Housecarl, Argis the Bulwark, and you immediately see obstinacy in the way his arms are folded across his broad chest, his feet spread in a wide stance. This obstinacy has served you well time and again, especially in the stubborn way he never gives up on you. He's rushed back into battle after receiving grievous injuries, his only care in all of Tamriel protecting you. He's sat up all night with you, waiting for you to explain what in Oblivion is bothering you. He's carried you, as you lay dying in his arms, to whatever nearby town was available, on the slim chance he could find a healer skilled enough or a potion strong enough for you. Yes, you're grateful for all that this man has done for you.

But that doesn't mean he's any less stubborn than he was on day one.

“We can still make it back to Markarth, and be home in Vlindrel Hall by morn,” you retort over your shoulder, anxious to keep moving. The Reach is howling with a snowstorm, and visibility on this face of the mountains is becoming terribly low. The accumulating snow and the slick rocks will only make traveling all the harder - you need to press on, not have a debate with one another.

“My Thane,” he warns, his deep voice dark. You continue marching ahead. If that stubborn man would just cooperate - “My Thane,” he repeats, more firmly, and you stop in your tracks, irritated. He knows you long ago disregarded any illusions of rank between the two of you, and that, as equals, you don’t believe in issuing him orders. He also knows that his obstinacy is driving you insane at the moment, as it so often does, and that he’s only calling you by your title of Thane to hammer home his point. Moreover, the snowstorm is already picking up more speed, threatening a full blizzard, and he knows he's right about it. All of it.

“Maybe they should have called you Argis the Bull-headed, not Bulwark,” you quip as you trudge through a snowdrift back to the man. For an instant, you think you see his scarred lips quirk up in a smile, but visibility is terribly low.

“You may call me whatever you wish,” he responds evenly, his face the epitome of calm.

“Anything?” You tease him drily as you continue your trudge, tilting your head back to affix the tall Nord with what you hope is a stony gaze.

“Aye, anything,” he agrees, his lips again twitching at the edges as he watches you - an unmistakable gesture, at this close proximity. “As long as you’re alive to say it and not frozen to death, like you will be if you try to keep on in this.”

“You are insufferable sometimes,” you sigh, coming to a stop, and Argis quirks a single eyebrow at you, as if to say you’re the one who’s being insufferable. But he doesn’t say it out loud, instead commenting,

“There was that deserted camp we passed by not more than a quarter of an hour ago.”

“There was a good lean-to there,” you agree, nodding slowly. “As long as it really is deserted.” You shudder at the thought of being snuck up on at night by bandits or Forsworn, but a moment later you shudder even harder as a blast of wind roars down from the mountain peaks, so cold as to be ungodly, and with as much ferocity as the worst frost breath of any dragon you’ve fought against. You turn away from it, drawing the hood of your cloak closer about you, but even so, your eyes water from the chill and a few loose strands of hair flutter about your face, whipping your cheeks with the condensation that quickly freezes on them.

You feel a solid form at your back, two great armored hands steadying you by your shoulders, and though the roaring of the wind hasn’t died down any, some of the worst of it is blocked from you now.

“Deserted or not, we have to get you out of the cold,” Argis says from behind you, his deep voice just loud enough to cut through the roar of the wind.

“I just hope there isn’t a fight waiting for us,” you admit, but Argis gives your shoulders a reassuring squeeze, as if to say I know, but I’ll be there. The next moment, the great hands are gone, and you start backtracking through the treacherous mountain trails, the Bulwark right behind you.

The camp is much as you had last seen it about a half hour ago, with no new tracks in the snow around it and no signs of any items disturbed. An encouraging sign, you think, but not an absolute certainty that you will be safe.

You follow Argis’ lead as he slips behind a large rocky outcrop jutting out from the Druadach mountains, peering around it to get a glimpse of the camp every couple minutes. It’s a bit harder for you to get a glimpse of the place, as Argis is largely shielding you with his body, ever protective. But when you do manage to peer around him, you realize that the camp looks decidedly made by a group other than the Forsworn. You’re relieved; you’ve discovered enough abominations at Forsworn camps to hope not to be forced into one right now. There’s also a better chance that, if the camp was made by non-Reachmen bandits, they were either traveling through or moving from site to site, instead of inhabiting the place continuously. On your second time glancing around the outcropping, you notice there is one lean-to in particular that catches your eye, the way it caught it on your first pass through - it’s reinforced with multiple furs, and looks like it might actually be made out of wood underneath versus just stretched leathers. The overhang it sits under seems to provide some degree of protection, as well, and a rather enormous firepit is positioned close to it.

You open your mouth and turn to Argis, but he gives you a sharp nod, already on the same page.

“I’m going in to scout it out,” the Bulwark says, shrugging off his heavy pack, stuffed with supplies and topped with a bedroll, leaving it by your side. You do the same with your pack, which is also stuffed full but smaller than his, aware that you won’t want to be encumbered by it in the next few minutes. “Back me up if I need it,” Argis adds, drawing his bow and knocking an arrow to it in a movement you can’t help but feel is graceful, especially for a man as massive as he is.

“Aye,” you agree solemnly. Suddenly, struck by impulse, you reach up to him before he slips off, your hand brushing against his armored elbow. He starts at the contact, turning to you, and you realize you’ve surprised him on his blind side, where he can only make out faint shapes based on contrast in the light. “Be safe,” you say, just loud enough to be heard over the storm. He eases the tension on his bow, transferring both bow and arrow back into one hand with practiced ease. The next moment, he reaches out with his other hand, brushing your cheek with the back of his fingers, lingering just a moment. Never one for unnecessary words, he silently turns back to the camp, letting his fingers fall from your face and knocking the arrow to his bow again.

You’re a little dumbstruck for a moment as he sets off, keeping his blind side close to the mountain walls. Affection from Argis is not terribly uncommon - he’s a man’s man by all accounts, but you know well enough how fond he is of you. But the look on his face - the tenderness - had nearly been enough to set your heart to aching.

You recollect yourself, peering back around the outcropping, barely able to follow the Bulwark’s receding figure through the whiteout. If you’re going to have his back, you realize, you had better follow him. The trails he has broken in the accumulating snow make it easy enough for you, and you summon some fire to your hands. Not only is it nice to have the heat on your frozen fingers, but a quick blast of flames from a near-invisible location will disrupt any plans of potential marauders and buy you some extra time to help the Bulwark.

But you and Argis circle the whole camp, with no signs of any life visible in the entire place. Upon nearly coming back to the outcropping you had started at, Argis sets his bow back to its place on his back and returns his arrow to his quiver, instead unsheathing his sword. He walks boldly into the center of the camp, roaring a battle cry at the top of his lungs.

“Is there none here who would defend this place from me?” He bellows. “Show yourself!”

But he receives no reply except the whistling of the wind.

To be safe, he approaches each lean-to, beating the furs with the flat side of the sword and prying open the front flaps. You follow him again as he goes, still not wanting to lose sight of him.

“Coward! Craven! Fight me for what is yours!” He challenges at each shelter, but there is nothing and nobody. Satisfied, he doubles back to you and sheathes his sword. He doesn’t have far to travel; at this point, you can’t be much more than 20 feet away from him, or you’ll lose him in the ever thickening whiteout.

“We’ll be safe here,” Argis shouts over the wind as he comes to stand beside you. You nod your agreeance, not sure you would be able to say anything the Bulwark could hear over the increasing storm. “Let’s get you in the shelter.” One great hand rests on your waist, gently turning you around to backtrack through the path you had cut through the snow earlier. With a degree of alarm, you realize that the snow has begun to come down so fiercely that even this path has begun to fill in. Argis walks beside you, cutting a new path as he guides you along back to the big lean-to. You’re relieved when you see the place, and even more grateful to see that the overhang is keeping some of the snow from accumulating around it, as you had suspected it might.

“I’ll go get our packs,” Argis shouts again. Fear clamps around your heart, though, and you grab him quickly by the shoulder, pulling him down towards you so he can hear you.

“How will you find your way back here?” You shout, immediately frustrated that your voice doesn’t carry the same way he does. He hears you, though, and smiles.

“I grew up in the Reach,” he reminds you. “I had to learn how to navigate in storms like this. How to count my steps and my turns. But if it makes you feel better, make a big fire for me to find, and I’ll be back faster.” You glance at the firepit adjacent to the lean-to - yes, that’ll work, you think. By the time you’ve turned back to Argis, though, he is already trudging away through the deepening snow.

You set to work immediately, casting the brightest magical flames you can conjure, stoking the flames higher and higher. There’s enough of a woodpile left in the fire pit to burn brightly, the magical fire making short work of any wetness that had soaked into the lumber. You only stop when the heat becomes so searing that you’re not sure you can stand near it any more; the snow in a wide radius all around it has begun to melt away, as well, which you figure is good for keeping your camp from getting buried.

It feels like an eternity that you’re waiting by the fire you’ve conjured, watching the bright colors dance back and forth, hoping they can cut through the whiteout enough to help Argis. You remind yourself of what he said - he’d grown up here. He knew about how to navigate in a blizzard, how to see the tiniest remnant of a path, how to count his steps and how far he’d turned without getting confused. No Reachman who wasn’t well-versed in these things would last long outside the city gates of Markarth. But all the same, you feel an immense amount of relief when he appears again, shouldering his bigger pack and your smaller one. He’s moving at a plodding pace through the deep snow, nearly hip-deep in places, obviously fatigued. When he is close enough, you move to help him with the load he carries, and he gratefully swings your pack down to your waiting arms. You follow him into the lean-to, immediately impressed by the thing’s construction. There is wood under all the heavy furs, as you had suspected, and virtually none of the wind makes its way into the structure.

“By the Nine, it’s brutal out there,” Argis pants, unceremoniously dropping his heavy pack on the ground and plopping himself down, knees bent in to his chest, next to it. You drop your pack and move to his side.

“Are you okay?” You ask, glad to be able to talk at a normal volume instead of shouting over the wind.

“Yeah,” Argis grunts. “Just tired.” You reach out to touch his immense, armored shoulder, and let a little bit of a healing spell flow into him - not enough to tire you, but enough to help him recover his energy. He closes his eyes and drops his head back, exposing his thickly muscled throat, the large Adam’s apple, the beard stubble under his chin where the beard ends -

“That feels good,” he murmurs appreciatively. You let your magic infuse him for a few moments longer, and pull both your hand and your eyes away when he opens his eyes and smiles at you. You summon up the courage to look back at him and smile back, knowing that to be thanks enough between the two of you.

“Let’s get the bed rolls set out,” Argis suggests, raking one hand through his thick golden hair, now matted down with the melting of the snowflakes that had accumulated on him.

“Aye,” you agree, moving to open your bedroll, but he gently shoos you away from the entrance of the lean-to and towards the back of the structure with a gentle pressure of his hand on the small of your back.

“I sleep by the opening,” he reminds you. Despite his fatigue, a light comes to his good eye as he teases, “I swore an oath to protect you. We’ve been through this before.”

“I thought it wouldn’t matter if the place was empty,” you quip at him with a smile, pleased to see that he wasn’t so exhausted as to lose his sense of humor.

“Can never be too safe,” he answers, and though he tries to sound light-hearted, you know for him it’s the most serious matter in the world. You hum in response, pulling your bedroll out of its tightly-rolled Horker skin covering, pleased to find it dry, but chilly, underneath. You spread it out on the ground; beside you, Argis is doing the same with his.

“Argis?” You call to the man.

“Aye?” He answers quickly, raising his head from his work.

“You were right, earlier. When you kept me from trying to push on in this to make it home. I’m sorry for being foolish about it,” you finish.

“Lass,” he murmurs, a soft expression upon his face. “You don’t have anything to be sorry for. If we were in Whiterun Hold, or anywhere in the South of Skyrim, you would’ve been right to push on. The blizzards here in the Reach are different.”

“I’ve never seen a storm as bad as this,” you agree. “The snow must be coming down a couple feet an hour, at least, never mind the drifts that are growing, and I could barely see you at twenty paces.”

“Aye, Reach blizzards build quickly and are unrelenting. They take many travelers unaware,” Argis agrees, finishing spreading out his bedroll.

“Well, thank you for knowing these lands better, and for making sure to keep us safe. The Divines blessed me the day we met, Argis,” you say honestly, finishing with your bedroll, pulling your rucksack to you, and beginning to rummage through it.

“Not as much as they blessed me,” he murmurs, and when you look up at him, the expression on his face is unreadable. You give him a small smile and return to your rucksack, triumphantly pulling out a slab of very frozen venison packed in enchanted paper, some root vegetables in a small burlap sack, and a little bit of cheese and bread. “Looks like a pretty good spread for tonight,” Argis notes, procuring a small pan from his rucksack and gathering your ingredients up.

“Aye,” you agree, continuing to root around in your bag.

“We probably don’t need much else,” the Bulwark offers, but you’ve already found what you wanted buried at the bottom of the sack.

“Here - we - are,” you grunt, pulling it out laboriously until it sits before you - prize of all prizes - an oversized bottle of beautiful, golden Honningbrew mead.

“I can’t believe you packed that,” Argis laughs, shaking his head at you in disbelief.

“But I’m sure you’re glad to see it, all the same,” you laugh back. The big Nord lets out a deep belly laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners, before admitting,

“Aye, I can’t argue with that.”

As you finish your dinner, you can’t help but think to yourself that you and Argis together are formidable - not just on the battlefield, but also in the kitchen. Or around the firepit, as the case had been tonight. In fact, you were hard-pressed to find a time on the road when the two of you hadn’t managed to take whatever scraps were in your bags and conjure up something delicious out of them.

“That was good,” Argis shouts, echoing your thoughts. His voice manages to carry over the wind, which, against all odds, has again managed to pick up even further. You’ve had to set up a ward to keep the worst of it from freezing the both of you, but even the ward can’t keep all of the chill away. You smile and nod at the Bulwark, picking up the large bottle of Honningbrew mead you’d stuffed in what little snow was left by the fire. Uncorking it, you take a swig; the alcohol burns on its way down, and a warmth settles in your belly. After one more swig, you nudge Argis' arm with the bottle. Honningbrew isn't his favorite, you know. He likes that darker Black-Briar stuff. But you're a fan of the sweeter taste, and Argis has never been one to protest, especially when you’re willing to carry a surprise bottle in your rucksack and share it with him. Mead is mead is mead to him.

He takes the bottle from you, his fingers brushing yours again before closing over the neck of the bottle. His touch is surprisingly gentle for such a big man; you can’t be sure, since the fire already has your face heated up so much, but you think you might be blushing. You resist the urge to duck your head, instead reaching up to Argis’ shoulder and pulling him down so you can talk closer to his ear and be heard. There is no way you can shout over this storm now.

“You don’t happen to have any more of those sweetrolls from the other day, do you?” You ask. Argis turns towards you, his face apologetic as he shakes his head no.

“Just the meat and mead for us tonight,” he murmurs into your ear. Pulling away, he takes another deep swig of the Honningbrew mead before handing it back to you. You share the rest of the bottle in a companionable silence, listening to the howling of the wind and tasting each other’s lips on the bottle.

By the time you're crawling back into your bed rolls, you’re both quite drunk and very relaxed. Sleeping tonight should really be no problem, you muse. Still, for a little more peace of mind, you cast a couple quick lightning runes outside the tent - just far enough away to alert you if anyone were to approach. You take down the ward you’d left by the fire, setting up another one outside your shelter for the night.

Back inside the lean-to, the wind is blessedly absent, though the air is still bitingly cold.

“Do you mind if I conjure a little smokeless fire in here?” You ask Argis. The Bulwark, in the middle of unclasping the greaves that cover his shins, frowns, pursing his lips.

“Go ahead,” he says, a trace reluctantly. You know his Nord upbringing has made him naturally mistrusting of all magic, and that mistrust is still not entirely gone, despite his fondness for you and admiration for what you could accomplish with it on the battlefield. “But…please make sure it’s the smokeless kind. I don’t want to suffocate.”

“And I don’t want to freeze,” you laugh, waving your hand. A soft, blue flame sputters to life in mid-air between the two of you and, though it veritably produces no smoke, its heat still permeates the tent. You mentally thank Farengar Secret-Fire for creating this nifty little spell and for deigning to teach it to you; his work was honestly that of pure ingenuity. A condescending little snot though he may be, you admit to yourself.

Argis moves onto the cuisses that cover his mighty thighs, beginning a small pile of armor on the far side of the lean-to next to the rucksacks. You pull off your vambraces first, throwing them in the accumulating pile and starting in on your greaves next.

“Could you help me with these, when you get a chance?” Argis asks, and you turn your attention from your armor back to him. He’s pointing to the large pauldrons that sit on his shoulders, and you move closer to him obligingly.

“Of course,” you agree, your fingers setting to work fiddling with the straps and clasps that hold his heavy armor in place. You’ve done this many a night, by now, and you make short work of them, sliding both pauldrons off the Bulwark’s broad shoulders and moving to put them both in his armor pile. You help him with his cuirass next, until Argis is finally free of all armor, covered only by the light linen pants and shirt he wears underneath. You shift back to your bedroll, starting in on the cuisses over your thigh, eager to be free of the restrictive coverings as well.

“My turn to help you,” a gentle murmur comes from behind you, and a light brush of fingers at your neck lets you know that Argis is gathering your hair, moving it over your shoulder so it won’t get in the way and pulled.

“Thank you,” you reply, throwing your first cuisse into your pile.

A warm “mm,” is the only answer you get, and you smile to yourself; Argis is probably really rather drunk, having finished the majority of the oversized bottle quite quickly. The way he gets when he is drunk and tired is surprisingly adorable, you think; more like a teddy bear than the Bulwark you know him to be. You’re certain that relatively few people have ever seen him in this state.

Argis, too, knows how to make short work of your armor, and it’s not long before you’re freed of your pauldrons and cuirass, as well as the second cuisse you take off your own thigh. You sigh and stretch out, raising your arms overhead and arching your back. It feels great to be in just linens again, even if you are chillier in the slowly-warming air of the lean-to than you were with your armor on. Feeling bold, you lean back far enough in your stretch that you rest your head on the Bulwark’s shoulder behind you, smiling lazily up at him.

Argis is smiling back at you warmly - not an uncommon response to any of your antics. But, to your surprise, you feel his strong hands slide over your waist in a way that feels almost sensuous. He pulls you into his lap with ease, and you let out a quiet gasp. He pauses, his hands loosening their grip on you, his smile fading somewhat and concern that he had overstepped emerging in his eyes.

“I’m sorry -” he begins, but you cut him off, turning in the loose hold of his hands to face more towards him and hooking one arm over his shoulder. You slide your other hand up his chest, letting it rest on the large swell of his pectorals.

“You’re so warm,” you sigh, leaning into the Bulwark, a heady feeling stronger than the mead itself building in your brain.

“And by the Divines, you are cold,” he murmurs, that warm and soft smile spreading back across his face as his hands hold your waist more firmly once again. “How can you be so chilly with a fire right above you?”

“Only a Nord could ask how someone could be cold in the middle of a blizzard,” you tease back with a laugh, resting your head against his powerful shoulder and gazing up at him flirtatiously.

“Aye, very well,” Argis concedes, pulling you still closer to him, so that your breasts are pressing into his broad chest. When he speaks again, his deep voice is murmuring in your ear, the heat of his breath fluttering against your skin. “Then join me in my bedroll, and let this Nord keep you warm tonight.”

“Gladly,” you answer breathlessly. Argis lets out a quiet, low groan, one arm winding all the way around your waist now while the other reaches back for his bedroll, unfurling the covers. With ease, his powerful frame carries you close to him as he shifts back into the sheets. He lays down with you resting atop his broad frame, chest to chest, one arm still wound around your waist. With the other hand, he pulls the blankets of his bedroll over the top of the both of you, and moves beneath you, tucking them in on one side. You reach one hand up to his thick blond locks, threading your fingers through his hair and braids. Argis finishes tucking the sheets in on both sides and turns his attention back to you with another of those heart-achingly tender smiles. Gently, his thick fingers find their way into your hair, playing with the locks there. At the same time, the hand around your waist slides down, slow inch by inch, until it is resting on the outside of your hip. Still moving tortuously slowly, he slides his hand away from your hip, moving across your ass.

Hand still in his hair, you pull him in for a deep kiss. His lips are surprisingly soft and full, and you can feel the ridges of the scars that run over them as he kisses you. He’s yielding at first, moving his mouth gently against yours, the fine, trimmed hairs of his beard tickling your skin. Your head is buzzing and your whole body feels like every nerve is lit up. You’d always imagined a kiss with Argis to be rough, dominating - but this kiss, his soft lips, his hands in your hair, it’s romantic and sweet and just a little hungry, and it’s so much better than you could have ever hoped for.

“Oh, Argis,” you breathe against his lips. He lets out a deep moan; you can feel the rumble of it in his chest. After a long moment, he licks at your lips, asking entrance. You grant it to him, and he starts slow, exploring your mouth. But it’s not long before he’s battling your tongue, then winning, and he ravages your mouth in deep, hungry, passionate kisses.

The hand on your ass gives it a firm squeeze mid-kiss, and you feel a jolt of pleasure - of need - start in your core. You moan into Argis’ mouth, and he continues the hungry kiss for a long moment, pulling away slowly.

“Oh, little lady,” he growls against your lips. “You have no idea how badly I want you. How badly I’ve wanted you.”

“How long?” You breathe against his lips. You let your hand leave his hair, reaching instead for his beard and toying with the blond hairs on his chin.

“Truthfully?” He asks, and you nod. He lets out a bark of laughter, a wry smile spreading across his lips. “I’ve wanted you since the moment I saw you.”

“Really?” You ask, a little surprised - he had hidden it well, always professional towards you in the early days, and warm and kind towards you as your companionship blossomed.

“Aye,” he confirms, unabashed. Then, watching you carefully, the smile fading from his face, he adds, “And you?”

This time, it’s your turn to let a wry smile cross your lips, as you remember how handsome - how gorgeous, really - you’d thought the big Nord was when you first met him.

“I’ve wanted you for a long time, too, big man,” you admit. The smile he gives you this time is no longer wry - he seems relieved to hear you speak those words, perhaps even genuinely happy. He pulls you back into another hungry kiss; you meet his lips with yours enthusiastically, and as he again ravages your mouth, you grab at the enormous swell of his biceps, almost as if to steady yourself. You run your fingers over the thick, bulging muscle, marveling at the size of it, how your hand doesn’t cover even half of the swell of it, how the portion you can feel ripples under your hand with power. As you explore his body, Argis squeezes your ass again, and yet again, you feel that primal jolt of pleasure. You let out a sound in response to his ministrations - a sound that is, to your ears, surprisingly needy and submissive.

This seems to trigger something in Argis, as he grabs you and maneuvers you off his broad chest, rolling so that his powerful frame now hovers above you, supported on his elbows and knees. You rest one hand on his broad shoulders, and let the hand that had been exploring his biceps move under his shirt to his chest. You run your fingers through the thick blond curls that cover his pectorals, then grope at the enormous muscles themselves, unable to keep from thinking how many times these muscles of his had saved your life. Tenderly, Argis presses another gentle kiss to the corner of your mouth, then works his way down your jawline and to your neck. You move your head to grant him more access, loving the way his full lips and bristly beard feel against your skin.

“Oh, little lady,” he moans, lips ghosting over your collarbone. Slowly, he lowers his hips down to rest partially atop you, some of his frame shifted to the side to keep from hurting you with his weight. As his hips come to rest atop yours, you feel the hard length of his manhood pressing into you, and you can’t help but note that your earlier name for him had been correct - he is a big man, both thick and long. He pulls back just enough to look into your eyes, and asks, “Is this okay for you?”

“More than okay,” you answer, grinding your hips up into his cock. He drops his head down into the crook of your neck again with a groan.

“I’m going to finally make you all mine tonight,” he rumbles, his lips against your skin.

“Please,” you breathe, grabbing at his heavily-muscled shoulders as he nips and sucks at your neck with renewed vigor. You slide your hand down from his pectorals, through his chest and body hair, to the ridges of his abdominal muscles, not yet daring to go too low - you want to enjoy feeling his body for a little longer first. You do, however, grind upwards into his manhood again, and feel him stiffen further against you. Argis grinds back down into you in response this time, and you moan to encourage him.

“And you want me to take you, don’t you, little lady?” He growls, continuing to grind into you. “You want your Housecarl to have his way with you.”

“I do,” you agree, sliding your hands just a little lower on his stomach.

"Then let’s get these clothes out of the way,” he suggests, grabbing the bottom hem of your linen shirt and starting to slide it up. You help him get yourself out of the garment, and while your hands make short work of your breast bindings underneath, Argis pulls his linen shirt off his frame. “By the Nine,” he groans when he sees your breasts laid bare before him, though you could say the same about his sculpted torso. He wastes no time, though, lowering his head to one breast, his tongue swirling around your nipple while one hand gropes and kneads at your other breast. You arch into his touch, desperate for more, but he pins you back down on the ground firmly. The hand that isn’t busy with your breast quickly gathers both your wrists up, pinning them above your head in a firm grip.

“Oh, Argis,” you moan, trying in vain to squirm against him for more pressure.

“You like the way I make you feel?” He asks, before doubling down on his assault on your nipple, flicking back and forth over it fast with his tongue.

“I do,” you agree.

“Good,” he murmurs, then pauses his ministrations to look up at you. “Because I’m going to fulfill your every desire tonight, lass. And when I’m done, you’ll know that no man can ever take care of you, as both your protector and lover, the way I can.” He moves to your other breast, first swirling it with his tongue, then flicking at it quickly.

“Argis,” you moan, halfheartedly wishing your hands were free so you could move his head down south a little- so he could put that tongue to use somewhere else.

“Promise me something,” he rumbles, this time without looking up at you.

“Anything,” you agree, all reservations gone. You’d give him just about anything right now.

“Promise me you’ll moan my name like that when you’re stuffed full with my cock,” he growls, pulling away from your nipple with a sharp scrape of his teeth.

Well. For someone who usually didn’t say anything that didn’t need to be said, he could certainly be a dirty talker in bed, you think to yourself.

The hand at your wrist releases you, and he moves to your waistband, pulling the linen pants and your undergarments down. You lift your hips obligingly, and soon, you lay completely bare before the Bulwark.

“Fuck, you’re perfect,” he murmurs, letting his hands trail down your waist, over your hips, and over the tops of your thighs. The look he gives you is another of those heartbreakingly tender looks, and it occurs to you that Argis might not just want you - he might really love you, too.

The thought is gone a moment later as Argis maneuvers his own linen pants off himself, allowing his manhood to spring free. His cock bobs before you for a moment before flattening up against his belly.

“You’re huge,” you blurt, and it’s true - he’s so thick, you wonder if your hand would even be able to close around his base. Looking at him, the size difference between you, a Breton, and Argis, the largest Nord you’ve ever met, becomes more apparent than ever, and you wonder for a moment if he can even fit in you.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, reading the concern you struggle to conceal in your expression, leaning back over you. His thumb brushes your cheek gently. “I’ll make sure you’re ready for me. I promise I won’t hurt you. And if it does hurt, we’ll stop.” You reach up for Argis, your hand caressing his cheek in return. You have no doubt that he means what he says, and again, the thought that he might love you enters your mind. Staring up at him, the man who has served as your protector, who has carried you to safety, risked his life for you, and given you his unyielding friendship, you know you can trust him with everything and anything - including this.

“Okay,” you agree, and Argis smiles, pulling you in for another deep kiss. You reach up to his enormous body above you, feeling the thick cords of muscle rippling over his chest, once again running your hands through the soft blond curls of hair that cover his chest and belly.

“You’re gorgeous, you know,” you manage to tell him between open-mouthed kisses. He smiles against your lips.

“Oh. Thank you,” he mumbles, and you’re certain he almost sounds embarrassed, but still pleased. A moment later, his larger hand reaches for yours, and gently guides you just a little lower down his belly, until you are brushing against the tip of his manhood. He lets out a quiet hiss at the contact, and though he lets go of your hand, you know what it is he wants. You oblige, grabbing him at the base of his length - as you had suspected, your fingers don’t meet around him at his thickest part - and give a long pump up his shaft. When you slide back down his shaft, you take a moment to reach down to caress his balls, which are heavy and large in your palm.

You quickly return to pumping Argis up and down, and when you look away from his manhood, you see his eyes, heavily-lidded, watching you carefully. His hands are kneading your thighs, working further up them, until one hand reaches your core. He gently parts your folds, finding your clit and swirling his thumb around it. You moan and squirm under him, and he takes his other hand and pins you down at your hip, holding you in place. Continuing with the quick circles, he delves in between your folds with his fingers.

“Little lady,” he groans, “you’re so wet for me.”

“Of course,” you answer, your voice husky. “I want you so badly, Argis.”

“You’re going to have me,” the blond replies, slowly pressing one finger into you. Even his fingers are thick and long, and he takes a long moment, letting you adjust to the digit within you. Rather than begin to pump it in or out, however, he plays with the angle of it for a long moment, pressing against your front wall. It’s not long before he finds what he wants, and gently begins crooking his finger against the spot. Within moments, you’re seeing stars, the pleasure within you absolutely explosive.

“Oh, by the Nine, Argis,” you gasp, feeling the pressure against your hip intensify as the Bulwark has to work harder to hold you in place. “I - oh, Argis, that feels amazing.”

You get no response besides a low growl as Argis presses another finger into you, joining the first in its motion as his thumb keeps working away at your clit. The second finger begins to stretch you, and you try to grind into the feeling of fullness, forgetting about pumping Argis’ manhood for the moment. It’s not long before a third finger joins the first two; the sensation is almost painful, but you quickly adapt to it, spreading your legs just a bit more to accommodate Argis’ ministrations.

The pleasure is relentless, and you drop Argis’ manhood entirely to grasp at the pillow behind you with one hand and to grasp at Argis’ shoulders with the other. He watches you, seeing your pleasure build, and when you reach for the hand of his that rests on your hip, he obliges, taking your hand and holding it with a firm but gentle pressure. You hold to him tightly in return, grateful for the gentle point of connection between the two of you. Truthfully, you’re not sure if you’ve ever had sex good enough to make you cum like this, and you are feeling increasingly vulnerable before Argis, as he continues to stoke your pleasure relentlessly.

A stream of curses and cries of Argis’ name are falling from your lips, and the coil of pleasure is building ever more tightly within you. Finally, your orgasm breaks over you, slamming you in wave after wave of throbbing pleasure, and you tremble under Argis’ hands, crying his name one more time. He continues stroking you through it, eventually stilling his fingers within you, and slowly, the waves subside. In the end, you are left looking at the Bulwark, who is watching you like you’re the most gorgeous creature on Nirn.

“Fuck,” you breathe.

“Oh, little lady,” he groans, pulling his fingers out of you and smearing the fluids on them across his cock. “You’re so perfect.” He leans forward, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips, the feeling of his beard scratching against your lips and his chest hair against your breasts electrifying. You pull him into you hungrily, and you feel him smirk against your lips. “Do you want more of me, lass?”

“Please,” you manage, feeling Argis lower himself so that his hips rest between your legs.

“I love the sound of you begging for me,” he growls, moving so that the tip of his manhood presses against your slick folds. “Begging for your Housecarl, your protector.”

“Please, Argis. Please take me,” you repeat, sliding one hand down his broad back to grasp at his firm ass and try to push him towards you. He obliges, one of his hands lowering to his manhood to guide himself as he presses into you. His tip slides in more easily than you would have expected, and he continues pressing into you, stretching you, with a low groan. He stills halfway in, waiting for you to accommodate him, but you’re already so wet, so desperate for him, that you want more. You move against him, trying to take him in further, and he chuckles, burying his face in the crook of your neck.

“Ready for me, are you?” He sounds pleased as he eases himself the rest of the way in. You feel, for a moment, like he could split you in two, he’s so large. But then he starts moving in small, gentle thrusts, and the way he presses against all your walls, fills you and stretches you, is unrivaled. Slowly, he works up to larger thrusts, pulling back to watch you carefully for any signs of pain, but you’re already seeing stars, sensitive and excited from your last orgasm. “Doing okay?” He grunts.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Take me how you want. However hard you want.”

Argis wastes no time in obeying your order, his hips slamming into you suddenly. He sets a grueling rhythm, ravaging you with such force and power it’s all you can do to hold onto his shoulders through it. You wrap your legs around his muscular waist, offering him the opportunity to plow more deeply into you, and he takes it, never once breaking his rhythm.

A breathy moan comes out of you, followed by Argis’ name. Argis lets out a loud groan of your name in response - and then one of his enormous hands is at your neck, choking you with a gentle pressure as he continues to pound you. You feel even more pleasure coil within you at this, at your submission to the muscle-bound man fucking you without mercy.

Argis doesn’t change positions - he doesn’t need to. It’s not long before you’re coming undone on his cock, screaming his name to the heavens and clenching his manhood between your walls so tightly you feel that your orgasm may never end. He holds his pace through the waves of pleasure, but as you begin to wind down, you feel his movements becoming erratic, his hips stuttering in a desperate bid for more pleasure.

“Oh, love,” he gasps. “I’m close - I -”

Argis comes with a wordless roar, not unlike the ones you’ve heard him loose in battle, his cock shooting cum deep into you as he loses his pace entirely. Even as he rides through his orgasm, you feel the hot strands of his cum leaking down the insides of your thighs, threatening to spill onto the bedroll beneath you. Finally, he has spent himself, and he collapses above you, letting go of your throat to support some of his weight on his elbows, his face again buried in the crook of your neck.

You reach up from his shoulders to stroke his thick blond hair soothingly. Had he called you love, just then? Did he really mean it, you wonder, or was it just a figure of speech he’d used in the heat of the moment?

But when Argis raises his head from your shoulder to look at you, you see again that tenderness and adoration in his face, and you suspect that he really had meant to call you his love.

“Are you okay?” He asks, shifting off you and onto one shoulder, pulling you with him so you’re tucked against his body.

“More than okay,” you answer earnestly. “That was amazing.” Argis chuckles in response.

“I’m glad it was as good for you as it was for me. Let me get you cleaned up.” He disappears from the bedroll for a moment, moving to his rucksack. You can’t help but watch his form as he moves - from his impossibly broad shoulders to his narrow hips and powerful thighs, you’re amazed by how gorgeous he really is. When Argis returns, it’s with a small piece of cloth, and he cleans you gently until you have no more of his hot cum leaking from within you. He wipes himself clean quicly, too, then throws the cloth to the side. You’re grateful when he returns to the bedroll, which has begun feeling chilly without him.

“The smokeless fire has gone out,” Argis mumbles into your hair as he draws you back into his chest, tucked beneath his chin. You nestle into him gratefully.

“Couldn’t keep enough focus through all of that,” you laugh. He laughs, too, but asks,

“Are you cold? Do you want to start it again?” You pull back in mock surprise, amazed that the Nord had volunteered to put up with your magical proclivities for once.

“Are you actually asking for me to use magic?” You tease with a smile, but flick your hand out from the bedsheets, starting the smokeless fire above you again.

“Only until you’re warm again,” he returns, pulling you back into the warmth of his chest again.

“Fair enough,” you laugh, one hand playing with the golden curls on his chest. “After all, I don’t know what Skyrim would do if the mighty Dovahkiin froze to death tonight.”

“I don’t know what I would do without you,” Argis murmurs, his voice a deep rumble in his chest, reverberating throughout your body. His strong arms tighten around you, gently, protectively, and you feel the soft brush of his lips against your forehead.

“Nor I without you,” you murmur back, tipping your head up and managing to reach his lips for a return kiss. He kisses you back for a moment, then hums contentedly, deep in his throat, and tucks you back down under his chin.

“The Divines have blessed me,” Argis sighs. “This life is a hard one, at times, but by the Nine, am I blessed.” You wrap your arms around his chest, feeling the slow, soothing beating of his heart in his chest, and though you have a thousand – a million – questions for him, you don’t know how to ask any of them. Maybe they shouldn’t be asked, just yet.

“I’m blessed, too,” you whisper to Argis, and you know he hears you by the way he holds you just a little tighter. And not long after, the comfort of each other’s arms and the mead and the heat of the fire conspire to overtake you both and send you both to sleep.

#argis #argis the bulwark #argis skyrim #skyrim #skyrim fanfiction #reader insert #the elder scrolls #blizzard in the reach #the elder scrolls fanfiction

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voidwhump · 5 years

Note

Ooh how about some sedation whump or something involving a tranquilizer dart? :) Only if you want of course.

Sorry this took so long! I did enjoy writing it once I got into the swing of things though :)

“What are you doing? Go away!” The whumpee tugged ineffectively against the straps binding them to the chair.

“You decided not to be cooperative, and this is the consequence. I won’t have you embarrass me again.” The whumper finished filling the syringe, turning to the whumpee with a slight frown. “What, you just thought I’d let you stay down here? This isn’t a very good place to show you off.”

The whumpee thrashed as their captor approached, needle in hand and a grim smile on their face.

“Stop it! I don’t want to be shown off! I want to go home!” Their voice cracked on the last exclamation, a few tears escaping them. They didn’t know how long they’d been here, but it felt like so long and they just wanted out.

“Shhh, you’ll be alright. This isn’t anything painful, just something to keep you still and quiet.” The whumper steadied the chair as their thrashing almost tipped it over. They went still as the needle was placed against their arm, eyes wide and brimming with tears.

“Now if only you could be like this all the time.” The whumper chuckled as they injected the liquid. They walked back to the workstation to put back the needle as the whumpee trembled in their restraints.

The needle hurt, but not any more than any other injection they’d ever gotten. They started to relax as nothing happened in the first few seconds. Maybe it was just water, and the whumper was trying to scare them into submission. The whumper was back over in another second, and they crouched down to unstrap the whumpee’s legs.

“Is it actually going to do anything?” They asked as their arms were freed. They whumper tugged them to their feet and tried to lead them towards the stairs, but they resisted.

“Well, there’s a chance you’re a little resistant, that happens with some people. It will kick in though, and I’ve got another dose right here,” The whumper patted their pocket. “So don’t think you’ll get any chances to get away.”

“Well-” The whumpee’s response was cut off by a sudden feeling of numbness that nearly took them off their feet. They swayed, and the whumper caught them. They blinked a few times as their vision blurred, and they could feel their legs weakening underneath them.

The whumper got their arm under their knees and picked them up, drawing a quiet squeak from them at the sudden lack of floor.

“Told you it would kick in.”

The whumper’s voice was muffled to their ears. The whumpee’s head lolled against the whumper’s neck as they carried them up the stairs, the brighter lights at the top dazzling them. They pressed their face into the whumper’s shoulder, closing their eyes and hoping there wouldn’t be too many people that wanted to see them.

They were set down on a couch and arranged with their head in the whumper’s lap. The whumpee tried to roll away, but they could barely move and the whumper held them in place easily.

“Well I see you have a better handle on them this time.”

The vaguely familiar voice came from somewhere to their left. The whumpee pried their eyes open briefly. They didn’t get more than a blurry image, and they let their eyes fall closed again.

“Yes, I took an extra measure this time.” The whumper stroked their hair and they shuddered, more internally than externally. They hated this, they wanted to thrash and resist and punch and claw and bite like they had last time. They did their best to even make a fist, but they could only hold it for a few seconds before their hand relaxed again. They tuned out of the ensuing conversation, anger turning to a deep exhaustion. They almost dozed off, the couch was soft and no one was touching them anymore.

Until a hand grabbed their jaw, and then they were wide awake again. Well, as wide awake as they could be. They opened their eyes and took in a much blurrier version of the guest the whumper had invited over the first time.

“Well hello there.” The guest patted their face before withdrawing his hand. “May I hold them?”

“Of course, here.” The whumper dragged them halfway upright and guided them off the couch and onto the floor in front of the guest. The guest repositioned them a few times, probably trying to find something that was comfortable for him. They went limp, making moving them as hard as possible. That was the only thing they had control over and they were going to use it. The guest eventually decided to sit them on his lap, and they let their head loll against his neck, eyes shut once again. The guest patted the side of their face. They didn’t respond.

“I thought you said it wouldn’t knock them out?”

They felt the whumper join the two of them on the floor.

“It doesn’t, they’re probably still being stubborn. Just give ‘em a pinch or something.”

There was a moment where they thought maybe nothing was going to happen, and then a hand hit their face. The whumpee gasped, eyes opening again to land on a smiling whumper, somewhat less blurry than they were earlier.

“There we go. I’ll have to give them another dose pretty soon, so enjoy them as awake as they’re gonna get.”

The guest turned them around and placed them against the couch, taking their face in his hands. He was talking, but the whumpee wasn’t listening. The numbness was being replaced by pins and needles, and they were starting to feel like maybe they could move. If they could catch the whumper and the guest by surprise, maybe they could get out. They’d prove the whumper wrong, they’d escape even with whatever they’d been drugged with.

The whumpee leaned into the guest as he took them back into his arms.

“Well would you look at that, maybe they don’t need another dose after-”

They slammed their forehead into the guest’s nose. They heard a crunch, and the guest yelped. They struggled to their feet, using the couch as support.

“Sit your ass back down!” The whumper yelled, the second syringe already in hand. The whumpee turned and fled. Their limbs still weren’t in perfect working order but their vision was back and they went for where they knew the exit was. Around the corner, down the hall and…

A locked door. The door hadn’t been there before, and it looked new. They rattled it desperately, pounding on it when that didn’t work.

The whumper’s hand landed on their shoulder and they turned. Their captor was glaring, and suddenly they didn’t feel so much like resisting anymore.

“You little shit. You think you can just do something like that and get away with it?” The whumper wrapped their arm around the whumpee’s neck and dragged them back towards the room they’d been in before. “Obviously I need to wear you out a lot more before you’re fit to see anyone.”

They pinned the whumpee against the wall, driving the second syringe into their arm. The whumpee yelped.

The drug took hold a lot faster this time, with them losing their footing in the first few seconds. The whumper didn’t bother picking them up this time, instead grabbing their ankle and dragging them.

The world went blurry once again, and this time they embraced it, not wanting to fully feel whatever was going to happen next.

@i-blame-my-love-of-whump-on-ryan @destielshipperkid @olidiavalree @muted-winchester @imagination1reality0 @adventuresofacreesty

#last one!#thank you!#whump #sedation #drugged #creepy captor #more like creepy guest #the captor just isn't very good at this yet #dragged

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forasecondtherewedwon · 5 years

Note

Some combination of 10 and 36 might be interesting.

Thanks to all of you for the requests!! There were a few overlaps with these numbers, so all four prompts have been incorporated into this fic. Enjoy!

Steers Looking at You, MJ

Pairing: Peter Parker x Michelle Jones (Spideychelle)Rating: E/NSFWWord count: 3120

10. “You’re really going to make me beg for it?”

30. “You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

36. “If I have to pull over, you won’t be able to walk for the next week.”

50. “You have no idea how good you make me feel.”

“Hey,” Peter says, glancing sideways as his girlfriend grabs the driver’s seat at his shoulder. He looks forward again, watching the luminescent dividing line on the highway flash past in the dark. “I thought you’d sleep longer.”

She yawns and climbs into the passenger seat.

“I’ll catch up tomorrow night. Couldn’t sleep back there.”

“It isn’t Betty and Ned, right? They aren’t…” He clears his throat. “…making noises?”

MJ laughs, pulling her foot up to tuck her ankle beneath her other leg, getting comfortable.

“No, they’re out. So far, the RV is not a-rockin’.”

They sit in contented silence for a few minutes. Peter’s eyes flick once to the clock; 5:17am. They’ve been on the road (apart from rest stops) since midmorning yesterday. Having drawn the final driving shift, he’s not quite tired enough to view the whole ‘let’s make the trip in a day’ as a mistake. Of course, having MJ―the second driver―suddenly next to him does a lot to perk Peter up.

MJ leans forward to scrutinize the clock.

“You’ve been driving for… what? Two hours?”

“Almost. We crossed into Florida a little while ago.”

“Woohoo,” she says sleepily. “I guess that means we’ll have time to nap before we start our tourist stuff.”

“Maybe.”

“Don’t be so bossy about the itinerary,” MJ groans. She plucks his lukewarm coffee from the cup holder and takes a greedy sip. (The last rest stop, where Betty and Peter traded off driving duty, had a Starbucks―the modern traveler’s oasis.)

Slotting the cup back in place, she lays her warm hand on his thigh, giving it a gently petulant shove. When she goes to pull it away, Peter drops one hand from the wheel and tugs her fingers back.

“No. Stay.” This early, they’re well ahead of morning highway traffic.

She snorts a laugh and he catches her smirk in the corner of his eye.

“Ok, caveman. You might want to try to come across as more evolved when we get to Kennedy Space Center.” His girlfriend shifts in her seat, holding his leg for balance and continuing to smirk. “Unless you’re hoping to remind them of the old days of launching animals into space.”

Peter rolls his eyes and replaces his hand on the wheel. Better to be safe.

“Cute, but I’ve already been.”

Rolling her head lazily against the headrest, MJ shoots him a look. Accompanying it is a squeeze of her fingers on his thigh that, while probably innocent, makes Peter swallow with difficulty.

“And yet you continue to have such a hard-on for Cape Canaveral.”

He laughs weakly, easing his foot off the gas as he comes up on a slower vehicle. It makes MJ’s hand slide higher along the denim of his jeans and she lets her hand stay there as he accelerates again after changing lanes.

“A lot of history was made in that spot,” Peter says defensively. He licks his lower lip.

“Which is why,” she reminds him, leaning closer with her weight resting on his thigh, “we’re going on the earliest tour and we’re going to take lots of pictures.” MJ concludes her promise with a kiss on his cheek.

He’s smiling because of the anticipation and because of what’s happening right now, with her. But…

“You’re distracting me.”

“Because I’m touching your leg? The seat is also touching your leg. So are your jeans.”

Peter hasn’t experienced early-morning smartass MJ before and he’s finding her kinda adorable. In a sneaked look, he sees her yawn into the loose neck of her oversized sweatshirt. Did she sleep in it? He’s abruptly curious to know what it smells like, to pull her close and bury his head against her… No. He’s driving.

“That’s completely different.”

“You wanted me to keep my hand here,” MJ says, casually drumming her fingers high up his thigh.

He clears his throat, sensitive to each of her fingertips tapping.

“I think your hand was lower down when I said that.”

“See? You’re alert. Very aware of your surroundings.” She props her far elbow on her knee and leans her face on her fist, watching him slyly.

“Despite your hand.” Peter drops his gaze for a split-second to see if the way her fingers feel like they’re tracing towards his inner thigh is all in his mind. Uh, no. It’s not.

“Or because of it,” his girlfriend counters. “I’m providing external stimulus to help your Spidey senses concentrate. White noise,” she simplifies when he glances at her with raised eyebrows.

“You’re great at bullshitting for someone who’s only half awake.” He laughs, then chokes on it as her fingers run along the inner seam of the leg of his jeans. Automatically, Peter shifts to sit with his legs wider.

“Maybe I do my best thinking before six, you don’t know.”

She yawns again, so he doubts it, but what does seem to be true is that she’s her horniest before 6am. Not that he’s previously had a chance to find out. Peter operated as a superhero under May’s nose for ages, but his aunt can spot his attempts at an x-rated sleepover with his girlfriend from a mile away. This spring break, the girls are supposed to be sharing one hotel room while the boys take the other. Like that has a chance in hell of happening, especially with MJ starting the foreplay before sunrise. By the time they actually go to bed tonight… Shit. Peter runs an anxious hand through his hair. That’s a long time to wait.

“Is it really that distracting?” MJ asks seriously, probably misinterpreting his nervous tick.

“No, you just…” Peter laughs softly to himself. “You have no idea how good you make me feel.”

“Well,” she says, and her tone is completely dangerous because it tells him that he just made things way worse (and better) for himself, “if you think this feels good, I’m very interested to know how this―” Her hand leaps from his thigh to his crotch. “―feels.”

He was starting to get hard from the moment she laid a hand on him, looking like she’d just rolled out of bed (she had) and his fantasies. Now, he’s struggling not to squirm as her warm palm just rests there on top of his growing bulge. His hands go white-knuckled on the wheel. What makes Peter groan is when MJ reaches over with her other hand and rolls up the cuff of her sweatshirt, like she’s going to need it out of the way for some reason. And still, her hand doesn’t move, doesn’t grasp or stroke. TORTURE.

“That’s… it?” he asks, desperate to be wrong as he darts a glance at his girlfriend’s calm face.

“Tell me how it feels,” she encourages, cheek back on her fist as she assesses him.

“Good.”

“One adjective? Peter, you can do better than that.”

“Really good.”

MJ sighs. He notes a road sign (still a lot of road ahead of them, amazingly) and looks again at her expression. She’s totally messing with him and he suddenly gets what she wants.

“You’re really going to make me beg for it?”

She shrugs, careful not to move the hand covering his erection.

“I mean, it would keep me entertained. We could play ‘I spy’ instead, but I’m pretty sure you have better night vision. So, yes. Beg, Parker.”

“One thing in exchange?”

“I thought it was obvious what you were getting in exchange.”

“An extra thing? Because you love me?”

The weighty phrase is new for them and he wields it gleefully.

“Depends what it is,” she says evasively.

“It’s really simple,” Peter promises. “I just want you to take off your sweatshirt. Not knowing what’s underneath is way more distracting than your hand in my lap.”

“Are you sure you won’t be even more distracted if I do?”

He grins through MJ’s conjecturing, knowing she’ll agree without having to take his eyes off the road.

“You heard me. Take. It. Off.”

In the ultimate teasing move, she finally trails her fingers along his erection, but only while withdrawing her hand. Though he asked for this, the cruel tempting is all her. Again, Peter’s excited for tonight.

MJ tugs her sweatshirt over her head and drops it in her lap. In a quick glance, he sees that she’s in a camisole, braless beneath.

“Quit staring at my nipples,” she orders (he’s an open book to her, he knows). “This is what happens when you make me remove my outer layer.”

“I wasn’t,” Peter argues, laughing. He takes another look and when his gaze darts up, he meets MJ’s ominously determined expression.

“Allow me to redirect your attention.”

Her hand goes straight back to his dick and this time her fingers close around him (as much as they can through his jeans), her thumb rubbing firm strokes up and down. Peter grunts, which she’ll surely find very satisfactory.

“Now…” MJ slides into the narrow middle seat, dumping her sweatshirt in the space she vacated. She comes in close, dragging her nose lightly up the side of his face so that the hair on the back of his neck stands up. “Beg,” she whispers. Her fingers flex on his erection.

“Fuck,” he hisses. Maybe the air blasting out of the vents is too hot because Peter’s close to sweating. “Please, M, please.”

He adjusts his hands on the wheel, trying not to grip too hard and snap it by accident; then she’d never believe he wasn’t distracted. His girlfriend slips a finger under his fly and he feels her nail rasp along the zipper.

“Please what?”

Peter bangs his head back into the headrest with a burst of laughter that he quickly stifles. Ned and Betty are still sleeping and he wants (needs) them to get more rest for a purely selfish reason. He can’t help hitching his hips up a little into MJ’s hand. Startlingly, she squeezes his erection and he nearly chokes.

“Please undo my jeans.”

“Why?”

The tranquility of her voice is almost painful to him.

“So I can feel your hand on me,” Peter grits out.

Mercifully, MJ uses both hands to unbutton, then unzip him and he sighs loudly. After that, she does exactly nothing.

“MJ,” he whines, dick tenting his boxers.

“Mhmm?”

“I need your hand on me.”

“On you where?” He can hear her smug smile.

“In my pants.”

“Promise not to get distracted?” Her voice is an intoxicating sleepy singsong, but Peter feels more alert than ever.

“It’s so unfair that I’m driving right now.”

“I was just trying to keep you company,” she explains, sneaking her hand suddenly beneath the hem of his t-shirt, flat to his abdomen. He clenches his teeth to suppress the urge to guide her hand lower.

This is his cue to turn on cruise control so that maintaining the RV’s speed is one less thing to worry about.

“Please,” he manages, “just keep… keep doing stuff. It’s driving me nuts that I can’t do anything to you.” He glances swiftly at the poke of her nipples through the fabric and MJ, obviously aware, quickly tugs down her camisole to flash him her breasts. “Oh FUCK,” Peter just about shouts, really restless in his seat now.

“Pull over if you can’t handle it,” his girlfriend mockingly suggests. She knows how devoted he is to keeping them on schedule.

“If I have to pull over,” Peter warns, “you won’t be able to walk for the next week.”

“Hmm, better not then. We have too much ground to cover before we drive back to New York for me to be laid up like that.”

“Oh, you’ll be getting laid up all night,” he nonsensically assures her, itching for her caress and practically melting into the seat when MJ dips her fingers under the band of his boxers.

“Don’t drive us into the ditch, ‘k?”

When Peter looks, she’s regarding the road, though she clearly trusts him not to put them in danger. His girlfriend can be surprising, but she isn’t reckless. They have about an hour and a half until sunrise and he’s told MJ before about the dark being easier for him to see in. Right now, he almost wishes they’d had a discussion about a different kind of overstimulation. Specifically, Peter’s absolute lack of discipline whenever she touches him.

Her hand creeps in farther and, too soon for him to process, closes around his rigid dick.

“Can I suggest… breathing?”

“Right,” Peter says, gasping.

“That’s better. Now watch the road, Parker.”

He wants to argue that he is watching the road, hasn’t taken his eyes off of it since she snuck her hand into his underwear, but speech isn’t a priority. Driving. Driving and breathing. These are the only things he needs to do. MJ will take care of the rest. Take care of… Peter tucks his chin and drops his gaze to his lap for a second, just for a glimpse of the lump of her hand in the front of his plaid boxers. Ok, so that doesn’t help his concentration. He inhales shakily and stares ahead at the highway again.

MJ leans lightly into his side, not enough to impede his steering, and, presumably, gets her arm into a comfortable position. Which Peter is all for; her being comfortable equals no interruptions for changing positions or shaking out a cramped hand or stiff elbow.

She starts off slowly. The way her careful fingers feel him out reminds him of the first time they ever did this, under a blanket on his couch while watching a movie he can’t recall right now. Peter shivers when she curls her hand under, fingertips skimming his balls. Her palm’s a little damp and there’s no chafing as she moves leisurely across his thin skin. Jesus. Breathing heavily, he reaches over to the temperature controls and eases back on the heat and the fan. It might not be that making them sweat though. Or it is, but it’s also the thought of Ned and Betty sleeping nearby. The awareness that the gradually increasing number of cars passing them in the other direction might be able to see Peter and MJ’s faces when the sky lightens, but not their laps. Not what his girlfriend’s doing with her hand.

After a dozen unhurried strokes up and down his length, she cups the head of his cock and wiggles her palm around, spreading his wetness. Peter groans deeply and, feeling MJ’s gaze on his face, mumbles, “Please.”

With a smirk he catches from the corner of his eye, she slides her hand along his shaft. Her palm’s passage is slicker now and Peter does a hiccup of a thrust on instinct. MJ returns to his head, then again after a brief caress, thoroughly lubricating his dick and her hand. It feels so smooth, her hand so incredibly warm and (despite her making fun of him for the plain language) good that he starts pumping through her fist.

He’s attempting to be as restrained as she was, but when he fails―face flushing hot after his hips almost leave the seat trying to chase down the ring of her fingers―she doesn’t tease him. She speeds up.

Now Peter’s talking in a low-level moan, babbling noises like ice cracking on a frozen river (he’s happy they’re spending their break in Florida because spring’s taking its time coming to New York this year).

“Shhh,” MJ soothes, but she doesn’t change pace and he knows she wants to hear everything that’s coming out of his mouth. It’s what she asked for.

Her face tilts towards him and she places a fluttering series of kisses on his neck that really cause Peter to lose his shit. Tightening her fist, MJ makes each stroke more deliberate, doing her best to keep her movements measured with him thrusting irregularly, end in sight. Like the rest stop and lookout point advertised on the sign they just passed. Yeah, he might need to pull off after this. Feel some fresh air on his face.

His girlfriend traces her nose up the side of his neck and licks a ticklish spot behind his ear.

“Beg,” she murmurs.

“MJ, please,” Peter pants.

She gives him a firm downward stroke and stuffs her hand deeper into his boxers to massage his balls.

“I’ve got the wheel,” MJ says at the last second.

He feels her free hand clamp next to his on the steering wheel and Peter closes his eyes as his orgasm surges through him, dick rubbing against the inside of MJ’s forearm. He rocks against her until the pleasure grows less sharp. When he opens his eyes blearily, the first thing he sees is her arm stretched across, competently holding the wheel.

“Forgot about that part,” he admits hoarsely, wiping a hand over his face. “Guess I did get distracted for a second.”

She shrugs, unconcerned.

“I took care of it.”

“I know. I got it now,” he assures her and she drops her hand, gently extracting the other from his boxers.

They’re a mess and he’s going to have to change before the others see him. Peter signals at the exit lane to the rest stop and they pull off the highway, parking in the lot with the other large vehicles.

MJ climbs out first, throwing her sweatshirt back on and promising hot drinks from the coffee place on the other side of the gas station. Meanwhile, he darts into their shared bedroom and riffles through his clothes for a fresh pair of boxers.

When he thumps down onto the asphalt, stretching his back, she’s already approaching, a takeaway cup in each hand. They wait for a minute, sipping their coffees before the liquid’s really cool enough, in case Ned and Betty wake up. When the other couple doesn’t make an appearance, Peter and MJ tangle their hands together and wander over to the lookout, breathing deeply.

“Better keep going,” he says after a few minutes, and they turn back.

Peter tries to get back in the driver’s seat, but his girlfriend refuses. Although he protests that she already took her turn driving, she just glares until he slides across to the passenger seat. Of course, that’s when someone wakes up.

“DID WE STOP?” Betty calls groggily from the back bedroom.

“PETER WAS TIRED,” MJ shouts back, shooting him a teasing smile. “YOU CAN SLEEP FOR ANOTHER HOUR, BETTY.”

When she yawns, both Peter and MJ relax again, buckling their seatbelts for the final leg of the journey south. She shoves her sleeves up her arms.

“Just don’t try anything,” his girlfriend warns as she turns the key in the ignition.

Peter smiles guiltlessly back, letting his hand fall on her thigh.

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oncearoundthegarrison-blog · 4 years

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London to Lundy Part 1

5 months sounds like a long time, but when you’ve started a new job in a completely different industry, it flies by. New colleagues, new commute, new schedule, new maze-like museum building that took at least a month to get used to. Even new vocabulary.

I felt like I was desperately treading water, slowly drowning in a sea of to-dos. It finally took the Christmas period, when the museum was closed, most colleagues and external contacts had taken holidays and my telephone and inbox fell quiet, that I had a moment to realise... I have 13 days of annual leave to use up before the end of the financial year.

My husband’s birthday is in March, so I thought we could go somewhere together to celebrate, as we had been doing the last few years. The thing is, my husband works in a small company, a team of 3, in fact. Unfortunately, the other 2 also have their birthdays in March, so, being the most junior, he felt he couldn’t take a week off, especially because they were planning a work trip around that time too.

“You should go on a yoga retreat by yourself.” he suggested. As if I wanted to pay hundreds of pounds to go and spend days stretching with strangers, some of whom were guaranteed to be a little too ‘woo-woo’ for my taste (no offence).

I decided I wanted to do something that was ‘worthwhile’ with my time. After hours researching expensive (and scammy) conservation holidays, scrolling through WorkAways and WWOOFing opportunities, I somehow landed on the jackpot; a National Trust working holiday on Lundy, a three mile long, half mile wide island off the coast of North Devon.

Having hastily signed up and gained a place, I set to work on the dreaded getting-there logistics. The first thing was already ticked off the list. The only way of getting from the Devon coast onto Lundy Island at that time of the year is by Helicopter. With that booked, I looked into getting from London to Devon and back.

The autumn before, I had bought my first car. It’s a fully electric Nissan Leaf. Using it largely for the weekly shop and commuting to work (15 minutes if the traffic is nice, 1 hour if it’s the usual), it’s the perfect car for pootling around the city and suburbs, where an electric charger is always close to hand. We’d done the odd 2 hour drives, but the route planning, and adding 30 mins per charge stop, the anxiety of ‘what if the charger we are heading towards is out of order’ was quite stressful, so a solo drive down to Devon seemed a foolhardy concept.

But, the more I tried to arrange the public transport, the more complicated things got. First off, the nearest train station is 25 miles away, and you need to get on a bus for an hour even to get close to the helipad. Not only that but you had to get there by 10am latest, so unless you wanted to leave London at crazy o’clock, you had to arrive the night before and find accommodation. On top of that, on the way back, you have no idea what time your helicopter flight is. “Sometime between 11 and 3pm, and it depends on the weather, you could be delayed to later in the afternoon or even the next day!” So booking a train for the way back was a gamble. Driving to Devon in my electric car started to look like a more attractive, at least simpler, concept.

I’m not what you call a confident driver, and some past long distance drives had been very stressful. It’s hard for me to forget that I could kill myself or anyone else by making a silly mistake. And I make plenty of those in my everyday life. What if I don’t plan well and I run out of charge on my car? The prospect of driving alone, for four hours, which would probably include at least 4 charges, was terrifying. Also, if I want to arrive at the heliport at 9:30am, then I would need to leave at 5:30am, but add on 4 x 30 minute charges is 3:30am, and maybe I should add an extra hour in case I take the wrong turning or there is traffic or a diversion... well that’s crazy o’clock. So I decided to break up the journey by stopping off at my uncle’s in Bristol.

The week before setting off, I made sure to check and double check the route on the Zap-Map app, which shows you the locations of all the EV chargers. I read reviews of each charger, making sure it was used recently and recorded as having a successful charge. I made sure I knew the locations of at least 2 other chargers near the one I actually planned to charge at, in case that one was occupied or faulty.

I wrote out the addresses of each charger, in case I lost my phone. I packed a portable power bank for my phone, in case it ran out of battery. I found out what numbers I need to call if I break down or run out of charge, or have an accident (yeah OK I should’ve known those already). Some chargers require you to start the charge using your mobile phone... but what if you didn’t have enough reception? I drove my husband crazy with my fretting and stressing. I made sure I had enough car snacks and a good playlist.

Then the day finally came. I left for Bristol around 9.00am. It was a bright sunny day and I left in high spirits, onto the M4. Forty minutes later, dirty black clouds appear and it starts to properly pour. The roads were not too busy but there was a ropey 15 minutes of very poor visibility, the spray from the other cars and lorries obscuring the road like a thick fog. My heart pumping, I was very glad to arrive at my first charge stop at a service station just after 10am.

There, I struck up a conversation with a fellow Nissan Leaf driver, and I asked him if he’d heard the rumour that you shouldn’t charge your car up to 100% on one of the rapid chargers (there are a few different charge speeds, you see). It’s something I was told by the customer services person when I rang up the helpline on a day a charger refused to stop charging (really reassuring). The man looked at me doubtingly and said that he hadn’t. When he left, I googled it and it really does seem to be the case that it damages your battery. I hope he looked it up later as well. I had a hot chocolate in the Starbucks, charged my phone and bought some gloves, as I forgot to pack mine. Feeling panicked about damaging the battery, I headed off at 82% charged.

Luckily, the closer I got to Bristol and my uncle’s flat, the lower the speed limit, the more traffic there was. I say lucky because driving in those circumstances uses up much less charge than going 70mph down the motorway. By 11:40 I have arrived at my final charge stop, a Bannatyne Health Club just round the corner from my final destination. I was even more happy to see that it was a simple plug in, tap your contactless card and charge jobby. You’d think that’s how all chargers are, but no. EV chargers are run by different providers, I have no less than 5 different apps on my phone plus a physical tap card, and there’s still some chargers where I have to spend ages registering on a website in order to start a charge. Mental.

I go into the health club and explain I’m not a member but would like to sit in the cafe while my car charges. I was a bit worried they would turn me away, but, just as my Zap-Map colleagues had reassured me, they asked me to sign in to a guest book and let me in. I order a tea and settle down for 20 minutes. In hindsight, during my journey to Devon and back, I think I spent almost the same amount of money on beverages and nibbles waiting for the car to charge as for the charge itself!

Anyway, all in all a smooth journey to Bristol, and I get to my uncle’s around 12:15, just in time for lunch. After a lovely afternoon taking in the sights of Bristol (managed to catch the excellent Wildlife Photography of The Year 2019 exhibition at M Shed, see below for the fun image of a shocked Himalayan marmot that won the Grand Title) and catching up with a friend over a quick drink in the evening, I go to bed early, ready for an early start in the morning.

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tarithenurse · 5 years

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On my mind, in my Soul - 3

Prompt: Three items to intergrate: Purple, Art Installation, and Crazy by Gnarles Barkley (passages shown as blockquotes). Pairing: Loki x Burglar!reader. Content: Angst x a lot, references to violence, criminal activities, dislike of modern art, abduction, swearing...maybe other stuff too... A/N: It’s the Loki we know, but he’s made himself a home on Earth, curating an impressive collection of valuables from across the universe – all for himself and the fame he finds despite the New York incident.

Crazy

The next day, you’d been sore. Cold into the bones in a way that no hot showers or mugs of tea could purge because it wasn’t just physical. The “visit” and events at Loki’s manor had been bad enough. You hadn’t needed him showing up in your room, your home, only for you to want him so shamelessly as you had to the point where you’d begged for him without a care of what might happen. But in the harsh light of day, it scared you shitless how easily you’d given in.

I remember, I remember when I lost my mind There was something so pleasant about that place

That’s when you made the decision.

Taking the pendant, you’d placed it in a box with a note telling him you didn’t want to play his games. It had smarted when you slid the lid on, hiding the gleaming eye from view to be wrapped up in brown paper, tape, and a hastily scribbled address. The same day you sent it, you sold the little apartment and took refuge in the safehouse where you hopefully could plot your next steps in safety.

Hopefully.

It was tempting to keep running until you’d reached the other side of the earth where no one would know you and you could start over, pretending to be someone else. But each time you considered the idea, the chill would stir in your bones, reminding you just how quickly he’d found you. No. It wouldn’t help to run, because how could you hide from a magic-wielding extra-terrestrial? Even across the ocean, it’d just be a matter of time before he’d find you if that’s what he wanted…and you’d have no way to stand your ground. Whenever you got to this point in your internal ramblings, you’d hear his voice seething with anger at the idea that he might take you against your will. Oddly…you believed that, at least. Maybe it was the memory of the blow sending you skidding across the gleaming floor in his home?

That hadn’t been his magic. Watching yourself in the mirror, the decision made itself for you, and over the next days you snuck out to pick up the equipment you needed, making sure to stay away from your usual haunts.

You spend months staying indoors as much as possible, the time used on online studies and all the training you could accomplish within the safety of the walls of your home. And why not? The last few jobs had lined the coffers plenty and you had no interest in drawing attention to yourself or your hiding hole.

So the instructional videos kept rolling as you mimicked the movements and stances, soon discarding the padding on the dummies and the gloves because you knew none of the pretence would steel you for the real deal. Hands and wrists bruised after the thousands of impacts with the hard material, your ankles had twisted on more than one occasion, adding a limp to your normally cat-like movements.

…

A person can only stay cooped up due to external influences for so long before they begin to feel a prisoner in their own home. Pacing the concrete floors, there’s no joy to find in the sheltered place because you need to breathe freely again, need to navigate the bustle of the city and be a part of it rather than simply watching from the outside. And you need a challenge. Money’s not run out yet, but it’s getting closer which tempts you to pick your old contacts for a connection. A job that entails more than just making a plan based on information other people have provided that they too will be the ones to pull off. And of course the perfect temptation’s waiting for you…there’s just one hiccup…

And I hope that you are having the time of your life But think twice That’s my only advice

…

Gliding through the crowd like liquid purple, it takes little effort to make it to the place in the gallery where the object’s hanging. Art, fart. The artist is more than famous throughout the world, but most of his works contain less meaning than the concrete of the building…although you find the huge legume-seed childishly entertaining with the warped reflections. These installations? Huge discs with various colours, sculptures any Freudian psychologists would celebrate, and splashes of bloodred on shredded and pulled canvasses that makes you think of hospitals and pain. You can’t help the scoff that escapes you.

“Not to your liking?” The smooth voice curls around you like a snake.

There’s no reason to look for the speaker because only one person is capable of scaring and arousing you with a simple sentence. Not this time. Without an answer, you leave Loki standing before the black void of a concave, the rustle of the silk dress soothing your nerves only slightly.

You’ve seen what you need to formulate a plan, shocked at the lax in security at the private gallery where works regularly are auctioned off to the rich crowd, the ones who always are eager to seem like they live the perfect life when in reality theirs suck just as badly as anyone else’s…it’s just nicer to cry in an Aston Martin. With a notoriety like that, it isn’t a surprise that Loki’s around even though you’d hoped to be lucky because modern art isn’t anywhere to be seen in his collection.

He corners you at the wardrobe, of course. Why had you decided to check in your coat? Right, you weren’t allowed to carry it with you…maybe they thought people would sneak out a one and-a-half meter in diameter art installation under the trench coat. Either way, you just have time to consider leaving the piece of clothing behind when the cool of his presence envelops you, sweetly familiar yet frighteningly so.

“[Y/N]…”

There’s a pained edge to his voice that makes the air stick in your throat and your hands shake when you accept the coat from the attendant who’s blissfully unaware of the severity of the situation. Just a few words, a plea for help, and you’d be safe from the Asgardian. For a while. The admission carries dread, drenching you in silent resignation from its wake. Not giving in, though, and you pull the coat on before turning, striding past the tall man who’s dressed in his signature black and green.

Cold air fills your lungs and shimmies up your bare legs. Already, a cab’s waiting by the curb hoping for a fare and maybe a fat tip considering the visitors to the gallery behind you. Voicelessly, you slip in, collecting the purple fabric before closing the door. Only then do you urge him to drive, the destiny’s a fancy hotel.

As the engine rumbles, propelling the car onto the road and through the checkered pattern of the city while you see absolutely nothing of the scenery, too engulfed in your thoughts. You’re supposed to be plotting now, conjuring up the elegant plans ensuring you not just access to, but also an exit route with, the prize that will land you a fat paycheck…still, the task is jarring as every thought is disrupted by the echo of Loki’s voice and the haunting glimpse you’d seen of his face.

Not my bloody problem! Groaning silently, your head lolls onto the headrest beside yours. So what, if the man’s looking haggard? An obsession burning in his eyes that’s nearly drowned out by a pain you don’t want to recognize because if you do, you’ll know how badly off you are too. Fuck. Everything would’ve been simpler if you’d never decided to rob the God of Mischief, but here you are and it was only your logic telling you to run.

Here we are.

Here we are?

Sitting up straight, you study the world outside the cab with big eyes, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists in your lap. You aren’t on the way to the hotel, you’re not even anywhere near the neighbourhood you’d planned for but rather in an area with rich brick houses spread wide enough to hide on lawns surrounded by bushes and trees, the only official access points being the gated driveways. Just as you reach for the door handle, the car bumps over the softened curb and pushes a puff of stale air past your trembling lips, but the door’s locked and the driver ignores your frantic pleas when you urge him to let you out, to let you go. Anything but bringing you to Loki’s manor looming ahead in the dark.

Your struggle continues when the car door finally opens to allow a couple of burly private guards to reach for you. Fuck, are you happy you’ve spent all that time training martial arts and self defense…but in the end, there’s nothing you can do against these bundles of muscle and you’re dragged through the house up to the top floor where you’re deposited in a bedroom.

Ever since I was little it looked like fun And it's no coincidence I've come And I can die when I'm done

Dishevelled and afraid, you scream yourself hoarse while pounding at the door, only interrupted when you try to unlock windows with the few tools you’d snug along in the purse, but nothing helps, and you sink onto the blackness on the giant bed. No tears. Fighting back the desperation, you take in the surroundings, noting the wall-to-wall wardrobe covered in mirrors which makes the room seem grander than it is. Not that it needs extra square meters added to the endless moss-green carpet that’s the resting place for furniture of honeyed wood and leather. Pillows of the signature green silk are tastefully tossed onto a low, soft bench by the window and next to you on the bed, echoing the shade across the floor. There’s another door, nearly invisibly carved into the wall, which brings a shimmer of hope back into your heart only to be smothered when all it turns out to be is a private bathroom.

…

You’ve gone through every nook and cranny the two rooms in search of a way to get out. After that, you’ve spent some time simply nosing about to learn more about the god before eventually taking care of your appearance. The way you see it, you might as well appear on top on the situation if you’re going to have to talk yourself out of this mess…if Loki can be reasoned with, that is.

Regardless, your heart lodges itself in your throat at the sound of a key in the lock. Refusing to turn, there’s only the warped reflection in the window to prove that it really is him, your captor, that enters and relocks the door, adding a golden shimmer to the mechanism with a wave of his hand. Not a word’s uttered as he discards the suit jacket and then the tie onto a chair by the wardrobe.

The heavy sigh rattles you to your core. “I’m sorry for this, [Y/N].” Glancing briefly, you see how he runs a hand over his face, rubbing the tired eyes momentarily. “I can only imagine what you must think of me, truly…but I need you to hear me out, alright?”

It’s not like you have a choice, really, and this conversation has started nothing like you’d expected. “Then talk.”

#loki fanfic #loki x reader #loki marvel #loki x you #On my Mind in my Soul #Loki Laufeyson #loki odinson #Loki odinson x reader #Loki Laufeyson x reader #loki angst #Loki au #Loki on earth #Loki in midgard #Loki lemon series #Loki x burglar #reader insert #mcu fanfiction

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snarky-badger · 6 years

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Oooooo—an Ultron idea for you!! Reader works at a computer store, and recently stuff has been going missing. But there's never any alarms, and the cameras just keep malfunctioning for no reason. It's just a mystery, until one night she's closing and forgets something inside after locking up. Instead of having to turn everything on and back off again, she just uses her phone light except now it seems like a horror game, and suddenly she gets the feeling that she's not alone anymore.

I had fun with this one. Again, its open ended in case someone wants more.

Sorry for the day and a half of quiet from me. Been distracted.

There was nothing you hated more than getting blamed for something that wasn’t your fault.

For three weeks, after you closed up the Best Buy you worked at, things - laptops, processors, motherboards, various circuitry and parts - had gone missing. Of course, your boss blamed you, as you were the last one in the store. But there were cameras everywhere, and you’d been filmed multiple times, closing up shop and leaving without the stolen merchandise, so there was nothing he could do.

Still, it irritated you.

It wouldn’t happen at the same time, either. There was no pattern, no reason. There weren’t any parts showing up on eBay, or in pawn shops. And every time, the cameras showed nothing. Naturally, you’d thought that someone had merely looped the footage, but your boss, the supposed Mr. Know-It-All, had waved your idea aside.

You’d been tasked with putting extra security tags and stickers on every box, every computer, sometimes doubling up the tags - it was an insult, you usually worked at the Geek Squad desk - but you weren’t in a position to argue, so you did it. Honestly, you were doubtful that it was a walkout thief, the cameras and security scanners at the doors would have caught them.

You boss had even put chains on the loading dock doors and back doors every night, and it had been interesting to watch him fume in the morning when the chains were found neatly coiled up on the floor, the padlocks locks sitting atop them.

Honestly, everyone was baffled. You were mainly pissed, but what could you do? Nothing. That was what. Someone was getting in, and there seemed to be no way to stop them short of hiring a twenty-four-hour guard - but corporate wouldn’t spring for the extra money.

So things continued on like that for another two weeks, your boss almost having an aneurysm every morning and the employees taking bets on who was responsible - there was a rather large pot going on. The top guess was a ghost, of all things. Your money was on some hacker desperate for parts.

But you kept your nose clean, and away from your boss. Closed up every night, waving at the cameras, and then heading to catch your bus.

Until one night, you forgot your MP3 player in the office.

You cursed, lowly, and headed back inside, not bothering with the overhead lights as you used your phone’s flashlight option to guide the way. Passing through the isles to the back offices was eerie, like something out of a Doom game. You half expected to have something jump out at you as you stepped into the pitch black office, but nothing came.

Shaking your head at your own stupidity, you grabbed your MP3 from it’s spot next to the computer you’d been debugging and deleting porn viruses off of, then headed back out, locking the back door behind you - you didn’t dare leave it open, the safe for all the cash was back there. You’d never hear the end of it if that was stolen.

You were heading back to the main doors, cutting through the gaming isle, when something rustled in the rear of the store. The light from your phone illuminated about five feet of space around you as you spun towards the sound, your heart in your throat.

Fuck, was the thief already in the store? You couldn’t be sure over the sound of your breathing and heartbeat, but you thought you’d heard movement, footsteps.

Shit, now what? Run, and get fired for not protecting the store? Call the cops?

But if you called the cops and it was nothing, you’d be a laughing stock.

Well, fuck. You’d have to check it out.

You weren’t being paid enough for this shit.

Hands shaking, making the light from your phone wobble dizzyingly, you headed towards where you thought you’d heard the noise, biting your lip to stay quiet. Wove through the isles, trying to keep your footsteps silent. Which, you realized, was useless, considering you were holding a bright shining beacon telling everyone where you were.

Giving up on stealth, you quickened your pace to the back of the store, hoping to either surprise the thief or at least just hurry up and figure out what was going on so you could leave, please and thank you.

You turned the corner, leaving the camera isle and heading into the isle with the external hard drives and walked right into a wall.

Cursing, you stumbled backwards, tripping over your own feet and landing on your butt on the floor. Your phone clattered to the tiles, spinning, the light dazzling you for a moment. When it stopped, you looked up and gaped.

There was a giant metal man staring down at you with glowing red eyes.

Naturally, you screamed.

Abandoning your phone, you scrambled to your feet and ran. Got, maybe five feet away before darkness enveloped you and you slammed face first into a massive display of radio controlled cars.

You hit the floor, a car bouncing off your head, as you sprawled across it’s numerous brethren, and out the door went your decorum. “Son of a bitch! Fuck!”

Heavy footsteps approached you. You were too addled to move, especially when you reached up to pull yourself to your feet only to have the rest of the display topple onto you.

“Are you alright?”

The slightly metallic, yet rich, voice that came from the metal man towering over you made you blink. He was carrying your phone, angling the light so it wouldn’t blind you. “You’re the thief.” Oh yes, brilliant deduction Sherlock. Fucksakes. “The fuck, man! I keep getting shit over the stuff you take!”

Crimson eyes blinked down at you before a laugh rumbled out of him. “Ah. You’re the one that closes up the store. Wasn’t expecting you to come back in. I thought you’d gone for the night.”

The calm, conversational, tone of his voice threw you off. “Forgot my MP3,” you grimaced, wincing as you shoved toy cars off of yourself. “I’d call the cops on you but no one would believe me.”

“I’d rather you didn’t. I…. Well, there’s a reason I’m ransacking a Best Buy instead of stealing top of the line parts. What’s the saying? I’m trying to keep things on the down-low?”

You squinted up at him, blinking when he crouched down. Close up, you could see that he had a sort of red cloak on him, a feeble attempt at hiding his metal form. Tiny metal pieces, like an intricate puzzle, made up his amazingly expressive face, crimson eyes like camera lenses focusing on you. "What, not a fan of eBay?“

"That would require an address. Besides, seeing your reaction, it isn’t as if I can stroll into a Post Office and rent a mailbox.”

“It’ dark and you scared the crap out of me,” you snapped in your defense. “I was expecting some moron in a ski mask not Megatron’s mini-me.”

Another chuckle left him. “Can’t say I’ve ever been compared to a Transformer before.” He tilted his head at you curiously. “Do you need help getting up?”

“What I need–” you paused to kick at one of the boxed up toy cars that were scattered around you. “Is a drink. I hope to hell you already looped the cameras, because I don’t want this clusterfuck plastered all over the lunchroom.”

Those crimson eyes of his widened a little. “Well, well. And here I took you for a run of the mill retail worker.”

“I am and overqualified run of the mill retail worker. I’m just not as stupid as my boss. Or my co-workers. There’s a betting pool going on over you. Half the staff thinks this place is haunted.”

He laughed again. “Well, I could try skulking around.” He grasped the edges of his ‘cloak’ and held a bit over his face. “Phantom of the Best Buy? Though I think I’d have trouble trying to get an organ into the basement.”

You snickered. “We don’t have a basement.”

“Hence the trouble,” he straightened, rising to his full height, towering over you again, then held a hand out to you. “Here, up you get.”

You hesitated a moment, then took his hand, gasping when he lifted you up onto your feet as if you weighed nothing. The fingers around yours were warm, not cold like you’d expected for a man made out of metal, and you felt him give you a gentle squeeze before letting go.

“There we go. Nothing broken?”

“Nothing but my pride.” You sent a look at the scattered remains of the display. “I’ll clean that up in the morning. Y'know, if you need stuff in bulk, we got a shipment of parts in today. It’s still in the back.”

One metal brow arched upwards. “Aiding and abetting a criminal now?”

You shrugged. “What the hell do I care? Boss’ll just blame me for it anyway and make my life hell whether you take it or not. Sides’ I figure that if someone as advanced as you obviously are is stealing from a Best Buy that you’re kinda desperate, so go for it.”

“Advanced?”

“I figured that calling you a robot might be rude. It’s the best I could come up with.”

“Ah. Well, thank for that then. Being called a 'robot’ is a rather touchy subject.”

“Hence the vagueness. You have a name or….?”

He shifted a little. “If you don’t know who I am, then it’s probably best that I don’t tell you.”

“You realize that I’ll just start googling 'giant technologically advanced metal man’ as soon as I get home, right?”

A very human sigh left him. “That’s not a good idea. Not unless you want SHEILD and the Avengers banging on your door.”

“Fucksakes. You’re big time, aren’t you? Fine, fine. I’ll drop it.” You ran a nervous hand through your hair, then blinked when something occurred to you. “Y'know, you’d be better off ransacking the warehouse the next town over. It’s one of the main shipping centers for all the stores in the region. Loads of merch there compared to the low stock here. Probably save you a few trips.”

He blinked. “That wasn’t listed on the directory I found on the servers.”

“Wouldn’t be. It’s just a warehouse, not a store.”

“Hm. And you’re alright with this? Most people wouldn’t be helping me.”

“I prefer to think of myself as different than 'most people’. Also, I get paid minimum wage, no benefits and my boss is an asshole. My loyalty to this place vanished about three months ago when they denied my sick leave because I wasn’t full-time.”

A disgusted noise left him. “It’s deplorable how this country treats it’s retail workers.”

“You have no idea. Speaking of, I’m going to be late to my other job. Gonna need my phone back.”

He eyed you a little warily. “No photos.”

“Pfft. As if I expect you to hold still long enough for a shot. Also, you could probably drop-kick me across the store, and I’m not a good flyer.” You made a little 'gimme’ gesture with your left hand, smiling a little when your phone was deposited into your palm. “Thanks.”

He watched you quietly as you checked it enough to insure that you hadn’t broken it when you’d dropped it earlier. “It still works, don’t worry.”

“It hit the floor. I worry.” Deeming it alive and well, you tilted it so the flashlight would still illuminate your odd companion without blinding either of you. “I need to go. Remember, all the good stock is in the back.”

“…Thank you.”

“Welcome.” You turned to leave, pausing when a large hand landed on your shoulder.

“Wait.” He sounded hesitant, and he was watching you again. “I have a crazy idea.”

“Does it involve me getting arrested for property theft?” you asked with a raised eyebrow. “Because I’m not really into vertical bars and I hate the colour orange.”

“Trust me, I can keep you safe. How would you like a job?”

“…a what?”

“You’re on the Geek Squad, right? I cross referenced your name with the employee roster. So you have at least a basic knowledge of computers and operating systems.”

You had no idea where he was heading. “Yeah?”

“I need another set of hands to help gather some supplies. Someone smart enough to be able to build a computer from scratch. And maybe a little help searching through that warehouse.”

That implications of that made you hesitate. You may have been lax about a giant metal man stealing from your workplace, but becoming a thief yourself… that was something completely different. “Why would you need me to help you build something? I mean, hell, look at you. You don’t need me to put a system together. If you can hack into the servers, you sure as hell are more than capable of dealing with some hardware.”

“True. But at the moment, I’m still just one person. I can only be in one place at a time. Which is… irking, trust me.”

“…can I give it some thought?”

He looked surprised that you were even going to consider it. “Of course. Here, pass me your phone for a moment.”

You did so, watching as he pulled a cord out from his left forearm, connecting it to your phone. The screen flickered a little, and you worried, before he hummed in satisfaction and disconnected from it again. “I upgraded your security and added a new app. You can contact me with it when you come to a decision.”

Blinking, you accepted your phone back again. “What kind of security?”

“Ah. The untraceable, unhackable kind. Don’t want just anyone contacting me, after all.”

A smirk tugged at your lips. “Telemarketers?”

“Telemarketers. Trying to convince me that my computer needs servicing.”

The dry, unimpressed, tone of his voice and the absurdity made you laugh. “Yeah, okay, you win the 'most annoying telemarketer’ award. Tell them you don’t have a computer, it makes them go nuts. Alternatively, tell them you’re from IT and you intercepted their call due to a problem, get them to confirm the type of phone they’re on , then google the reset setting and get them to follow the instructions. It’ll fuck up their phone for a week.”

That pulled an actual belly laugh from your odd companion, and you grinned when he mimed wiping a tear from his eyes. “Oh, that’s cruel. I love it. I’ll try that next time.”

“It’s highly entertaining on a petty level,” you grinned, waving a little as you turned to leave. “I’ll call you in a couple of days. I just need a bit of time to wrap my brain the insanity of this situation.”

He chuckled again. “Take your time.”

“See you around, Mr. Thief.” You left him behind as you headed for the front of the store, going through your interrupted custom of locking up the store. It was only when you were waiting at the bus stop for your ride to your next job that you took a good look at your phone blinking at the new icon that had joined the others, your brain power screeching to a stop at the name of it.

Jesus wept.

“ULTRON?!”

#snarky is writing #ultron #ultron x reader #reader x ultron #filled prompt

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alice-chan-chan · 2 years

Note

oooh that sounds fun! i started watching anime in the early 00's so i always love watching those :)! ill definitely check it out!

and oh yeah, thats such a shame! :( its always a problem with packing!! i make the same mistake every year as well XD im going next week and am already desperately double checking my packing and my pc content to check i have everything i could possibly need! even had to whip out my external harddrive for extra space, but thats just bcos my pc doesnt have much space X'D

I think that you should give it a try! If you survive through the first 15-20 episodes, you will most likely like all the rest! Ahh, I havent given this advice for like 10 years. XD Feels so nostalgic. Anyway, I hope that you will enjoy watching Reborn. :)

Well, we really had a lot to pack this time. And I didn't think that I might want to edit Reborn, so I didn't copy anything related to my external hard drive, just the episodes themselves. x)

#replies #anon

0 notes

calciseptinefic · 7 years

Text

across an ocean of stars

Gravity Falls || Stanford Pines/Stanley Pines || 10652 notes: Originally written for the Stancest Anthology, Then and Now. ¶ also available on AO3 warnings: angst, bittersweet ending

i. thirteen

The telescope is old. The brass is scuffed and has lost most of its luster; the external lens is cracked; and one of the legs of the tripod is bent. It is an unusable and uncollectable piece of junk, and Filbrick tells the man trying to pawn it as much.

"This isn't a charity," Filbrick snorts when the man names his price. "I'm not gonna pawn something that I won't be able to sell—and I'm certainly not gonna give you fifty bucks, either."

Yet despite Filbrick's initial rejection, the man—out of desperation or stubbornness—continues to haggle. He eventually leaves with a crumpled ten dollar bill and a frown on his face, and Filbrick puts the worthless telescope on a shelf in the corner of the store.

Several days later, this is where Ford finds it.

Unlike his father, Ford does not see the broken lens, the dull body, and the uneven leg. Instead, Ford sees potential. Elation blooms inside his ribcage as he imagines the possibilities; with a telescope, he could look at the seas and craters of the moon, or enlarge the distant spheres of Mars and Venus and Jupiter, or chart the movement of the dimmest stars. This hope is as careful and as reverent as the way Ford takes the telescope off the shelf and brings it to the front of the shop.

"I want this," Ford tells his father, gently setting the telescope down on the front counter. Filbrick barely looks up from the shop's accounting ledger before he responds.

"It's a piece of junk," Filbrick says.

"It just needs to be fixed, and I'm willing to fix it," Ford replies. His hands twist behind his back. "Please, may I buy it?"

This time, Filbrick does not look up at all when he says, "It will cost you two weeks of your allowance."

"Okay."

"And I want all the shelves in this store to sparkle."

"Done."

"And whatever you need to fix the damn thing is your responsibility. If you need to pay for something more, I'm not going to help you. It has to come out of your own pocket. Understood?"

"Yessir!" Ford answers, his voice cracking with excitement. He is unable to contain his grin when Filbrick waves one of his big hands in dismissal; he gathers up the telescope and the tripod, and takes it upstairs.

"I don't get it," Stan says later that evening as he sits down on the floor next to Ford and peers over Ford's shoulder. Ford's arms ache from dusting every surface in Pines' Pawn, but it's a good soreness. "S'broke. Why didja trade your allowance for somethin' that don't work?"

"Because I can fix it," Ford tells Stan as he rubs a soft cleaning cloth against the unpolished body. "I just need to find a replacement lens and straighten out the leg. These scratches are superficial and shouldn't effect how it functions."

"Couldn't you have just bought a new one?" Stan asks. "One that was less…?" He sketches a wide, vague gesture that somehow encompasses everything undesirable about the battered telescope.

"A new one can cost hundreds of dollars," explains Ford. "I mean, the replacement lens won't be cheap either, but it won't be as expensive."

"Still sounds like a lotta work."

Ford shrugs. It will be a lot of work, there is no denying that; it will be difficult to find a lens that will fit this antique model, yet Ford feels he is ready for the challenge.

"The effort will be worth it," Ford says, unable to explain the surety he feels to his brother. All he knows is that when he eventually looks through the telescope—through an instrument that he fixed—and sees further than he has ever seen, he will be content. "You'll see."

"Whatever you say, poindexter." Stan bumps his shoulder against Ford's and grins. "Whatever you say."

ii. seventeen

On the second to last day of August, Ford finds himself spending the night on the recently completed Stan-o-War.

"It will be fun," Stan says as he raids the kitchen pantry for food. "One final summer hurrah before we have to go back. Whaddya say?"

Ford should say no. They had only tested the Stan-o-War's watertightness several days ago and—while they had sprung no leaks in the brief hour they were at sea—Ford has reservations about spending an entire night on the water. Ever the voice of logic and caution, he opens his mouth to say as much. Instead, he says,

"Sure. Sounds like fun."

The smile Stan gave Ford, wide and bright and unreserved, was worth the potential drowning.

They head out to the beach as the summer day wanes. Stan drives with the windows down and the radio turned up; he sings loudly and off-key, beating his palms against the steering wheel. Immune to Stan's behavior, Ford leans back into the soft leather seat and watches as the houses and businesses pull further and further apart, then disappear completely. The reed-studded beach they have frequented since childhood is not very far from their home—twenty minutes by foot, five minutes by car—but it is secluded, cut off from the more attractive shore and boardwalk further up the coast.

Stan parks the El Diablo in the small and unused lot next to the unmaintained playground. When he pops the trunk, Ford sighs at the sheer amount of stuff he sees loaded into the space: a bag of food and a case of soda, pillows and blankets, a battery-powered radio, an electric lantern, and an old canvas haversack filled with unknown miscellany.

"What?" Stan asks, defensively crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't look at me like that."

It takes two trips to the boat to unload everything Stan packed. Once that is done, they unmoor the Stan-o-War and push out to sea. Ford holds his breath and listens to the creak of wood and slap of waves. Despite years of hard work and attention to detail, Ford is half-certain that the hull is going to collapse at any second—but that does not happen, and he exhales sharply in relief. He hears Stan do the same next to him and glances over; his expression is mirrored on his twin's face. A moment of silence passes between them before they both burst into laughter.

"This is going to take some getting used to," Ford admits with chagrin. "I know I triple checked everything, but I still keep thinking we're going to sink."

"Tell me about it," Stan commiserates.

They take the boat a few miles south and anchor in the gentle shallows. Seagulls call to one another as they spin lazily overhead and the waves break softly on the not-too-distant shore. The sun is setting, painting the horizon crimson and low-hanging cumulus clouds plum, and the moon has risen, a pale crescent. It is a clear and beautiful night.

Once the boat is secure, Ford helps Stan spread their blankets and pillows on the front deck. The space between the cabin and the bow is small, however, and they have to push some boxes filled with supplies and Ford's still broken brass telescope aside. Ford then goes into the cabin to grab a couple of sweaters. The heat of the day has dissipated and become cool; it is not unbearable but it will be easier with the extra layer.

"You want?" Ford asks as he returns, proffering the sweater. Stan has toed out of his shoes and sits with his legs crossed in the middle of the mess of blankets. The battery powered radio is by one knee and the unopened haversack is in his lap.

"Yeah," Stan says as he accepts the clothing. He pulls it over his head and adjusts the sleeves, pushing the cuffs up to his elbows so his sun-kissed forearms remain exposed. "Thanks."

Following Stan's example, Ford takes off his own shoes and sits down across from his brother. Stan grabs the electric lantern and turns it on. The dim glow does not reach far, but it will be enough once the sun has disappeared completely.

"So I have a couple things, you know, to make this a real party," Stan tells Ford with a grin. Ford glances at the haversack and raises an eyebrow, and Stan snorts at the unspoken question. "C'mon, Sixer, don't you trust me?"

"I do," Ford answers. Then, teasingly, "It's probably misplaced but—"

"Just close your damn eyes and hold out your hand, smart ass."

Ford does as he's told. He can hear Stan open the haversack and rummage through it. There's a light thud of something heavy being set down on the deck and, several moments later, a light box the size of a deck of cards is placed in Ford's palm.

"Okay," Stan says. "You can look."

In Ford's hand is a brand new, unopened pack of Marlboro Reds. Ford's eyebrows jump up in surprise. He and Stan have been carefully pilfering mashed cigarettes from their mother's purse for years, treats saved for special occasions or a minute of reprieve for rougher days. To have an entire pack is unprecedented.

"Where did you get this?" Ford asks.

"Same place I got this!" Stan holds up a large bottle of amber-colored whiskey. It must have been the first thing he pulled from the haversack. "One of the older guys at the gym owed me a favor. I got a couple more in my bag. I thought you'd like that more than some beer."

"I do." Ford turns the pack over in his hands. He feels unexpectedly choked at the gesture. Stan can be crass and careless, but he can also be very thoughtful and sweet. "Thank you."

They spend the night eating junk food—a combination of chips and candy that leave a thin film of residue in Ford's mouth—drinking whiskey and smoking cigarettes. Ford dislikes the taste of alcohol; he has to chase it with the off-brand cola Stan brought, though the sharpness and the need to soothe it fade as the hours stretch. Ford's cigarettes are smoked between passes of the bottle.

"It looks like a star," Ford slurs as Stan inhales, briefly igniting the smoldering ashes at the end of the cigarette. "A red giant. Like—Arcturus. Aldebaran."

"Vegas."

"Not a red giant. And it's Vega, no s."

Stan laughs, low and bright, and flicks the nearly finished cigarette into the water. "Nerd," he teases, but there is no censure in his voice or in his eyes. "I betcha could name all the stars in the sky, if you wanted."

"Impossible!" Ford shakes his head too hard and the world swims. It is not an unpleasant sensation. Just a touch of vertigo, like he has just stepped off a carnival ride. "Not all of them have names."

"What about the ones with names?" Stan asks. "Couldja name them?"

This is how Ford finds himself lying side-by-side with his brother, shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip. Their closeness is a necessity but it is not unwanted. Stan has always been tactile and, while sometimes Ford is discomforted by physical expressions of affection, Stan's readily given touch is easy to accept. He leans into the warmth of Stan's body as he points out recognizable stars, naming them and the constellations they are a part of.

Stan listens quietly and attentively, interrupting when Ford's rambles remind him of the stories Ford used to tell him when they were children. "The strong guy, right?" Stan says when Ford points out Hercules. "You said he fought a lion."

"Among other things."

Most people believe that Stan is unintelligent, but they do not know Stan like Ford does. Stan's retention is kinesthetic rather than visual or auditory; he may not be as good with numbers and hard facts as Ford is, but he is just as curious and he doesn't hide this fact behind his normal bluster when he is alone with Ford.

"I can't wait until it's like this all the time," Stan mumbles. His syllables crash together, thickened by inebriation and tiredness, but Ford understands. "Just wanna—just you and me."

The night is deep and still. Stan smells of clean sweat, cheap cologne, and sour whiskey. The blankets beneath them are heavy with the familiar scent of teenage musk—deep and full and intimate—and it is all overlaid by the salty ocean that gently rocks beneath them. Ford turns his head and presses his mouth against the stiff strands of Stan's slicked back hair.

"One day," Ford swears. "One day, Stanley—just you and me."

And beneath the vastness of the sky and the ancient light of the stars, Ford has never meant anything more.

iii. eighteen

Ford says goodbye to his family on the cracked sidewalk outside his childhood home. He shakes his father's hand, embraces his mother, and runs a gentle hand over the crown of his baby brother's skull. His mother tells him to be careful and wishes him good luck in the same breath. He nods, once, and promises, "I will. Thank you." Then he climbs into his rickety and rusted notchback, puts the bent key into the ignition, and pulls away from the curb.

As he drives away, Ford does not lean out the window to wave a final farewell, nor does he cast one last glance in his rear view mirror. His mind had left his hometown for an amorphous future weeks ago; now, with a diploma in hand and his dorm room assigned, Ford's physical body can follow.

Despite this readiness, however, Ford is still weighed down by the drag of hesitation. He has left something undone and it pulls at him.

"Stop," Ford berates himself, as though verbalizing the command will make it easier to obey. "There's nothing there for you now."

Ford tightens his grip on the steering wheel until his knuckles become bloodless and white. His stomach is in knots. He focuses blindly on the clouds that hang low and gray and dense in the unchanging sky, thunder rumbling in the far-off distance. It is the kind of summer storm that looms forebodingly and indefinitely, the kind that passes overhead and inspires trepidation before it leaves without any hint of closure. It is not weather meant for new beginnings but stagnation, and it matches Ford's internal indecision perfectly.

As he drives, the temperature inside the notchback rises. Ford rolls down the window in attempt to cool down—the air conditioning is broken, along with the radio and the odometer—but the wind that whips across his face is thick and balmy. It smells full and sharp, heavy with the threat of rain and lightning, and offers no relief. His skin itches as sweat gathers between his shoulder blades and below his sternum.

"Goddamnit," Ford hisses as he passes the town's sprawling, southern border. A weathered sign made of wood and chipped white paint thanks Ford for visiting, a long familiar sight. "Why can't I just—"

Ford sinks his teeth into his bottom lip and glances at the map in the passenger's seat. The route to Backupsmore is highlighted in neon yellow. It is an unnecessary visual aide. Ford has long since memorized every aspect of his journey, and it is neither the map nor his memory that fail him as he passes the turn-off; rather, it is his weak and unresolved heart, and he curses again as he continues down the narrowing road.

This is all his fault, Ford thinks angrily as the verdant trees and tangled underbrush creep closer to the single lane's gravel shoulder. He should be the one apologizing. Not me.

Ford is still livid with Stan for ruining the perpetual motion machine. He has always been aware of Stan's capacity for cruelness—a unique trait born from his careless ways and selfish wants—but Ford has also always believed himself to be an exception. To learn that he was wrong cut a deep and unforgettable hurt. It has taken Ford months to process everything that happened the day of the science fair. Even now Ford is unsure whether or not talking to Stan will solve anything, or if Ford will walk away angrier than he already is.

Still.

He has to try.

The beach approaches swiftly, a familiar stretch of reeds, sand, and vast ocean that Ford has not seen since Stan was kicked out. Ford has purposefully avoided the area. He had intuited that Stan would stay on the boat—they had, after all, spent many nights tucked together on the deck or in the cabin—and is unsurprised to see the El Diablo when he pulls the notchback into the small, sun-bleached square of pavement. Then he takes the keys out of the ignition and looks over at the empty car.

Just like the beach, it looks the same as it had before everything changed. Just like the beach, it makes Ford feel unbalanced.

Ford hasn't seen Stan in several months. It is the longest amount of time they have spent apart. Previously, the record had been sixteen days, set when Ford had spent two weeks at a science camp in New York. Stan had acted as though the separation didn't effect him but, when night came, he had bullied Ford into sleeping on the bottom bunk with him. He had wrapped his arms around Ford's waist and buried his face into the curve of Ford's neck.

"Missed ya, Sixer," he had confessed.

"I missed you too," Ford had whispered back. The loneliness they felt had been easy to accept in the quiet darkness of their room, and the homesickness Ford had bottled up vanished in the safe cocoon of Stan's embrace. It had been so easy.

Easier than this, Ford thinks as he gets out of the notchback. His hands are clenched into six-fingered fists.

The Stan-o-War is moored further down the shore, safe from the gentle tide, and both sails are secure. There is no movement on deck, but that means little; Stan could be in the cabin, idly flipping through one of his magazines or taking an afternoon nap. Either way, Ford is silent as he climbs onto the deck and approaches the cabin door, as trepidation overwhelms all his other emotions.

Ford stands and stares at the door for several minutes, and strains to hear movement inside the cabin. Nothing is discernible over the steady slap of the ocean against the hull. Even when Ford gathers the courage to rap his knuckles against the wood and call Stan's name—the single syllable thin and tremulous—there is no answer.

"Stanley?" Ford tries a second time, his fingers curling around the door latch. "Stanley, are you—?"

Again, there is no response. Stan could be deeply asleep or he could simply be ignoring Ford. Ford sincerely hopes it's the former. Stan can be impossible when he sets his mind to it.

Only one way to find out, Ford thinks. He takes one last fortifying breath, opens the door, and steps down into the cabin.

The room is dim. Weak, gray light filters in through the portholes, and Ford squints as his eyes adjust. He casts his gaze around and takes in the cramped space: the table, the cooler, the bed. Nearly every surface is covered with Stan's clothes, empty food wrappers, or miscellaneous junk. It is quite obvious that Stan has been living on the boat since May, and the only missing evidence is Stan himself.

"Damnit," Ford hisses as he looks at the empty bed. There are a multitude of blankets and pillows piled together in a nest, and a small empty space where someone had lain. Then, after another useless sweep around the cabin, Ford mutters, "Where the hell is he?"

Stan could be anywhere in Glass Shard. He could be at beach or the boardwalk; he could be at the gym or spending time with one of his many acquaintances; he could be at the arcade, or the record shop, or the burger place he loves. There are too many possibilities and Ford does not have the time to climb into his notchback and traverse all over town. Sign-in for Backupsmore ends at seven and it will take Ford a couple hours to get there.

He'll be back, Ford thinks as he sinks onto the familiar mattress. He'll—he has to come back.

Ford stares up at the wooden ceiling as he waits and remembers, somewhat distantly, about how Stan had spent an entire month making the cabin hospitable. He remembers how Stan had hammered down all the protruding nails, fixed the ajar door, and painted the outside walls white. He remembers when Stan bought the table—sans any chairs—for five dollars at the flea market and when Stan found the mattress at a garage sale. He remembers how Stan had pilfered the first blanket from the attic—a scratchy patchwork of crocheted granny squares—and laid it over their bare bodies.

"There," Stan had murmured, his stubble prickly against the tender line of Ford's throat. "Now we can't get cold."

Ford closes his eyes against the memory. Being with Stan had always been simple and right and, before the science fair, Ford would have thought nothing could come between them.

Shows what I know. Ford clenches his jaw as the old anger rises. Goddamn, how could I have been so naïve?

The air inside the cabin is still and stifling, and the thick humidity weighs down on Ford. The heat of the season has plateaued; eventually autumn will come and break the spell of summer, but until then, Ford is left to suffer in the lingering remains. He checks his wristwatch intermittently and watches the minutes drag into hours.

The longer Ford waits, the more irritated he becomes. This mess is entirely Stan's fault. He is the one who sabotaged Ford's machine. He is the one who ruined Ford's chances at getting into West Coast Tech. He is the one who betrayed Ford's trust. Stan should be the one apologizing to Ford, not the other way around.

This is all Stan's fault, Ford's mind justifies. He's just selfish and careless and dumb—

Ford refuses to acknowledge the prickle of guilt beneath his breastbone. He knows that he turned away from Stan when Stan reached out to him but—who could blame him? Stan's actions were what created this mess, not Ford's. It is not Ford's responsibility to always clean up after Stan.

By 4:37 in the afternoon, Ford's reconciliatory mood has boiled back into anger. His skin feels several sizes too small. Restlessness builds in his bones and, when he gets to his feet, he paces. He almost trips over a small crate of old paperbacks. Frustrated, Ford nearly kicks it over; then he remembers the books are his, and he stops. New motivation fills him. If Stan won't apologize to him, then Ford is going to remove himself from Stan's life completely.

Ford takes everything he considers his. He pulls his meticulously complied star charts down from the walls and bundles his still broken telescope in an old button-up. He takes his pillow and his comforter and his emergency spare clothing. He even takes things he has no use for, like the shortwave radio. He gathers all traces of himself until nothing remains and packs everything away in the trunk of his notchback. Then he viciously slams the door shut, starts the car, and drives away without looking back.

Stan's the one who broke it, Ford justifies as he leaves the boat, the beach, and his brother behind. So Stan should be the one to fix it.

It is a dangerous and one-sided thought.

Ford thinks it anyway.

iv. twenty-three

Fiddleford McGucket is the first to ask.

"So," he says as he sits crossed legged on his narrow bed. His thin back is propped up against his poster covered wall and his banjo rests idly in his lap. He plucks a couple strings and notes vibrate in the still air of their shared dorm. "Have you decided what you're goin' to do?"

Ford looks up from his notes but does not remove his pen from paper. He blinks: the first time in curiosity and the second because his eyes are drier than he expected. A quick glance at his wristwatch tells him that he's been hunched over his desk since lunch.

"Do?" Ford parrots as he straightens his spine and rolls his neck. He grimaces when every cervical vertebrae cracks. Both his brain and his body are sore; the last six months of his life have been hellish. Between his dissertations—one in physics and one in mathematics—and his collaborations in zoology and anthropology, Ford's doctoral coursework wearing him thinner than he ever thought possible.

"Yeah." Fiddleford shrugs, not looking up from his instrument. "Like, for your research."

It takes Ford several moments to decipher his roommate's question.

"Oh," Ford breathes when he figures it out. "You mean with my grant money."

Fiddleford hums in affirmation. "Always wondered what you planned on doin', after," he confesses. He slides his bony fingers along the banjo's strings, eliciting a thin rasp. "I know you like learnin' for learnin's sake so I thought you might like bein' a professor. Not here, o'course, but someplace fancy up north. Don't know how you feel bout teachin' though. Yer patient enough, I suppose, but yer people skills…"

"I haven't thought about it seriously," Ford admits.

"Don't surprise me none." Fiddleford laughs, light and easy. There is no judgment in his tone, just acceptance. "But I would start thinkin' bout it seriously if I were you. Yer gonna need to write a proposal for that grant. Glad I don't have to do that—soon as I get my engineerin' degree I'm headin' straight to California."

Ford is lucky that Fiddleford was the first to ask the question because as the spring semester begins to speed up, it seems as though every professor he's ever had is around the corner with the same query. He has the seed of an idea buried in his brain that he is unable to articulate properly, and any time he attempts to explain it, the listener has a look of confusion on their face. Ford quickly learns to wave the question off, smile a rueful smile, and say, "It will have to wait until I present my dissertations."

The second time Ford has to consider his future is the day after his final presentation. He is sitting in his advisor's office, drinking a cup of coffee that has sat on the burner for too long, when she leans back in her chair and sighs.

"You have a brilliant mind, Stanford," she says as she pinches the bridge of her nose. Ford has seen her do it many times since she began to oversee his doctoral work. "You've achieved more in the past five years than many people achieve in a lifetime. I have no doubt you'll get your grant once but… listen. The academic world is more cutthroat than you can imagine. Smarts can only get you so far. And this…"

She taps a knuckle against Ford's tidy proposal. Ford feels a contrasting rush of indignation and trepidation at the small gesture, and his free hand tightens into a fist.

"There's a difference between the improbable and the impossible, and what you've proposed is fantastical. This isn't like the search for supernova or life at the bottom of the ocean—those, at least, are hypotheses based off actual evidence."

"But I do have evidence—"

"No," she interrupts. "What you have is superstitions and fairy tales. You're gifted, Stanford. Ambitious. Driven. You are at the height of your potential. You could go anywhere and do anything—but it has to be something that produces results. Without that you're just a crackpot scientist living alone in the woods."

A thousand arguments spring to the forefront of Ford's mind but he bites down on each and every one of them. He knows his proposal isn't what his advisor and the university expect, but the longer he thinks about it, the more and more he knows that he cannot do anything else. His advisor knows it too, sees it in the stubborn angle of his jaw, and sighs.

"I know I'm not going to change your mind," she says, voice tinged with resignation. "But if you submit this as is, you're going to be laughed off campus. I suggest you take out all references to the paranormal and supernatural and focus on the scientific aspect. Take this line, for example…"

Later, Ford is glad for her input. It stings to have to change the words—to be vague and disingenuous—but he is grateful for it when there is little deliberation over his proposal. He is also grateful for it when his family comes down for his graduation ceremony, and Filbrick asks, "So what exactly are you gonna do with this grant?"

"I'm moving to Gravity Falls," Ford tells his father. "It's a small town in Oregon. There are a number of peculiar anomalies concentrated around that region that I would like to document. I have this theory—"

Ford uses the same condensed pitch he sold to the panel. Filbrick's eyes are inscrutable behind the dark barrier of his sunglasses, but when Ford finishes, he claps him on the shoulder and gruffly states, "I'm proud of you."

It is the first time Filbrick has ever said the words. Ford starts, his eyebrows jumping up in surprise, and sputters, "Th-thank you."

Shock is Ford's only emotion and—suddenly—he understands that he does not need Filbrick's approval. Whatever support he once sought from his father has been given to him aplenty by his peers and the authority figures at Backupsmore.

"We're all proud of you," his mother tells him later. Filbrick had opted to venture out into the parking lot and get the car while she and Shermie walked Ford back to his dorm. Fiddleford is still out—he had planned on introducing his family to his long-time girlfriend—and the tiny room is eerily silent. His mother's voice carries when she emphasizes, "All of us."

Ford sets his mortarboard atop a stack of books, throws his ceremonial robes over the back of his chair, and tucks his diplomas safely away in the organized chaos of his desk. He then grabs an argyle sweater vest from the closet. It will be too much for the warm spring air, but Ford has recently found that he likes the comfort of extra layers.

"Stan's in Maine, working on a commercial fisher," his mother continues, misinterpreting Ford's silence. "He wanted me to tell you that he's—"

"I don't care," Ford interrupts. His throat aches at the mention of his twin and he hates it. "I don't—"

"He wanted to watch you graduate," his mother continues gently. "He wanted to come."

The unspoken but he couldn't hangs between them. Filbrick would not have tolerated Stan's presence. He was a serious man who made serious threats. When he kicked Stan out of the house, he had also kicked Stan out of the family. Besides, even if by some miracle Filbrick had allowed it, Stan had a warrant out for his arrest. It would have been irresponsible for him to come back to New Jersey.

(A small part of Ford remembers how Stan always did what he wanted regardless of the consequences. He also remembers how Stan stood beside him and supported him, unwaveringly loyal even when it made no sense to be. That small part knows that it isn't Filbrick or the law that is keeping Stan away. It's something else, something that was born in the tender nights of their adolescence, something that was broken along with the perpetual motion machine.)

"It doesn't matter what Stan wanted," Ford says as he pulls the sweater vest over his head. He firmly ignores the way his mother looks at him. She and Stan are the only people who have been able to see past the logical stoicism he projects to the tender emotion he hides. "What matters is he isn't here."

"Oh, sweetheart," his mother sighs, softly and sadly. "That isn't what matters at all."

v. thirty-one

Ford's head hurts. It throbs in time with his heart and it

It's cold outside and his head hurts. and there's a metal plate and black stitches like teeth along the superior temporal line of his skull and his

Ford's head hurts. Ford's head

hurts. There's a titanium plate in his skull trying to bond with the bone and stitches that bite into his skin. And. He touches them even though he's not supposed to. Because. He needs to. Because. The pain is real. So. The stitches are real. And the plate—the shield—is real. so real too real it hurts it hurts it hurts

because a few days ago a surgeon—well-paid—maybe baffled—probably morally ambiguous —didn't ask questions—did as Ford instructed—shaved off a patch of Ford's hair—drew a scalpel across the human veneer of Ford's flesh prison—peeled it back—exposed the cage of his bones and

Ford's head hurts. His toes are numb. All twelve of his fingers feel fat. It is cold outside. And. Cold inside. Not in the house, but in Ford

in the places he is.

Hollow.

The plate will protect him. Bill cannot get past the plate. Bill cannot possess his body. Bill cannot

His head. Hurts.

Ford has a bottle of antibiotics and a bottle of painkillers. He eats a slice of bread and drinks a glass of water before he swallows the antibiotic. He does not take the painkiller. The painkiller the surgeon prescribed is an opioid. An opioid would tempt sleep and the plate will stop Bill from possessing his body but it won't stop Bill from possessing his dreams. It won't stop him from lingering in the shadows; won't stop his laughter from echoing in the empty rooms of the cabin; won't stop his eye(s) from watching; won't stop the cold and the hurt.

A slice of bread a glass of water a pill a metal plate black stitches the snow the cold no matter where he goes underground on ground above ground the cold the hurt

A postcard on the fridge. A reminder: Shermie's turning fourteen! A post-script: Chanukah plans? Another post-script: Stan's new address.

He yells at the mailman. He points his crossbow and yells. The mailman's eyes aren't yellow. But. That does not mean they cannot become yellow. The mailman snarls—snaps his elongated teeth—Ford snarls back.

"Freak," the mailman says as he drops the letters. the final notice. the dwindling bank statement. the denial for more funds.

Dear Mr. Just A Crackpot Scientist Living Alone In The Woods, We Regret To Inform You That Your Post-Graduate Research Has Not Impressed Us. Your Advisor Warned Against This Particular Course Of Action But You Did Not Heed Her Warning. Now You Are Out Of Money And Being Tormented By An Isosceles Triangle From Another Dimension. We Wish You The Best Of Luck In Your Future Endeavors. Sincerely, The College You Did Not Want To Go To.

Ford sleeps when he must and his dreams are convoluted messes. Sometimes he remembers them. Sometimes he forgets them. Sometimes they are just dreams. Sometimes they are encounters in which Bill laughs at him and taunts him.

"Oh, Fordsy, you think you can stop me? I have been orchestrating this since before your pathetic dimension burst into existence, and you think you can stop me? You? The person who was so eager—"

"Stop it—"

"So naïve—"

"Stop it—"

"You think I don't know every single secret you have buried? You think I don't know you down to your bones, to your very last atom? You think I don't know every depravity and every desire? C'mon, Sixer—"

There is no one in Gravity Falls (in Gravity Falls) Ford can trust because there is a trans-universal-poly-dimensional-meta-vortex time bomb three stories below ground. And. Because there are seven hundred and fifty-five possessable citizens in town. And. Because even if he turns off the machine and splits the blueprints among his three journals

two journals

one journal, he can't know where all three are, because if he knows Bill will eventually know. Someone else has to take it. Someone else has to—someone he can

PLEASE COME he writes. TRUST NO ONE he scribbles.

It's cold outside. And. Eight stitches. A metal plate. A postcard. And. It's cold inside. And.

Ford's head hurts.

vi. thirty-one

There are stars ABOVE him—no, BELOW him—no, aro(him)und—no, the stars are hi(inside)m—and there is a nauseating swirl of colors, colors he knows? and colors? he should not know? and

there is an echo—or a scream or a cry—of electricity in his… ears? in his brain? in the hollows of his teeth like when chalk skitters across the blackboard or when the tongs of a fork scrape against a ceramic plate, the shrill that lingers long after the vibrations have vanished, and

there is an unheard thrum of wrongness in his bones

DEEP

LOW

like the universe is breathing in but all it does is breath in—like every atom in existence threatens to splinter apart—like all energy threatens entropy and heat—like the strings that tie all there is and is not together are being knotted and u-n-k-n-o-t-t-e-d at once and

there is a dirty, long-haired stranger clutching at his injured shoulder.

"Stanley!" Ford screams as he flails against the inevitable pull of gravity. Beyond the numb terror, he feels as though he is being stretched, like salt water taffy on a hook—again and again and again and again and again—but s t r e t c h is incorrect because he feels as though he is being CRUSHED, too. "Stanley, help me—!"

There are… mistakes.

There are… things unsaid.

There are… dreams buried like treasure in the reed-studded sand and hopes as dog-eared as unprotected photographs and there is—

"Stanley! Do something!"

his brother

kneeling helplessly in the dirt

wide-eyed and scared

"STANLEY—!"

vii. sixty-two

Polydeuces-11 is a moon-world with an axial rotation so slow it takes an entire month to complete a single cycle. It revolves around a jovian planet that dominates the night sky, a gas giant that shines aquamarine and chartreuse against the star-speckled void of space, casting everything Ford can see in a cool, calm light. There are only two outposts on Polydeuces-11 and, hundreds of miles from either, Ford believes himself safe.

That is when he feels the shift.

Ford is on his feet in an instant. He kicks loose dirt over the small fire by his feet, smothering its light and heat; he wraps one hand around the knife at his hip and the other around the gun strapped between his shoulder blades; then he crouches, his thighs tense and his feet planted, ready to fight. The fine hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. He scans the area, his green-tinted vision enhanced by his googles.

A moment later, a wormhole opens directly in front of him. It shines blue and not-blue, and it screams, a sound that is both too high and too low for Ford's feeble human ears to detect. It has been over three decades since he's seen anything like it but there is no mistaking it.

Impossible, Ford thinks as he stares at the portal before him. Every muscle in his body is frozen. He had expected a struggle, not a door, and the lack of action leaves him wrong-footed. There's no one who could have—no. My journals. Someone could have—

Ford's mind flickers through a handful of possibilities. Fiddleford? Another scientist? A government agent? An enemy? Ford discards each thought as soon as it appears. No, no, no, no. Then he thinks, Maybe Stan could have—

Stanley.

The realization shocks Ford. He has always known that Stan was smart and resourceful, but the truth of the situation makes him stagger. The portal was difficult to operate even with the blueprints he wrote down in the journals; it required a level of understanding that very few people from Ford's home dimension had knowledge bas or the patience for.

He did it, Ford marvels, eyes wide behind the dark shield of his goggles. He actually did it. He—ignored my warnings.

Ford's second realization follows the first swiftly. He curses. The words are foul and loud and lost to the growing vacuum of the vortex. It has only been open for a handful of seconds and it has already begun to unravel.

What the hell was he thinking! Ford grits his teeth as he rises. Anger has always been easier for Ford than awe, especially in regards to Stan. The portal is unstable. If it stays open too long—no, it's already been open too long—

Suddenly, Ford knows he has to go through the portal. There will be leftover instability from the event and, once the particles clump together, it will form a rift. Ford does not know if Stan will know how to contain the rift—if he knows to contain it at all—and Ford cannot allow such a risk.

(Whether or not Ford wants to go through the portal does not cross his mind, as he had given up hope on being able to return to his original dimension years ago. Most inter-dimensional travel was tricky and imprecise, and the few people who had perfected the process refused to share their secrets. Once the reality of this had set in, Ford made himself believe that he would not return even if he were given the chance. After all, what could his tiny planet possibly offer him that the infinite universe did not already have?)

"Goddamnit, Stanley," Ford mutters inanely as he quickly prepares himself, checking his pockets for his gear and his holsters for his weapons. "You stupid—selfish—reckless—son of a b—"

The last of Ford's rant disappears with him into the portal.

viii. sixty-two

"There is a chance you won't come back," Ford tells Stan. His voice and his gaze are steady even if his hands are not. He hides these trembling truths in his plan and in the pockets of his trench coat. "When I erase Bill with the memory gun there's—there's a possibility you might get erased alongside him."

Stan shrugs, a simple and uncommitted gesture. Ford has seen the same thing a hundred thousand times and has reacted to it in a hundred thousand different ways, but he does not know how to react to it now.

"There are worse ways to go," Stan says. "Hell, I've almost gone worse ways." He laughs, low and humorless. "At least this way I can finally do somethin' good."

Ford stares at his brother's face. He takes in the gray hair, the wrinkles in the corners of his eyes, the yellowed teeth. He takes in the weary slump of his shoulders and the bowed curve of his spine. Life was not kind to Stan Pines—yet here he is, his hands curled around the edges of Bill's prison, ready to fight.

"Stanley," Ford murmurs.

"Sixer," Stan replies.

"We don't have a lot of time until Bill is back." Ford touches the soft skin of Stan's throat, just above the white of his collar. Stan's pulse is steady and unafraid. "Less than I want. There's—so much I want to tell you—"

Stan curls his hand around Ford's and draws Ford's fingers away from his neck. He does not let go, however; he brings Ford's hand to his mouth and, very deliberately, kisses the knuckles on all six of Ford's digits.

"Tell me later," Stan says as he pulls away. "No matter what—and I mean no matter what—I want you to tell me everythin' you wanna tell me. Deal?"

"Deal," says Ford.

iix. sixty-two

It takes months to prepare for their journey.

"I have money," Stan tells Ford days after the children have left. They are sitting out on the back porch on Stan's old sagging couch. Their sides are pressed together, from shoulder to hip to knee, a long line of warmth and comfort. Ford nurses a glass of whiskey and Stan has a cigar pinched between his fingers. "A small nest egg." Stan breathes in and holds the smoke in his mouth. Then he exhales, "Ain't much."

"I have several inventions I can patent," Ford returns easily. "Money will not be problem."

Ford sips his whiskey slowly—he had developed a taste for it after moving to Gravity Falls—and he wonders, idly, when Stan had turned to cigars.

"Good," Stan mutters. "'m tired of problems."

There are fireflies sparking in the tall grasses along the tree line, brief and bright, and there are owls in the branches, hooting forlornly in the dark. Ford takes Stan's hand and fits them together. Stan's five fingers fit perfectly between Ford's six.

"Me too," Ford says.

The boat comes later, in late autumn before the first snow makes it difficult to travel. Stan has a shoebox of old cassette tapes in the glovebox. He plays them on the drive to the coast and sings along, his voice as flat and as rough as it was when they were teenagers. Ford remembers some of the songs—remembers the warbling guitar solos and the oft-repeated choruses—and belts out the words when he can. Stan startles the first time and nearly drives them off the road.

"Goddamn, Sixer!" he shouts. "Gonna give me a heart attack!"

The real surprise comes when they reach the coast. Stan thinks they are have driven out to narrow down their prospects. What he does not know is that Ford has already researched, found, and bought the perfect vessel. He wants to surprise Stan and tries to hide the truth for as long as he can.

"The marina?" Stan asks when Ford directs him away from the dealerships and towards the ocean. "Why are we goin' to the marina?"

"We'll get a better idea of what to purchase," Ford lies.

It is a small miracle that Stan believes Ford's well-practiced excuse. Stan is a professional con-man, after all, and the only reason he hasn't picked up on Ford's deceit is because he is not expecting any. Ford's luck only holds until he picks up the boat keys from the dock master.

This time, Stan does not say anything. He merely crosses his arms across his chest and raises an eyebrow.

"Oh, come on," Ford says, curling a hand around his brother's shoulder. "Our berth is this way."

Ford watches as Stan scans every boat they pass. Most are yachts—pristine and white—and some are sailboats done up in bright colors. Their boat is squat and dark in comparison, with a large antenna rising from the cabin. It is meant for long weeks on the ocean and it sticks out like sore thumb among the pleasure craft that surround it. Stan becomes so rigid and silent when Ford points it out that Ford instantly wonders if he made a mistake.

"Stanley?" Ford whispers gently, stepping from his brother's side to face him. Stan's head is bowed, chin tucked against his chest; Ford is unable to see his expression. "Do you—do you not like it?"

"Like it?" Stan answers, his voice choked. "Do I—?"

Stan looks up. Ford barely registers the tightness of Stan's mouth and the tears slipping down Stan's stubbled cheeks before he's wrapped in a bruisingly tight hug.

"You—you really meant it," Stan blubbers, his words muffled against the wool of Ford's coat. "You really—I know you said you wanted to—and I didn't think you were lyin' or nothin'—but you—our old boat? God, you really wanna make an old man cry, dontcha—"

The Stan-o-War II, Ford deciphers as his eyes skim over the words painted on the side of their boat. A tide of affection overwhelms him, warm and light. He can do nothing but squeeze his brother back, fisting his hands in the material between Stan's shoulder blades. He's talking about the name.

"Oh, Stanley," Ford murmurs sweetly as he presses his cheek against Stan's soft hair. "Of course I meant it."

After their funds and their boat are secured, Stan and Ford settle the rest of their lives. They both assume their original identities—something Ford finds unexpectedly easy—and get real passports—which is easier than it should be, considering Stanford is a technically felon and Stanley is technically deceased. At Thanksgiving, when the rest of their tiny family comes up to visit, they tell a heavily-edited version of their lives. Dipper and Mabel's parents are shocked and perturbed by the fantastical tale while Shermie simply accepts it.

"Sure explains a helluva lot," he mutters darkly over a slice of pie.

Saying goodbye to their weird town and the people that live in it is harder than either of them thought it would be. So too is moving out of the Mystery Shack.

Packing up the shack takes a long time. There are thirty-nine years of history written into the wood and stored on every level. There are experiments—successful, half-finished, and failed—that need to be dismantled. There are specimens and samples that range from dangerous to benign that need to be disposed. There are rooms with secrets that need to be opened and aired. There is junk in the shack too, the simple detritus that comes from living life: broken sparklers and board games with missing pieces, yellowed magazines and periodicals, books with worn spines, videos that skip, Christmas lights that don't work, clothes that don't fit.

Ford and Stan clear the house room by agonizing room. They work their way from the laboratory on the bottom floor up to the attic, and pass the hours by swapping stories and anecdotes. Sometimes they burst into laughter; sometimes they choke on unshed tears; and sometimes they simply tell. Ford has spent so long denying his loneliness that he hoards every detail Stan gives him.

By the time Ford and Stan reach the top level, winter is in full force. They plug in a couple of space heaters and wear thick sweaters and thicker socks to combat the fierce cold that seeps in through the rafters. As they clean, they find traces of the children: spilled glitter and chewed up pens, crumpled graph paper and a rainbow of chenille pipe cleaners. They also find forgotten things: an incomplete set of state shot glasses, a pair of battered roller skates, an old brass telescope.

"Wow," Stan says as he rummages the telescope out of a box filled with miscellany. "Haven't seen this piece of junk in years."

Ford looks up from his box—stuffed to the brim with what appears to be regrettable Halloween costumes—and smiles in childish delight. "My telescope!" he exclaims, opening one hand. "Let me see it!"

Stan hands it over. The weight of it is familiar in Ford's palm. It is tarnished again—nothing a little elbow grease won't fix—and the lens—

The lens is smooth and whole.

Ford blinks. Then, slowly and uncomprehendingly, he says, "It's not broken."

"What?" Stan looks up away from the flattened sombrero he just pulled out and goes, "Oh, yeah."

It is quiet in the attic. The thick snow outside muffles much of the noise and, while Soos and Melody are downstairs in the kitchen, Ford cannot hear them. A thousand questions form Ford's tongue but, in the end, he does not voice one. All he does is wait patiently for Stan's explanation.

"It was—five years?—after you disappeared," Stan begins haltingly, turning the sombrero in his hands so he doesn't have to look up and make eye contact. "I was—the Murder Hut was—no, it was the Mystery Shack, then—it was doin' okay. I was makin' enough money to pay the mortgage and eat and all that, and, well, the telescope was part of an exhibit, I think, and this old fella comes and does a tour and—he kinda gets weird when he sees it.

"He's a collector, he says, and he wants to buy it. Names a decent price. I say no. Names a higher price. I say no. Then he says, 'Mr. Mystery, I will give you six hundred dollars for this telescope.' I won't lie—I was tempted. Six hundred bucks! But I—I went over to take it down, and I couldn't… I kept seeing your face, you know? Remembered how you used to take it apart and polish it, how we used to go from store to store huntin' for spare parts. It was busted but you still loved the damn thing and—it felt wrong, like I was givin' away somethin' I didn't have. So instead of sellin' it to him, I ask him if he knows someone who can fix it."

Ford watches Stan run his free hand through his hair and listens to him clear his throat. There is something strange building beneath the flat of his sternum, a pressure he cannot stop or explain.

"So instead of sellin' it for six hundred, I get it fixed for… goddamn, I think it was about four hundred? Got the lens and a new stand since the other one was crap. It's up here too, somewhere. It took a chunk out of my savings but I didn't care. I was havin' a hell of time findin' the other two journals, spendin' my nights combin' these creepy woods, and I couldn't make sense of all the physics and math I needed to learn and the portal stayed dark no matter what I did and—it just felt good, you know? To be able to fix somethin' for you, even if you weren't around to and—Jesus, Ford, don't—"

Ford does not realize he is crying until Stan crawls over and cradles Ford's face in his warm hands, his broad palms cupping Ford's jaw while his callused thumbs wipe the damp away from Ford's cheeks.

"I'm sorry," Ford weeps, the words wet and crowded on his tongue. Ford does not quite know what he is apologizing for. He only knows that he needs to. "Stanley—I am so, so sorry—"

"Shhh," Stan soothes. "C'mon, Sixer—it was a long time ago."

"But I—"

"No buts, Stanford," Stan interrupts. "The past is past. We lost each other for awhile. There ain't nothin' we can do about that. What we can do is what we're doin' right now. We can be here for one another. I mean—you've crossed dimensions and I socked a dream demon in the face. Everythin' else will be easy as apple pie, dontcha think?"

Ford does not think he can trust his voice when his vision is blurred by tears. Instead, he nods, and leans into the warm circle of Stan's familiar body.

"There ya go," Stan whispers. His mouth brushes the crown of Ford's skull. "Easy."

x. eighty-three

The Stan-o-War II is anchored in the shallow waters off the northern coast of Scotland. Ford is inside the cabin, drinking green tea and making notations in one of his newest journal, when Stan comes inside.

"S'cold out there," Stan mutters as he shuts the door. There are snowflakes on his shoulders and in his hair; he brushes the fat clusters off absently. His nose is red and his words are broken apart oddly by his chattering teeth. "S'that coffee?"

"Tea," Ford answers, lifting the cup. "Still warm."

Stan tugs his gloves off, walks over to the table, and accepts the ceramic mug. His fingers are like ice. So is his mouth, when he brushes a kiss against Ford's temple. When he sits down opposite Ford and takes a sip, Ford smiles at his predictable grimace.

"Goddamn," Stan curses, swallowing around the taste. "That's foul."

"I can make you some coffee," Ford offers.

Stan shakes his head. "Nah," he declines. "I can make a pot in a minute. Just wanna warm up first."

They sit in companionable silence and watch the snowflakes drift down from the overcast sky. It will be November in a few days and, selkies or no selkies, Ford wants to be further south before it gets any colder. He's not sure his bones can survive another winter this close to the Arctic Circle.

"I've been thinkin'," Stan says after a minute. His old hands are loose around the mug.

"What about?" Ford prompts.

"Gravity Falls. Our grand-nibs." Another pause. "Gettin' old."

Ford sets down his pen and closes his journal. He has been waiting for Stan to broach this subject for months, ever since Ford had taken a nasty fall several months ago and had broken his femur. Stan's care had bordered on suffocating in the weeks it took Ford to heal and, though the break had been clean and there was no lasting damage, Ford knows the accident weighs on Stan's mind.

"Do you want to go back?" Ford asks gently.

"I do." Stan runs a hand through his hair. It is still long and thick, falling in gentle waves down to his shoulders, but it has been shock white for almost a decade. It's colorlessness matches the pale of his full beard. "I'm not sayin' that I don't love our adventures—you know I do—but we're old, Sixer. I have a spotty memory and your arthritis is so bad sometimes you can't get out of bed. It's just—maybe we should think about retirin'. Doesn't hafta be Gravity Falls, either; we could go to Piedmont, or—"

"Okay," Ford interrupts. He knows what Stan looks like before he starts rambling, and he was definitely going to start rambling. "We can do that."

"Wait," Stan blurts. "You're—you're okay with that?"

"You didn't think I'd agree with you?" Ford's laughter bubbles out. "Stanley, I'm well aware of my age and my limitations. Honestly, I was getting tired of waiting for you to broach the subject. Any longer and I probably would have just sailed back."

"But there won't be any more mysteries!" Stan points out, as though Ford had not thought of all the counter-arguments. "You—do you even know what to do if you ain't chasin' down a monster?"

"I think I might read a book or two," Ford teases.

"I'm bein' serious, Stanford."

"So am I." Ford lets his playful smile melt into something softer and more sincere. "And I mean it. If you want to go back to Gravity Falls—or Piedmont, or wherever else—I am not opposed. It will be nice to sleep in and see our family more often."

"There won't be much adventure if we go back," Stan warns.

Ford sighs inwardly. He understands why Stan is trying to convince Ford not to agree with him—as backwards as that may seem—but it is tiring when he has already convinced himself. He reaches across the table, gently wraps his hands around Stan's forearms, looks him in the eye, and says:

"Stanley, I have done more in my life than I ever thought possible. I have been to the edge of the universe and back. I have been to a thousand worlds and a thousand dimensions. I don't need mystery or adventure. What I need now—what I have always needed—is you. It doesn't matter if we're on this boat or in Gravity Falls or, or in Piedmont. As long as we're together, I'm home."

Stan inhales. Exhales. Closes his warm brown eyes. Ford knows that he still has doubts—he can see it in the line of his brother's jaw and the angle of his shoulders—but Stan nods anyway, and accepts Ford's words.

"Okay," Stan says, slowly. "Okay."

Then he gets up, presses another soft kiss to Ford's temple, and makes some coffee.

xi. eight

There is a telescope by the window. It is very old—the company that manufactured this particular model went out of business in the late nineteenth century—yet despite it's age, it is very well cared for. The metal gleams and is free of scratches; the lenses are polished; and it rests atop a beautiful mahogany tripod.

"I found this when I was young," her great-great uncle tells her as he removes the telescope from the stand. His hands and his voice are whispery-soft, like paper. "It was a piece of junk, back then. Both my dad and Stan tried to tell me not to waste my time with it but I was too excited and too stubborn to listen."

When her great-great uncle laughs it turns into a cough. He sets the telescope down on his lap and asks her, in between fits, to fetch him a glass of water. When she goes downstairs to the kitchen to fulfill the request, one of her moms asks her if everything is okay.

"Yeah," she replies. "Grunkle Ford is just coughing."

Since she is eight, she does not see the worried glance her parents exchange. She merely grabs a plastic cup, fills it with water from the tap, and takes it back upstairs, ignorant to the way one of her mothers quietly bows her dark head.

"Thank you, sweetheart," her great-great uncle says when she hands the cup over. "My body isn't quite what it used to be."

After he has drained the cup and set it on the nightstand, he goes back to his story. He talks about how he went to shop after shop after shop in search of a replacement lens, how he scoured antique shops for a new stand, and how he spent hours polishing the tarnish off the brass.

"I got the tarnish off eventually," he says with a sigh, "but after many years of searching for the other pieces, I inevitably gave up."

"You didn't fix it?"

"No," her great-great uncle replies. "Stanley did." A pause. "Do you remember him?"

Leigh shakes her head. She does not remember Grunkle Stan, Grunkle Stan had passed away when she was three, and all that remains of him are the niggle of half-formed memories and stories too unreal to be true. There are pictures everywhere, too: in her mother's scrapbooks, in the hallways of her home, and on nearly every wall of the shack. There are even two on her great-great uncle's bedside table.

"Stanley was… rough around the edges, but he was a good man. Brave. Selfless." Grunkle Ford picks the telescope out of his lap and holds it gently in both hands. "He would want you to have this."

"Really?" Leigh gasps, looking up in surprise. "He would?"

"Yes," Grunkle Ford says. "As a matter of fact, I want you to have it too."

Leigh takes the telescope. It is not the sort of thing a child her age appreciates and confusion colors her face. But she knows to be polite and solemnly says, "Thank you, Grunkle Ford. I'll take good care of it."

"I know you will, pumpkin," Ford murmurs. "You're careful with people's hearts, just like he was."

Leigh does not understand the significance of his gift or his words. She knows that the telescope means a lot to her great-great uncle, but she does not know how long it was broken and buried nor how long it was alone in the dark. She will try to guess—years later when she learns the quiet truth—but the only things she will ever truly know is what Ford gives her:

joy,

an old telescope,

and the chance to see how real love can look.

#fandom: gravity falls #pairing: stanford pines/stanley pines #rated: nr #stancest

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