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the-wild-wolves-around-you · 3 years ago

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hear those bells ring deep in the soul (a katsuki bakugo/reader fic)

Summary: Pro Hero Dynamight was Japan’s Number Two Hero. He'd worked hard to achieve his position, his fame. And now it was all going down the damn drain, along with his hearing.

~*~*

Bakugo is suffering from hearing loss as a side effect of his quirk, and he struggles with how to face this new challenge. Enter Reader with a healing quirk.

Pairings: Katsuki Bakugo/Reader; Katsuki Bakugo/You

Rating: M(ature)

Warnings: Blood & violence.

A/N: No spoilers or anything. This is just a self-indulgent AU fic with aged up characters. Everyone’s in their mid-20s. Fic title is from a song called “Achilles Come Down.”

Ao3 Link: Here

*****A/N Part 2: This post has now been updated to include the links to Ch 2

Ch 2 Tumblr Link: Here

Pro Hero Dynamight was Japan’s Number Two Hero. Actually, he’d argue he was tied for first place with the current Symbol of Peace, Shitty Deku. Their victory statistics were basically the fucking same, the only difference was the freckled idiot was made of smiles and sunshine and stupid fucking sugar or something. The whole world ate out of his scarred, fucked up hand, and Darling Deku ate up all the media’s attention in return.

In contrast, Bakugo wasn’t a “people person,” as Deku loved to put it, but… he also wasn’t the same fifteen-year-old brat who got muzzled on live national television. Pro Hero Dynamight was known for his crass, blunt language, his vicious streak of justice when it came to villains, but people also looked up to him. Extras cheered for him in the streets as he exploded past mid-battle. Children ran up to him on patrol and asked him to sign their books, their photos, their Dynamight merch. On one memorable occasion, that he may or may not have saved on his computer, a national news channel ran a live clip from a disaster site, a villain attack turned rescue mission after a building collapsed. The soundbite was only thirty seconds, a close up of a pale, dusty woman with a shallow cut on her brow. The splash of crimson and her bloodshot blue eyes were the only spots of color on her, everything else washed out in white plaster and cement dust, tear tracks carving grooves down her cheeks.

But the smile on her face could have lit up goddamn Tokyo.

“Dynamight saved us,” the woman had said to the news reporter, her voice full of awe and tears. “I-I got stuck under some debris, but I heard the moment Dynamight arrived, and I just knew we were safe. The battle was over a minute later, and then he just… pulled me out of the wreckage. He pulled us all out. He’s… the greatest hero I’ve ever seen.”

That was a nice stroke to his ego. And the dazed woman had been right. He had pulled everyone out of that building, and not a single person died that day, which only confirmed what he already knew:

Katsuki Bakugo was the best of the best. Deku might have been the better show pony, but Dynamight was an undefeated hero, fierce, fearless, ferocious.

Except right now… he was fucking scared out of his mind.

This couldn’t be happening.

“What?” he snarled at the extra in the white coat standing before him.

The man flinched and visibly recoiled, shuffling back a step and partially ducking behind his tablet device. When he spoke again, he’d raised his voice an entire fucking octave.

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” the doctor stammered, but then he seemed to regain his composure and lowered his voice a little. “I… I wish I had better news for you, Dynamight, but…”

He trailed off and swallowed, the jut of his Adam’s apple bobbing beneath the thin skin of his throat.

“But what?” Bakugo spat, something like magma roiling in his veins, pops of heat crackling against his palms like splatters of hot oil from a stove.

“B-But this… can’t come as a complete shock to you,” the doctor said as he glanced back at his tablet. “Other physicians before myself must have warned you of the risks.”

The risks. Bakugo bared his teeth in a silent snarl. What did this fucking extra, with his soft hands and softer body, know about risks? The heat in his palms grew until he could see their red-hot glow out of the corner of his eye.

“Well, who and how much do I gotta pay to fix it?” Bakugo demanded as he shoved his hands in his pockets.

“That depends,” the doctor hedged and adjusted the square black glasses perched on his stupid face. “There are a variety of aid types—”

“I don’t want fuckin’ support gear or aids,” Bakugo sneered. “I want mine fixed.”

Now, the doctor’s face grew pitying. “I’m afraid that’s just not possible, given a number of factors, most importantly your current occupation.”

“My current occupation?” the hero seethed, teeth bared again like a wounded dog, a cornered wolf, snapping at the world. “Are you fucking KIDDING—”

A hint of fear sparked in the doctor’s eyes, but he suddenly raised a hand, palm out in the universal symbol for stop. “Dynamight, sir, I know this is distressing, but there are other sick patients in these walls, so please refrain from using your quirk.”

“I’m not usin’ shit,” Bakugo snapped, but then the doctor’s eyes flicked downward, and Bakugo followed them to his hands, wreathed in sparks and flares of flames, lit up like a fucking Christmas tree.

The breath stuttered in Bakugo’s lungs.

He hadn’t even felt himself call upon his quirk.

Even worse… he hadn’t heard it when he did.

He dropped his hands quickly, shoving them back in his pockets. Bile rose in his throat, but he washed it down with blood as he bit through his tongue.

“There has to be… something,” he gritted out, curling his hands into fists in their confines. “A healer—”

“Healers are rarer than you think,” the doctor sighed and shook his head. “And what’s more, they’re usually specific and limited. Their abilities are tied to blood types or restricted to relatives or even limbs. One nurse here can only heal femur bones.”

“Bullshit they’re rare, I’ve met at least two goddamn healers just this month,” Bakugo spat. “These paramedics—”

“And how strong where they?” the doctor cut him off again, raising an eyebrow. “You said paramedics, so I’m going to assume their talents mostly lie in the superficial and basic: triage, stopping the bleeding, knitting skin back together, etc.”

“What’s your fucking point?” He was this close to punching the asshole right in the glasses.

“My point is the inner workings of your ear are much more delicate than a broken rib or lacerated arm,” the doctor said in a really condescending tone that Bakugo did not appreciate. “But let’s say you do find a healer specific enough and skilled enough to restore the hearing you have already lost without damaging anything else in the process. What then? I don’t imagine Japan’s Number Two Hero retiring less than ten years after his debut and hanging up his quirk.”

Bakugo scowled, heart kick-starting in his chest, his gut tying itself in a knot.

No. No, that wasn’t possible. Katsuki Bakugo was a hero, the best of the best. It was all he’d ever wanted, and he would be damned if it was taken from him.

The doctor must have seen as much on the blond’s face because he sighed and adjusted his glasses again. “Exactly. Which means you’re just going to keep destroying your ears again and again, and even if say Recovery Girl was still alive, the repetitive healing sessions would destroy your own body’s healing factor, and after a while, you would still lose you’re hearing.”

“Tch.” Bakugo looked away and gritted his teeth so hard they ached.

The doctor sighed. “You’re already at moderate hearing loss, Dynamight, so while we do still have some options, they are limited. Honestly… I’m surprised you didn’t come in sooner.”

He should have. He fucking should have. He’d been noticing little things for years, but he just brushed it off, yelled at Deku to speak the fuck up and stop mumbling, told himself his phone must be a piece of shit and that’s why he didn’t hear a call or message. The low persistent ringing he’d been experiencing since UA was harder to write off, but after a while, it was also easier to ignore.

Then, on his last mission, Bakugo was shoving some weak ass villain at a couple of cops. The battle had lasted less than five minutes, and he was still itching for a fight, his quirk burning just beneath the surface of his skin, like embers waiting to explode back into flame. In the next moment, a hand had suddenly clamped down on his shoulder from behind, and he’d reacted out of reflex, flipping his attacker over his shoulder and nearly blasting them in the gut for good measure.

“Whoa! Fuck, dude, it’s me!” Kirishima had yelped, his skin rippling and hardening in an instant. Wide, red eyes gaped up at him, and Japan’s Number Three Hero even looked a little worried. “Didn’t you hear me? I called your name like five times.”

Bakugo had dropped Red Riot like he was on fire. No. No, Dynamight hadn’t heard his patrol partner. In fact, all he could hear in the moment was the muted wailing of sirens, the low murmur of shouting extras, and the blood roaring in his head.

Now, two days later he was standing in front of a doctor who was telling him there was nothing more they could do.

But that was fucking unacceptable. He couldn’t lose his hearing. What kind of shitty hero would he be if he couldn’t hear where the villains were in battle or where stupid extras in need of saving were in rescue situations?

He wouldn’t be a hero at all, just a fucking liability.

Bakugo tried to imagine having to retire, to hang up his hero costume, to leave Shitty Hair in charge of their joint agency. What would he do? He’d wanted, and planned, to be a hero since he was five years old. He had no other skills, not really. It wasn’t like he could work a damn desk job. Well, UA might throw him a bone, offer him a pity faculty position.

The thought left a sour taste in his mouth.

“What… are my options?” he asked haltingly as he snapped his eyes up and locked gazes with the doctor. “You said I still had some.”

The man in the white coat blinked in surprise, but then he straightened up and tapped at his tablet. “Currently, you have a few options, but you’d receive the best outcome if we did them all together. First, we can get you fitted for some hearing aids for you to wear while you are off duty. They would significantly increase your hearing capacity in your normal day-to-day life.”

Bakugo felt his face pull into a scowl. “Off duty? I need them while I’m on duty!”

“If you wear them while using your quirk, you’ll ruin the rest of your hearing in one blow,” the doctor said with a straight face. “Hearing aids amplify sounds. Amplifying your explosions is the last thing we want.”

“Well, what the fuck am I supposed to do then?” the hero snapped, heat flaring through his body with a supernova.

“Since I assume you’re going to continue your hero work, I would recommend contacting a support gear company.” The doctor made a note on his tablet. “We’ll email you the contact information for several companies the hospital has connections with, and once you chose one, we can send them your file. There are numerous noise-cancelling devices out there, but given your situation, you will probably need to collaborate with them for something custom. The goal is to having something to protect your ears-- a helmet, headphones, anything really—while you are using your quirk. Between such a device and the hearing aids, I hope we can preserve what’s left of your hearing and maybe give you a little bit back. But I will warn you… you’re hearing will never be as it was. You should know that now.”

You’re hearing will never be as it was.

The words cycloned through Bakugo’s head, round and round and round, destroying every other thought in their path. He felt detached from himself, the doctor’s voice fizzling out into a muffled drone. His vision seemed to narrow and darken, like he was viewing the world at the end of a very long and dark tunnel. One minute, he was standing there in that examine room, and then he blinked and was on the street, people rushing past him like a river unbothered by the boulder in its current.

He glanced down at his hand, at the paperwork for his follow up appointment and his fitting for the hearing aids. Heat squirmed under his skin, in his veins, like something living, something that wanted to get out.

Bakugo bared his teeth, crumpled the paper in his fist, and let the heat rush through his body, down through his arm, and into his hand. He didn’t hear the crackle, but he saw the flares of light, trapped between his palm and the paperwork like fireflies.

Then he opened his hand, and he watched the wind catch the ash and carry if off down the street, out of sight.

He needed a fucking drink.

~*~*~*~*~*~

Several hours later, Bakugo stumbled out of his usual dive bar, the taste of whisky still burning a hole through the back of his throat. The night was colder than he anticipated, colder than it should be for the beginning of autumn, and he grumbled and cursed as he hunched against the wind. He squinted at his phone, debating on whether to call a car, but in the end it was too much trouble. He was less than a half an hour’s walk from his apartment, and it was late, so he wouldn’t have to worry about extras coming up to him for photos or goddamn autographs.

Besides, the whisky hadn’t helped to quench the heat writhing through his veins, in fact the alcohol only made it worse. Bakugo felt restless, all pins and needles and ants, so maybe the brisk walk would burn off some of that energy.

Decided, Bakugo turned in the direction of home and began the long, stumbling journey through the midnight streets.

Time passed as sluggishly as his feet, which he made sure to stare down at so he didn’t trip over them. Like he anticipated, he passed no one on the sidewalks, and few cars rumbled past him. It wasn’t surprising, this neighborhood was mostly shops that closed by sundown and a few residences. The dive bar he’d left was a holdover from past decades when this side of town was rougher, but Bakugo suspected the old man who owned the joint would live on for at least another decade, if only to spite the development companies that kept trying to buy him out. The ornery bastard was half the reason Bakugo loved that bar, the other half being their decent whisky and usually empty stools.

“Shit,” he mumbled as he suddenly slipped, tittering on the edge of the curb.

He shook his head and managed to regain his balance, but when he took another step, he wobbled again.

“Come on, you drunk idiot,” he hissed at himself as he stumbled once more.

Except… he’d been standing still that time.

“Hah?” Bakugo squinted down at his feet.

The pebbles around his shoes rattled and jumped. He didn’t think he was that drunk, but he slapped his cheek with a bit of heat to his palm. The snap of warmth and pain woke him up a little, but when he glanced back down at the ground, everything was still moving.

“What the fu—”

Then the road undulated under his feet like a living thing, and the shockwave hit him a moment later.

Bakugo barked a curse as he was bucked several feet into the air, twin explosions blooming from his palms so he could right himself and land on his feet. He snapped his head up as he skidded to a stop, and the breath stilled in his lungs.

Up ahead, a man stood in the middle of the intersection, staring down the road to Bakugo’s left. Black rubble and goo floated around him like asteroids trapped in a planet’s orbit, and even from a distance, Bakugo could see the crazed smile on the man’s pale, black-streaked face.

A moment later, several heroes lunged out from around the corner and barreled straight for the villain, only to be blasted backwards as the villain flung out his hands and commanded the black debris and goo to slam into the idiots.

The villain threw back his head and seemed to laugh maniacally. Bakugo couldn’t hear it, but that didn’t matter. Lava was starting to boil in his veins, burning off the last of the whisky, and Dynamight felt an equally crazed smile stretch across his mouth.

This idiot had chosen the wrong road to fuck up tonight.

Heat condensed in his palms like collapsing stars, and then he was exploding forward, the taste of ozone and nitroglycerin on his tongue.

Within moments, Bakugo was able to determine the villain’s quirk revolved around asphalt. The bastard was able to pull large chunks of it out of the road and then liquify parts of them until they were scalding and sticky.

The other heroes—whoever they were, Bakugo didn’t even care to check—struggled to evade the villain’s attacks, but evasion wasn’t Dynamight’s style. He came at the bastard head on, exploding every rock and tar puddle in his way.

Of course, asphalt was flammable, so flames were flaring up all around the street now, but Bakugo wasn’t stupid enough to get burned. If the other heroes were, that was on them.

Dynamight was here to get the job done.

“Come here, ya sonvabitch,” Bakugo snarled as he blasted apart a chunk of asphalt aimed for his head.

The villain shrieked out something high-pitched that Bakugo didn’t catch, and then the fucker was swinging out his arm, a blob of black tar following the arc.

Bakugo let out a controlled burst toward his feet and backflipped through the air, crunching down on the roof of a parked car. He could see some of the other heroes waving at him from the corner of his eye, but he couldn’t hear what they were saying over the wailing of the car alarm below him.

The villain’s sneer was a white slash on his black, goo-streaked face, and Bakugo bared his teeth back in an expression halfway between a feral grin and a beast’s snarl. He could feel the heat crackling along his palms as he contemplated his next move, but then the villain shouted something, and all the asphalt floating in the air rocketed back towards him like the fucker was a magnet.

As Bakugo watched, the debris and goo coalesced into a singular shape, liquifying and hardening in turns until a giant black arm the size of a semi was hovering over the road. The fingers wiggled in a jaunty little wave as the villain shouted something again that was lost to the car’s still wailing alarm, and then the giant hand curled into a fist and dropped down on Bakugo like the hammer of some god.

He exploded out of the way and up into the air right before the fist smashed into the car he’d been standing on, and the siren cut out with a muffled crunch.

Bakugo had barely landed before the arm was shooting out again, but this time it wasn’t aimed for him.

A stupid fucking extra had stumbled out of one of the buildings and stood gaping like a goddamn moron on the sidewalk. Several of the on-scene heroes rushed forward, but the hand swatted them aside like annoying flies. The idiot civilian was still just standing there, though, and Bakugo found himself airborne before he could even process the thought.

“Run!” he roared as he reached the extra and shoved him out of the way, but an instant later, he felt stony fingers wrap around his torso and squeeze.

Bakugo wheezed out a curse as the giant hand lifted him into the sky, the pressure around his ribs increasing with every second. The asphalt was hot in some places, too, scalding the skin of his left arm where it was pinned against his hip. He wrenched his right arm around and tried to aim at the wrist of the asphalt appendage, but the angle was off, and the few chunks he was able to blast were quickly replaced by more rubble and boiling tar.

“Fuck!” Bakugo screamed as the fist clenched down around him. His ribs strained, his lungs unable to expand, pain licking at him like the flames flickering in his peripherals.

Distantly, he heard the villain’s laughter below him, and as the arm swayed to the side, Bakugo realized he was right above the bastard. His vision swam, his ribs screaming, his arm burning, but Bakugo gritted his teeth as he aimed his right palm down. He concentrated every ounce of his quirk into his hand until it glowed white-hot, and the asphalt around him began to liquefy again.

The villain’s eyes widened as he realized what the hero was doing, and the fucker wildly swung out his arm in a last-ditch effort. The giant asphalt limb responded in kind, but Bakugo unleashed his quirk right before the arm flung him through the air.

A massive explosion rocked the street an instant later, and the subsequent shockwave slammed into his back and propelled him through a window.

He felt the impact and pain as he struck the glass, and then…

Nothing.

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

“Ouch, fuck!” you cursed as your pricked yourself for the millionth time.

A red drop of blood beaded up on the pad of your index finger, and you scowled before you sucked the smarting appendage into your mouth. It was more of a reflex than anything, since by the time you pulled your finger out, the pinprick of a wound was already healed. Healing such a small injury would usually barely even register to you, but the clock above your desk was inching closer and closer to midnight, and you’d been up since 6am. You also skipped dinner so you could finish altering the dress you were currently working on, which didn’t help your energy levels, but you were just a few stitches away from completing your task, so you hunched back over and powered through the next five minutes.

When you were finally done, you sat back in your chair with a sigh and threw down your needle and thread. The sewing table before you swam and doubled as your vision struggled to focus on something, and you rubbed at your tired, burning eyes. You always tried to work reasonable hours, have a healthy work-life balance, but somehow you always found yourself slaving away into the dark hours of the night. You tried to tell yourself it wasn’t your fault. You’d lived here less than a year, so you didn’t know many people beyond your few neighbors and the old ladies who frequented your alterations shop.

You were also trying very hard to keep your grandparents’ business afloat.

Your grandfather had been a tailor, your grandmother a seamstress. They’d opened a shop together over fifty years ago, and if your parents hadn’t moved to America before you were born, you were sure you father would have taken over the family business. In the end, though, after your grandparents passed, you were the one to take up the needle and pull up your roots. You’d always loved making your own clothes, and you’d always felt… disconnected in America. Nothing had ever felt… right, no matter how many jobs you hopped around to. The US had been the only home you’d ever known, but when you and your parents spoke Japanese together, it had made something ache deep in the center of you, something you couldn’t name or place.

So, when your father said he was taking a trip to the homeland to sell his parents’ shop, you’d gone with him and somehow convinced him to sign everything over to you. Which was more than just a little insane. Your prior work history had been in food service and clothing retail, and your degree was in linguistics for fuck’s sake. You had no idea how to run a business, let alone in another country. Thankfully, you spoke Japanese fluently, so that had been one less hurtle to overcome, but everything else had been a dramatic learning curve. Getting to know the new city, figuring out the currency, hell even navigating the vastly different social norms of Japanese culture was daunting, and you would be lying if you said you didn’t have numerous fumbles along the way.

It, everything, had definitely taken some getting used to.

Now, a year later, things were just starting to really look up. You had used most of the money your grandparents left you to renovate the shop, get new equipment, and fix the upstairs apartment you lived in. About two dozen loyal customers helped to pay your bills and keep you afloat, and one-to-two new customers walked into your shop each month just on word of mouth. You weren’t rich by any means, but you weren’t struggling like you did in America. You felt… happy here, if a little tired. Fulfilled.

That might also have had something to do with your little… side business.

You bit your lip as your eyes shot to your window guiltily, like someone was watching you. You weren’t doing anything wrong—right now, anyways—but for the last six months, it’s been hard to shake off your paranoia.

And your guilt. Which was ridiculous. You weren’t hurting anyone. In fact, you were doing the exact opposite.

But it was still against the law. Here in Japan, at least.

That was another thing that took some getting used to. The Japanese government had strict laws on quirk usage, unlike in America where everything was about individualistic rights. In Japan, only heroes were given almost free reign, but even they had some restrictions on when and how they could use their powers.

For the rest of the Japanese populace, using quirks in day-to-day life, without official permission, was frowned upon at best and illegal at worst.

Because of your specific quirk, you leaned more toward the illegal side of things.

Healing quirks were rare. That’s what you’d been told all your life. Your mother’s quirk was the ability to lower fevers by somehow using her own body to regulate the temperature. Nothing super special or powerful, but she’d gone on to become a pediatric nurse, so she had used her quirk to its fullest and made a long, happy career for herself.

When you were young and your quirk manifested, you thought you would follow in your mother’s footsteps.

But as a teenager, you’d come to some hard realizations about yourself.

One, you weren’t strong enough to be a hero. You’d tried to get into a hero course in the States, several in fact. One course rejected you solely on your application, and then you failed two entrance exams. It had been a devastating blow to your youthful dreams and self-esteem, but your mother encouraged you, said being a hero wasn’t the only way to use your quirk for good.

So, you turned your focus to medicine… and quickly discovered that wasn’t right for you, either. Your mother hated when you said this but… you just weren’t smart enough. You had tried, really did, but everything was such a struggle, like Sisyphus slogging uphill through the mud. It just didn’t click for you like it did for your mom. You also hated to admit it, but you were a little squeamish. You were fine with small stuff, cuts and bruises, broken fingers, but once you had to dissect a large pig in an anatomy class, and the smell and weight of the pig’s slippery organs in your hands made your lunch rise up into the back of your throat. You somehow managed to make it through the class, but directly after you ran to the bathroom and emptied your own guts into the toilet.

With your dreams of being a hero and doctor dashed, you’d been a little aimless in college, taking random courses to fill your time and see if anything spoke to you. Then, during an 8am linguistics lecture you signed up for on a whim, something ignited inside you. Languages spoke to you like science and medicine never did. So, you’d changed your major to linguistics, minored in Japanese to feel closer to your parents, and took ever other language credit you could get your hands on. In between classes, you’d taken up sewing again while you listened to your audio assignments. It was just something to keep your hands busy at first, a skill your father taught you as a child until you abandoned it, but then your roommates complimented your work and started asking you to hem their jeans or take in their skirts. They offered to pay you, but you always declined, saying it was no trouble, you liked the work, and you liked being able to help.

At some point, you realized that was all you had ever wanted to do. Help people. And if you couldn’t save them as a hero, you would find some other way to make yourself useful.

So, you studied languages in the hopes of being able to help others communicate. You altered your friends’ clothes and made them small things like a monogrammed scarf or mittens. And, occasionally, you healed your roommates’ hangovers or food poisoning, stopped the bleeding when they cut their fingers making dinner, pushing through their pain to make them whole again. It wasn’t a lot, nothing really, but it was something, and it made you feel purposeful.

When you moved to Japan, you mourned the loss of being able to use your quirk on others, but you shoved the thought aside and focused on your work and the shop and figuring out how to settle down in your first home on your own.

Then, six months after you took over the shop, Mrs. Kojima, a little old lady in her seventies, had brought in her grandchildren’s uniforms to be patched and altered. She’d known your grandparents for many years, so she was always kind and had a story to share with you about your father in his youth or the gorgeous dresses your grandmother used to make. You always looked forward to Mrs. Kojima’s visits, and she always had a way of making you feel younger than you were, but not in a bad way. She just made you feel… nostalgic and safe, like you were listening to your late grandma talk over the phone.

This was probably why, when Mrs. Kojima slipped and fell in front of your counter, you reacted without thinking. The old lady barely had time to hit the floor and cry out before you were hovering over her, a green aura illuminating your hands. Her pain hit you a moment later, like a heated slap to the face, a bone-deep ache in your leg, but you gritted your teeth and pushed through the discomfort. Then you moved your fingers over to the hip Mrs. Kojima was clutching, and a moment later you felt the drain as your energy siphoned into the elderly woman’s body. Thankfully, it had only been a fracture, not a full break, so you barely even felt the difference in your strength, but as Mrs. Kojima gaped up at you, realization struck you like a freight train.

You had used your quirk, without a license, without permission, hell without the consent of Mrs. Kojima. Healing quirks were illegal for a reason, so many things could go wrong, and you weren’t properly trained. Your breathing hitched as panic seized your heart, squeezing like a vise, and your entire world had just begun to crash down around your ears when Mrs. Kojima sat up and threw her arms around you.

“Thank you,” she’d sniffled into your hair in Japanese. “Thank you so much.”

After the initial shock wore off, you had helped Mrs. Kojima into a chair, and she’d continued to thank you over and over again, saying how money was tight and she would have hated to be a burden to her children with hospital bills and a long recovery. She talked about how a lot of her elderly friends were in similar positions, dealing with perpetual aches and pains but having no way to pay for treatment or seek relief.

The sadness in her face had twisted something in your chest, an ache you were all too familiar with. It was the one you felt after you failed the hero course entrance exams. The ache you felt when you realized you could never be a doctor. The ache of being helpless in the face of suffering.

Your mouth had opened without your permission, and you told Mrs. Kojima that you would help her, and her friends, whenever they needed it. The elderly Japanese woman tried to wave you off, saying she didn’t want to get you in any trouble, but you had just smiled and said, “I’m fine with making a little good trouble.”

You didn’t know where your courage had come from, but you let it carry you past your fears and doubts.

So, for the last six months, Mrs. Kojima had brought all of her friends, and sometimes their children and grandchildren, to you when they were in need of healing. They always brought dresses or pants or blouses for you to fix as a cover, and you did do alterations work for them, but you also eased flaring arthritis, cataracts, fevers, and scrapped knees in the backroom. You refused to take payment for these secret services, it just felt wrong, but the little old ladies somehow always snuck large “tips” into your register when you weren’t looking.

Mrs. Kojima and every one of her friends and family members swore to their ancestors to keep your secret, and you trusted them, but you still couldn’t help proverbially looking over your shoulder, holding your breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop and for the police to barge in and take you away.

It hadn’t happened yet, but the worry of it kept you up most nights, which was maybe another reason why you threw yourself into your work until you were so tired you just passed out.

You sighed again as you stretched and felt your back pop, releasing some of the tension in your spine. Glancing at the clock, you saw it was just past midnight, and you winced. You had to be up at five tomorrow—today, now—because Mr. Akane wanted to come in early before you opened the shop. His bad knee was giving him trouble again, an old injury he’d obtained as a boy. You were unable to fully reconstruct the joint—that took more strength and stamina than you currently possessed—but you were able to soothe his pain for weeks at a time, which he was immensely grateful for. He always brought you fresh fish when he came by, “gifts” he’d emphasized when you reminded him you didn’t take payment, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t appreciate the gesture. You weren’t exactly hurting for money, but you also didn’t normally splurge on fish caught just that morning, and you told yourself you deserved the small treat. Besides, the protein helped boost your energy and stamina levels, which meant you could heal more people, so really Mr. Akane was merely investing in his future treatments.

Your stomach grumbled at the thought of food, and you dragged yourself out of your chair before picking your way across your messy apartment to the kitchen. The apartment wasn’t very large, one large space for kitchen, dining, and living room, with one small bedroom and one bathroom down a hallway to the right when you walked in the front door. But it had been your grandparent’s home for many years before they bought a larger house after having your father, and it sat right above the shop, so you never had to worry about running late for work.

Bolts of fabric, some client pieces, and a few of your own personal sewing projects were strewn over every available surface of the main room, but you had the cleared path through the chaos memorized, so you were tossing leftovers in the microwave barely thirty seconds later. The warmed-up curry and rice—another “gift” from Mrs. Kojima—tasted as good as it had the last several days, and you hummed as the spiced meat slid down your throat and settled in your belly. After the first bite, your hunger seemed to hit you in full force, and you scarfed down every last bite in a matter of minutes. When you were done, the minor headache that had been pulsing behind your eyes abated, and you yawned as you rinsed off the dishes.

You set the damp plate on the edge of the counter as you reached for a towel, but then a sudden tremor, followed by a loud boom, seemed to shake the building, and the plate tittered on the counter’s edge for a moment before it crashed to the floor.

“Fuck!” you gasped as you jumped back and away from the ceramic shards, but another tremor-boom combo had you stumbling, and you scrambled to grab the back of the couch so you didn’t fall on your ass.

Your wide eyes took in the broken plate scattered at your feet before they jumped to the window on the opposite side of the room. The night sky was dark beyond, cut only by the dim street light just beyond the window’s view. You held your breath as your heart hammered in your ears, the hair on the back of your neck prickling, sweat slicking your palms.

What the fuck was that? Your first thought was earthquake—you hadn’t experienced one yet, but you knew they were common in Japan—but then you remembered the booms.

Maybe… maybe an electrical box blew? But no, the lights were still working. A car crash?

Then another boom vibrated you down to your very bones, and you fell to one knee as the breath hitched in your lungs.

That sounded… closer.

With your heart in your throat, you half scrambled, half crawled the last few feet to your window, and you peeked your head over the sill just as a flash off white-hot light lit up the night sky.

“Shit!” You squinted your eyes against the glare as you leaned back from the window, but then you saw a shadow streak through the air before it crashed into a car just at the edge of your peripherals.

You had the distant thought that Mr. Takeyoshi’s vehicle was very obviously totaled before you realized the thing that had crashed into the car was a person.

Your jaw gaped open as a hero pulled himself from the wreckage and shook his head groggily. The shadows—only broken by more flares of light as more explosions and fire seemed to erupt along the street—made it difficult to tell how injured the hero was. You didn’t recognize their yellow and teal costume, but you saw patches of blood along the hero’s bulky frame, and bile burned at the back of your teeth.

Holy shit. This wasn’t an accident. It was a villain attack.

Just as you had the thought, another explosion rattled your windows, making your ears ring, and you snapped your head to the side to see a man standing in the middle of the road about half a block down.

The man—villain, you realized quickly—swung his arms around like a conductor of an orchestra, but his instruments seemed to be the black rocks and liquid swirling around him. The debris glistened like an oil slick in the light of the flames, and as you watched, the villain shouted something and slashed his arm through the air.

Then a figure suddenly exploded onto the scene, lunging out from the shadows in a flare of white-hot light. It moved too fast for you to track, but the villain swung his arm again, and rocks and viscous black goo shot toward the figure still in mid-air.

A futile scream of warning caught in your throat, but then the figure seemed to explode and backflip through the air, landing on his feet but crushing the roof of a car beneath his boots. The wailing of the car’s alarm split the air, and you clenched your teeth until they ached.

The flames illuminated this new man’s face, a snarl of white teeth against the flames and smoke, but only the barest hint of recognition flared through you before everything exploded into chaos again. Another shout from the villain had all the rocks and black slime streaking back towards him, and you watched in horror as a stony black arm fifty feet long formed above the ruined street.

You knew you should be running, trying to find cover, calling the police, but you were glued there, on your knees before the window, you fingers digging grooves into the sill.

The next fifteen seconds seemed to simultaneously happen in slow motion and at hyper speed.

The giant rocky hand wiggled its fingers before it curled into a fist and slammed down on the wailing car and the man atop it.

The man—hero, you distantly thought, although your chaotic thoughts still couldn’t place him—launched up into the air with another explosion that rattled your windows, the car alarm cutting off as the vehicle was crushed an instant later.

The blond skidded into a landing half a dozen yards away, but then you suddenly saw Mr. Takeyoshi standing on the street, a ghostly apparition framed by smoke and flames.

You blinked, and the giant hand shot toward Mr. Takeyoshi, batting away several more heroes who tried to intervene.

Then the explosive hero was just there, pushing Mr. Takeyoshi out of the way, right before the hand wrapped around him.

You could hear the hero’s anguished scream through your window as he was crushed in the fist’s grip, and the sound hit you right in the solar plexus, knocking the breath out of you, bruising your insides, the pain settling into the familiar ache of being helpless in the face of suffering.

You watched uselessly as the hero was lifted up into the sky, struggling, setting off explosions left and right. Then the massive arm seemed to pause in the middle of the road, right above the villain, and your eyes locked onto the hero, his pale hair and skin stark against the black, rocky hand that held him trapped.

In the next instant, a white light, like a star going supernova, bloomed to life around the hero, illuminating the white slash of his snarling teeth before it became too bright for you to take. You slammed your eyes shut against the burning light, and the hair on the back of your neck stood on end, like the moment before lightning struck, as you dropped to the floor below your window.

Then the world exploded, the building shaking to its foundations, right before the window burst into a million shards of glass.

#bakugo katsuki #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugo x reader #bakugo katuski x reader #bakugo katsuki/reader #bakugo/reader #bakugo katsuki/you #bakugo katsuki x you #my hero academia #mha spoilers #boku no hero academia #bnha #anime #fanfic #my writings #katsuki bakugo

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pandorkful · 2 years ago

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Ok, chairs I have:

Busted office chair, kitchen -- too short and hurts my knees, but better seat (kinda?) than current gamer chair. Gar loves this chair but I eventually wanna trash it.

Overstuffed pleather 90's armchair, kitchen -- also too short, but more comfortable. Impossible to sit up straight in, so bad for drawing but ok for gaming. WIDE and probably a bad fit in my narrow computer space, but it is pretty light and easy to move compared to my other furniture... Simon loves to sit on the back of this chair and watch me do kitchen things.

Wooden dining chair, kitchen -- not very comfortable but easy to move into position and I've used it at my desk before so I know it's the right height. Getting kinda wiggly...

Kitchen stool, kitchen -- my dishwashing life preserver. Too tall for desk, also getting very wiggly....

Comfy hotel reception style armchair from the 90's, bedroom -- probably too short, but the most comfortable chair I own. Tragically unstable for prolonged human usage -- the bolts connecting the right arm are loose/snapped and I don't know how to fix it, so it's mainly a cat bed. :-/ Also very wide and difficult to move from room to room, especially now that I have more stuff in the way than I did when I brought it in my bedroom.

Conference chair from the 80's (I think??), bedroom -- I brought it in the bedroom to be my drawing chair at my little piecemeal drawing desk I constructed, but it is not comfortable enough for drawing. The seat is curved wood covered by a very thin padding and ugly brown woven fabric. The cats love it for some reason, so it is currently cat bed #2 in my bedroom. I suspect it would be easy to reupholster with a thicker and more comfortable padding, but that's still a bigger project than what I can reasonably accomplish right now. I don't even know where to find padding for reupholstry that isn't shitty memory foam.

Narrow armchair, living room -- too narrow for me to sit in very comfortably, and is kind of Simon's favorite chair. (The only reason it came with me when I moved out.) But it would fit pretty well in my computer area.... hrmm..hmm...

The couch, living room -- might be usable in its current position, my computer desk is right behind it. All I need is a small table to set up my keyboard, mouse and drawing tablet on, and I could route the main monitor cable to my TV. Downside is it's very short, and my legs start cramping in short chairs. I've been wanting to get raisers or new legs for it ever since I bought it... but all its cushions are modular, so theoretically I could stack em up till I'm comfortable. That would probably be wildly unstable, though.

Basically all my furniture is junk I bought 2nd, 3rd or 4th hand at the local ReStore.... the main exception being my current computer chair. It's a gaming chair, supposedly built for plus size users, $250 new. It's wildly uncomfortable, the seat feels like a rock that I can't get any real purchase on, so I constantly feel like I'm going to fall off. Just a major disappointment overall. And a waste of money.

So, I want to start doing some test (art&game) livestreams this weekend or asap, but the situation is this: my computer chair is a piece of shit and it's wrecking my legs.

Opening the floor for suggestions. Any suggestions, go crazy I need help.

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cevans-is-classic · 4 years ago

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Masterpiece

For Anon Request: Okay but imagine Sebastian including you in that quarantine video that he posted on IG last year. Showing funny clips of you cleaning with him, singing your heart out, and dancing, maybe even including a little tiny short clip of you two making out to tease the fans.

18+ only, please. Sexual Content and Language.

Requests open! If you'd like more head to My Masterlist.

Seb only? Sebastian Stan Masterlist.

He made the video shot by shot, painstakingly reviewing all the pieces and pasted them together here and there, laughing at some scenes and cringing at others, but loving the overall product. He’d been working on it for hours, going back and forth between his phone and the camera until he got everything downloaded and ready for editing.

It didn’t occur to him to add you in it until he scrolled through his computer and found the synced videos of you. You’d been in the background of the whole thing, rolling your eyes and ignoring him overall even as you laughed. You’d rewashed the dishes after dinner, staring at him as he laid on the floor and sang into the camera. Hearing your laughter had him rolling on his back to record you, catching the way you shook your hips and sang along with the music as you put the dishes away bit by bit. He laughed when the song ended, yet you still kept singing, off-key and wonderful.

“Are you recording me?” You lifted a brow at him as you turned his way.

“Who says recording anymore?” He answers back causing you to laugh a beautiful fucking sound, and he adds it in there, cuts it between his moments until he finds another one wedged away.

You're dancing, wearing his shirt and these little black shorts — that make him lose his mind — with a bottle of tequila in your hand as you sing to Whitney Houston; he remembers turning the camera on you after he’d finished his shot and staring at you through the lens with his chest filling to the brim until you tossed the bottle back and slipped on your ass.

He’d dropped the camera from laughter while you grumbled at him

In it went, between him singing, sitting there like a nice little timestamp of this shitty fucking quarantine and he digs deeper for more videos finding ones of you handing him gloves, holding the door for him as he scrubs at the metal handle, your foot hidden in the shot while he tosses frozen fruit in the air.

He slips all these little moments in there until the video becomes a homage to how much he loves you and less about his own impending breakdown during a worldwide pandemic. It’s cheesy, lame, but perfect watching everything come together.

He’s almost done when one last video catches his eye, a short one that hadn’t meant to be filmed but when he set the camera down, he hadn’t turned it off, and there it was his hands on your hip; yours tangled in the short hairs at the back of his neck, letting him pull you in. You were smiling into the kiss, hips tilting against his and Seb watched himself lift you into his arms, your legs going around his waist as he stumbled the two of you out of view.

Grinning, he cuts the video, splices it down to a sweet kiss that doesn’t hint at you two ending up on the bed, Seb being buried deep inside of you one room over while the camera keeps recording the music he’d left playing. The world can fill in their own blanks if they want.

“Babe,” He shouts, waiting for your footsteps to grow closer, “Want to watch the end results before I go viral?” You walk into the office, tablet in hands, your fingers scrolling through the screen before you pause and glance up.

The tablet blocked half your face, but he catches the eye roll even as you settle into the chair opposite him, “Big dreams.”

“I’m a hot commodity.”

You finally set the tablet down, turn to the computer, crossing your legs and lifting them to settle on the edge of his chair, “Alright, Big Shot, show me the masterpiece.”

***

I know it's a bit short, but I didn't feel as if a long-drawn-out version was right. I hope the beautiful anon who requested this enjoys it!

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan x you #Sebastian Stan x Reader #seb stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #sebastian stan imagine #sebastian stan request

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bittykimmy13 · 4 years ago

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Playing with Fire (18+ GT Drama / Horror)

Premise: Sequel to Heart of Gold. Sherry navigates a vicious life teeming with cruel and lustful giants eager to get their hands on her. The only lifeline within reach is the person who sealed her fate.

Warning: Graphic descriptions of sexual assault, violence, and dehumanization in a GT context. This is not intended to be fetish material; commenting on it as such will result in an immediate block.

Print/Trinket Universe and characters belong to me and the lovely @marydublin5 / @little-miss-maggie, who made the sick header image <3

(( Read Heart of Gold here ))

(( More from the Print/Trinket Universe ))

"I already told you, I'm done. Delete my number."

"One last time, Sher, please. You can't turn your back on me now."

"What'd you do this time?"

"I just... I need you here. Please. I know how we left things. I understand if you never wanna see me again, but I need your help. This is the last time I'll ever bother you, I swear."

Tears drenched Sherry's face. Her attempts to drift away from her current hell led her down the most miserable memories. She wasn't sure which was worse: revisiting the moment she ruined her life, or being present enough to confront her ruined life.

A voice huffed overhead, forcing her to choose the latter. "Stop crying already. Fuck."

But Sherry couldn't stop. She didn't have a clue what was happening or why. All she knew was that she was pinned to a cold metal table while a human woman tried to fit a gold collar over her head.

Agent Taylor. That was what her badge said.

The cabinet doors had flown open at Zane's place, and the reaper's cold eyes had filled the space. Her grasping hands wrecked the makeshift shelter while she thwarted Sherry and Adam's pitiful attempts to bolt out of reach. They had been dumped into a glass cage and then separated before they reached their final destination.

Adam was nowhere to be seen. Was he being forced into a collar somewhere else? And what about Odessa? She had not been caged with them. Maybe because she had been captured by a different reaper.

"Please," Sherry whimpered, twisting her head side to side to avoid the collar. "W-what are you doing? Why am I here?"

Taylor wound Sherry's teal hair around one fingertip and tugged so sharply that Sherry screamed. The back of her head slammed against the table, making the world turn fuzzy. She squinted through the blinding fluorescent lights to see the reaper's annoyed expression hanging over her.

"Stop squirming, or I'll snap your pretty little neck, you hear me?" Taylor looked down at her with disgust. "I don't have a clue why Mitchell insisted on keeping a whiner like you, but you should be grateful. The best thing a trinket can hope to be is a snake."

"A-A... what?"

Fingertips viciously groped Sherry's neck until she held still enough for the perfect gold circle to slip over her head. The invasive hands pulled away finally. Panting, Sherry sat up and felt her collar all around, intending to yank it off. Impossibly, it retracted to a smaller size and settled snugly around her neck. There was no clasp to be found. Smart metal—the kind that was used on tracking cuffs for prints. Since when was such expensive material used on trinkets?

Feeling like she couldn't draw a full breath, Sherry whimpered and clawed at the collar. She felt the thin engraving of an inscription etched along the metal, but she was not interested in deciphering it.

"Don't bother." A hand swept Sherry into a fist, pinning her arms awkwardly against her body. "Mess with it too much, and it'll choke you out before you can even think to regret it."

Sherry trembled in the woman's grasp—not only from fear, but from the shock of being handled so roughly. She had been spoiled by Zane's consideration and careful touches, even if he had turned out to be a lying bastard in the end. Hours ago, she had felt like a real person, and already it seemed like a fever dream to ignore what she really was.

Trinket. Criminal. Doll. Prisoner.

She was whisked out of the small, blinding room and taken into what appeared to be the main hub of a police station. Sherry shivered harder than ever. The giants typing away at computers and chatting around the desks were not regular cops. These were reapers, government agents specifically tasked with the repossession of wayward prints and trinkets.

Although she fit the category of wayward trinket, she figured she would have been shipped straight to a facility to be redistributed to another bar. Maybe a brothel as punishment for her misguided attempts to be rescued by the rebellion. Why was she still here?

"New snake?" boomed an unfamiliar voice. A reaper passing by Agent Taylor eyed Sherry like a choice cut. She shrank away from his stare, which only seemed to encourage him. He stopped to reach out and brush a finger over her hair. "Where'd you nab this one?"

"Some barfly who can't get his story straight about whether he's black market or rebellion." Taylor made no move to thwart the other reaper from lifting Sherry's chin to see her tear-soaked face better. "Either way, the truth will come out. We got taped confirmation about a meet-up tomorrow at noon."

The guy whistled, finally pulling his hand away. "A confession and a follow-up location? Lemme guess. Odessa?"

"Who else?"

The mention of Odessa's name made Sherry perk up, but the conversation ended before she could make sense of what had been said. She'd been too preoccupied about being petted like a captive mouse.

Taylor took her to the center of the station. What Sherry saw made her stomach churn. A glass labyrinth of trinket-sized rooms sat atop a huge table. There were faint lines of translucent circuits within the walls that suggested it was no ordinary glass. There was no ceiling on the enclosure, as though a pet store had decided to set up shop in the middle of the government establishment.

"Welcome home," Taylor said derisively. "For however long you last. We call this the Warren."

The longer Sherry stared at the enclosure, the sicker she felt. There were over a dozen rooms. The walls offered no privacy, other than one cubicle that had sheets thrown up over the sides for some reason—but it still lacked a ceiling. There were doorways, but no doors. None of the openings provided a path onto the table. No exits. The only way a trinket could leave was if a human plucked them out.

Sherry was released into one of the cubicles, which looked like a rough draft of a bedroom. She backed up against the wall, shivering. She eyed the doorway, but with a reaper glaring down at her, there was no point in making a run for it. Her trembling legs were hard to convince.

Blessedly, Agent Taylor turned her attention to a tablet that lay beside the Warren and tapped away at it. "Name?"

Flinching, Sherry clutched her hands close to herself and stared up blankly.

"Tell me a name, or I'll pick one for you." Taylor's eyes flickered to her. "You look like a 'Diva' to me."

"Sh—" She swallowed a sob. "Sherry."

Taylor made a noise of ridicule under her breath. Perhaps like Zane, she didn't believe that was her real name and that it was really what she had been saddled with when being passed around at a bar. Whatever she thought, the reaper typed something into the tablet. Circuits along the wall flickered, and Sherry's name appeared in translucent letters on the wall by the doorway. It was then she noticed that the other rooms had names, too. The one across from hers was Raquel.

Despite her best judgment, Sherry couldn't keep her mouth shut.

"Tell me what's happening," she said, hating the pathetic note of pleading in her voice. "Please. I... I don't understand."

She had never begged as a trinket. Not at the facility. Not at the bar. Not when she was worried that Zane's impossibly gentle touch was fake. But she had been able to make some sense out of those situations. For the life of her, she could not pinpoint what she had done to end up in the Warren with Agent Taylor leering down at her.

The reaper, forthcoming as ever, gave her a barbed smirk. "Do a good job, and you'll be rewarded. Do a shitty job, and you'll be at the mercy of that new necklace of yours. Do a particularly shitty job, and you won't even get that mercy. We'll leave you to the wolves to do as they please. Simple as that."

There was nothing simple about it.

Agent Taylor tossed the tablet onto the table and strode off without telling Sherry what her job was.

For a few minutes, Sherry couldn't do more than stand in one spot while her thoughts reeled. The moment it sank in that nothing stopped her from walking through the doorway of her assigned room, she stepped out. The glass walls were so clean, she might have walked right into a few if not for the pale circuits within.

She came across three other trinkets in her tentative exploration of the Warren. None were helpful. A couple of them were sleeping in their own rooms, and one was sitting on the floor in a central hub area.

He stared up at a news channel playing on a wallscreen that was embedded into the glass. Sherry didn't even realize they made screens so miniature, let alone that there were any systems in place that allowed trinkets to use them. It felt like a twisted, sanitized version of Zane's makeshift trinket hideout.

"Hi?" Sherry said, her voice thready. She stopped a few feet from him. No, inches. Inches. "Can you tell me what's going on here? What is this place? W-what do they want with us?"

He didn't look away from the screen. Didn't say a word.

"Hello? Can you hear me? Please... I-I have no idea—"

"You'll figure it out," he grunted. "Or maybe you won't. We don't bother each other around here, I'll tell you that much." He gave her a razor-sharp glance that told her it was time to stop bothering him.

She retreated back to her room and hugged herself on the bed. That's all there was. No pillow, no sheets. She had glimpsed a few other rooms. Most were fairly simple, but others were adorned with extra accommodations. More pillows, thicker blankets, extra furniture, a box packed with clothes. A couple even had their own wallscreens.

All around the outside the Warren, the reaper station went on business as usual. Footsteps thudded back and forth past the enclosure, but despite Sherry's instinct to duck down out of sight, no one seemed to give the trinkets more than a passing glance. As if the glass cage was no more out of place than a light fixture.

Although intense confusion continued to plague her thoughts, her adrenaline waned and exhaustion crept in. She absently felt along her collar to trace the letters and numbers. C117.

Without realizing she had curled up on her side, she fell into a fitful sleep.

She couldn't be sure how long she had laid there by the time heavy footsteps rattled the floors and walls, closer than before. Sherry jolted in bed, but she kept her head down. She debated on whether it would be a better idea to sit up or pretend to be asleep. A shiver ran through her at the thought that a person was towering over the Warren, looking down at her.

A familiar voice silenced her internal debate—a voice that didn't belong to a massive reaper.

"How many times do I have to tell you? I don't know."

Odessa.

Sitting up, Sherry almost tripped over her own feet as she scrambled for the doorway. She gripped the glass edge and looked high up. The reaper who had approached was still there. A cold spike of recognition ran through Sherry as she examined his icy blue eyes and dark hair. He had raided Zane's place along with Agent Taylor. Currently, he held Odessa in a fist and glared at her.

"Well, someone must have tipped them off," he snapped. "We've gone over the recording a dozen times—there's nothing left up to interpretation. A distributor was supposed to be there at noon. Are you sure there wasn't some change of plan? Did he ever look at his phone as if he received a message? Because I'm still feeling pretty fucking suspicious about how long it took for you to boot up your tracker."

Despite being trapped in a gigantic grip, Odessa didn't cower. That was strange. She had been so skittish around Zane, and here this reaper was raising his voice at her.

"I wouldn't have gotten the confession at all if you all had busted in any earlier," Odessa spat. "It's not my fault the distributor didn't show up. Maybe some neighbor spotted Zane being arrested and passed the info along. Could be that you all weren't subtle enough. Instead of asking me, why don't you ask Zane?"

The reaper scoffed. "Haven't been able to get another word out of him. He's already on the docket for trial. Let's see if he's so quiet during his follow-up interrogation at three inches tall."

The hand holding Odessa plunged and deposited her in a nearby hall of the Warren. Overwhelmed by the appearance of a friendly face, Sherry bottled from her doorway. Seconds after the hand retreated, she flung her arms around Odessa and held on tight.

"I'm so glad you're okay!" Sherry gasped.

Odessa stiffened, but after a moment, she hugged Sherry back. "It's okay," she said softly. "Everything's going to be okay."

"I-I thought I'd be alone here. I heard what Zane said about being with the black market. I knew it. But they won't tell me what's going on here! What are they making you do? Zane just barely got you last night—how can they expect you to know anything about what he was up to?"

A laugh boomed from above, effectively reminding Sherry that they were being watched. She cowered, but Odessa seemed more annoyed than frightened as she held Sherry close. The glare she aimed upward looked like it had been bred in a blizzard.

"Oh, that's just precious," the reaper said, bracing his hands on the table to lean down closer to them. "You sure picked a bright one, didn't you, Odessa? Poor thing hasn't even put two and two together, has she?"

Sherry looked from his looming face to Odessa's icy expression. "What's he talking about?" Sherry asked.

Odessa sighed. "Let me explain—"

"Allow me," the reaper laid in overtop. The cruel amusement in his eyes should have been reserved for a kid frying ants with a magnifying glass. "Sherry, is it? Well, Odessa is the reason you were dragged from that cute little hideaway in the cupboard. I mean, if we hadn't stepped in, you'd be up for bid on the black market. But still. You were rounded up thanks to our expert two-faced bitch here. I suggest you start thinking of her as your new role model if you want to make it through your first week."

Sherry's desperate arms went slack. She wriggled out of Odessa's protective embrace. "He's... he's lying," Sherry said. "Tell me he's lying!"

But Odessa did not attempt to deny any of it. Fury and a sense of utter loneliness exploded through Sherry so violently that she nearly collapsed. Spotting this, Odessa caught her arms and kept her standing despite Sherry's protests.

"Fuck off, Mitchell," Odessa snarled. "Why don't you go figure out the Zane situation before the captain mounts your head on the wall?"

Agent Mitchell was still chuckling as he straightened to his full, dizzying height. "Better start explaining things to her quick. She'll be out in the field before you know it."

Odessa locked her hand in Sherry's and led her away. Still in shock, Sherry allowed herself to be taken. There was a room with Odessa's name displayed on the outside. If Sherry had only explored a little further, she would have saved herself a few precious moments of humiliation. Even more mind-boggling, this was the room with sheets thrown over the walls.

As they entered, Sherry's eyes widened. Odessa had more possessions than anyone she had seen so far.

"Sit." Odessa led her to a dollhouse chair against the wall.

Sherry ripped her hand away and glared, making no move to obey. Her throat was too tight with tears and anger to say all the things racing through her mind. Odessa took her by the shoulders and made her sit.

"Listen up." Odessa's fingers stayed perched firmly on Sherry's shoulders. They were nearly nose-to-nose. "I'm going to explain my job. Our job. Are you listening? When a human is suspected of stealing prints or trinkets, the best way to find everyone they've stolen is to send in a snake. That's us."

"That's you," Sherry protested, her voice a mere croak.

"No. It's us. Whether you like it or not, you have to understand right here and now that there's no choice, Sherry. Either you comply, or they'll send you somewhere worse."

Sherry shook her head. "You said or. Sure sounds like there's a choice in there somewhere."

"Not when one of the choices is a fucking stupid one." Odessa knelt by the chair and looked up at Sherry, taking her hand. A display of vulnerability meant nothing when it came from a professional liar. "I saved you. I know it doesn't seem like it right now, but this is the best thing I could've done for you."

"My collar disagrees." Sherry yanked her hands away, glaring daggers at Odessa's imploring expression. "If we're being set out as bait to catch these people, we're still ending up in bars. How is this any better?"

"The difference is that you'll be saved if you do your job right. You'll have a bed to sleep in. Food to eat. Moments of actual rest. Those other trinkets out in the world... They have nothing. They're dead."

"Oh, this is what you call living?"

Odessa pursed her lips, patience wearing thin. "I'm not gonna sugarcoat it and say it's easy. It's the hardest job you'll ever have to do, but it's a job. You're not a doll or a sex toy or decoration anymore."

"You're right," Sherry spat. "I'm all those things at once, just depends on who the reapers plan to target, huh? Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're wrong," Odessa said simply, rising to stand in front of Sherry with her arms crossed tightly. "I'm expected to teach you what to do. So if you want to survive, I suggest you listen up."

Sherry scowled and clenched her hands on her lap, but she listened.

"Depending on the target, you need to tailor your personality to be tantalizing but believable. Some of these creeps have wizened up, or at least know that the reapers have a few tricks up their sleeves at this point. You just need to be something they want to take home with them. Whether it's for personal, black market, or rebellion reasons."

A sour look crossed Sherry's face. "So, that scared girl thing you did at Zane's place... that was just a routine to get him to nab you?"

Odessa scoffed. "Zane was hardly worth the effort. But then again, bar jobs are usually the easiest. The reapers work with the staff to make sure a snake gets served to the target. Those jobs are the most common. I'm sure that's what they'll assign you at first."

"And what about Adam?" Sherry said when he occurred to her suddenly. "Why isn't here, getting this informative seminar with me?"

"There's no way I could convince Mitchell to take you both."

"So... I'm just the lucky one you chose, then?"

"Luck had nothing to do with it." Odessa glanced away, frowning as if she was still processing her own decision. "I've never asked them to bring in a new snake before. But you were convincing when you hid your suspicions from Zane. Convincing enough that I know you'll be good at this job."

Before Sherry could help it, her eyes filled with tears. "I don't want to be good at this job."

"Sher... I'm giving you something that didn't have before tonight. I'm giving you the power to take control instead of staying a helpless victim." Odessa leaned in closer and put her hands on Sherry's shoulders again, squeezing. "Lesson one. Never cry unless it benefits you."

One last time, Sher, please. You can't turn your back on me now.

Rage flooded over the fear. Sherry sprang to her feet and shoved Odessa to the ground, catching her off guard. "You're a fucking monster! Just as bad as Zane, and these reapers, and all the other psychos out there who can't keep their disgusting hands off trinkets!"

A shadow darkened over them. Mitchell seemed to materialize out of nowhere, his voice rumbling with dangerous amusement. "Well, well, trouble in paradise?"

Sherry made a choked noise and tripped over the doll chair as his hand dove down for her. She scrambled to kick her legs free of the flimsy furniture, but in no time at all, fingers closed around her body and yanked her out of Odessa's room. He observed her panicked struggles for only a moment before raising his eyebrows at Odessa.

"Guess you forgot to mention in your little orientation that fighting isn't tolerated."

"Back off," Odessa said, brushing herself off. "You've barely given me fifteen minutes with her."

"Hm. Didn't happen to teach her about the collar yet?"

"I was getting to it," Odessa said hurriedly. Her voice jumped in a way that made Sherry's skin crawl with dread.

That was all the answer he needed. He released Sherry on the table's expansive surface outside the Warren, right beside one of Odessa's walls. Odessa tore down one of the hanging sheets, pressing her hands to the glass.

"Just relax!" she ordered Sherry, seeming caught between genuine worry and cold nonchalance in Mitchel's looming presence.

"Oh, stop babying her," he chided, doing nothing to fight a sick smile of anticipation.

Mitchell's hand crowded Sherry again. She backed up frantically, but bumped into the glass, unable to avoid his fingertip as it tapped her collar. He went on conversationally as if she wasn't cowering under his gaze.

"Now, if you're out in the field and need to communicate, put your fingertips on both sides and hold for a few seconds. When you've got a solid enough confession from the target, turn on the tracker by tapping the sides three times." His finger pulled away, but not before dragging it down her shoulder, arm, and leg. "Timing is everything. You'll find that several targets scan for trackers, so be smart about when you activate it. You wouldn't want them to know your little secret."

Once his hand no longer filled her vision, she managed to shudder out the breath she had been holding. She reached for the collar, pursing her lips. He spotted the question on her face and chuckled.

"Why would we give you the power to choose when we come for you? Because we have a neat little failsafe in the event that you try to dodge us. I think you deserve a demonstration."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a phone. The reaper logo was stamped on the back. He set it on the table in front of Sherry, giving her full upside-down view as he moved through screen after screen until he came upon a list of codes and names. He stopped and tapped on one of the pairs.

C117 - Sherry

Before she could process how quickly her identity had been synced in the reaper station, she couldn't breathe.

A cry squeaked past her throat. She coughed and tried to pry her fingertips under her collar as it constricted against her neck. Panic seized her. She fell to her knees and writhed uselessly, certain that the metal would decapitate her in its rapid compression against her windpipe.

Odessa's voice sounded far away. "You made your point, now quit it!"

"Just showing her what happens if she gets any bright ideas," Mitchell drawled.

He tapped his device. The collar sprang back to its normal, snug fit. Bracing one hand on the table, he leaned in closer to get a better look as Sherry put herself back together. Gasping, she managed to stand shakily.

"That's for trying to rough up my favorite snake," he told her in a low, dangerous voice. "If you don't turn on your tracker while you're on a job, it starts a little slower than that. You won't even notice at first. Like a frog in boiling water. Just don't even think about activating the tracker until you've recorded some evidence or found some hoarded inventory. You got it?"

Sherry stood there and trembled, reeling to process the way he referred to smuggled people as inventory.

His hand slammed down beside her and sent a shockwave that knocked her off her feet. She looked straight up as he put his face inches from her.

"I said, you got it?" Mitchell barked.

"Y-yes!"

"Yes, what?"

"Yessir!" She nodded frantically and pressed her back against the glass that separated her from Odessa, who looked on with wide, furious eyes.

"You done?" Odessa demanded of Mitchell. "Already collected plenty of material to jack off to later, don't you think?"

He smirked. "You know me so well."

In one smooth motion, he straightened and plucked up Sherry before she could think to be startled by it. He deposited her in Odessa's room, where she fell to her hands and knees. She didn't pause for a single second—she sprang to stand. Bolting from the room, she headed for her own, empty one. Mitchell's leer followed her path effortlessly, still laughing and watching when she reached her destination.

"Expect your first assignment tomorrow, new girl," he said. "Hope you'll leave a good review about orientation."

"I can't take this anymore. Why can't you just... just stop!"

"You don't understand, Sher. If we don't keep splitting it between us, I... You know what'll happen to me. Is that what you want? It is, isn't it? Then you'd be rid of me for good. Fucking finally, right?"

"Don't say that!"

The feeling in Sherry's gut was so familiar, it hurt like a freshly reopened wound. No matter which body she existed in, the universe demanded she be dragged into something she wanted nothing to do with. No choice but to follow through.

This time there was no family. There was no love, no urge to protect. There was only the will to see another day.

What's the point of seeing another day if this what the days are like?

As she lay in her depressing, issued bed and stared at the ceiling, she sincerely thought of running over to Odessa's room to punch her squarely in the face. Maybe Mitchell would swoop in and let the collar finish her off this time. But Sherry couldn't bring herself to budge. She stayed fixated on the fluorescent lights as the hours of the day dragged on. The lights never turned out—not even at night. Busting people for hoarding prints and trinkets was a twenty-four-hour business, but reapers could go home at the end of their shifts.

In all her waiting, she found herself becoming numb. By the time Agent Mitchell came stomping back to the Warren, she felt ready for whatever horror she was expected to carry out. At least she tried to lie to herself that she was ready. Odessa, a known liar, was certain that Sherry was an excellent one. So maybe she could convince herself.

"Four assignments tonight," Mitchell announced, reading from a tablet. "Odessa, Collin, Miranda, and Sherry."

Through the glass walls, she saw the summoned trinkets making their way to the common area. She followed suit, making sure to be as far away from Odessa as possible as they stood at attention.

Mitchell's gaze settled on Sherry immediately, seeming equal measures curious and amused as he wondered how she would react to carrying out her first job. She dropped her gaze to the floor. If some creep was going to toy with her tonight, the least she could do for herself was not let Mitchell get the ball rolling.

"Don't look so sad, Sherry," he chided. "You've got a bar tonight. Easy."

"I'll take her assignment," Odessa said as if she was commenting about the weather.

Sherry's head shot up to look across at Odessa. The other trinkets were staring too, while Mitchell raised his eyebrows steeply.

"See, that's a problem. Did you miss the part where you have your own job tonight?"

Odessa shrugged. "I'll do both. One after the other. She isn't ready yet, but the jobs need to be done, so I'll do them."

He scoffed. "What's the point of her taking up space here?"

"What space? Look around. Half the rooms are empty. Just give me more time to work with her, and she'll be as much of an asset as I am. You're risking her if you send her out too soon. Think long-term, Mitchell. She'll be worth it."

The reaper thought on it for a second, resting a hand over one of the outer walls and drumming his fingers on it. Looking more amused than ever, he turned his attention back to Sherry.

"And what do you say to that?" he asked her.

More than anything, Sherry wanted to demand what Odessa was playing at. Was this her way of apologizing? Sherry was not used to anyone taking the fall for her, but she stuffed down her shock with a cool look and mimed Odessa's shrug.

"If that's what she wants, you won't hear me complaining," Sherry said.

"Fine by me." Mitchell reached for Odessa. "As long as both jobs get done tonight."

And with that Sherry was left standing alone in the common area as the other snakes were plucked up as well. Dropping the pretense of her disinterest, she drew a deep breath and made a slow path back to her room. Along the way, she saw a couple of other snakes who had not been assigned anything that night. They rolled over in their beds, eyes open. No doubt they had heard the whole thing, but none of them had offered to take on Odessa's extra job.

Sherry spent the day drifting between her room and the common area, trying to block out the sounds of the station around the Warren. It was like existing as a ghost. Feeling real while having no significant impact on the real world.

She stared at the wallscreen as it played the news, but she may as well have been watching a broadcast from Jupiter for all the effect it had on her life. Watching the news from Zane's apartment had filled her with a weak sense of hope—at least, in those times when she could force herself to ignore how suspicious she was of his motives. Here, she was filled with nothing but sorrow, watching as the distant world went on without her.

Odessa had been taken at five in the afternoon. She was returned at four in the morning, looking as exhausted as Mitchell looked pleased. It must have been the end of his shift because he didn't stick around to torment anyone as the returning trinkets staggered to their rooms.

Sherry put up no argument when Odessa leaned in her doorway and beckoned her to follow.

"So... I'm guessing it went well?" Sherry asked once they were in Odessa's room.

She refused to give Odessa the satisfaction of immediately asking why she had taken the second job.

"I was responsible for three arrests." For all the extra privacy of her room, she didn't seem shy at all as she stripped off her skimpy bar outfit. Sherry averted her eyes to the corner as Odessa went on. "The first job was a well-off couple. They had been hoarding trinkets from bars and selling them on the side. Not part of any black market networks. Those are the easiest. They rarely have a clue what they're doing, and it's very obvious. Remember that."

Catching a flash of fabric out of the corner of her eye, Sherry peeked and saw Odessa had thrown on a sunflower dress. She did a double-take. It looked a lot like the one Zane had kept in his storage of trinket clothing.

"Independent sellers are easy," Sherry recited glumly. "And the other?"

"A low ranking distributor on the black market. He was crashing parties that had trinket rentals. Keep this in mind, too—those trinket rental services are the most notorious for losing their inventory. Too many moving pieces and rarely a solid guest list to keep track of."

Sherry nodded, sinking into the dollhouse chair as she tried to process it all. "How did you pull that one off?"

"I was alone. I made myself the easiest one for him to grab. So he did." Odessa leaned against one of the sheeted walls and crossed her arms. Her eyelids looked heavy. "It was hard getting info out of him. See, distributors are usually either batshit crazy or stoic. Still, at the end of the day, what most of them love is to feel powerful. The trick was for me to be awed and skeptical. In the end, he wanted for me to know how much of a badass he was."

Something cold warmed through Sherry as she watched Odessa rub her arms up and down like she was trying to rid herself of a lingering sensation.

"And did they..." Sherry cleared her throat. "I mean, did they touch you?"

Odessa dropped the back of her head to the wall and looked up at the ceiling. "The couple caged me. They weren't interested. The distributor... Well, he was handsy. I had to lure him to get those confessions out of him. A lot of humans are like that. They start getting physical, and their walls come down while they brag. They just need to make it clear how much stronger they are."

Humans. "I'm guessing you weren't human, then?"

Odessa fixed her with a guarded look. "What's got you so curious all the sudden?"

"What's got you so selfless all the sudden, taking my job like that?"

A scoff. "You don't know me enough to be shocked by my choices." She paused, her jaw ticking for a second. "Born and raised in a print community. That's where I get my sunshiney personality."

Sherry tried not to gawk. They had been born in entirely different worlds, and now here they both were, living in a glass cage together.

"Did you try to escape?" Sherry asked.

"To go where? The wild? Nah." Odessa pursed her lips as she reminisced. "It wasn't so bad there. I worked in a local bakery, and I was taken to the city a few days out of the month to pull weeds at a botanical garden."

A little snort escaped Sherry before she could stop it. When Odessa raised her eyebrows in question, Sherry shrugged. "Sorry, I have a hard time picturing you in an apron or surrounded by flowers."

"Well, I did have a different face at the time."

That sobered Sherry up in seconds, but she in no way apologized. "So what happened?"

"This keeper started harassing me when I was old enough to have my own place."

Cocking her head, Sherry waited for more, but Odessa just stared at the ceiling. Her gaze was beginning to look distant. Sherry supposed she could understand that. She stood, walking close enough to see the individual petals on Odessa's sunflower dress.

"Did you get into trouble with him?" she asked softly, as if it mattered at all who heard. "It's the kind of thing you hear about sometimes, you know. Keepers getting handsy with prints and getting no repercussions for it. Finding ways to get them in trouble when they don't reciprocate."

Odessa's eyes snapped to hers. "I killed him."

Sherry took a step back, her blood icing over. Her wide eyes incited a smirk on Odessa's lips.

"You were human, weren't you?" Odessa said. "You may not be as freaked as every other human-turned-trinket I've met, but you've still got that look, that way you carry yourself. Like you used to be on top of the world."

"Oh, please. I was never on top of the world."

"Yes, you were. Consider this. The poorest human is living better than the most well-off print." Still, she paused to think about Sherry's statement. "I'm guessing you didn't leave much behind?"

Taking slow steps back to the doorway, Sherry didn't have the energy to protest the shift of spotlight. The mere inquiry of her old life sent her head spinning along with Odessa's casual confession.

"I left behind plenty," Sherry said, gripping the glass doorway. "I have a twin. Had, I guess. Don't quite look alike anymore. Her name's Mia."

Odessa's poker face remained intact, but Sherry swore she saw a flicker of sympathy. "Since we're sharing, what did a sweet thing like you do to deserve what you got?"

It was Sherry's turn to be amused, though she felt like a cold knife was twisting in her gut as she made her exit. "You think you're hot shit for taking out one creep? You're looking at a convicted serial killer, queen."

"Hey, I'm here. I found your backpack, but where are you?"

"I-I..."

"Hello? Mia?"

"I'm sorry, Sher. I-I'm s-so sorry, I had to, I had to—"

"Whoa, slow down! Why are you crying?"

The next night, Odessa insisted once again on taking Sherry's assignment. And the night after that. And the night after that. Mitchell was apparently determined to saddle them both with jobs every night. The other snakes were granted periodic nights off.

There was no attempt to hide it—Agent Mitchell was thoroughly entertained. On the fifth night, he clicked his tongue and looked down at Odessa with what might have been admiration. "You know, you're this close to pissing me off, but I'm kinda curious how much you'll kill yourself to protect your pet girlfriend."

Being in the clear every night did not win Sherry any friends among the snakes. Then again, none of them seemed overly fond of each other anyway. As far as Sherry knew, she and Odessa were the only ones who visited each other, even if those visits were out of pure survival on Sherry's part.

Odessa returned later and later into the morning every time, burdened with the double assignments. The dark circles under her eyes became a permanent fixture. And yet, her performance in acquiring confessions and finding hoarded trinkets did not seem to wane in the slightest.

"Why not call the reapers earlier?" Sherry asked when she noticed Odessa massaging her neck and grimacing. She was back later than ever, which meant she must have put up with the collar tightening quite a bit.

"Holding off a little bit longer pays off," Odessa explained. Even her voice sounded sore. "More damning confessions. Plus, info on others in their network. I'm sure you've noticed that we're rewarded when we do a good job."

Sherry had noticed.

Odessa's cubicle was the most decked out. The best clothes, the most pillows, the softest blankets. The reapers didn't even bother her about the extra sheets she had tossed over the glass walls, allowing her privacy that the other snakes were denied. She did her job well, and like a prized poodle, she was given treats for it.

The reward system gnawed at Sherry over the next few days, but she had little time to confront Odessa about it. She continued taking Sherry's jobs and took to sleeping the entire time she returned to the Warren. The rage that had first taken over Sherry was slowly but surely flickering down to nothing each time she saw Odessa drag her feet to her room.

Then, out of the clear blue, the snakes were taken outside. Sort of.

They were allowed one hour of outdoor time per week. It turned out to be the necessary amount to keep the majority of them from snapping and killing each other in their sleep.

The seven of them were placed in a glass box that had been fixed outside a window. Naturally, the dreariest day of the week had been chosen. Drizzling rain pattered against the glass, keeping the occupants downcast as ever.

Odessa, for all her exhaustion, seemed the least bothered by it. She sat cross-legged in front of one wall. Her hands were braced on the floor behind her, chin tilted up and eyes shut as if she could feel the sunshine through the compact clouds.

Taking a seat beside her, Sherry curled up and hugged her knees. Instead of looking up, she watched the crawling traffic below. Watching from ten stories up made her feel less small.

"Was I just another reward?" Sherry blurted. "Just something you asked for when you did a good job with Zane?"

Odessa didn't answer.

Sherry sighed sharply. "Why bring me into this? What do you want from me?"

"I dunno, Sher," Odessa murmured finally. "Maybe, for once, I wanted to be around someone who wasn't hand-picked by reapers. Maybe I'm just fucking lonely, and you had enough potential as a snake that I could use it as an excuse to keep you. Or maybe I just think you're cute."

There was no more wrath in Sherry. Only an awful, hollow feeling. "I really am your pet girlfriend, aren't I?"

"You still don't get it. You don't have to be anything to anyone. That's the gift I gave you with this job. You choose the role you want to play. You aren't the prey anymore. You're the hunter. If you don't want me to take your assignments anymore, all you have to do is tell me."

Sherry dug her fingers into her arms, holding herself closer. "Why take my jobs in the first place? You care so much about survival and rewards. You think you're getting in my good graces?"

Odessa was quiet for so long, Sherry thought she wouldn't answer. But then she sighed. "I only meant to take the first job. It would have sucked for you to die on your first assignment. Then you didn't seem ready for the second one. Or the one after. And so on. Now here we are."

"You still don't think I'm ready?"

"You could be." Odessa kept her gaze fixed on the clouds. "Maybe I'm the one who's not ready to imagine someone getting their filthy hands on you. But I gotta say... Being a good liar is one thing. You seem a bit soft for a serial killer."

Sherry swallowed hard, feeling like she was stumbling up a staircase in the dark, knowing that one step was missing.

"Makes sense," Sherry said. "I was framed."

Odessa turned to look at her, scooting closer until their arms brushed each other. It was weirdly comforting to have someone listen instead of scoff. "Huh. Ain't that a bitch. Wrong place, wrong time?"

"No. I was right on schedule. I knew I was there to be framed. It wasn't the first time."

Clenching her jaw, Sherry stared straight ahead at the skyline. The city was loud, but it was so quiet inside the glass box, she felt as though every snake was listening in. None of them gave a shit, other than the one sitting beside her.

"Mia and I would switch places all the time," Sherry said, her words feeling strangely disconnected from herself. She had kept them in for so long. "Ever since we were kids, we would share the blame. We would keep track of whose turn it was to get in trouble. As we grew up... she was the one doing most of the bad things.

"And then, once we were adults, it was legal trouble. She could never seem to get herself back on her feet without being dragged back down by something new. It happened over and over. I would let myself get arrested for her petty crimes, and then I'd be let go. She had this terrible boyfriend who kept dragging her along. She may have loved me, but she was obsessed with him. It got to be too much. Once I realized she liked that life, I was done. I moved away, cut her off. It was more like cutting off an arm or a leg. She had turned into this awful thing, but she was still my sister.

"Four years, we didn't speak. Then one day she called me up. Said she needed my help one last time. Said she'd leave me alone after that. I almost didn't go, but I missed her, and I was worried. She promised it was nothing too bad, but she had built up her record so much since I left, she just couldn't afford to get caught again.

"So I showed up where she told me to. I found her backpack in an alley. When I called her, she was a wreck. She kept apologizing, kept saying she loved me. But that she couldn't be a trinket. She just couldn't do it.

"Right on cue, I was spotted and recognized by a witness. I was arrested. The police line-up lasted for about thirty seconds before I was singled out. I was dragged in for an interrogation. That was when they told me what she did. What I did. Seven counts of first-degree murder. See, her boyfriend had been arrested for gang activity and who knows how many hits. At his trial, the jurors took less than five minutes to deliberate: guilty. He was sentenced to be a trinket. And she snapped. She blamed it all on them."

Odessa nodded, having the decency to look disturbed. "The jurors...."

"Picked them off one by one over the course of a year. On her seventh one, she was spotted, and she knew it was only a matter of time before she was found. So she called me up. Told me where to wait. I hadn't even looked inside her backpack, but buried at the bottom was the gun she had used."

"I'm guessing they didn't buy the whole 'my twin sister did it and told me to stand here'?"

"Oh, they knew something was off. But the precinct was a laughing stock because of how long it took them to find the serial killer. By then, Mia was long gone, and they had the perfect scapegoat, along with eyewitnesses to back up that they knew my face. Detectives even lifted some of her DNA from a few crime scenes. We matched."

For a long time, the two of them stayed silent.

"I was right, then," Odessa said finally, leaning her head on Sherry's shoulder. "Great liar. Terrible criminal."

As the rain began to slam harder against the glass, Sherry couldn't bring herself to shrug her off.

That evening, Sherry was fully prepared to step forward and take the job that had been assigned to her. Odessa took it before she could say a word. Mitchell was beginning to look frustrated, but apparently he was more interested in testing Odessa's limits than he was in making her play by the rules.

Odessa did not return until the next afternoon, and judging by the state she was in, Mitchell had gotten what he wanted.

He was all smirks as he dropped her into the common area. "Walk it off, little snake."

Her injuries were so brutal that even the other trinkets broke out of their disinterested fog to stare. She had a split lip and dried blood caking the lower half of her face. She clutched her side tenderly, staggering against the glass to stay upright on the path to her room. She left a smear of blood on the pristine wall along the way. Mitchell watched for only a minute before taking his leave.

Sherry rushed up beside Odessa. A couple of weeks ago, it would have been satisfying to see her this way. Now, Sherry couldn't bring herself to remember what that smugness would have felt like.

"What happened?" Sherry demanded.

"You should see the other guy," Odessa croaked, wincing a cold smile.

"Don't be cute," Sherry said, allowing Odessa to lean on her as they headed to the sheet-covered room. "Don't we have some kind of medic? They know it's a dangerous job."

"Already stopped by the clinic downstairs. This was all they could do. Or wanted to do, anyway."

Sherry looked the half-assed job up and down, gently touching the hand that Odessa kept pressed to her side. "Your ribs might be cracked. What the hell happened?"

"Reapers suspected my target was working for the rebellion. He was spotted with the same trinkets multiple times, so he wasn't selling. I got myself all set up to be 'rescued', and it turns out this guy is a high roller in a fighting ring. Once I realized what was happening, I called for the reapers to come collect. But before I knew it, I was in the pit with another trinket, and he was not interested in talking it out." She smiled crookedly. "What, you worried about me, or something?"

Making a face, Sherry nudged Odessa toward her bed. "Yeah. If you can't go back out there, then I'll have to. Now lay down, come on."

"Bossy," Odessa sing-songed. "Kinda hot."

"Did you get a concussion too, or what?"

Sherry helped her lay down, then started looking around for something to help. Water and cloth were easy enough to get, but Odessa needed far more than that. Noticing Sherry's plight, Odessa raised her head.

"Raquel's got salve." She pointed to the box of clothes in the corner. "Take her the sunflower dress. She'll trade."

Digging out the dress, Sherry hurried out the door to find Raquel. It was a surprisingly easy trade for a mini bottle of salve. Mini to humans, at least. The bottle was the length of Sherry's forearm. It seemed that pretty clothes were just as much a commodity as life-saving medication. Sherry was still wearing her standard issue institution-like set despite Odessa's offer to share.

Returning to Odessa's room, Sherry set everything down on the nightstand, pulled up a chair, and got to work. She started by cleaning away the blood, moving more gently when Odessa winced.

"How do you not have your own salve?" Sherry asked to distract her.

"Covering my walls was a big ask. Mitchell, in his infinite wisdom, says he doesn't want to spoil me. He has decided that I can only ask for one or the other."

"Salve seems a little more practical if you ask me."

"Can always trade if I need it." Odessa reached back behind her head to lovingly touch the sheet on the nearest wall. "Ever notice how everything meant to contain trinkets is made of glass? Polished, perfectly see-through glass. That's part of the punishment, even if no one says it out loud. We're always on display. Always meant to be looked at and humiliated. Sure, there's nothing I can do about the ceiling, but... it's something, at least."

Sherry had never thought hard about it, though it had been staring her in the face for three weeks now.

"Lift your shirt," Sherry instructed, helping her sit up.

"That's forward of you." Odessa smirked at Sherry's eye-roll and did as she was told, lifting her shirt enough to expose her ribs.

Tenderly as she could, Sherry spread a few fingertips of salve over the bruising area. It wasn't a cure by any means, but it would help with the pain. After prompting Odessa to lay back down, Sherry dabbed salve onto Odessa's lip. Their eyes met, and Sherry felt heat rush to her cheeks.

Odessa shut her eyes for a moment and released a heavy sigh, reaching up to squeeze Sherry's hand.

"I poisoned the keeper," Odessa said quietly.

If she had been searching for the perfect way to kill the mood, she hit the nail on the head.

Frowning, Sherry slipped her hand free. "With what?"

"I worked in a botanical garden, remember? All kinds of plants. Prints were the only ones allowed to get up close and personal with the most poisonous ones. Prints and trinkets aren't affected the same way as humans. But let's be honest, they'd send us in there even if that wasn't in the case. Anyway, I started up a little collection, harvested the oils, and mixed them."

"He... he didn't suspect anything?"

She shook her head. "I didn't do it right away. I kept thinking... if he gets worse. And he did. I tried to convince him to stop, but he wouldn't. He had firmly decided there was nothing I could do about it, so why stop? That last night, he broke my window to get to me. The timing couldn't have been more deserved."

By that point, Sherry was fixated, forgetting the salve and soaked cloth entirely. "How did you manage to get it in his food or drink? It couldn't have been easy."

"Who said anything about food or drink?" Something sinister flickered at the back of her eyes. "I rubbed the oils all over my skin."

"Oh," was all Sherry managed to breathe out.

"Yeah. Oh. He had me strip like he normally did. Then, the moment he put his disgusting mouth on me, he was doomed. He didn't even know it. He drove home and didn't show up for his next shift. They found him in his apartment three days later."

"And they traced it back to you?"

"Well, I didn't go bragging about it." Odessa touched her sore ribs absently, staring at the buzzing fluorescent lights high above. "The autopsy revealed the poison. Those types of plants weren't native to the area and were traced to the botanical garden. And who was his only connection to the garden?"

"But you didn't slip it into his food or anything! For all they knew, you just happened to have leftover poison on your skin from working in the garden. He's the one who put his mouth on you."

Odessa laughed. "Like they gave a shit. Plenty of keepers knew he had a thing for me, then he suddenly shows up dead? They even had a few of my neighbors testify about how much I hated him. I didn't stand a chance. But... the way I went about it is also the reason I'm here to begin with."

"Oh. You said that reapers usually pick snakes, right?"

"Mitchell attended my trial when he heard what I did. It didn't last long. He approached me hours before my consciousness transfer. His timing is impeccable with that sort of thing—offering a deal just when you think things are hopeless you're desperate enough to say yes to anything.

"He said I could come work for him, or I could be shipped off to whichever business called dibs on the next trinket shipment. He fed me all this bullshit about being able to stop worse people than the keeper I killed. All he needed to say was that being a snake meant I had a fighting chance. I said yes, of course. From that moment, I was his. He even picked my new face. Took me into a storage room every night the first few weeks for training."

Sherry reached for Odessa's hand and squeezed, trying to draw her out of her distant gaze despite the quiet horror Sherry felt herself. No wonder Mitchell seemed to have the greatest sense of ownership over Odessa compared to the other snakes. She was his project.

"So," Sherry said. "Ever daydream about making some poison and letting Mitchell have a taste."

Odessa smiled wanly. "I used to. Then I realized that Mitchell is our survival. He's a sadistic fuck, but we need him."

The response took Sherry off-guard. She didn't think Odessa could look or sound so complacent.

"You're not covered in poison right now, are you?" Sherry asked. Before Odessa could process the question, Sherry leaned in and pressed a featherlight kiss to her cheek. "Thanks for taking the fall for me. Since Mitchell's off-limits, can we at least daydream that the keeper is burning right now?"

"Now that one's a favorite."

Minutes ticked by, stretching into hours as Odessa rested. Sherry didn't realize she had dozed off in the chair beside the bed until the approach of a human rattled her awake.

"Odessa, you're out of commission for the weekend, lucky you," Mitchell announced, prompting her to jolt awake too. He smiled as his icy gaze moved between them. "Sherry, your assignment's already in, and I'm nice enough to give you a head's up. Velvet Delights. Be ready by 5 for pickup."

Cold fear drenched Sherry, stealing her breath.

"What!" Odessa snapped up to sit, grimacing at her sore ribs. "She can't go to a brothel! She's never even gone to a bar!"

"See, here's the thing," Mitchell said, leaning over to look straight down into the room until they had to crane their necks. "On file, she's been doing a hell of a phenomenal job at bars for the past three weeks. Even survived a fighting ring. No one can argue that she's ready as anyone for a brothel."

Odessa snarled, kicking off her blanket and standing to glare up at him. "Send someone with experience! You know she isn't ready!"

"Whose fault is that? She could have been more than ready if you didn't coddle her."

Eyes wide and frenzied, Odessa looked to Sherry, who had her hands over her mouth as she tried to keep a sob at bay. This couldn't be happening. She'd known that eventually she would have to work, but she had all but blocked out the possibility of being tossed into a brothel.

Drawing a deep breath, Odessa squared her shoulders and looked back up at Mitchell. "Send me in with her."

His eyebrows shot up. "You have three days off."

"Which means I'm free to volunteer. You know as well as me that brothels have the highest death rate. Always better to send more than one. It divides the attention, makes it easier to get evidence."

Mitchell scoffed, but he paused to consider it. "You really are something else," he finally told Odessa. His eyes slid to Sherry for a moment, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "I'm starting to get a little jealous if I'm being honest." He straightened and walked off. "Ready for pick up at 5," he said over his shoulder.

Sherry put on a pretty good show of pretending she wasn't scared out of her mind. In the weeks of getting to know her, however, Odessa could spot her tells. The way she rolled her shoulders. The slight pinch of her brow and lips that could be mistaken for a determined frown. The deep breaths she took to steady herself.

Velvet Delights was upscale, almost heavenly in its angel theme, which could either be helpful or disastrous. The reaper team wouldn't be far, patrolling the area and waiting for one of them to send the signal on their collars. The owner was thrilled to have a couple of free laborers, along with a promise that his inventory would not be snatched by the scheduled suspect that night.

The two of them were ordered to stand close together on the tray. Since Sherry seemed to have forgotten how to move, Odessa went and sat next to her. They were imprisoned under a wine glass and carted into a silk-lavished room. A luxury bottle of wine towered beside them. Odessa had been to enough brothels to know this setup was a special request.

The hostess straightened the pillows, made sure the glass was centered on the tray, and locked the door on her way out.

"You were right about the glass thing," Sherry whimpered in a half-assed attempt to giggle.

"Just relax," Odessa said. "Don't draw attention to yourself. Trinkets have mysteriously vanished around this guy, and that most likely means he's selling. He won't want to damage his product."

"And if he's not selling?" Sherry whispered.

Odessa squeezed her hand. "Just leave everything to me."

"You're hurt."

"The salve helped. I'm fine." Breathing only hurt a little.

The lock scraped. Sherry jumped, letting out a noise of fright. Her breathing quickened, and she shivered with the beginnings of a panic attack.

"Don't," Odessa hissed.

The door swung open, revealing a man with brown hair. When his eyes landed on them, he broke out in a smile that could light up a room. He glanced behind himself dramatically to check the number on the door.

"Am I in the right room?" he said. "Didn't know I'd be getting two. Hope I don't get charged extra."

Stripping off his jacket, he tossed it on a lounger and sauntered to the cart by the bed. He leaned over for a closer look, his fingertips trailing along the glass, tapping.

"Though... I say it'd be worth it for you two stunners."

Odessa tried to keep a neutral expression while she read him. It didn't take long to surmise that he had a thing for power. According to Mitchell, he was a bartender at a fancy downtown club. Trinkets were an everyday fixture for him, and still he visited brothels.

He reached for the bottle and worked on opening it. Didn't waste time, this one. Neither trinket said a word. "Don't be shy, now. Let's break the ice with some introductions." He popped the bottle and smiled pleasantly at them. "I'm James."

"Lolli," Odessa said, purposely trying to make herself look smaller and vulnerable.

He gave a hearty laugh, eyeing her red hair. "Lucky me. Cherry is my favorite flavor. Well, tonight it is." His gaze slid over to Sherry expectantly.

"Charity," she squeaked out, huddling closer to Odessa.

"Precious. Does that mean you're giving?" He grabbed the edge of the cart and dragged it closer. "I'm pretty giving myself, but we'll see if you're grateful enough to appreciate it."

Delicately pinching the stem of the glass, he pulled it closer, forcing them to approach him. Lifting the bottle, he tilted it to pour wine over the upended glass. Pale red dribbles raced down the outside of their prison. Odessa bit back a sneer, knowing he had either done this dozens of times or had scripted this fantasy down to the last beat in his mind.

Still, she was hardly prepared when he thudded the bottle down and slipped his hand beneath the rim of the glass. They had no choice but to scramble onto his fingers, stuck in their enclosure like captured bugs. James lifted them to eye level.

"Sorry for the theatrics," he said without sounding sorry at all. "I have my way of sampling."

Hunger, lust, and amusement battled for dominance in his gaze. Odessa bumped against Sherry as they were suddenly lowered, bringing his mouth into direct view. Sherry gave a breathless shriek as he licked the dripping wine in front of them. She snagged Odessa's arm and urged her to back up to the other side of their prison—as if it would make any difference.

As he turned his hands to drag his tongue further along, his breath fogged the glass. Odessa tried to look more frightened than outright disgusted. So, he was the type who liked to scare his victims instead of winning them over. How original. At least she did not doubt the character she had to play now.

"S-stop," Odessa said, loosing a fake sob and covering her face. "P-please!"

He pulled away, a look of deep satisfaction on his face. "You're right, I shouldn't have all the fun."

Air rushed past them as the glass was lifted off, leaving them exposed in his palm. Odessa thought for sure they were about to get the same treatment with his tongue. To her surprise, he lowered them to the nightstand and let them slide off. Grabbing a cloth from the cart, he wiped off the glass and poured himself a real drink while Sherry huddled against Odessa.

"Oh?" James took a long pull from the wine as he observed his audience of two. "Are you two friends? Adorable. That always makes things more fun." His gaze settled on Odessa. "Lolli, wouldn't you say our friend looks awfully warm in that get-up?"

The two of them wore matching white babydoll lingerie meant to make them look like angels. Instead of halos, they had their collars. Sherry shivered in her outfit like she was sitting in a snowstorm.

"In case it wasn't obvious," James said, his voice taking on an edge. "I'm telling you to take it off her."

Swallowing hard, Odessa turned to face Sherry, nodding her assurance. They needed to do what he said, lure him to let his guard down. With any luck, they could get a confession before he stole them from the brothel. Her goal wasn't to be perfect tonight; it was to get Sherry the hell out of there.

With trembling fingers that were only partly theatrics, Odessa reached for the straps of Sherry's bra. She felt sick to her stomach, particularly when she felt Sherry recoil from her touch. Sherry's voice seemed to echo from weeks ago, accusing her of being a monster. She certainly felt like one right now, though not as fearsome as the one looming over them with his expectant stare.

"I'm sorry," Odessa whispered.

Sherry looked like she might burst into tears as she dropped her head. She made no move to resist as Odessa undid the straps and pulled her bra down her arms, leaving her topless. Reaching for Sherry's panties, Odessa stopped halfway and pulled her hands back. She shook her head, leaning into her guilty expression as she looked up at James pleadingly.

James scoffed and drained the last of his wine, slamming the glass onto the nightstand beside them. "If that's too hard, tonight's gonna be a rough one for you, babe. But I guess I'll let you off the hook for now."

Odessa breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'll finish the job myself." James reached for them.

Sherry cried out in protest and latched herself to Odessa's arm, weeping. James' hand faltered as he eyed them. It wasn't pity—far from it. It was intrigue. Odessa could practically see the gears turning in his head as he took in the sight of Sherry cowering against her for protection.

He grinned. "Am I crazy, or are you blushing, Lolli?" Both. "Goddamn, more than friends, huh? I'm starting to wonder if management thinks it's my birthday or something. I'll do you a favor and show your little girlfriend how it's done, from the top."

His hand closed the distance this time, claiming Odessa as its prize. As he pulled her away, Sherry tried desperately to hold onto her, crying, "No! No!" But she fell back on the polished wood when James shook her off.

"Settle down, babe," he cooed. "You'll get your turn with her. You should be taking notes."

Odessa squirmed and whimpered in his grasp, silently relieved to have the sicko's attention focused all on her. She was no stranger to being stripped bare, but there was something particularly chilling about how expertly his fingers navigated her. He managed to be delicate and possessive all at once as he slipped off the straps of her panties and tossed them aside.

"N-no!" Odessa sobbed dramatically as he lifted her toward his mouth.

He curled his thumb in, effortlessly pinning her to his palm as hot breath spilled over her. His teeth teased at her skin gently until he found one of her bra straps. He tugged until it came loose, leaving her naked in his hand. The delicate lace was still pinched between his teeth as he pulled back to observe her. His thumb rubbed her middle up and down, testing how much pressure it would take to make her squirm in terror.

He let the lingerie fall from his mouth and flutter to the floor. "You're going to be a fun one, aren't you? Thank fuck. These high-end places usually have the prissiest trinkets."

"Please s-stop!" She dug her heels into his palm, trying to pry up his thumb. "You don't have to do this!"

"That's the best part." He leaned in again, trailing his tongue up along her side and circling her breasts while she tried to wriggle out from under his thumb. He sighed as if he couldn't be happier with how she tasted.

She could feel him start to pull away, could see that he was beginning to turn his attention back to Sherry. Odessa yanked her head up and bit his lip. He gave a start and looked down at her, jaw dropping.

"Fun and feisty," he purred. "It's like you were made for me." He caught one of her flailing arms between his teeth and bit her back. Not enough to break skin, but enough for her to let out a scream that wasn't staged.

But that did the trick. He seemed to forget Sherry for the time being, keeping Odessa clenched in his fist while he undressed. Her sore ribs screamed in agony. He moved slowly, making sure she brushed up against his body when he pulled up his shirt or unbuckled his belt. When the dizzying journey was over, he was as naked as she was. He was more muscular than she would have assumed, toned chest and abs filling her vision. She made sure he caught her staring.

A fresh grin lit up his face. "It's about to be all yours, Lollipop."

When he spread himself out on the bed silks, Odessa caught a glimpse of Sherry standing helplessly on the nightstand. Her shoulders moved up and down with visible breaths of panic. Odessa felt a fierce tug at her heart, but she didn't dare look too long, lest James get new inspiration to have Sherry join the party.

As it turned out, Odessa didn't have much of an opportunity to stare, anyway. James laid back and put one arm behind his head, observing as he dangled her by an ankle. He twisted his fingers, scrutinizing her at every frightened angle. He breathed with deep contentment, trailing her up and down his chest and abs.

Only her hair tickled at him at first, but with each stroke, he claimed more of her. Arms, face, shoulders, back, breasts, until the entire length of her was skating along the heat of his skin. When she managed to catch a glimpse of his face, she realized he wasn't even looking at her. She followed his gaze overhead and nearly gagged. There was a mirror on the ceiling, and he was fixated on the sight of himself torturing her.

She put on a good show for him, whimpering and squirming and trying to pull herself up to avoid touching him. She dug her fingers into his skin and made him groan. She screamed a few profanities for good measure, followed by desperate apologies begging him to forgive her.

He loved it. Now if she could just get him to confess.

"It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," she babbled to herself out loud, as if she had completely lost it. "Just tonight, and he'll be gone. I can do this, I c-can do this."

He paused, stopping her halfway down the slope of an ab. "Aw, you're gonna hurt my feelings. Wouldn't you want to stay with me forever?"

A sob wracked through her. "You can't have me! You'll have to give me back."

Her vision spun as he carried her in front of his face to look her over. His chuckle was sinister, but not damning. She wanted to scream in frustration. Just say you're stealing us, already! She kicked her free leg and writhed, actually feeling his fingertips get tugged from the motion.

"Fuck, you're a fiery one," he murmured low in his throat.

That was all he had to say for now. She saw the lust gathering in his eyes, the way his breaths became deeper. He sat up halfway and dragged her down the planes of his body once more, not pausing to drag her back up this time. With a sinking heart, she knew the destination he had lovingly chosen for her.

Seeming miles away, Sherry let out a shriek as she watched from the nightstand. "No! No, don't, please!"

Odessa blocked it out. She would have to deal with this before she could hope to get any info from him. It was far from her first time. As he pressed her up against his hardening cock, she shut down entirely and let it happen. His fingers guided her up and down, the motion becoming rougher by the second.

But he was more sensitive to her mood than she gave him credit for.

"Aw, what happened to all that fire?" he grunted.

Just as quickly as the pressure had started, it faded. He pulled her away from his dick, and she watched in horror as he turned his attention to Sherry's frantic form pacing on the edge of the nightstand.

"Maybe our girlfriend here will be a little more fun. It's her you want, isn't it?"

Odessa's reaction was genuine as she abandoned everything she knew about being a snake. "You keep your sick hands off her!"

But that only inspired him to move quicker. "There's the fire, Lollipop."

His other hand raced to snatch up Sherry. He laid back down, pausing to relish the violent squirms in both his fists before he placed them on his stomach. He stared down expectantly at them like they had been deposited on a stage. He raised his eyebrows viciously at Odessa.

"If you're not a fan of making me happy, I'll let you make your girl wet instead." He reached past them and started stroking himself with anticipation. "Go on."

Odessa turned to Sherry as the two of them rose and fell in tandem with their tyrant's breathing. She reached for Sherry's hand and squeezed. Biting her lip, Odessa searched desperately for some confirmation that this was okay, that they could do what they needed to continue the job. But Sherry gave her head the smallest, pleading shake as tears streamed down her face.

Not here. Not like this.

Turning murderous eyes toward James, Odessa dropped her act entirely and flipped him off. "I'm not putting my hands on her for you, you fucking psychopath."

James groaned in disappointment. "You know, it turns me on a little less every time someone calls me that."

Quick as lightning, he tore Odessa away from Sherry and dumped her in the glass on the nightstand.

"Hey! What are you doing?" Odessa pounded her fists against her damp prison as Sherry became the object of James' scrutiny.

He plucked her up under the arms, watching the panicky kick of her legs. "Oh, don't be like that. Your girlfriend didn't even want you. Don't worry, Charity, I'm here for you now."

Sighing in rapture, he leaned in and pressed kisses to her writhing body. Sherry's whimpers took on a higher octave as he nibbled at her panties. That was all the warning he gave before jerking his head back and ripping them free of her body entirely. He spat them out, eyeing her with a crooked, boyish smile.

"Doesn't that feel much better?"

He teased her with a few more deep kisses, poking his tongue between her legs long enough to elicit an involuntary moan.

"Listen to that. You love it."

He dropped her back on his chest. He nudged her to lay face down and let his hand fall over her, massaging himself with her squirms. He rubbed her down to his abs and back up again. Her muffled cries were silenced each time he fully smothered her, only to surface again when he eased up on the pressure. He couldn't seem to get enough of the rhythm.

All the while, Odessa did not stop shrieking for his attention. By the time he turned his gaze back to her, her throat felt screamed raw. He ignored Sherry's violent struggles against his chest to give Odessa a chiding look.

"No whining, now. You had your chance with her. But don't worry, I'm generous enough to include you."

James sat up halfway and lifted his hand to set Sherry loose. She slid partway down his stomach, scrambling to cling to him so wouldn't slip onto his erection.

"See?" he chuckled, giving her another rub against him. "She's crazy about me."

Reaching past Odessa, James snagged the wine and poured it over her head, filling the glass until she was swimming. Surfacing, Odessa grabbed hold of the rim and coughed. "L-leave her alone! Use me instead!"

The shadow of his hand darkened over her. "You talk too much."

His fingertip came down on her head and dunked her under the wine. He held her down for a good long time while she thrashed and tried to dodge around his finger, which only shoved her down further.

Even when he let her come back up for air, she was given only a millisecond to gather herself. He plucked up the glass and swirled his wine, making her dizzy as she struggled to keep her head up. She slammed into the side of the glass and nearly passed out from the explosive pain in her ribs.

Then he lifted the rim to his lips and took a long gulp. She was too disoriented to swim away from the current rushing into his mouth. Once he caught her arm between his teeth, she could do nothing but wait until he was satisfied with his drink.

As the wine settled back in the glass, Odessa gasped for breath and pushed her wine-soaked hair out of her eyes. She spotted Sherry crawling away on James' stomach. She made it to the sheets before he noticed, chuckling with delight.

"Oh, you like games?" The wine that held Odessa rippled at the rumble of his voice. Sherry moved faster and ducked under a fold. James gave her a head start before setting the glass down so he could poke through the sheets in search of her. "Ready or not..."

While he was distracted, Odessa frantically tapped at her collar to activate the tracker and communicator.

"He confessed," she coughed out, keeping her voice low so James wouldn't hear her. "He has other trinkets with him! He made other stops before this one. Come on, hurry!"

There was an agonizing pause in which James crowed in triumph upon finding Sherry. She screamed as she was yanked out of her hiding place.

"No shit?" Mitchell's voice crackled through the collar. "On our way."

James settled back down, holding Sherry in a fist. He kneaded her front with his thumb as he entertained himself with her weakening struggles.

"P-please," she said. The fight seemed to leave her body. She looked right at him, trying to appeal to a better nature that just wasn't there. "I don't belong h-here. I'm innocent, you have t-to understand! I was framed. Please, please believe me. S-stop this..."

He pursed his lips and nodded along as if he was listening. When she was done, he broke out in a grin so wicked that Odessa swore she felt the temperature drop. "As if I don't hear that same sob story every damn day of my life."

Sweeping his hand out, he deposited Sherry beside his swollen cock.

"Let's see what you got," he said, his voice growing huskier. "Make me happier than you did the judge, and I might be nice."

Sherry tried to run for the sheets again.

"Do I have to do everything around here?" James sighed, though he sounded pleased as could be.

His hand barreled into her and shoved her back where he wanted. He pressed her up against himself with his thumb, rubbing in tight circles. As his panting grew more frantic, he seized both her and his cock in one hand, hiding her entirely with his fingers as he began to jerk himself off. His hand pumped up and down, drowning out Sherry's sobbing screams.

"Stop!" Tears flooded Odessa's eyes, mixing with the wine. "P-please! Just stop!"

His head snapped toward her, wearing a toothy grin. "Don't think I've forgotten about my Lollipop," he panted.

He grabbed the glass and tipped it into his open mouth with reckless abandon. Wine poured in and spilled out the sides. Odessa scrambled to grab hold of something as gravity took over, but there was nothing she could do to stop herself as he tipped her over entirely. The cold glass was replaced with a warm, slick cavern.

Light vanished when he shut his mouth. The surface beneath her lurched upward. His tongue mashed her against the roof of his mouth while he swallowed the rest of the wine around her. The gulp was deafening.

Once she was the only occupant in his mouth, he began toying with her. His teeth narrowly missed crushing her limbs as he clenched his jaw and moaned from the ecstasy of Sherry's struggles. He tilted his head back, and for an awful moment, Odessa thought he was about to swallow her next. Instead, he opened his mouth and left her propped up with his tongue, allowing her a view straight up at the ceiling mirror.

In the reflection, she saw how he parted his fingers around Sherry, giving her a chance to shriek freely. Then he pressed his fingertip to the back of her head to muffle the sound again. An answering groan quaked around Odessa.

She gave a wordless cry and tried to grab his teeth and haul herself out of his mouth. His tongue practically wrapped around her and reeled her back in. He shut his mouth again, rolling her around and sucking on her like a piece of candy.

To her shock, he stuck his fingers in his mouth to grab her by the ankle and pull her out. Losing no rhythm with Sherry, he leaned over to the freshly-refilled wine glass and dunked Odessa headfirst inside. He swirled her around and yanked her out just as suddenly. Holding her over his open mouth, he let wine drip onto his waiting tongue.

Odessa couldn't muster the energy to plead or hurl profanities at him. The hold on her ankle vanished, and she was dropped back toward her dark prison. She managed to twist in the air, landing on the corner of his mouth with her legs halfway out. His teeth came down on her torso, gnawing with dangerous pressure. She tried to wrench her way free, but it was no use. While she was pinned, his tongue returned to greet her, and his finger nudged her the rest of the way in.

James gave another deafening moan of appreciation as he savored her wine-soaked skin.

The noises became more consistent, and his movements quickened. He was heading toward climax. Odessa couldn't help but feel a tiny measure of relief as she curled herself away from his teeth. It was almost over.

Then, to her horror, his tongue began nudging her toward his throat.

In that instant, there was no doubt in her mind that he meant to swallow her as the finale of his pleasure. She scrambled to pull herself away, but there was a shift in gravity as he tilted his head back again to thwart her pitiful struggles.

"NO!" she howled, but the sound went nowhere. The harder she tried to pull herself up, the further she seemed to fall. Her legs slipped into a steep drop.

There was a sharp knock at the door.

Suddenly, she was tilted back to the center of his tongue.

"Occupied," James snapped, teeth gnashing against Odessa's shoulder.

The door banged open. He was so startled that he bit down on her arm. A wail of pain tore out as an incisor cut her. It was a miracle that the bone wasn't crushed.

She felt him cringe at the taste of blood. He plucked her out of his mouth. She coughed herself ragged while his fingers pinched her by the diaphragm and spine. Snagging Sherry's limp body, he used the same hand to toss the sheet over his nudity.

"What the fuck is going on?" James roared, making Odessa slam her hands over her ears.

It all happened in a whirlwind.

Odessa and Sherry were confiscated by Agent Taylor while Agent Mitchell gave orders to the others. They were kind enough to let James put some clothes back on before he was dragged into a corner for rapid questioning.

The trinkets were placed back on the cart tray, but it seemed everyone forgot to give them the privilege of clothing. Sherry looked ready to faint as she stumbled over to Odessa and threw her arms around. She wasn't crying, just breathing heavily. She pressed her hand to Odessa's wound to help staunch the bleeding. Odessa sank with her and held her close, knowing that things were not about to get any easier.

As everything unfolded around them, Odessa found herself looking at Sherry's face. Her gaze was fixed on James across the room. Where there should have been fear, there was pure, unadulterated hatred. She hadn't even looked this angry when she found out the truth about Odessa's role in her capture.

She looked like she would kill if given the opportunity.

"Are you okay?" Odessa whispered.

Sherry blinked and shook her head as tears began falling. Sniffling, she surprisingly chuckled. "Sorry, I know I'm going against lesson one. No benefit to crying here."

Giving a small sob herself, Odessa tucked a lock of hair behind Sherry's ear. "Hey, don't tell anyone, but I was crying half the time. Didn't do me much good, either."

"I'm telling you, I don't know about any other trinkets!" James insisted, pulling their attention back.

Mitchell, looking like he had just won the lottery, walked over to the cart. "Where are the others?" he directed at Odessa.

When she didn't answer, his smile dropped. He leaned in closer, expression darkening dangerously.

"There are no others," Odessa said, figuring she may as well rip off the band-aid.

Mitchell went perfectly still. "But you got a recorded confession?"

"Nope."

And with that, James was released with a heartfelt apology and an assurance that he would be compensated for his night at the brothel, along with a promise that the agency would negotiate with the owner about a few free nights.

"You're lucky if I don't sue the shit out of you," James snapped, making his way to the door.

But Odessa doubted he would. He had to be a black market dealer, or a skilled independent seller at the very least. He wouldn't dare draw the attention of a lawsuit. Even if he didn't complete his fantasy that night, he was walking away with the knowledge that reapers were on his tail, and now he could act accordingly.

Odessa swore he winked in her and Sherry's direction on his way out.

Mitchell sent out the rest of the team while he remained in the room with Odessa and Sherry. He loomed over the tray, looking ready to break them both in half. His hands even flexed at his sides as he gathered himself.

"What the fuck was that?" he managed finally, each word coated in malice.

"He was going to kill us both," Odessa said calmly.

She was prepared when the weight of his hand fell on her, but nothing could help the pain of her ribs crushing against her lungs.

"Like I give a shit," Mitchell hissed. "Snakes die. That's how it goes."

"If you're willing to let your best snake die over one creep, you're a fucking moron."

He pulled out his work phone, which didn't surprise her in the slightest. She took the deepest breaths she could manage, though it wouldn't do her much good. He was going to choke her until she passed out—it wasn't the first time. But when he finished tapping at the screen and looked down at her with relish, her collar didn't tighten.

Sherry gave a shrill squeal. She fell to her knees, clawing at the collar. Odessa gasped and bucked uselessly, every one of her injuries smarting as she fought.

"Quit it!" Odessa pleaded. "It's not her fault! I made the call!"

"She's nothing but a distraction to you," he said grimly. "Maybe this will show you what happens when you let your precious little wants get in the way."

He let her up, and she rushed to Sherry. It wasn't mercy; he intended for Sherry to die in her arms.

"If I lose her, you lose me!" Odessa shouted. "I'll fuck up every job, and you can choke me to death, too! Now stop!"

Mitchell let it go on for a few more seconds, but he did stop, looking weary. "What the hell am I supposed to do, Odessa? You ruined a perfectly set-up sting because you couldn't let your girlfriend take a little punishment."

"It won't happen again. I know she can survive now. I'm going to train her until she's perfect, for real this time."

He paced in front of them while Sherry wheezed and leaned against Odessa for support.

"The station's not gonna go under just because two little snakes are gone," Mitchell said, coming to a stop in front of them. "Either she's an asset or a problem. She'll make it clear which one when she goes on her first solo job."

With that, he scooped up Sherry, leaving Odessa alone on the tray. At first, she was confused as she watched Sherry get handed off to Agent Taylor in the hallway. But as Mitchell shut the door behind him and started taking off his jacket, she knew precisely what was happening.

She wanted to collapse and sob and beg that she couldn't take anymore tonight, but she was better than that. She held her ground as he loosened his tie and gave her a deeply possessive look.

"Well, my shift's over just about over," he said. "It's been a while, hasn't it? You want to keep your cute little girlfriend? Convince me."

At dawn, Sherry padded to Odessa's room. It had been stripped bare of incentives, including the sheets on the walls. It was as empty as Sherry's now. Her clothes were standard issue. A small spot of blood seeped through the cloth bandage on her arm. She couldn't trade for salve. She had nothing.

Well, not nothing, Sherry decided. She could have been confiscated just as easily.

Sherry crawled up beside Odessa, whispering an apology when she startled her. Odessa lay with her back to the doorway, curled into herself. No blankets. No pillow. Just the two of them. Sherry wrapped her arms around her from behind.

"Hey, queen," she whispered. "Are you okay? What happened?"

"Nothing that hasn't happened before."

"That doesn't mean you're okay." Sherry slipped a hand to Odessa's ribs. "Sorry," she murmured when Odessa flinched.

"No, it's alright." Odessa placed a hand over hers, using it to rub a slow circle on the sore spot. Then she guided Sherry's hand higher and left it on her breast. Sherry squeezed gently and ran her thumb up and down. As right as it felt, Sherry stopped herself.

"Aren't you tired of being touched?" Sherry murmured.

"You're not them." Odessa's voice sounded tight. "You're soft. You could never hurt me."

Moving Odessa's hair out of the way, Sherry pressed a kiss to the back of her neck, trailing up until she reached her jaw, her cheek. Her lips brushed Odessa's ear. "Tonight may have been a bust, but on a normal job, it must feel good to put away sick fucks like that bartender," she whispered.

Odessa gave a weak laugh. "You're buying into the bullshit, huh? Saving the world? You realize we're not helping anyone, right? Just sending off our 'rescues' to a different circle of hell."

"At least the sick fucks are joining them along the way."

Odessa turned in Sherry's arms to face her more fully. "Rebels join them just the same. Tell me you know that."

Sherry was quiet for a moment, feeling an odd sting of guilt for something she hadn't even done yet. "I know."

She reached for Odessa's chin and gently guided it closer. Their lips touched softly at first, then fell into deeper, more frantic kisses. The fluorescents beat down mercilessly on them. Anyone could watch, but they didn't care.

"I think I'm ready to start doing my job," Sherry said between kisses as they leaned their foreheads together.

Odessa snorted. "I can't tell if you're lying."

"Then I know I'm ready."

#gt #gt writing #giant #tiny #giant tiny #gt horror #my writing #print universe #trinket universe #heart of gold #playing with fire #odessa #sherry #agent mitchell #agent taylor #james #size difference #mywriting

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cafedanslanuit · 5 years ago

Note

would it be ok to ask for hcs of the main 6 + vaderwood and how they would react to their normally energetic and funny mc being a little off and making some self-deprecating jokes (like a little too dark to be funny) as a way of coping and hiding their anxiety/depression? if not thats ok im just in a similar mood today.

self-deprecating jokes are my thing too, tbh. hope you’re feeling better! Also, I couldn’t picture Vandy for this particular hc, I’m sorry :c

Yoosung

This boy honestly loves how fun you are. He will always laugh with you and you don’t tease him that much (Saeyoung does that for you)

One day, when he comes home from his job at the vet, he finds you calling for pizza. He lets you finish the call and then you look up.

“Hey, welcome back! I accidentally left the stove on for too long and messed up dinner” you casually said, with a small giggle. “So I called Pizza Hut, hope it’s okay”.

“It’s okay!” he says. “I love pizza”

“I know, me too” you smile. You stand up and stretch your arms. “Okay, so I’ll take a shower before it gets here. How the fuck did I forget the stove on, I don’t know” you laugh. “I swear to God I would totally leave me at this point”.

Yoosung says nothing, shocked. He watches you walk to the bathroom and turn on the shower. He knows you like to joke around, but that joke had been pretty specific. Leave you? Why would he leave you? Over some burnt food?!

He waits until you come out, wrapped in a towel and hands you a cup of your favourite tea. You smile weakly.

“An award for my awful cooking?” you tease him.

“Hey! It’s just food! And you solved it. I don’t really care, MC, please let it go”. He sees your lips tremble a little bit. “Are you okay?”

You had a really rough day at work. You tell him all about it while sipping on the tea and he silently listens to you, nodding at the right times. The pizza finally arrives and he puts on your favourite show so you both can watch it. When you go to bed, he makes sure to give you extra cuddles, so you never have to feel any more pressure on yourself.

Zen

Honestly, he’s not the best at comedy. But he really likes how much you can make yourself laugh with your own jokes.

He comes home and hands you his tablet. You arch an eyebrow and look at him from the couch. He sits beside you and asks you to press play. You nod and comply his request.

It’s a video from rehearsal. He’s singing at he’s actually hitting all the notes just right. You smile softly, watching the video in silence. When it’s over, you turn and gives him a kiss on the cheek.

“You’re amazing, babe. You did the song soooo good! How can you be so talented?”

“Thank you, babe. And I don’t know, can’t help it. I’m just talented.” he shrugs, with a confident smile.

“Well, someone has to be” you responded quickly. His smiled faltered and he looked at you, confused.

“What are you talking about? You are talented too. I’ve seen your drawings, those building projects you have been working on. They’re masterpieces, MC, I love them and–”

“I didn’t get the job, Zen” you quickly answer, not looking at him. “They didn’t like those ‘masterpieces’” you added, making the colons signs with his fingers.

Oh. So they had already sent you the email.

Zen would put the tablet aside and hold you on the couch. Whisper over and over again how talented you truly are and how they were in the wrong for not noticing it.

“If they can’t see how brilliant you are, why would you want to work for them?” he asked. “I’ve been rejected more times that I can count. I know how you feel. And you know what makes me feel better?”

You look at him and shake your head.

Ten minutes later, you’re both riding on his motorcycle, feeling the air against your face. you hug him tighter and smile.

Jaehee

Jaehee’s not one for jokes. But she does enjoy the occasional laugh she has with you. You make tons of jokes, but, unlike Saeyoung, you know when to stop

“Babyyyyyyyy, I’m a mess!” you complained, stretching on your bed. Both of you were working on your laptops, when suddenly you put yours aside.

“C’mon. Help me, Excel Goddess! Can’t seem to make this thing to work and I need to show it to my boss tomorrow” you asked. Jaehee smiled softly, put her laptop aside and grabbed yours. She started typing formulas, fixing your work.

“You’re so good to me, baby. Thank youuuu. That’s why you’re the smart one here”. Jaehee just smiled, continuing her work.

“They should have taught me Excel in school instead of sports. Did anyone of my class turn out to be an athlete? No one. Are we struggling to get a job because we don’t know shit about Excel? We are”.

“Maybe that’s why I’m failing. Maybe that’s why I had to settle with this shitty job, because I can’t comprehend the monster that in Microsoft Excel. Maybe that’s also why my Computer Science teacher hated me at school” you said dramatically. Jaehee chuckled softly.

“Maybe that’s why my whole life is a mess right now. Maybe that’s why I can’t find joy in the things I do anymore, maybe that’s why my father left us. Because I’m a shitty person who can’t do Excel and can’t get a decent job”.

She stopped typing and looked over at you.

“MC. What are you saying?”

“I’m sorry. I’m just… I’m tired. Don’t think about it too much”

“I-… Do you want me to talk to Mr. Han? Maybe there’s a position and… I know C&R takes most of my time but an entry level job may be good– at least for your resumé and–”

“I’m fine. Don’t think about it, baby” you dismissed, but Jaehee grabbed your hand.

“Can’t you really find joy anymore?” she asked. You sighed.

“Happens to me when the cold weather beggins. Will go away in a couple of weeks” you shrugged. Jaehee squeezed your hand.

“Let me know if I can do anything to help you… well, find joy again”.

“You do help!” you assured her. “I can find bits of joy here” you smiled and gave her a small kiss. She smiled and kissed you back.

Jumin

Jumin doesn’t understand most of your jokes. Most of the times, you have to explain them to him. He doesn’t mind, but it’s only because he really enjoys watching you laugh at your own jokes. The sight of you giggling it’s enough to light up any day.

That day, you decided to visit him during lunch. Which wasn’t a rare occurrence, you tried to visit him at least once a week, making sure with Jaehee you wouldn’t be interrupting.

“Good afternoon, my love. Didn’t expect you here” he greeted you, giving your cheek a tender kiss when you approached him. You gave him the bento you had prepared and sat in front of him, on the other side of his desk.

“I know. I just thought your darling, loving wife might make an appearence. I do have to keep those heiresses away from you” you laughed. He smiled softly and opened his bento. “Don’t want them making you change your mind about marrying some poor girl who couldn’t even afford university by herself”.

Jumin arched his eyebrow while eating his lunch. “Is there a problem with your classes? I thought you were excited about finally attending university, even if most of the classes are online for security reasons. Are the professors not competent enough? Are they not grading you fairly?”

You laughed. “No, Jumin, classes are fine. I just… Don’t really fit with your social class, you know. I mean, I knew I wouldn’t fit, but someday’s it really… just… I don’t know. You can put a working class girl in a Channel, but you can’t really change who she really is inside, right?” you smiled weakly.

Jumin furrowed his eyebrows, visibly upset. “What are you talking about?”

Your facade disappear and you sighed. You reached out for his hand and held it tighly.

“Please, don’t misunderstand me. I love you, I really do. Nothing can change that. But I can’t– I can’t pretend I don’t hear the whispers when I come here to have lunch with you. How I listen to them mocking these nice clothes you bought for me” you said, pointing at your light blue dress he had given you. “I don’t… I didn’t grow up with these things. I must look really dumb pretending to be part of a class I’m not”.

“Who made that comment?” he asks, angrily.

You try to cover it up, but after some pushing, you tell him it’s the secretary that works two offices away. She has a desk beside Jaehee’s. Jumin stands up, not stopping when you ask him to. He takes one step outside his office and spots the secretary you must be talking about.

“You’re fired. Assistant Kang, take care of that paperwork”.

Jumin returned to his office and locked the door. You can’t believe what just happened. He walks over to you and lifts up your chin with his hand, gently.

“Don’t ever let anyone tell you you don’t belong here. Or that you don’t deserve elegant clothes or anything I want to give to you. I know you didn’t grow up the same as me, but that’s why I love you. Because you didn’t look at me and saw my money or C&R, you looked at me. At who I was. Who I could be. I want to be the best man I can be, just for you. And I want to please you, giving you anything I can so you can enjoy life at its fullest. Also, look at you” he said, taking a look at your whole outfit. “You look breathtaking. You look classy, and it’s not just the dress” he smirked, kissing your cheek and making his way to your neck, leaving you a mess of giggles.

Saeyoung

Ok, so we all agree he’s the king of dark humour and self-deprecating jokes.

And he’s used to be like that around you and sometimes you make the same jokes and you both just laugh it out.

So that day, he doesn’t notice something’s off from the start.

He’s fixing the robot cat, since it had been malfunctioning. You’re reading a magazine on the couch while he’s sitting on the floor, both of you talking on and off.

“One day you should teach me who to do that. You know, fixing stuff and such”

“I wil! But you’ll need to call me sensei during our lessons.”

“Sensei? Isn’t that japanese?”

“It is! I’ll be your sensei if you wish. But what do you want to learn to fix?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t want to be the dumb one of the relationship”

“Awww. But we make such a good pair~”

“Just because you haven’t got tired of me yet” you chuckle.

“How could I get tired of your cooking? Never!~ I swear my mouth waters just thinking about your waffles.”

You laugh. “That’s all I am? My cooking?”

“Well, also how clean you keep this, Ms. Vanderwood hasn’t been complaining as much as before” he teases you.

“Well, you know I have to keep this apartment clean and your stomach full. That’s why I’m here, right? Until you get tired of my stupidness” you chuckle.

Saeyoung looks back at you, stopping on his fixing of robo-cat. He’s not longer smiling.

“… You really think that? That I think you’re stupid?”

“Well… I’m no genius. I’m just one more secretary, I’m… c’mon. You’d have more fun with someone who’s just as smart as you. I’m just here… until my time’s done. I’ve accepted it long ago.”

Suddenly he’s over you, making you lay on the couch, pinning both your arms over your head.

“Stop! What? Stop, just stop, what are you even saying?! You are kind, compassionate, generous and the most beautiful soul I’ve ever seen. You stayed by my side when I was at my worst. You saw all parts of me and still loved me. I’m the one who isn’t worthy of someone as loving and forgiving as you. I– I could never. I could have never rescued Saeran without you. I could have never been happy or even think about real happiness if it weren’t for you. So honestly, what if you don’t know anything about computers or hacking? That doesn’t matter to me. It’s you and your heart. It’s always been about your loving heart, MC. Please, please don’t be so hard on yourself. I’ve loved you my whole life. Even before I met you. I just didn’t realize it.”

Your eyes water

damn, saeyoung i almost cried as well, you fucker

You both stay on the couch, holding each other until you fall asleep. He keeps whispering soft and warm words to your ear every now and then, making sure you never doubt yourself again.

Saeran

“i want to die” “same”

It’s so usual for you both to make dark jokes, he doesn’t really notice when it stops being a joke to you.

You’re both laying on the couch. You’re on top of him, resting your head on his chest. You can’t remember how it started, but you start joking around.

“Your girlfriend’s a mess, you know”

“She is. Have you seen her hair?” he teased.

“What the hell does she think she’s doing? Have you seen the way she dresses?”

“Total mishap. It’s like a match made in hell”

“And her voice? More like a screech” you laugh, making fun of your own voice.

“Will she ever shut up?” he sighed dramatically, smirking softly.

“Why does she think she actually make someone happy?” you chuckle. His smile disappears.

Saeran stays silent for a minute. “You’re not happy?”

are you not happy with him? has he already bored you out of your mind? are you having second thoughts about your relationship? because he’s been trying, he’s been seeing a psychologist and even though there still isn’t a big change, he— is it because there hasn’t been a big change?

“Well, you’re not” you replied in a small voice. “And I can’t– And I don’t how– Maybe it’s me?”

So, Saeran decides to try something he’s been talking about with his psychologist. Better now than ever, he thought.

“I love you”

You raise your head, looking at him in disbelief. He’s never said that before. When you started dating, he had kissed you and you had understood how it was hard for him to express feelings due to the severe trauma he had gone through, so you hadn’t pushed him but… Saeran was still looking at you, a tense expression on his face. You suddenly realized you hadn’t said anything back.

“I love you too”. You had said it before. You had told him that a million times, but it was the first time you said it back.

“I know it seems I’m not making progress– But I think I am? I mean, I just told you that, right?” he said, scratching his head, a little nervous. “He said we were going to work on expressing feelings, and it was easier to express the most intense ones.”

“Your most intense feeling– one of your most intense feelings is loving me?” you asked, still surprised.

“Shut up” he said, making you laugh for real this time.

#mystic messenger #mystic messenger headcanons #mystic messenger headcanon #mysme hc #mystic messenger hc #mm hc #mm jumin #mm zen #mm jaehee #mm yoosung #mm saeyoung #i've lost my ability to make small hcs #this turned out to be seven pages on a google doc #SEVEN #will i ever make small hcs again #idk

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rachelthompsonauthor · 4 years ago

Link

What is social proof? It’s a marketing concept that we are all inadvertently, unknowingly contributing to every time we click on, retweet, like, reply or comment, and share any kind of social media, article, or blog post on the net. Technically, social proof, as defined by Sprout Social is:

The concept that people will follow the actions of the masses. The idea is that since so many other people behave in a certain way, it must be the correct behavior.

Social Proof and Me

As an author, social media is a hugely important part of my author platform, as it is for any writer or blogger. This is how we connect with readers now, even before the pandemic. Virtual, online events are now the norm. Instagram, Facebook, and YouTube Live video discussions are the new book signings. Twitter chats are weekly on any number of topics; I have two of my own, in fact, #SexAbuseChat every Tuesday at 6 pm pst/9 pm est and #BookMarketingChat every Wednesday at 6 pm pst/9 pm est.

All important for visibility, branding, and most importantly, connection.

However…there’s a limit. I reached my limit over the course of this past year. It didn’t come all at once. It came, little by little, reaching a peak this past month or so.

Why? How? Me, the so-called social media expert?

Access. Like many people, I have issues with the incredible level of access Facebook gives people once we friend them without our consent. PMs (private messages) are automatic, now with the ability for people to call, voice, and video message us, with no option to shut these options to OFF unless we unfriend the person (we can, however, mute a specific conversation). Technically, we do give them consent in the legal mumbo jumbo we all agreed to when we joined back in the 2010s.

I am not okay with this. And Facebook doesn’t care. Nobody cares. You’re probably thinking, “Geez, Karen. Shut up, already. Stop your whining, white lady.” I get it. I do. First-world problems.

I counter with: I hear you. It’s also part of my business. A huge part. Here’s why:

As someone who manages over 70+ various social media accounts as part of my BadRedhead Media business, plus my own accounts as well, Facebook requires I have a personal account in order to manage all those other Pages. I do understand why, particularly with all the ridiculousness of the past four years with the abundance of fake accounts, fake news, and such.

As a survivor of sexual abuse and stalking, this is ultra-concerning to me. So, what happened this past month or so? Suffice it to say, one person repeatedly tried calling me. I never pick up Facebook calls, especially if I don’t know you. Another left me a few voice messages saying they were offended by something.

Yet another left me another message in ALL SHOUTY CAPS that she didn’t find what I posted inspirational enough and she expected better from someone who is “supposedly on the side of authors.”

Oh, and there is the one lady who started replying on ALL my posts to the kind people who did comment that she didn’t think I replied often enough or to her satisfaction.

Well. I’ve been criticized before. You should read some of my 1-star reviews. There’s plenty!

But, for whatever reason, this struck a chord. I got up in my feels. I cried. I talked with one of them and we worked it out because we like and respect each other’s work in the mental health space. The others I blocked. It’s darn frustrating to donate hours of my time each week to helping writers solely because I want to, only to be told it’s not enough. Like, seriously? Fuck off.

My blood raged. My heart sank. Understandable, right?

But what really made me angry is that I put myself in that position by being available. I accepted that ‘it is what it is.’ This is what the social media platforms have given us, so that’s what I have to work within.

I’m too available. It’s too easy to leave me shitty messages. This is why people hire people like me – to handle this crap for them! So they don’t have to read these ridiculous criticisms from judgy people who apparently have nothing better to do or are having a bad day.

And I get bad days. It’s a damn pandemic. We’re all struggling. Where’s the damn compassion for one another?

I have a dislike/hate relationship with Facebook anyway, since about ten or so years ago when I discovered that a past love had died by suicide by going to his personal profile and seeing, “RIP dude,” messages there. We had spoken early that day. It still haunts me.

So…what to do? I’m claiming my time. I’m not posting to my personal Facebook profile right now. I’m ignoring it. I am checking my Pages and of course, my client Pages. When I feel like I can face it again, I will cull my ‘friends’ down from *checks real quick* 4385 people to maybe, I don’t know, the few hundred in my groups, many of whom I do know and treasure.

Social Proof and You

If you’re a writer, social proof matters. This is the world we live in. Publishing is not only writing.

You need to be ‘findable,’ not only on Google, but also on each individual social platform, so your readers can learn more about you and hopefully, buy your books. If you go the traditional route, publishers and agents want to know how many followers you have (easily upped by buying fake followers or likes from Fiverr or wherever). I suggest not doing that, because:

1) fake followers don’t buy books

2) it’s usually pretty obvious when you have fake followers because they’re all foreign names, have questionable bios, and no tweets

3) do you really want to start your publishing career with a lie?

They also want to know what you post, how often, and what your branding is. If you’re an indie author, honestly, the same applies. Social proof is about connection, building relationships, and authenticity. I’ve believed that since I started my business and writing career way back in 2011, and I stand by it now. Start slow, grow slow. It’s not a race.

I’m the furthest thing you’ll even find from a conspiracy theorist – I don’t believe in chemtrails, pizza parlor cabals, or that the earth is flat. However, I am a realist. Watch The Social Dilemma sometime. These huge tech companies share our data without our knowledge or consent (Cambridge Analytics, anyone?). Younger generations are so used to this, they don’t really care – ask them.

(My kids think having a chip implanted in their hands with all their data is a fabulous idea. “So much easier than having to talk and repeat everything over and over. Just scan me and be done with it,” says my daughter Anya (21). “Agree,” grunts my son, Lukas (15). Buy stuff, go to the doctor, whatever. Scan and go. Talk with any GenZ kid, you’ll likely get a similar answer. They’ve been tracked since birth everywhere. They don’t know life without a computer, tablet, or phone in their hands.)

Know that whatever we do, it’s all part of each platforms’ AI, and they share data, which is why that darling pair of shoes you just saw on Amazon is now showing up on Google, Facebook, Twitter, and every website you visit going forward. It’s all about the money, and they all get a piece of that affiliate link.

Every bit of every click is recorded, even when you’re watching videos on YouTube, or a subscription service like Netflix, or perusing goods on Amazon. It’s all connected. I’m not shocked or surprised by any of this, are you?

It’s Not Personal

What people say to us and about us is ultimately incredibly revealing about them. We know this, at an intellectual, psychological, and emotional level. Still, when people say mean things, it hurts. We’re human.

Does it matter in the overall scope of our lives? Who can say. It matters at that moment. It can matter when it comes to overall visibility when you’re marketing your book(s) or trying to get that book contract or interview. Only you can say if it matters to you.

Already a longtime fan of THE FOUR AGREEMENTS by Don Miguel Ruiz, I took a moment to reorient myself with this one agreement: Don’t take anything personally. I also stumbled across an excellent short and entertaining TEDTalk by Frederick Imbo. His main message to stop taking things personally is two-fold;

It’s not about me. Look at the other person’s intention and

It IS about me. Give yourself some empathy. Speak up. Ask questions. Pay attention to how you feel and be vulnerable with your needs.

I’m glad I was able to, inadvertently, employ point #2 and work out some issues with one of the people by telling him what he said made me cry. He apologized. I apologized. We talked it through and we’re still friends.

Ultimately, social media is what we contribute to it. What we make it. How much we allow of it into our lives. Social proof is going along with the tide. I’ve been in this space since 2008. Being connected to others is a big part of the work I do to help and support not only other writers, but also other childhood sexual abuse survivors. However, I’ve reached that point. I knew it was coming.

I’m not shutting my doors. I’m just adding a screen. With a strong lock.

***

Read more about Rachel’s experiences in the award-winning book, Broken Pieces.

She goes into more detail about living with PTSD and realizing the effects of how being a survivor affected her life in

Broken Places, available in print everywhere!

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jenovahh · 3 years ago

Text

The Honey Pot - Ch. 19 - Tender

“Cid and I only want to help you, you know.”

It is almost noon, the sun high in the sky, but the day is surprisingly cool due to autumn beginning to settle in. Estinien is a furnace unto himself, your fingers trailing across the bare skin of his torso, drawing lazy patterns on toned muscle, your fingers tickling his abs. Held close like this in the aftermath of your coupling, you find that this tenderness is what you crave, and despite it being right in front of you, you cannot have it.

“I know.” You sigh, tucking your face into his neck, breathing him in.

“But…?” Estinien prompts, clearly not willing to let you weasel out of this.

“But...” You whimper, pressing a gentle kiss to his jaw, gripping him tighter, your nude form pressed snugly against his own. What could you say that would keep you out of Varis’ sights? Keep Cid out of his sights? Your choker feels like a brand against your skin. “If you are so smart, how would you help me? I doubt you could come up with a plan to stop anything Varis can do.” You smile bitterly, tears in the corner of your eyes at the despair you feel.

Estinien stiffens for a moment beneath you, before releasing a slow breath. “I see.” Is all he says, and it is silent for a few minutes more. Times like these, you wish he did not speak so much, want so much from you. He wanted far more than you could give, both because you couldn’t risk his safety and because of your feelings.

Your feelings for--

“I should make you scream louder then, huh.” He chuckles and you smack him on the chest for even saying such a thing.

“You brute.” You can’t help but laugh, even a little bit.

“I think they prefer the term savage.” He smirks, tilting your face up to him. Your eyes immediately look to the far wall, not wanting to meet his own, knowing exactly you’ll find there. “Honey.” The adoration in his voice is enough to pull your gaze back to him, his eyes boring into your very soul. “There is nothing I would not do for you.”

Tears finally overflow, a sob breaking past your lips. “That’s the problem.”

Standing in Varis’ office, you have no choice but to stand there and be humiliated as your own moans and sighs are played back for you to hear. Your face is not red from embarrassment or shame, but instead a righteous anger that even your most tender moments must be used against you like this.

You wish you could go back in time and slap yourself silly.

Lips pursed together, you glare back at Varis, hiding nothing, hiding none of your absolute loathing for him. That loathing shifts into disgust when you swear there is a note of enjoyment in his features at listening to the playback. Reclining in his chair, he throws you a vile smirk as your conversation with Estinien plays over the computer speakers.

“What had you called the bodyguard earlier? A friend?” He asks, twirling your choker between his fingers.

“I don’t believe I hesitated.” You ground out, parroting his own phrase back at him.

“This sounds far too personal for something as trivial as friendship.” He gleams, placing the choker back on his desk. “Do not think I did not see your attempt to protect him.”

Your heart seizes in your chest, body going stiff as time seems to freeze for a moment.

“You’re bold, little savage, to go against orders from your superior.” Varis’ tone is completely absent of any amusement, his golden eyes staring you down.

Fear stills your tongue, makes you question your actions and it is not fear for yourself; it is for Ardbert, for Cid, for Estinien--

“I-It is because perhaps I do feel something beyond just friendship for him.” While meant as a lie to try and appease him, you startle yourself with how much truth the statement carries. “In that moment I was not thinking of your orders, and only of my...feelings for him. To protect him.”

Varis studies you for a moment, before that sleazy smile returns to his face. “I see.” He chuckles, relaxing once more. “In that case, I will excuse this mistake, so long as it is the last. Am I understood?” You nod, which seems to please him. “Good. I will admit, I was growing...apprehensive at the sudden turnaround of your relationship with Zenos. But with this confirmation of your feelings for that savage, I believe things will resume according to plan.” He tilts his head slightly, pinning you with a pitying look. “Savages should breed with savages after all.”

Taking a deep sigh, you clench your fists tightly at your sides to keep your anger in check. “Is there anything else, sir?”

“Is there anything else, my lord.” He corrects, brows furrowed. “And no, you are free to go.”

You cannot turn on your heel fast enough to get out of there.

As tempted as you are to slam the door behind you, you allow the lock to gently click shut, power walking down the hall as fast as you can. It is entirely too early in the day for you to feel as stressed as this, and it is well past noon. Due to Varis’ orders, you have no need to go anywhere near Zenos and this is the only time you’ll ever feel gratitude for the monster that is Varis zos Galvus. The last person you want to see right now is his son, at least, not before you can take care of all these hickeys.

Never could you have predicted that taking on this mission would mean that your love life would also be in jeopardy. Gone were the problems of a guy not texting back or breaking your heart altogether. No, now you had to deal with pretty, rich boys and prickly bodyguards who treated you right.

You could already hear Y’shtola’s admonishing tone for even thinking of choosing Zenos over the man who actually treated you like you deserved. Had Lyse known about Zenos and what he did to you, you were sure that she would give him a piece of her mind. The thought makes you shudder, because while Lyse was also a trained fighter, you knew she could never lay a hand on Zenos.

No one could.

Grumbling about nothing in particular, you spend the rest of your day off watching whatever is on your tablet, filtering through cute cat videos and recipes you would never get to try. Before you know it, the sun has already set, and you’ve missed dinner, but it's not like you had much of an appetite anyway with how the day’s events played out.

Shrugging, you pull yourself from the comfort of your bed to pad to your bathroom to turn on the shower, needing to give it a few moments for the water to warm up with fall’s chill settling in. Heading back into the bedroom to grab a fresh towel, someone knocks on your door and you wonder who it could possibly be this late in the evening. Stepping to the door, you slide it open, gasping as you come face to face with a tattooed chest.

Following that tattoo upwards you meet an ice cold gaze, glaring down at you with the strength of Coerthan blizzard. “Zenos, what is,”

Saying nothing, he takes a single step forward and you take one back, letting himself into your room without permission. The door slides shut behind him, and you watch as he reaches a hand past his back to lock it shut. Trepidation fills you as you stare up at him, noticing how he’s already seemed to be dressed for bed. He wears a loose, silken robe, maroon in color, his hair loose around his shoulders. He wears no shirt underneath, and you bring your eyes back up before you can find the chance to see if he wears no pants either.

“It’s rude to barge in,” You try to start, but he takes another step towards you, reaching for the collar of your shirt. Acting fast, you quickly dodge his grip, spinning out of arm’s reach and closer to the bed. “What do you want?” You ask, gulping as you see no way out. There’s no way you’re getting past him and out the door without making a scene, and the circumstances aren’t so dire you need to break out your window.

He glares at you still, practically prowling toward you as he holds your gaze. “Why weren’t you at dinner?” He asks, and the question seems so random, you forget to keep distance between the two of you.

“Why does it matter?” You huff, crossing your arms across your chest. “I just forgot; after dealing with your shitty father, I wanted to just sit and enjoy the rest of my day without all of…” you gesture vaguely between the two of you, “this.”

Frowning, he pauses, a hand reaching to grab one of the bedposts as he gives you a heavy lidded look. “My father? What has he bid you to do this time?” He asks, the question innocent enough. You quickly debate on whether you should tell him though, given that his father hasn’t apprised him of his plans for you. Especially given that they involve Estinien--

“He sent me to collect information, as usual.” You reply, giving him a nasty look. “He was just especially shitty about it today.”

Zenos seems to consider that for a moment, almost mulling it over. “I see.” He takes another step toward you and suddenly you are aware of just how much distance he has covered between here and the door.

“Well if that’s all you wanted, you’re free to leave,” you continue backing away from him, checking behind you to make sure you don’t bump into anything. Edging away from the bed, you head toward the closest wall, the steam from the bathroom caressing your skin. “I was getting ready to shower and sleep for work tomorrow, and it seems you already have as well. I think we’re done here--”

“Oh, my beast.” He chuckles darkly, voice as thick as sin. “We are far from done.” He hasn’t stopped his advance on you, your mind addled from the day’s events to realize you had backed yourself right into the bathroom. His height allows him to nearly bump his head against the door frame, his broad shoulders nearly touching the sides. Stepping in, he shuts that door behind him too, trapping you both inside.

“W-What do you want?” You ask, voice trembling much like your body is, gasping as your lower back makes contact with the sink. With nowhere to go, Zenos stands before you, all muscle and good looks and gods, he smells so good--

“You’ve been with the bodyguard again.” It is an accusation instead of a question, a statement instead of an inquiry. Shame floods through you at this, cursing yourself for feeling trapped in this spot. To say you didn’t want to be with Estinien was a lie. To say you did was also a lie. You couldn’t tell the truth, not without putting Estinien or your own feelings at risk.

“So that is what my father put you up to, then.” Zenos murmurs, his hands resting on either side of you, gripping the shining porcelain, leaning into your personal space. You can feel his sigh against your cheek as his eyes jump across your face. The anger is still present in his eyes, though you notice it does not seem to be directed at you anymore, at least. But then…

“Please don’t...hurt Estinien,” You beg, but he shushes you with a finger on your lips, the action surprisingly tender as he continues to hold your gaze in silence. You stand there as he gazes at you, pinning you with a look so possessive it steals your breath away.

“How cruel are you to say another man’s name in my presence.” He mumbles, pressing his thumb against your lips, as if to test their softness. “No, I will not harm him. If there is anyone you should be concerned about harming him, it would be father.” As he leans forward you close your eyes, whimpering as he presses a gentle kiss to your forehead. “And if there is anyone you need to be worried about me harming...it would be father.”

Frowning, you reach out for his robe, enjoying the silk in your hands as you grip it tight. “I can protect myself.”

“This is true.” he whispers against your skin, his hand leaving your lips to instead snake around your waist and pull you against him. “But you cannot protect others from my father.”

You can already feel his arousal against your stomach, and though it is only half hard, it is impressive nonetheless. An ache of your own begins to grow between your legs, thighs clenching together as your body tries to press into his. Tilting your chin up, Zenos dips his head to press a kiss to your lips, biting down on your bottom lip in a way that has you melt into him instantly. Your hands clutch at him frantically to loop around his neck to bring you closer to him, needing to feel more and more.

Groaning, his hands immediately seek out your pants, pulling you off the sink enough to push them down your thighs, fingers grazing your already sensitive skin. You use your own to push his robe aside, exposing his chest as best you can while you kick your pants off as he works to shove your panties down as well. “Zenos,” you whine and he growls in return, hands hastily reaching for the hem of your shirt to wrench it over your head, taking no gentleness in the action that leaves your shoulders hurting for a moment.

You’re not in pain for long, his lips pressing kisses from your lips to your jawline, setting every nerve on fire in its wake as he trails down your neck where Estinien’s own marks lie. The force at which Zenos sucks on your skin is almost forceful, a mix of pain and pleasure as his hands work to divest you of your bra and dump it on the bathroom floor. Now naked, he grabs you by the hips and hikes you up onto the sink, placing himself between your legs and pulling you to him so you can feel his full hardness.

The way he nestles against your core is absolutely divine, your head rolling back as he continues to overwrite Estinien’s marks with his own. Feeling like things are unfair, you dig your blunt nails into his skin, wanting to leave some kind of mark of your own; after all, he did say he was yours as much as you were his.

Now that he has you naked, he’s feeling more agreeable to your hands trying to divulge him of his robe, his arms leaving you just long enough to get out of his sleeves before they are bringing you closer again. His hands immediately seek your breasts, squeezing and kneading, showing none of the initial gentleness he had just a night ago. His fingers pinch your nipples so deliciously it has you nearly jumping off the sink, your hips grinding along his length as you fight to get his robe all the way off.

To your surprise, you find that he was not wearing any underwear.

Face heating, you pull away from him as the robe falls to the floor, getting a good look at his length, before meeting his eyes. He arches a brow silently and you clear your throat before speaking what was on your mind. “Do you, uh...not sleep with pajamas?” You ask, watching as he huffs out a dry laugh.

“It depends.” he offers vaguely, humming as you take his dick in hand, feeling its satiny smoothness, its warmth and its desire for you. His hips jerk forward as you circle your hand around his cock, smearing the precum on the head before bringing your fingers to your lips to taste. It is salty as expected but you do not mind, eyes glazing over with lust as he brings his lips to yours to taste himself.

Your heart thuds in your chest as his hands rove your body, squeezing and gripping fiercely, yet so tenderly, that you don’t know what to think. The rush you had felt that night at the hotel as absent, and its place is something more...more…

Personal.

Too personal in fact.

Aware of this fact, you unconsciously try to pull away from him but he won’t let you go, pressing you further into the sink as he sinks his teeth into your skin. “Zenos,” you whine, your body wanting him, but, the way he holds you, it is not the way an enemy would. He does not hold you like one would in a one night stand with their boss. He does not hold you in the way a friend or a lover would.

He holds you like you belong to him, and him alone.

The thought alone tugs at your heartstrings, and you grip him that much tighter for it. “Don’t do this…” you whisper, not intending for him to hear, but he does.

“Do what?” he asks, licking a line between your breasts before he pulls you tight against him, hoisting you up from the sink. Your thighs tighten around his hips immediately as he walks you both to the still running shower, the spray washing over you both.

“I...I thought we weren’t lovers.” Is the only thing you can say without giving your own feelings away. Try as you might, you can’t tear your eyes away from how the water runs over the grooves of his chiseled form, his skin glistening before you as his hair sticks to his chest. Somehow his eyes are that much clearer here, an emotion you can’t name laid bare in his eyes, the intensity of it sweeping you away.

Grunting, he presses you against the wall of the shower. “We are not.” He agrees, reaching beneath you, trusting that you won’t allow yourself to fall. Taking his cock in hand, he fits the head past your lower lips, your breath hitching as he slowly feeds himself inside. “But you do belong to me.”

You hadn’t realized how ready you were for him, how wet you were that he meets little resistance as he pushes his cock deep inside you. Your head thumps against the shower wall as he pushes in ilm by ilm, your nails digging much more harshly into his perfect skin. He rests his forehead on your shoulder, breath hot against your skin despite the warmth of the water, a shuddering moan escaping him, your mind committing the sound to memory.

Something about this moment, makes you feel much more naked before him than you had ever felt previously.

Zenos had always been smart, always keen, as evidenced by him figuring out how his father was blackmailing you with you hardly having to say anything. He did not hae to say it, but you could sense he knew. He was able to read you like a book most days, to the point it was almost scary. That someone so vastly different from you could see right through you, begged to be believed. Underneath the spray of the shower, you feel as if all fronts are washed away, leaving the two of you raw with feelings neither of you know what to deal with.

Looking into his eyes, something in your heart yearns for him, your hands leaving his neck to cradle his face. Running your fingers along his skin, he remains silent under your inspection, eyes fluttering shut as your fingers graze across his lips, his nose. He truly was beautiful, all hard lines and soft edges, and undoubtedly yours. This man, this murderer, this monster, considered himself yours..

When you kiss him, it feels like you can’t get enough.

It is slow and heady, the feeling of his lips moving against yours, tongues dancing together as he fully hilts himself within you. He feels as perfect as he did the first time, your hands leaving his face to tangle in his wet hair, his grip on your thighs strengthening to hold you in place as he moves his hips to pull out before pushing back in, so slowly as if he is trying to carve out his place in your very being. Chest to chest, you moan into his mouth, your own hips trying to meet his thrusts but he holds you still, content on doing all the work.

“You’re so…” You rasp, taking your turn to trail kisses down his jawline, able to do nothing else since words fail you. Every part of his body you touch feels perfect, and you wonder how someone so awful could look how he does, hold you how he does.

“I know I forgot to ask last time…” he grunts, snapping his hips rather forcefully, burying his face into your neck, licking at the water that runs down your skin. “But you are on a contraceptive…?”

You nod, rolling your hips in a way so sweet he can’t help but groan. His hips snap into you again and you moan without shame, arching your back into him as he clutches you as if you’ll disappear. “Good. Because I’m not stopping. Not until it is clear to anyone with eyes just who you belong to.”

“Shouldn’t you have asked before,” Your quip is cut short as he gives a firm slap on your ass, the sting of his hand fading as he kneads the flesh, seeming pleased.

“Shut up, Honey.” He whispers, taking the time to meet your eyes, stealing another kiss as he begins to finally pick up the pace. Your ankles lock behind his back, holding you to him as his hips piston into your own, your sheathe so wet that he slides in and out with minimal resistance. His cock feels like it was meant for you and you alone, and the truth of that statement is enough to shake you to your core.

In your daze, you cup his face once more, meeting his stare, unafraid. “Say it again.” You demand, though with your lustful voice it sounds more like a plea. “Say my name again,”

“Honey.” He breathes, a realization shining in his eyes as if the very sound your name is magic. “Honey.” He repeats, pressing his forehead against yours, eyelids sliding shut as all his focus enters his third eye. “Honey.” The reverence that suffuses his voice makes you hold him tighter, to where air could not possibly pass between the two of you.

Reaching between you, he plays with your clit, increasing your pleasure as he fucks you. Your moans turn into high pitched cries of faster and more, kisses feverish as if the world is falling down around you. Paired with his fingers on your clit and his cock pounding you, it does not take you much longer to come undone, his name a prayer on your lips as you find your release. With your body gripping him so tightly he follows soon after, his seed shooting deep inside you as he moans your name against your skin.

The water has long since gone cold, something you thought impossible in this house, but you suppose you have been at it for awhile. The two of you stand beneath the lukewarm spray, a shiver racking your body as you keep close to Zenos for warmth. You both stand there in silence, unsure what to say, lest things get more complicated and this moment ruined.

Lowering your legs to the floor, you stand on wobbly feet much like a newborn fawn, the Galvus heir’s cum sliding down your legs, washed away by the spray of the shower. Shivering again, you press closer to his warmth in a rare show of weakness, the action making him go stiff before an arm reaches around your shoulder to hold you close. You feel his chin rest atop your head, the two of you standing there on the precipice of the unknown.

Gaining a courage you do not feel, you look up at him, finding he is looking right back. His hand brushes strands of your wet hair from your face, examining you much like you did to him earlier.

If you were asked who was the first to close the gasp and start that next kiss, you wouldn’t be able to answer.

As dawn breaks on the horizon, you groggily try to turn over to catch a few more precious minutes of sleep, confused as you find you cannot turn over at all. Thinking yourself tangled in your sheets, you kick your feet out to try and right yourself, only to have your toes brush against someone’s legs. Someone’s bare legs.

Gasping, the night comes back in a rush as you come face to face with Zenos’ sleeping one. That you have woken up before him is shocking enough in and of itself, considering he is always the first to wake and be ready to train every morning. His arm is like a steel band around you, his even breaths atop your head warm and soothing. Like this, no one would ever think him a monster, his face the very picture of peace.

Without thinking, you reach to press a small kiss to his lips, able to fully appreciate their silken texture now that you’re not in the throes of passion. The moment doesn’t last for long however, a sigh passing his lips as he holds you a little tighter and kisses you back. Despite the two of you being nude and pressed against one another, the kiss remains surprisingly chaste, simply enjoying the taste and feel of the other this early in the morning.

Seemingly satisfied, Zenos gives you a smug grin as he finally opens his eyes. “Good morning, my beast.”

Twelve above, what have you done?

“Good morning, Zenos.” You respond burying your face in his chest, unwilling to show him anymore than you already have. You’ve been vulnerable enough for a lifetime, you think.

“We should start our day, should we not?” He hums, giving you a firm squeeze. “As unopposed I would be to keep you in bed with me, we still have work to do.”

While a day in bed with him sounds wonderful, it makes you concerned for how much your feelings have changed. “Well, I’m in my room. You’re the one who has to do the walk of shame back up to your room.” You say with a rude snort, trying to pull away from his hold but he’s not willing to let go of you quite yet.

“It is hardly a walk of shame, my beast. It would not be the first time the staff have seen me stumble through my home naked after a night of fine drinks and fine women…” he mumbles into your neck, pressing a kiss there. This was getting way too personal, too fast. “I would not doubt that a few of them are winning some fairly large prize pools based on last night.”

You push on his chest to get yourself far enough to throw him an incredulous look. “A prize pool? Like a betting pot?”

Grinning as he snuggles into the pillow, the look he gives you is almost dreamy. “The greatest ‘will they or won’t they’ so I’ve heard. I suspect you’ve made quite a few maids happy.” He pauses to stretch, deeming it time to finally get out of bed. “It would not be the first time I’ve caught wind of my employees making bets upon my personal life. I suspect there will be a new bet soon enough.”

You don’t even want to begin thinking of what the staff could possibly be making bets on, knowing that it would never spell any good for you. Clutching your sheets to your chest, you watch as Zenos swings his legs out the bed, unbothered by his nudity at all. Your eyes immediately latch onto the sight of his ass, hand itching to release the bed sheet you hang onto so dearly and slap his backside much like he did to yours last night.

“I think you left your robe in the, uh, bathroom.” You cough, quickly averting your eyes as he circles the bed to go retrieve his silk robe. Now that he’s at least got some cover, it's far easier to look at his face, though that seems to only get your heart racing. “I will meet you in the gym, as usual.”

“Of course.” He purrs, giving you a sultry look as he makes his way toward the door. Pausing, he tosses you a smirk over his shoulder. “Though, feel free to let me know if we need to cancel today. I will be more than understanding if you find yourself unable to walk.”

You sit there gaping like a fish before your mind can formulate a response, cursing his name as you toss a pillow at the door just as it shuts. Grabbing another pillow you scream into it in frustration, legs kicking as you try to calm down. If he was going to be this egotistical every time you slept with him, you’d honestly just stop altogether.

Once you’ve calmed down, you sigh and finally roll out of bed yourself. Heading to the bathroom, you head to the shower to turn it on, spinning around immediately to make sure the door to your bedroom is locked this time. Your thighs are still sticky and gross from your all night session with your boss, and you can already hear Y’shtola’s judgemental sigh of disapproval.

With the water nice and hot, you step inside and release a blissful sigh, all the aches and pains and a certain soreness melting away. Hopefully it would be just another day sitting at the office as Zenos signed papers and made phone calls, giving you time to rest after he saw fit to nearly kill you with pleasure the night prior.

Now alone, you allow yourself to actually reflect on last night, the spray of the water putting you in a trance as it takes you back to your time with Zenos. His hands on you, almost worshipping your body, the surety of how he handled you as if he already knew how you liked it. The way he looked into your eyes as he sheathed himself inside you, as if you were the only person who ever mattered to him.

You wondered if he even knew what he was doing, knew the weight of his gestures, his staring, and how it was terrible for your heart.

There was not a shadow of a doubt that Estinien wanted to be more than friends with benefits; that he genuinely cared for you romantically, and wanted to give you more than just a sparring session on the weekend occasionally sprinkled with sex. Estinien was a man who deserved far more than just a weekend fling and a tussle in the sheets because you were too afraid to confront your feelings about your boss.

But now that you’ve also done the deed with Zenos, where did this leave you? Zenos couldn’t possibly be looking for anything such as commitment; in fact, you’re positive he’d laugh in your face for suggesting such an idea. But his feelings of possession were so strong you knew if you even dared to pursue anything permanent with Estinien, Estinien’s life would be forfeit.

Telling Estinien to back off for his own safety would be the proper thing to do, were you not trying to protect him from the son of a mafia boss.

With your thoughts getting nowhere fast, you decide it’s best to stop thinking about it, at least for now. Turning off the shower, you hop out to go and dress for the day, deciding to actually take Zenos up on canceling training.

A decision you would come to immediately regret.

“You want me to what?”

“I don’t believe I hesitated.” Varis sighs, flashing his son a bored look. Zenos, however, looks absolutely livid. “You will be shadowing me today.”

“But I am your son’s bodyguard! His!” You insist, resisting the urge to stamp your foot. “I told you that if I was looking to change my career path, I would talk to you!”

“I am not only your employer, but also the face of the company, I get to make the executive decision of overriding my son’s wishes of keeping you.” Varis replies in that even tone despite his son looking like he’s ready to slice his head clean from his shoulders. “I believe the two of you are in need of...some time apart.” He huffs distastefully, giving his son a once over. “Really, boy. A plethora of women to use at your leisure and you choose...the help.”

Zenos doesn’t back down, stepping to where he’s eye to eye with his father. “And you constantly choose to take things from me.”

Varis gives a slight shrug of his shoulders, crossing his hands behind his back. “Perhaps you shouldn’t have such refined tastes. I deserve only the best, and if I must take it from you, so be it.” Side stepping Zenos, Varis heads for the door. “Livia will be your bodyguard for the time being. Honey, come along.”

Glancing between Varis’ retreating form and Zenos, you can only give Zenos a worried look, though for him or for yourself, you are unsure. Deciding to just deal with it, you follow Varis out the door, becoming his shadow. A bunch of questions lie on the tip of your tongue, but you decide it is best to lie in wait and speak until spoken to for fear of saying the wrong thing or revealing something accidentally.

Opening the car door, Varis steps inside, taking a seat. Before you can make a move to shut the door and head for the passenger side, his hand grabs your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. “Where are you going?”

Frowning, you answer him simply. “To sit in the front seat.”

“And can you protect my life effectively in the front seat?” He asks, tugging surprisingly hard to pull you face first into the car. Quickly gaining your bearings, you sit up right, closing the door as gracefully as possible.

Unable to hold back any longer, you glare at him. “Why are you doing this?” You ask, though it comes out more like a demand. Varis however, looks undeterred by your hostility, crossing one leg over the other, steepling his fingers together in his lap as is his habit.

“As I had said before, savages should breed with savages.” He replies with a roll of his eyes, the action only making you angrier.

“Is this really about me fucking your son?” You can’t bring yourself to care about your cover when this monster has little care for your privacy. At this point, you’re surprised how he hasn’t found out you’re a cop yet for how fucking nosy he’s been.

“It is. I had hired a bodyguard to protect his image. Not to be a bedmate.” He sniffs, looking down his nose at you. You hardly feel the car pull away from the estate as he continues, “I was willing to look the other way if was to be a ‘one night stand’ as it were, but clearly I must keep you apart.”

You can feel the leather squeak and stretch under your grip as your nails bite into the seat, teeth clenched together as you are floored by the sheer audacity of this man. “And what about all that talk of ‘wanting the best’? Did you lie to your own son?”

“I have never lied to him. I have never needed to.” He huffs, relaxing fully now that you have exited the grounds. “I have never feared my son for despite his monstrous nature, I know he will never turn against me. I instilled in him since birth that we deserve only the finer things in life, but myself most of all. After all, it is due to my own work that he can live the lifestyle he craves.”

Confusion stills your anger for a moment, and you get the sinking feeling of something deeper running between father and son. “W-What do you mean?”

“Really, savage, do you think Zenos could live the way his heart desires as a common citizen?” Varis scoffs, once again rolling his eyes. “He cannot kill me, for once he does, his ability for The Hunt as he calls it, ends. All of my primary assets such as the company will belong to him upon my death, but for our more...underhanded dealings, they will remain out of his grip. I know he would only squander what I had worked so hard to build.”

Letting that sink in, you find that your anger has left you entirely, replaced entirely be sheer disbelief. “Do you...do you even love your son?”

Varis arches a single brow. “Why would I?”

What you had prayed was one day had turned into two, into four, into one week, into two weeks. Everyday, you woke at dawn, no longer allowed to train with Zenos, instead forced to do your morning exercises outside despite the temperature steadily dropping as autumn slowly took its hold on the city. Zenos had seemed to be sent out of the house more often as well, always doing his father’s bidding. What glimpses you caught of him were few, and when you did meet his eyes, they were so emotionless it broke your heart.

Being Varis’ bodyguard was every bit demanding as Zenos had warned it would be, your body exhausted from the first day alone. Everyone who was not Varis himself was seen as beneath him, and therefore subject to do anything he asked. From the most outrageous such as dislocating the wrist of a new subordinate who had forgot to address him “properly”, to simply pouring a fresh cup of coffee if his current one had gotten too cold for his liking.

Varis’ hours were not nearly as late as Zenos’ , meaning you got the chance to have more sleep, for what good it did you. As soon as you were finished with dinner, you would rush to your room and jot down notes about Varis that could hopefully be used against him in court. Miserable as you were, you had to remind yourself this was the chance you were looking for, no matter how much you hated it. You had learned Varis had little to do with his own gang, seeing fit to delegate others to handle matters for him and punishing them for their failures. It was a blessing in disguise that you at least did not have to go out and maim lesser gangs for no reason, but that did not make things you had seen any less horrifying.

Some days it seemed like Varis was trying to impress you, occasionally slipping you fine things such as a pocket watch glittering with diamonds, or treating you to lavish lunches with only you and him seated at a table. While disgusted, you knew there was nothing you could do to get out of this situation, sitting awkwardly as he would ramble on how he grew to be so successful. You couldn’t understand what he could possibly be trying to impress you for, seeing as he had split you and Zenos apart since you couldn’t keep your hands off of each other.

Seeming to realize that his usual methods of impressing women were failing, Varis decided to be awfully cryptic about his plans for this night.

“You’re showing me...what exactly?” You ask, the city streets far behind you as you once again enter a more suburban part of town. The sight is much more familiar than the sprawling gardens and three story mansions you’ve gotten used to since the start of this job.

“I realized that perhaps my prowess would not truly dawn on you until I had shown you something much more...substantial.” Varis hums, a smirk on his face as the car pulls toward an unknown road.

Something in your gut tells you that whatever he is about to show you is going to make you sick. “And what would that be?”

Chuckling darkly, he pins you with a fierce look. “I think I will let it speak for itself.”

The road quickly turns into rocky gravel, and despite you riding in a luxury car, you hardly feel a change in the terrain. Tall trees begin to sprout up all around you, the sinking feeling in your gut growing deeper as you wonder if maybe Varis has finally found out you’re a spy and is here to kill you.

Coming around the bend, a massive warehouse sits alone in the forest, seemingly abandoned but you noticed that every single window is blacked out. It is strangely lacking in cars, and yet you see a smoke stack that is huffing out chemicals just fine. Looking around, you notice a handful of black vans, their windows tinted so darkly, that no one would be able to tell if there were any passengers. A large wire fence surrounds the entire compound, taking notice that while it seems pretty shady at first glance, taking a closer look you can spy armed guards around the perimeter.

The car is allowed through the gate without being made to stop, the driver pulling up to the closest door. Parking the car, the chauffeur shuffles out and hurries to open your door, clearing his throat when you don’t realize you had been staring for far too long. Scrambling out the car, Varis elegantly steps out behind you, placing a hand on your back far too low for comfort. “Come. Let me show you just how powerful I really am.”

Clamping down on your instinct to dig your heels into the dirt, you allow Varis to nudge you forward, his hand on your back the entire way as the door opens before you. Cold air sweeps over your face, your eyes struggling to adjust to the incredibly low light of the first room. Stepping in, you notice a small receptionist window to the side, Varis standing before it and giving a small nod to the man inside. A loud buzz sounds as well as the sound of several latches unlocking, and an armed guard opens the steel door before you.

Nudging you forward again, you pass through, the door immediately slamming shut behind the two of you. You find yourself at the base of metal stairs that lead to a walk way that circle the perimeter of the warehouse. A pungent smell fills your nose, smelling similar to ceruleum, but worse. Gasping you watch as a handful of workers tend to multiple machines, and truly take note of how large the warehouse -- no -- factory, really is. It expands further underground, huge vats of boiling, blue liquid swirling below you.

“Welcome, to the Aetherochemical Research Facility.” Varis takes the lead by heading up the stairs, and you follow close behind, the guard following right behind you.

“Aetherochemical…?” You ask, unable to take your eyes away from the sight. The employees working the machines are dressed from head to toe in hazmat suits, goggles reflecting the flames.

“There are strange forces at work in this world, Honey.” Varis begins with no small amount of dramatic flair. “Things that should be impossible, that are written off as happenstance. Luck. The universe at work, and so on and so forth.” As you walk along the balcony, you notice toward the higher rungs of the factory there seems to be a set of assembly lines, whatever substance that lay in the goo being deposited into cube shape moulds and sent down the line. “When I was young, being a child of Garlemald, my family had written off such things. After all, our ancestors were never able to use magic compared to myths of other races, and thus, did we write off its existence entirely.”

He pauses to face you, giving you a triumphant smile. “But I knew better.”

Turning back toward the assembly line, he gestures to two of the large cauldrons holding the mystery goo. “Within these vats is a substance once thought impossible. One comprised entirely of aether.”

Confused and concerned, you take a closer look, noting that it does have an unnatural shine to it. “Aether…?” You prompt, grabbing onto the railing to steady yourself.

“Believe it or not, our world is composed of a thing called aether. It is in the very air, the earth, the water. It controls all living things. Ancient legends from savage cultures say that once we pass from this world, our bodies become the aether we once were, and our souls return to something called the Lifestream.” He continues on, resuming his walk further down the balcony. “Unfortunately, due to the lack of research, harnessing its capabilities is still near impossible. The forebears of savages did not think to document their magics and manipulation of aether, and thus, have I had to do everything from scratch.”

Unsure what to say, you swallow thickly, trying your best to look even slightly in awe. “This is...more impressive than I first thought.”

He buys the bait, and you swear you can see his chest puff out the teeniest bit. “It is good that you think so. It is my life’s work.”

Try as you might, you cannot stop yourself from needing to know more. “This...aether. Are you turning into a fuel source? Or something else?”

Varis gives a single chuckle at that, golden eyes pinning you fiercely. “That is classified.”

Nodding, you turn back to the scene before you, feeling as if you stand at the feet of something far greater than the police force could have ever realized. “If that is so, why tell me all this?”

It is silent for a moment, until you hear him approach you once again. His features are that much harsher in this dark factory, making him look truly vile.

“Because it would mean nothing to me to simply kill you if anyone found out.” He answers lowly, face relaxing for a moment. “Though I trust it will not come to that. You are a force of nature, Honey.” Reaching for your hair, he takes a strand of it between two fingers, much like he had when you first met him. “One I hope to claim for myself.”

#FFXIV #ff14 #Final Fantasy XIV #zenos yae galvus #zenos #THP

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of-another-broken-heart · 3 years ago

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I guess it’s time for another pointless update about the worsening state of my life.

I’ll get the rosy stuff out of the way first.

I finally got in the shower today.

It took 2 days of chilly autumn-like rain for me to be able to rest enough, and then not be overheated into useless exhaustion and nausea, to do it. But I got in the shower. I shampooed my hair, several times, to get through the summer heat sweat and oil. I did conditioner, twice, because I am losing hair and what’s left is thinning pretty badly. I rubbed a bunch of soaked dead skin off my body with just my hands. I tried to finish off a bottle of body soap that I got... years ago. I unloaded an unreasonable amount of soap onto my loofa and made suds and scrubbed for a while. I’ll never feel fully clean until I can actually soak and rub everything off, but it’s better.

A couple days ago, I asked mom if we could go to the beach for a little bit. It had been hot. Unbearably hot. It was evening by the time I asked - still before sunset, though. So we went for a little while, an hour maybe? I waded into the water up to my knees. It was cold. Tide was going out, nearly at low. I don’t love the beaches here. The sand is coarse. There are loads of rocks and shells - plenty with brutal sharp edges. And I didn’t bring water shoes with me. But I hobbled across the rocks and shells, and slimy low-tide seaweed, and the muddy silt in the shallows, to stand up to my knees and just... enjoy the cold water. My mom went in a little deeper than I did. She brought water shoes and a clam rake, so she went clamming. I started feeling some vertigo and retreated back to the towel mom had laid down on the sand. I had brought a book - one of the thyroid books I checked out months ago, and still haven’t finished a single one - but instead I took out my phone and checked some messages, and took a few pictures. Mom brought up 14 good clams. We didn’t linger much after that. The sun dipped below the trees, evening flies and gnats started to come out. We headed home. Mom made some linguini with clam sauce tonight. And some baked clams.

And that ends the rosy stuff.

I’m still plagued with uncontrollable preoccupation with a manipulative, abusive, probably narcissist who took my years of recovery from the last person who fucked me up, and threw it all in the trash, and doesn’t give a single shit about any of it. Someone who knows the language of the damaged and abuses it to get what he wants out of people, and throws them away the instant they don’t fit his desires, or prove to have morals more durable than his lies.

I still miss the biggest lie. The fake person. It will never not hurt, that I fell for a falsehood. That I was so easy to trick and trap and use and abuse and discard. I hate how happy I was, just briefly, and how I’m going to pay for it, for years now.

My heart is failing. There’s no way around it. I’m in bed half of every day. I am taking every possible measure within my grasp to “manage my stress” and none of it has had any real impact on my blood pressure. I try to avoid things that stress me out. Socio-economic struggle is not some scratchy sweater you can choose to remove, though - it’s the air in my lungs and the blood in my veins and I am stuck with that. I “avoid salt” in the way that I always have - by barely eating, because of guilt and shame and poverty and, now, relentless nausea. I “cut back on alcohol” the same way I always have - poverty makes it very easy to be unable to afford it, and if you don’t have it, you can’t drink it. I am “managing my weight” the same way I always have - which is to say, alternating between rolling my eyes at the baseless suggestion, and starving myself in the ways I already mentioned.

My systolic pressure is always high. Always. Even at my lowest readings, it falls in the “Elevated” category. Diastolic varies. It’s usually the high end of normal, but creeps over the threshold sometimes. Pulse has been... weird. Most of my readings were in the 70s, perfectly normal. Recently, with the heat and humidity and relentless stress, I’ve had irregular and elevated heart beat. Still hasn’t crossed 100 bpm (the limit for “normal”) but it’s gotten close.

I have my next doctor’s appointment in a few days. Tuesday. It’s giving me anxiety. I never phoned in to update about the trazodone or lisinopril like I meant to. I want my fatigue taken seriously, and I know it won’t be. I have some tests I’d like to know the results of, and I feel like my requests will get denied, just like my requests for COVID tests were.

I just want a real answer. I’m tired of trial after trial after trial, wasting literal years of my life, and costing what remains of my health, because doctors and western medicine in general would rather I remain undiagnosed and unhelped than concede to an incurable condition that can’t be “exercised” away.

CFS. I meet every criteria. I have met every criteria for years. Even the “loophole” part about symptoms being chalked up to other conditions - even that doesn’t actually stand up any more. Because I have been in treatment for those conditions, and the symptoms persisted, which means there is something else going on and it’s CFS.

It’s summer. We’re poor. We’re trapped here. It’s hot. Unbearably hot. We don’t have A/C. I don’t, anyway. I am a living stereotype, I am stuck in an unfinished cement block basement, surrounded by dust and dirt and cobwebs and moths and beetles and spiders and assorted flying biting things, always. We have humidity here. High humidity. Wet-bulb temperature is low here, the humidity is so high. Human thermoregulation relies on sweat evaporation, and high humidity means evaporation doesn’t happen, which means lower temperatures in high humidity are just as dangerous, even fatal, as higher temperatures in dry air.

I’m alone. I’m so fucking alone. I’m trying, like a crazed person, to reach out to people, every single day, to feel less alone. But the instant the conversation is gone, I’m crying. Because I’m still in this basement, a thousand miles from anyone who cares about me, lit by a single shitty bulb

- not even in the ceiling any more, no! The switch jammed, the pull cable doesn’t toggle into the “on” position any more, so the ceiling light is just an outlet now. At least it didn’t die outright, or I wouldn’t even have my computer, or chargers, or tablet, or phone. It’s my only outlet. But I went nearly a week in total darkness, because we’re poor. This isn’t our house. None of us are electricians. We can’t fix the thing. So my mom, on a day off, when i managed to be awake while the sun was barely still up, snaked an extension chord through the house’s foundation, to plug in an old heat lamp (with a normal bulb, not a heat bulb) and that’s what I have now.

Everything gets worse. Never better. I’m going to die here. And sooner than later. Because my health is getting worse, rapidly, too.

#personal #krash showered

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shortythescreen · 5 years ago

Text

come over chapter 2: the invitation.

Warning(s): NSFT/18+, fem reader, dysfunctional family dynamics, semi public sex.

Relationship(s): Octane/Female Reader.

Summary: Octavio’s family is having an event for their donors. He’d really rather not go but you’d make it a lot more bearable.

Author’s Notes: I LLIIIIIVEEEEEEE. It took forever to get here y’all but here it is! Part 2 of Come Over! It was originally like, 10k words so I split it into two. Which means Part 3 is already written and I’ll just wait to see how this does before I put it out.

Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3.

Octavio doesn’t avoid his family.

He doesn’t! He really doesn’t. Seven chances out of ten, he picks up the phone when his mama calls, and if he doesn’t it’s probably because he’s in the arena. Or out. Whatever.

He’s sent his papa text messages during every major holiday he isn’t there for. Not that he isn’t there for a lot of them! He’s hasn’t missed El Dia de los Reyes in. Ever. Even if he didn’t show up for his parents’ New Year’s Eve party days prior. Not that he hadn’t wanted to, he’s just a busy guy. Busy guys don’t have time to go to every social event their billionaire parents host.

That’s what he’s trying to tell his mama.

“Mami, I’m busy with the games-” he tries, pressing his fingers to his temples, for once grateful that his mama doesn’t know how to operate the video camera function on her tablet. Otherwise, she’d see the twist of his lip as he speaks. He kinda thinks she might still be able to hear it, considering Elliot is skirting him as he walks through the common room, trying to distance himself from the hostility in his voice.

“Octavio, ya.” She bites and the tone of her voice seals his lips shut. Fuck. How’s that even fair? “The next game isn’t until Monday. You can be back on planet by Sunday night if you leave tomorrow.”

“Ma, I can’t,” Octavio tries, but his mama cuts him off.

“Yes, you can! Octavio Jose, you use Silva Pharmaceuticals for the games. This party is to celebrate all the donors that give us the resources to create the stim you use. You will come to this party, shake hands, jump hoops and do whatever these people want, or we will revoke your supply. Do you understand me?”

Octavio’s nostrils flare, his leg jiggling as he pushes his teeth against his tongue piercing. The stretch of metal against his muscle is half painful, but he ignores the ache in favor of clenching and unclenching his fists.

“Do you hear me-”

“Yes, ma, I’ll be there, bye.” And with that, Octavio taps the pad in front of him, effectively ending the call. He’ll get some messages later about hanging up on her, but he doesn’t care. All he wants to do right now is put his head through the fucking table next to the tablet.

“That, uh, sounded pretty heated,” Elliot says and Octavio snorts, turning pinched green eyes up to his fellow legend. He’s holding out a water bottle, clutching another in his opposite hand, and Octavio snatches it from his hand, not even bothering to grumble a thank you as he guzzles half of it. “Whoa! Easy!”

“I have to go to a party this weekend,” Octavio bites, ignoring the way that Elliot’s lips stitch shut, like his did when mama told him ya. Elliot hums, sipping more cautiously at his own water.

“Wow, what a predac- p-perdim- that kinda sounds like a dumb reason to be upset,” Elliot drops the sarcasm as he fumbles over the word and Octavio barks a laugh.

“Compadre, I wish it was,” he grits, pressing the flat of his palm against his still jiggling knee. It keeps moving. “My parents are hosting some stupid thank you donor thing.”

“That doesn’t sound that bad,” Elliot says, hopping over the edge of the couch to settle beside Octavio. He throws his boots up, resting them on the coffee table in front of him, the slide of the front door accompanied by some more footfalls. “You’ve thanked Silva Pharm on camera before.”

“It’s not the same,” Octavio grunts. Donors lived for Octane. They lived for his thrill seeking and heart stopping shows. They loved his tattoo and his catch phrases and wanted him to keep it up.

His parents didn’t want Octane. They wanted Octavio. And not even the real Octavio – the one they’d always wanted him to be. The one who was content being a dutiful son. The one who didn’t blow off his own legs with a grenade. The one who didn’t renounce his position as the heir to Silva Pharm.

“My mom said she’ll revoke my supply of stim if I don’t go,” he tells Elliot, who sucks in air through his teeth.

“Ooh, yikes. Guess you don’t have a choice, huh?” Elliot says. Octavio grimaces, now sipping at his water, hand still trying to placate his jittering leg.

“No he don’t. He knew that when his mama called,” a voice says and Octavio glances over, catching Ajay at the fridge on the edge of the common room. She’s pulled out a flavorless yogurt and busies herself scraping it into a bowl.

Ajay has been talking to him little by little, but they haven’t talked about the- incident. Of him lying. He lied to her. He regrets it most days. Right now, he really does, because he could really use her advice.

“Maybe it won’t be that bad!” Elliot says and Octavio sniffs, looking down at the coffee table to avoid Ajay’s eyes as she flops onto the couch across from them. She, too, kick her feet up onto the coffee table, slouching into the cushions.

“Maybe,” Octavio says, not moping into his water.

Silence passes between the three long enough for it to begin to feel stiff. Ajay breaks it with a loud sigh, and his eyes turn up, finding her staring at him.

“What?” He asks.

“Do ya parents still need a photographer?” She asks instead of answering him. Octavio blanches, sitting upright, and his leg stops in its insistent shaking, the click of his metal foot ceasing abruptly.

“What?” He asks again and Ajay blusters her lips, stuffing a spoonful of yogurt between her cheeks.

“Ya parents never let you bring a plus one ‘cause you always bring some so’n’so,” Ajay says and before Octavio protests, she continues, “shut up, yes ya do. If they still need a photographer, bring ours. She’s ya friend, right? She’ll make it more bearable, and she’s official, so ya parents won’t say nutin’.”

Octavio swallows, holding Ajay’s stare. She always seems so critical – like she knows what he’s thinking even when he doesn’t think he’s thinking at all. He wonders if she can tell how he’s been around you recently – if she’s noticed how you show up at his house late at night.

“Plus, she’s totally hot,” Elliot remarks and Octavio bristles and, oh yeah, Ajay notices. Her face remains neutral, but she thumps her foot against Elliot, who whines as the coffee table rattles beneath them.

“I’ll think about it,” he mutters, turning back to his water.

-----

It’s probably a bad idea for Octavio to invite you to his parents’ party.

After his… realization, he’s sort of been avoiding you. Not directly because Octavio doesn’t directly avoid- anything, really. He doesn’t avoid things. He’s not avoiding you. You guys just haven’t had sex since he said te amo into your throat. That’s all.

He’s not totally avoiding you, though. He still sends you shitty memes and you still tell him to let you work. He even brought you lunch the other day because your dumbass forgets to eat. Which is why he’s carrying over some empanadas to your studio.

Apex spared no expense for someone who was going to be key to their marketing. Your studio has vaulted ceilings and the pristine, white walls and tarps are constantly lit by either the natural light of the sun or the way too tall studio lights.

You seem concerned with neither, hunched in front of the triple monitors posed in front of your shooting area. He’s pretty sure that’s a picture of Bloodhound you’re editing.

“Hey,” he says, and you jump, your rolling chair skittering back as you dazedly blink up. Your eyes pinch as you squint, clearly perturbed from looking away from the screen after however long you’d been staring.

“Jesus! Fucking say something next time, Oc, you scared me!” You say and Octavio snickers, lips curling into a devious grin against his will.

“C’mon, amiga, you should’ve heard me coming,” he says, tapping his metal foot on the black tile. You huff, turning back to your computer.

“Shut up. What do you want?” You ask, leaning a little closer to the screen, despite having already zoomed in pretty damn far on Artur. Octavio grabs the chair at your left that you usually reserve for when your bosses come to visit, then flops down. The wheels careen him a little away, but he grabs the edge of your desk and pulls himself up.

“You need to eat, muchacha,” he says, holding up the brown paper bag. You purse your lips, glancing at him from the corner of your eye. Wordlessly, you take the bag from him, then move away from your computer.

You lean back in your seat, kicking your legs up onto his lap. Instinctively, Octavio reaches down, grabbing the edges of your feet to keep them in place on his thighs. He thumbs at the edge of your shoe and his nostrils flare. Damn it.

“Thanks,” you say, the crinkle of the bag the only sound for a little. Octavio rests an elbow on the edge of your desk, turning to look at what you’d been doing to Artur. He can see your notes at the top of the screen, scrawled with some digital pen: no alterations to the bird – it would be disrespectful to Houn-

“What’s the matter with you?” You ask, startling Octavio out of his reading. He turns his head to face you, your cheek bulged as you chew.

“What do you mean what’s the matter with me?” He asks back and you roll your eyes, swallowing hard.

“You’re never this quiet,” you say and Octavio huffs, turning to face the screen once again, his leg beginning to bounce in anticipation.

“Fuck off.”

“Fuck you, stop moving.”

“I’m not a fucking—a fucking—joda, what’s that word?”

“What word?”

“You know, for the- for the thing. When you put your feet up. Reposapíes.”

“What, like an ottoman?”

“No, fuck. I mean, yes, but that’s not the word I was thinking of.”

“A footrest?”

“Eso! Yes! Fuck you, I’m not a footrest.”

You press your lips together and silence passes between you for a moment. Then you snort, shoulders folding in. You raise your brows at him, and he sighs, chuckling through a groan, leaning back in his own seat to drag his hand down his face.

“Kinda lost steam there,” you say, and he squeezes the tips of your toes, half in warning, and you giggle. Your expression softens and you nudge his stomach with the toe of your shoe, tickling at the edge of where a sensor exists in his abdomen. “C’mon, Oc, what’s going on? You can talk to me…”

He knows he can. Octavio has vented to you about lots of things before. He’s vented to you about Anita, back before she started to cut him a little bit of slack. He’s vented to you about his phantom pains, on the days that he wakes up and forgets that he doesn’t really have legs anymore. He’s even vented to you about his parents before – about how his father has never quite accepted the man he’s become and how his mom is like an ice sculpture. Beautiful from a distance, but cold, and quick to melt under heat.

Still, with the… incident, he’s hesitant. He feels like he’s digging himself a deeper hole than he should. But he’s here. On Ajay’s advice. Ajay’s always known what’s best, in a way. At least, it seems that way.

“I have to go to some stupid donor function for Silva Pharmaceuticals or my parents are gonna revoke my stim,” Octavio blurts and he sees your expression soften a little, the edges of your brows drooping, your lips half pursing, and he hates, hates the loud LUBB-DUPP in his ears.

“That fucking sucks,” you tell him and he half snorts.

“Si, I know… But you would make it less sucky,” he says, “you… wanna come? I always have a plus one but my ma doesn’t like when I bring just anybody.”

“And your fuck buddy isn’t just anybody?” You deadpan, raising a brow, and Octavio hums, tugging at the toe of your shoe on his lap.

“You’re a professional photographer,” he reminds you. “It would only be for a night. Less than twelve hours. Fourteen if you include ride time to Psamathe.”

“Oh, Oc…”

“Mami, please? Please. My parents would pay you for the shots. There’s gonna be tons of booze.” He tries.

“Octavio-”

“You don’t even have to talk to anyone but me!” He insists.

“Oc-”

“I hate these things. We can get a hotel right after and you can ride my face right up until I have to be back for the game-”

“Yes! Yes, Octavio!” You cry, reaching over and grabbing his shoulders, your body bending awkwardly, tummy crinkling the empanada bag in your lap. You shake him a little. “Yes, I will come with you, Jesus Christ. I was gonna say yes to begin with!”

“Why didn’t you just come out and say that then?” He huffs, though the tension drains out of his shoulders and he smiles at you, lips pulling up further at one corner. His chest expands with breath, like a weight has been lifted.

“I was trying but you don’t shut the fuck up.” You mutter, shoving his shoulders and he throws his head back, laughing into the vaulted ceiling of your studio.

-----

The week comes and goes within the blink of an eye and Octavio is… Definitely not ready to go to this stupid event. He’s texted you a little more throughout the week, telling you the kind of attire that’s expected at these dumb functions and reminding you that you don’t have to bring any crazy equipment with you.

He calls mama at the last minute, of course, telling her that he’s bringing on a photographer who expects to be paid in full for her services. She’s huffy about it but mostly seems glad someone will be capturing the event from the perspective of the Silva family – though why she kept his pa’s name after the divorce, he’ll never know. Anyway, it’s not like they can’t afford to pay you.

Octavio wears the black tie he knows his mama will hound him not for wearing but he refuses to put the blazer on. Instead, he’ll just carry it, black fabric hanging off his forearm. The sleeves of his white button up are rolled up to his elbows and even though mama could make a big stink, he’d remind her he could have showed up in what he wore in the games – including the Jade Tiger outfit.

It might have been a little too intimate to pick you up. The thought of knocking on your door at an appropriate hour, of being in his monkey suit and offering you his arm, made this feel more like it was a date and not just a favor. Instead, Octavio ordered you a cab and now, he’s waiting for you just outside the entrance of Ship’s Landing.

He’s tapping away on his phone, playing a racing game that he’s definitely going to beat Makoa’s score in. His tongue pokes out and he leans a little closer, glancing up only when he hears the whistle of vehicles going by, hoping to catch sight of your cab.

It’s in the middle of a jump that requires all his attention, a taxi stops right in front of him and the door opens. Octavio glances up, looking back down at his game, only to stop and look back up again, this time lowering his phone to get a better look.

His heart must be running a relay, must be trying to get a lead with a grenade, because the second he sees you, all he can hear is that loud noise again. Like an explosion of movement through his arteries and veins, his heart desperately trying to pick up with the adrenaline in his system. For once, it isn’t a fight, or an explosion, or a race that causes it, though. It’s you.

It’s you, struggling to get some huge camera tote out of the taxi while in high heels (he told you that you just had to bring a camera, damn it). It’s you, wearing a shade of vermillion that matches the fabric of your dress that hugs your figure. It’s you, with the off the shoulder, sweetheart neckline, and Octavio is surprised he can still recall anything about fashion. He’s kind of kicking himself for it too, because he can’t stop thinking of how much of a sweetheart that cut is, how easy it would be to slide it down your chest.

Octavio’s chest constricts, pupils blown wide as he imagines those heels digging into his ass as he fucks you, the sharp pinch of them spurring him faster, harder. It would be so easy to push you back into the cab, pay the driver a little extra to keep quiet while he shucks the dress up to your hips and sucks on your clit until you’re crying.

You guys should skip this. As a matter of fact, he should pay the cab driver to take you guys home so he can rip that dress off you. So, he doesn’t have to see you glide around in it, taking pictures, laughing and holding glasses of chardonnay at some stupid promotional party he doesn’t give a flying fuck about it.

“Oc?” Your voice snaps him from his reverie and Octavio realizes you’re staring at him, lips pursed, half waving to get his attention. “Can you shut the door?”

“Oh, yeah,” he breathes, moving forward to shut the cab door. “You… look really good.”

“Gee, thanks,” you say, smirking his way, and the rare little dance of mischief that glitters in your eyes makes his heart constrict. Fuck, he’s in so much trouble. This was a bad idea. Why did Ajay tell him to do this?

“We should skip this thing,” he tells you, waggling his brows, and you purse your lips at him.

“And get your stim revoked?” Right. He’d forgotten. Which is saying something, a voice in his head that sounds very much like Che says. He bats her away.

“Shut up, I know,” he mumbles and you two walk towards the ship his mama had ordered to take you to Psamathe. It has the Silva Pharmaceuticals logo on the side and he waves away the driver who stands with his arms folded at the passenger doors.

Octavio opens the trunk, taking your camera tote and laying it down in the backseat. You fuss at him, telling him that you can hold it in your lap and that this extravagant looking ship definitely has the space for you to hold your camera. He waves you off, telling you that you’re going to be in the ship for two hours, and you don’t need to be holding the bag in your lap the whole time.

After that, you two set off, towards his home planet. The ship his ma ordered is, of course, top of the line. The interior is plush, and over cushioned, with a tiny little bar on the opposite side of the long seats. You gaze around in wonder, squinting at the compartment at the top of the ship that he knows contains a disco ball.

“Jeez, your family pulled out all the stops, huh?” You ask and he snorts, scooting towards the edge of the seat and grabbing a bottle of Aguardiente his knows his pa keeps stashed for when he has to ride with ma to events.

“Gotta show up in style,” he mumbles, grabbing one of the little cups stacked on top of a fancy looking cupholder. “Would look bad if I came in just a cab.”

He feels your gaze burning on the side of his face and he holds out the first glass of liquor to you. When he looks in your direction, you shake your head, and Octavio shrugs, taking the first shot with a loud ‘aa’ sound afterwards and a little clench of his teeth. Coño, that shit’s strong.

“You’re really stressed about this,” you conclude, and Octavio turns to look at you again. Your hands rest idly in your lap and your eyes seem to look right through him, finding all the little weak spots, the little internal ticks that made him say that stupid thing into your neck.

“I am,” he says, “you can help me de-stress, if you want, chica.”

He waggles his eyebrows at you, masking his discomfort at how easily you read him with a little laugh. To Octavio’s surprise, you reach over, placing a hand on his thigh, and his eyes meet yours with dark intent.

“Yeah,” you say, then lean in, and kiss him. His heart constricts in his chest and he hate, hate, hates Ajay right now.

At the same time, he loves her. Thinks that he should thank her, should apologize and thank her, because you’re kissing him slowly, lips warming him with every gentle slide. Your chin tucks a little closer to your chest as you bow your head, just enough to catch his lower lip between his teeth. He sighs, squirming at the gentle scrape, the distracting buzz of your hand creeping closer to the space between his thighs.

“If we fuck, can you manage not to get cum on this dress?” You ask him as you pull away and his dick throbs at the thought of fucking you.

“Absolutamente, mami,” he mutters, hands creeping out to grab at your hips. He wants to pull you on top of him, pull whatever panties you’re wearing to the side. Watch his dick disappear inside you. Watch you throw your head back while he pulls down that sweetheart neckline-

“I don’t believe that,” you grumble but you’re pushing him down onto the long seat. Octavio lands with a thump and he’s kind of thankful he doesn’t have much hair. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, watching you make your way down his body. You don’t stop to place gentle kisses on his stomach, or any of that other fluffy bullshit that makes his stomach flutter, and he’s grateful and disappointed all at the same time.

You wrangle his belt open, the button of his pants and his fly following. You only scoot his waistband down enough to reveal his boxer briefs and the choked off sound that leaves him as you fenagle his dick out of the small gap in them is embarrassing.

“Shit, mami, you don’t have to, we can wait,” he says, even though his fingers are already tangling in your hair. Impatient. You smirk up at him.

“I don’t think you can,” you reply, before you drag your tongue up the underside of him. He gasps, like the air has been punched from his lungs, hypersensitive from weeks of having not been touched. You let saliva pool in your mouth, then stick your tongue out, watching it drip down. It makes his dick glisten, slippery with your saliva, and a dark spot forms at the base where he’s poking out of his boxer-briefs.

“Baby,” he whines and now his hand has tightened, trying desperately to push you where he wants you. Your licks and kisses are good, but not enough, not for how hard he is, for how he wants to fuck into your throat.

You only smirk, dragging the flat of your tongue up, the tip of it flicking just beneath the head. His hips jerk at the sensation and he rolls his neck back with a little groan. Octavio is always so vocal, so willing to tell you what he wants and what he doesn’t. Right now, what he wants is for you to take it, suck his dick until his eyes cross and he cums down your throat.

“I’m working on it,” you reply, and he definitely hadn’t realized he said that out loud. Oh well. You finally, finally, gracias a Dios, take the tip of him into your mouth. You place your puckered lips over the very tip, tongue poking the salty slit, and Octavio’s mouth falls open. Yours does a moment later and your cheeks hollow as you make your down the length of him.

“Puuuutamadre! Baby! Fuck!” Octavio gasps and he’s thankful to be riding in such a large ship because he’s certain if he kept it up, the driver would definitely know what was going on. He also kind of doesn’t give a fuck, hips trembling with the effort to not fuck your throat. You bob your head up and down, tongue glued to the hard length of him, and fuck, your eyes are closed, like you’re enjoying this.

You have the audacity, in all of this, to drag the tip of your finger around the base of him. He’s so close to being fully buried inside you. You push yourself, making wet noises that go straight to his dick as your lips finally touch the opening of his underwear. Then, the tip of your wet finger prods his rosebud, and that’s all it takes for Octavio to cum.

Toe curling, jaw dropping orgasm. That’s all he can think of when you finally get him to cum, the mere tease of your finger inside somewhere so intimate making his thighs clench. He shudders out, fist clenched tightly in your hair, trying to keep you down and still respect if you need to come up for air, but, coño, do you make it hard to keep that split train of thought going. He feels you swallow, throat folding around his cock, and the motion itself makes him whimper, for once overstimmed.

You slowly pull away, lips swollen and wet and red, sitting back on your knees with a shit eating grin. Octavio is catching his breath, trying desperately to slow his racing heart which, for once, isn’t caused by stim stabbed into his thigh. You gently massage his thighs and, Jesus, he really wishes you wouldn’t do shit like that.

“You good?” You murmur and the husky edge of your voice makes his spine tingle. He nods, slowing his breath to normal.

“I forgot how good you are at giving head,” he tells you and you snort as he looks around. When he doesn’t spy a handtowel, or something that isn’t a napkin that won’t stick to his dick, he gives up, tucking it away with your drool still on it. He adjusts his fly, slowly sitting up, muscles more relaxed than they’ve been in the week since he’d gotten that phone call.

“I expect you to return the favor on the flight home,” you say and he grins, for the moment distracted from the impending doom of his parents.

#apex legends #octane/reader #octane x reader #octane/you #apex imagines #apex lemons #octane x you #fem reader #nsft #lemon #lime?#whatever there's some spicy shit in here #if ur not 18 don't enter lmao #shorty writes #female reader

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