#its like MUTED but VERY muted AND i can roll my SHOULDERS BACK

[pseudowho]

The Watchmaker

Newly employed as the assistant to a renowned watchmaker, you soon discover how deeply his obsessions run.

Warnings: 18+, boss/assistant relationship, mutual longing, loss of virginity, fingering (f!receiving), nipple play, hand job (m!receiving), creampie, gentle manhandling (consensual), breeding hints, gentle period-drama Nanami snippety-snaps and becomes unhinged, two desperate people getting far too sexy over timepieces and pots of tea

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It was unusual for a lone young woman to be lodged and apprenticed by a single man; and, yet, it came to be, when you alone passed the Watchmaker's interview.

You approached on dry cobblestones, to a handsome, deep shop, with glossy black and gold railings and doors. Your corset felt heavy with the city's summer humidity; the river held the heat like a simmering pan, and its heady stench threatened to consume you. You were used to being without a chaperone, but your modest dress and poor accompaniment drew more wayward glances in this part of the city.

You hurried into the shop, a brass bell above the door tinkling your arrival. Nobody came to greet you. You followed the voices to the back, the eyes of many timepieces following you, their ticking as whispers and gossip in your wake. You came, in time, down tiled steps to a workshop, warm and bright and full of men...naturally.

A single, cursive note graced a sign before the only remaining workbench.

Repair the clock.

Such meagre instructions for a sought-after job. In golden lamplight, a pile of cogs and a loose-handed clock face glimmered like dragon hoard. You cast your eyes, stroking your corset and heavy skirts. You nodded once, and reassured yourself, only once.

"You can do this."

The Watchmaker, a tall man whose broad shoulders and thick hands did not suggest one with a delicate touch, neither agreed nor disagreed; he simply watched, silently observing you like the many faces of his timepieces. You set to work before your audience. The Watchmaker came and went, seeking to observe the half-dozen men competing alongside you.

And, in time, half a dozen sweating young men failed one, by one, by one. The Watchmaker's disgust was apparent, and his sneers soured one, by one, by one, until the last young hopeful curdled like milk before him.

When the Watchmaker came to you, you and your box of gold were not at your station. He frowned, kept company only by muted ticks and tocks. He followed your trail, out to his walled garden.

The test would have been considered a 'trick' only by those who were angry that their lack of respect for precision and accuracy had been identified. You, who could not fathom such sloppiness, found an honest solution.

"A sundial?" The Watchmaker rumbled. You felt a rush of heat from fingertips to toes, untouched by such a voice before. Smoothing your skirts again, and finishing your adjustments to hide the heat in your cheeks, you nodded.

You had fashioned your clock face and myriad small clock pieces to form a glimmering sundial. You had positioned it just so, and confirmed its position with the time shown on your own, battered pocket watch.

The Watchmaker circled you, with narrow eyes that may contain humour were they not so scrutinising. He was impeccably tailored, you noted; a high, crisp collar and rolled back white sleeves revealed enough throat and forearm to make you sweat. An exquisite navy waistcoat nipped his waist only marginally more than his tied apron, and he hummed at your sundial.

"Not what I'd call accurate."

"I disagree. While it may not be very precise, it is accurate. The cogs for the clock couldn't be set in such a way as to make the seconds correct. They were always just out. But you already knew that, didn't you?"

He almost smiled; his eyes certainly did. Nodding, and not one for hyperbolic praise, he bowed, instead.

"Nanami Kento. I would be privileged to offer you the role as my apprentice."

The earth formed a springboard, launching you to heaven, and it wrenched the breath from your lungs on the way. Checking yourself before you babbled over with incredulous tears, you choked out an answer on a sloppy curtsey.

"Even though-- even though I'm a woman?"

A scoff. "I don't see how that's relevant."

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Mr.Nanami sought your constant presence.

A natural timekeeper, himself, he sought the company of those like him, who would not expect him to partake in social niceties and small-talk. It was no wonder, then, that he became a Watchmaker, whose many-natured friends had the same face but twice a day.

While Nanami Kento was normally at peace in ticking solitude, the many hands and ceaseless seconds had eventually, as the years went by, begun to grind into an aching loneliness.

You felt it, as summer crisped to autumn, and frosted to winter-- his desire for your company. The way his obsession bloomed to include you alongside his timepieces. The way he lingered in doorways while you handled the customers' repairs. The way he seemed breathless when your smile sent another happy patron on their way. The way he would flinch if you brushed past him.

And god, how it burned you. Eyes downcast in reverence could not remain so for long, so magnetised were they to him. His silences were rarely cold, but rather, simply those of one who held his tongue until he had something to say; a far cry from the men you knew, who sought to usurp the monarchial peace through vocal domination.

Learning such craft at Mr.Nanami's thick, calloused hands, required intimate proximity; he would have to lean around you, at points, with his chest to your back. He moved your hands within his, teaching you the dexterity needed to repair a tiny watch with surgical precision. He leaned like this around you now. You could barely breathe.

"You were not wrong. Though not strictly right, either," he murmured in your ear, his breath grazing over your cheek. His hands held the tools in yours, using your body to perform miracles. You felt faint, flushed, hot against his body, and breathed a shaking breath, quiet in your frustration so as not to disturb the sleeping cogs.

"I want to be perfect, I-- I need it--"

An amused hum, used to your angry tiny mechanics. "You are perfect, thank you. Now let us make the pocket watch match."

As your hands worked in tandem, and another impossibly tiny cog found its home, you gasped in delight, relieved, and not thinking.

"Ah, yes, Kento, we--"

Mr.Nanami stiffened behind you. You backpedaled.

"Ah-- I mean, Mr.Nanami-- I'm so sorry--"

He did not seem upset, though his ears reddened as he stepped away from you. He murmured again, unused to being perceived.

"No, no-- it's quite alright-- I use your given name, after all."

With his face flat but his eyes alight, when you looked up at him in wary apology, he sought to reassure you with a smile.

"Really, please-- please do call me Kento."

"It feels...wrong."

"I...would not seek to make you uncomfortable. It is entirely of your preference."

Your heart drowned out the whispering whirrs of the room. You heard the tap of Mr.Nanami's feet as he ascended the workshop stairs, and blurted out.

"--Kento, I'll...I'll call you Kento. Please."

A pause. Another silence. Kento's voice tightened with something altogether more intimate.

"I fear I shall get used to it far too quickly."

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Too long were you lingering in your respective doorways, before bed. Too sweet, were the shared evenings in a firecrackle sitting room. Too electrifying, were the hands that met to pour just one more cup. Too intentional were the slim-eyed stares that burned down to the very bones of you.

If you died, and committed your body to science, the ghost of you would be unsurprised if a surgeon found Nanami Kento's name scored across your ribs; for nobody else could access that cage to your heart and soul.

Nobody else could warm you, during Winter fairs on the frozen river.

Nobody else could take your hand, to help you down the stairs at the Timepiece Exhibition.

Nobody else could still you with a look, or teach you with such few words, and this was so wrong, so wrong, he's your teacher your mentor your--

Your peak hit you in a burst of static. You clasped your hand over your own mouth, as if it would sell you out for your filthy crimes. Still, you arched in your bed, your toes curling against the sheets, bucking up into nothing in waves. Clarity did not hit you after, for it had already hit you during, and had done nothing to still your fingers.

Rolling over, and pressing your face into your pillow after the ecstasy had passed, you held your breath. It was too quiet.

Your eyes sprung open. The muffled bustling you had heard from the bedroom next door, had stopped. You weren't sure when. The silence was deafening...until movement started again, more clipped than it had been before. You could feel him, moving with irritation, a prowling beast in a cage.

It was over an hour before Kento's own hand travelled down his belly, to grasp himself with whispered curses and pleas of your name. Long enough, he hoped, for you to be asleep. Long enough, he hoped, that he could hide this rampant obsession that was so wrong, so wrong, he's your teacher your mentor your--

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"I should think I'll be home for tea. Inspector Aberline's grandfather clock again. It has stage fright, I fear, for how often the Inspector stares at it."

Kento's words, from hours before, rolled through your mind again and again. The smile you had sent your final patron of the day on his way with, slipped away, for you saw the lamplighter beginning his rounds on the cobbles outside. The sun had already set; he was late, tonight. You'd have offered him a lantern, but without Kento beside you, you felt you would need its warmth and light more.

Your eyes flickered to a package on the desk. It was imperative, Kento had said, that this was delivered to the customer today. 'Today', as a concept, was growing increasingly more abstract as it threatened to expire.

You saw the deep, dark circles under Kento's eyes, in your mind's eye. He had not been sleeping well. He needed the rest. You could not bear to see him overburdened.

Taking a deep breath, and undoing your apron to replace it for your heavy coat and gloves, you tucked the package under your arm, locked up to the tune of the tinkling bell, and stole away through the night like a thief in the dark.

Clacking across cobblestones, and trying to diminish the noise of your boots upon them, you walked for what felt like miles. Though you were sure you were safe, in this part of the city, the darkness turned shadows into beasts of great renown.

Spring-Heeled Jack stalked you from the shadows. You clutched the package closer, walking faster, breathing harder--

"What the hell are you doing out here, at this time of night?"

You squealed, and flattened against a red brick wall. Kento, imperious and huge in a heavy brown overcoat, glowered down at you with unbridled rage.

"The package," you squeaked, brandishing it as a shield, "you said-- said it needed to be delivered--"

"And it is not your place to take it upon yourself to do so. Returning to find you gone, out delivering a bloody package, while there's a killer on the loose? Extraordinary." The coldness that Kento reserved only for others, now directed at you, was a bitter sting.

Still; Kento held out his arm, stiff. His lip curled when you did not immediately take it. He grew frosty as he waited, and you slipped your arm into his, to a mollified grumble.

"Come," Kento rumbled, arresting you in a hold so intimate against his side, "let us not waste a journey. The customer isn't far from here. It shall give you time to think about your foolish choices."

You felt furious tears prickle behind your eyes. Like a dog with a bone, Kento struggled to let his anger go, and you snapped up at him, "Give it a rest. You're not my husband--"

"--yet, if it would allow me any sort of say over your safety, perhaps I should be your husband." Kento had frozen, looming over you. Your belly twisted, your face hot. You turned aside, chastised like a child.

"I'm no girl," you whispered, venomous, "I can take care of myself--"

"In a world that places no value on women, why should you ever feel safe? Out here, instead of in my--"

It was Kento's turn to redden. His jaw clenched. His fingers tapped upon the package. You felt righteous anger bubbling over, and rolled the dice, in a stabbing final gambit.

"In your what, sir? In your workshop? In your arms? Or in your bed?"

Kento's stony impassivity was tested, but remained steadfast even against your snapping. But you knew him, now; you saw how his chest hitched, heard his knuckles crack, and caught the faintest flare of his nostrils. Ducking his head for a moment, and dramatised by lamplit shadow, he stepped in just once to whisper above your ear.

"You forget yourself. I am your mentor, and you are my assistant, and--"

"--and I've had enough of you pretending that's all we are--"

"--and it's hard enough not bursting into your room at night when I hear your fingers drag my name from your mouth, so if you will be so kind as to cease and desist, I will not have to press you against this damn wall to hold your tongue with my own."

His hissing reproach doused the argument with ice water. Numb-footed and stunned, you walked through treacle, as Kento dragged you to deliver the package. Your chest was still thickened by mortification by the time you approached the Watchmakers' familiar iron railings.

You found yourself pressed inside, hearing the door bolted with force. Kento's hands softened as they removed your coat from your shoulders.

"Bed," he snapped. Kento turned his back to you to light a waxdrip candle. White shirtsleeves billowed from the shoulders of his waistcoat, and he checked his pocket watch as if it would give him the answer. You reached one hand out, to bunch in the back of his waistcoat, as if a child, and he snapped again.

"Alone."

You flinched. You closed your eyes, and took a deep breath. You swallowed hard, rolling the dice again.

"I hear you, too. In your room at night. The walls are thin."

"So is my patience, young lady, I will not tolerate--"

"You treat me like a girl to distance yourself from me, but pleasure yourself to my name? Please. You can make a fool of yourself but don't make a fool out of me--"

Kento spun with a growl, lifting you by the waist to drop you upon the counter. You squeaked, gripping his shoulders to steady yourself when he closed the gap between you.

"Do not act as if you know," Kento whispered, low and slow, "what it's like to feel like an animal in fine tailoring. Do not act as if you know what it means to be reduced so, that I must spill myself onto my belly every night, to preserve your virtue.

I do not blame you, naturally-- it's my burden entirely-- but if you add one more ounce to my shoulders with that incorrigible little mouth of yours, I'm afraid your virtue shall be...under threat."

You couldn't deny the heat pooling between your thighs, now, trapped as it was by Kento's taut body. You couldn't deny your craving for such fabled bliss.

"How does it feel," you whispered, your hand creeping up the buttons of his waistcoat to stroke the silk of his cravat, "Kento? How does it feel? Do you use your hand, or--"

An agonal little choke broke past Kento's high collar. His eyes begged you to stop him. You felt his long fingers twitch on your waist.

"Do not ask me--"

"Please," you whispered again, just as desperate as him, "please, I need to know, I can't keep living life in the dark--"

"My hand," Kento choked out, his chest barrelling with the weight of his breaths, "I use my hand. But even in the dark, I can't seem to convince myself that it-- that it's--"

You felt him falter, and you begged him, your tugging loosening his cravat enough to see his throat bob behind it. Kento whined, begging in kind. His face twisted, as if the thuds of pleasure lengthening his cock were hurting him. The torture was sweet; you felt it, too.

"Don't make me say it," Kento pleaded, nose to nose and nuzzling from side to side, "I can't take it--"

"You can-- you can take me--"

"--you don't know what you're saying--"

"--I do, Kento, please--"

"--don't know what you're sacrificing--"

"--you wouldn't," you pressed, feeling his hands moving against his wishes to unbutton the back of your dress, "you wouldn't sacrifice me, I know, so just--"

Kento groaned, a sound so sinful, just to feel your dress release and slip down over your shoulders. Pinching the ends of your sleeves, with his fingertips grazing your palms and inner wrists until you shivered, he pulled. A gossamer shift of white ghosted over your skin.

"So many layers, upon a lady," Kento murmured against your lips, "like unwrapping a gift."

He sounded drunk, and the honeyrich pools of his eyes had darkened. You couldn't pinpoint the moment his resolve had crumbled, but crumble it did, with the tick-tocking eyes of many upon you. Kento grazed his fingers against your lips, ordering in a whisper.

"Open." You didn't have to, your jaw already slack as promise burned you at the edges. Kento swiped his thumb and forefinger across your tongue with a groan, and reached out, snuffing the candle between them.

What dim light there had been, died. None that breathed would hold court or witness to what Kento was about to do to your virtue.

"This will not happen only once," Kento murmured against your neck, his tongue darting out to taste you until you mewled. He cursed to hear it, becoming more unhinged by the minute. "I will take your maidenhood as a lover, but take your hand as my wife. You cannot refuse."

You could refuse-- you knew you could, in absolute safety, but such refusal would take his mouth from you with immediate effect. His hands would cease their insistent glide up, and up, beneath your skirts. He would stop rutting forwards against nothing, with each whimper that left your lips. He would no longer drag your bodice down with his teeth, to suckle at the plump swell of your breasts.

You nodded, breathless, your hands shaking against the buttons of Kento's waistcoat. He grunted as it fell open, and your hands settled upon his waist. His graze against your neck was more insistent, now, and sloppier; hungry, open mouthed kisses that suckled the salt from your skin. Occasionally, you heard him murmur, begging to you, or to his god, or to himself, for any sort of release.

Overtaken by need, you finished unbuttoning his trousers, and tangled your fingers in his hair, instead.

"Don't know what you're doing," Kento mumbled, drunker by the minute, "going to ruin you, I-- I'll ruin you-- I'm no sensible size for a virgin--"

"So you suggest I find some other man?" You panted, "You suggest I find someone smaller--"

"They don't fucking deserve you," Kento spat, forcing the last of your skirts up to grind himself at your core until you whined. With your corset untied, Kento tossed it to the floor behind him with disdain, and yanked the final layer down to free your breasts.

Shuddering, he gripped his cock to restrain himself.

"Divine," Kento whispered, ducking to nuzzle against the tips of your breasts, "I have to-- please allow me to--"

Without waiting for an answer, Kento lapped your nipple into his mouth with a groan. Suckling until you pleaded his name, with hot bursts of pleasure to your core, Kento's hands reached the crest of your thighs, and groaned to find more layers in the way.

"Buy you some more," he grunted against your breasts, gripping the fabric between strong fingers to shred it apart, "my apologies-- now, just-- oh, fuck, I--"

His fingers had slipped between your folds to glide through them. Needing to see you arch against the sudden intrusion, Kento pressed you back until you were lying on the counter, and loomed over you. You caught sight of him for the first time in minutes.

Kento was utterly dishevelled, unabashed, and too far gone. With his cravat and waistcoat hanging loose, and a long, thick swell beneath what remained of his unbuttoned trousers, he looked more debauched than your wildest fantasies. He twitched with the spurt of pre-cum that left his cock, to see you spread out before him.

Sniffing, and dragging one hand back through his parted hair, Kento scoffed at your look of glassy-eyed wonderment. His fingers curled through your lips until that sought-after arch graced his eyes, and you mewled again, your thighs clamping around his hips

"More than one of us can be reduced to a beast," he growled, circling your clit with calloused fingertips, "as you have insisted. I've taught you with these fingers before. Let us teach you something new; how it feels to peak upon the hands of a man."

"--o-oh god, oh god oh god--"

A bark of laughter, "--he won't help you now--"

"--oh, sir--"

"Try again."

"K-Kento!" You chastised through blinding pleasure. Kento chuckled again, intoxicated and made ruthless by it, and holding you flat by the belly as his hands worked miracles on your core.

"That's it-- good girl--"

The way he praised you had always brought you to a blush, but how he growled his praises while he fingered you to completion was another entity entirely.

Your hips rolled up, trying to fill the emptiness that his fingers alone couldn't. Your body was rendered base with pleasure, and nature's insistence that such passiveness should be used to leave your belly full of seed.

You could see that, too, in his eyes; an urge; a hunger that belied his gentle nature. In sudden clarity, you understood his cry of agony, from mere minutes before: 'Do not act as if you know what it's like to feel like an animal in fine tailoring.'

"--K-Kento, I-- I don't know if I'll-- it's too much, aches-- augh--"

Your approaching peak threatened to overwhelm you, and you squirmed and begged, though you knew not what for. Kento pinned you, with one splayed hand on your belly, and whispered you on.

"That's it-- don't be afraid...shhh, now. Good girl-- that's it-- beautiful--"

You came with thigh-clamping bursts of ecstasy, so sharp and static by the hands of another, that your belly ached and cramped with the force of the spasms. Kento's fingers slowed, massaging the pleasure out of you at length, though you could feel his body growing heavy with the weight of self-restraint.

You felt yourself twitching, crunching forwards involuntarily, with little more than broken whimpers and cries as he talked you down. Though, as clarity dawned in supple bliss, you felt he may be trying to talk himself down.

"...good...that's good, that's enough, I...I am satisfied, I..."

Kento lied to himself so exquisitely, as if he didn't palm his cock with one trembling hand. As if he hadn't pulled his shirt off to relieve the prickling heat of his skin. As if he couldn't kiss you because that, oddly, would be the intimacy that broke the dam.

You broke it for him, sitting up and wrapping your arms around his neck so he couldn't rear away from you. He tried, at first, with a grunt of surprise, gripping you by the waist. Feeling your lips against his rendered him dumb again, feral and nuzzling his nose to yours, like an addict in a field of poppies.

"Please-- I'm afraid I won't-- won't be gentle--"

"Bed," you whispered against his lips, "not alone."

Kento groaned again, cupping his hands beneath your thighs to lift you, and carry you up the narrow wooden staircase. He knew every shoeworn step in the dark; knew where the corridor dipped; knew the amount of steps between his bedroom door and yours, so many times had he paced between the two.

With his curtains un-drawn, only the cold winter moonlight lit the room. Meticulous, uniform possessions left meticulous, uniform shadows. The whole room smelled of Kento; of soft wax, leather and musk. In his room, in his arms as one leg flicked the door deftly closed behind him, felt like being brought home.

"If I show you how," Kento whispered, laying you on his bed, just to stalk you slowly up to his pillows, "will you...can I..."

You'd have said yes to anything. Without knowing exactly what Kento asked for, you nodded. He saw the absolute trust in your eyes, and stiffened, his eyes darkening with something more profound than need.

"Do you know what physical love entails?" He rumbled, nosing against your neck again, and depriving you of the first kiss you so desperately craved. "Do you know what it is, to be taken?"

You swallowed hard, feeling lead weights in your still twitching belly. You cursed the society that had sought your submission through ignorance.

"We...are supposed to fit together," you whispered, to Kento's satisfied rumble. Stil, it was not enough; you knew he would not continue past his insistent suckling of your throat, if you showed true ignorance, so you mumbled past your blushes.

"You...press yourself inside me, until...until you..."

"...go on."

"Until...you finish, like--like--"

"...like you did, on my fingers. Except, your completion simply fills my soul...metaphorically speaking. My completion fills you literally."

Your hand had trailed down his bare chest, reverent at his form, so different to your own and witnessed before only in fine art and statues. He didn't stop you as your hand trailed lower. He simply fixed you with a stare, that was half hope and half despair.

With rising breaths, you looked down between your bodies as you freed him. Animalistic relief twitched across Kento's shoulders, for the release from his confines. He groaned into your throat, husky in a way that made you throb. You longed to see his pleasure as he had seen yours.

Tentative, you grazed his length with the barest fingertips. Rigid, woody, hot, velvety, wet at the tip and so long and--

"Oh," you breathed, gripping him and feeling his heartbeat through his sex, and utterly unsure what you had expected, "feels...good--"

Kento breathed harshly, and had dropped onto his elbows above you, his face twisted in agony. He panted, fractious.

"Don't-- do not--"

Your hand flinched away, horrified for having hurt him, and he cursed, rolling off you to sit, strewn and messy and barely dressed, against the head of the bed. Your eyes fixed again on his manhood, heavy and twitching against his belly.

"I won't touch-- I'm sorry--"

"Don't stop," Kento emphasised, breathless, "don't...dont stop."

With a flush of heat in your cheeks, you understood the nature of Kento's agony, and it only made you hungrier. Crawling over him in the barest white undergown, to straddle his thighs and sit upon them, you reached out to grip him with one trembling hand again. Kento arched, moaning that rusty, desperate moan again.

"Show me? Like you do in...in the workshop."

"God, your hand is so sweet--" With his own hand, big enough to engulf yours, he wrapped around your grip to his length. Slowly, deliberately, and watching where your hands clasped around him with sweat on his brow, Kento used your hand to pump himself.

Feeling the glide of silk on iron made your core wetten and clench. Watching how Kento moaned, bucking into your joined fists and reaching up behind him to grip the pillows, was hypnotic. Within seconds, your hand had begun to move independently of his, stroking him with raw determination to witnessq his unravelling.

Kento groaned in time with your rhythmic strokes. His newly freed fist bunched, instead, at your hip, having rucked your slip aside to dimple shaking fingertips in the plush of your curves. You began to squeeze a little tighter at the tip, twisting a little, and making Kento see stars.

"Hah--haaaaah-- don't-- don'tstop-- better than any dream-- good girl, please, please--"

Your thumb swiped without warning across a bead of wetness that had seeped from the slit in his tip, and Kento swore, bucking hard enough to make you chirp and grip his thighs for purchase.

"--wait--wait-- I'll spill in your hand, wait--"

This didn't deter you; if anything, it spurred you on to faster and faster strokes. Kento writhed, sweating and gripping, and you watched the heavy balls beneath his length tighten up, and--

"--ungh--coming--don'tstop...unh--"

Kento's whole body tensed. His face fixed in divine ecstasy. You watched his length jerk in your fist with thick, warm glugs of sticky white seed. You stared, your new obsession making you want to stroke Kento's release between your folds, but you held him instead, feeling him rut into your fist to chase his high.

After what felt like a lifetime, Kento came back to earth, with a heavy chest. While lax, for now, something in the way he looked at you, kneeling above him and examining the way his release dripped down your forearm, told you he was barely sated.

"Always were a...a fast learner."

"Well, you always wrote me off as a child--"

"I did not," Kento huffed, a mortified, angry flush colouring his cheekbones, "I knew exactly the woman you were. I do not lust after girls. If I didn't separate you, I knew I would...I knew we would..."

You nodded. You had both fought to convince yourself against such inevitability. Pondering, and curiously disappointed in the aftermath of Kento's pleasure, you stroked his slippery length in your hand again.

"You're...still hard."

Kento's eyes flicked down, that animalistic hunger taking seed in his eyes again. When he spoke, it was low, and barely measured.

"It would not usually, but-- but feeling you above me, so close that I could flip you over and trap you beneath me, I--"

You felt your breath leaves your lungs at once. Kento winced, disgusted with himself, but you snatched it away before it could take root.

"Please-- I want that, please--"

"With all this seed, and more to come after I bury myself inside you, you will be with child within days," Kento spat, gripping your cum-slick wrists to stop you stroking another orgasm out of him. Kento froze; having been about to throw you off, he saw the look in your eyes. The look of willingness. That sheer determination that had taken you as his apprentice in the first place.

"You like that," he mused aloud, enraptured as you lifted your undergown away to reveal yourself in your entirety. With your wrists gripped in one broad hand, the other stroked down between your breasts, to settle, stroking, on the soft plush of belly just above your mound.

"You...like that? The thought of a part of me, growing inside you? The thought of me spilling myself so deep, it has nowhere to go but your belly?"

The thought made you lightheaded. Why? Why was the thought of the same sticky release that coated your hands, inside you instead, so alluring? Beast in fine tailoring a beast in fine tailoring a beast--

Kento rolled you over. The strength you always knew he had, carefully restrained by waistcoat and pocket chains, bore down upon you now. He kicked away his trousers, desperate to be as bare as you, and brought his sheets over his hips to bury you both in a warm little den. You shivered to feel his length rest on your belly and mound, so close to where you wanted him.

Kento shook his head, trying to see logic, "If I finish inside you-- you really will be in danger of bearing my child, you..."

His voice had faded, gobsmacked as you stroked your seed covered fingers between your folds, mulish and clipped.

"There," you snipped, "I've already covered myself in you, so that's that--"

"You are utterly feral, this is what I get for bringing a guttersnipe into my workshop--"

"--so you might as well just finish the deed, sir, because--"

Kento laughed, overjoyed by your fearless audacity. His lip curled, and he reached down again to stroke his sticky seed between your folds.

"You think that's what I meant by inside?" He pressed, so close to the entrance you had never sought to penetrate, "You think I meant here? No, my love...I meant here."

You squeaked to feel Kento press one thick finger at your entrance. You felt the briefest sting of resistance, felt yourself clench and buck. Kento stopped, and pressed a first kiss to your lips, so sweet that you rushed through a wildflower meadow in summer.

He stroked circles just inside your entrance, loosening you with the slick of his seed, and kissing you with an intimacy that felt so much more than all the sordid deeds you had stolen from each other so far.

"And when I say 'here'," Kento continued, his breathing getting heavier, "I meant deeper. Much deeper than my fingers could reach. In truth, I would rather break your maidenhood with my cock, than my fingers. Some...filthy little part of me, I think. I loathe it. But, since we are well past being dishonest with each other..."

"Want that, please--" you babbled, squeaking with the promise of being filled with the rod you felt dragging on your belly, "--please, do it, I need to know, need you--"

"You beg like you mean to corrupt," Kento grumbled, pressing a little harder against your entrance and shivering as you squeaked, "I was a good man before this...I think. Shhhh, shh shh...that's it...soften you up...good girl."

"Not a girl," you gasped, your voice breaking and your nails digging into Kento's shoulders. He laughed, a full, rich, deep laugh of genuine delight. He pressed a kiss to your forehead as his fingers were replaced by his cockhead.

"You are right," he rumbled, nuzzling his nose to yours again, "you're certainly not. At least...you won't be, in a moment." Nose to nose with you, and whispering into your mouth, Kento pressed insistently forwards, "Hold onto me."

You did, feeling a brief sting, and stretched and stretched and stretched and--...full. You whimpered, bringing your legs around Kento to embrace all of him to you. He grunted, and gasped, pulled to bottom out within you, when he had meant to take you slowly. You clung him inside you as he moved to pull out, and begged, afraid it was already over.

"Nonono-- don't come out-- stay--"

Kento bucked into you involuntarily, and groaned a godless sound, arching up and gripping the headboard, white-knuckled.

"Got to-- got to move, to-- to finish...but at this rate--Christ, you'll kill me-- god, can't-- can't finish straight away like a boy--"

If the pleasure of being locked into the warm, wet drag of your pussy hadn't almost taken Kento to the edge, the way you looked up at him with glassy adoration would. He moaned again, another certain stepping stone to damnation.

One more glance at you had Kento planting one forearm above your head, and plaiting his fingers with yours upon the pillow. He gasped, trying not to take you too roughly, and finally, whispered again.

"Hold onto me."

Smooth, and fluid, and with the barest scraps of self control, you saw stars to feel Kento drag his cock back to your entrance, only to fill you again. You felt the thickfriction drag, and its bursts of belly-deep pleasure than rendered you oddly submissive. You revelled in it; drugged, and sighing, your eyes slipping closed.

The drunken animal in Kento had returned in force.

"...feels...weird...good--- don't stop, Ken--"

"--sh-shit, won't last-- I'm sorry--"

Kento watched you in wonderment. Whatever pleasure your ripe core gave him, could not compare to that given to him by your face; your mewls, and sighs, and whispers.

You couldn't seem to whisper his name, though; it tasted so sweet upon your tongue, that you could not bear to let it go.

You could feel Kento losing his ragged self-control. Watching your face, the plush bounce of your breasts, and the way your thighs spread against your belly every time he fucked into you, was an otherworldly delight. You took it; gladly. Your pleasure built strangely-- deeper, and more powerful, and yet not quite enough.

Your fingers sauntered down your belly. In your addled, fucked-into state, you barely noticed what you were doing. Kento noticed, though, and growled, a droplet of sweat dropping from his forehead between your breasts. His thrusts deepened, harder and faster and desperate for orgasm.

"F-fuck...just like that...just like you do at night-- my name--"

"Ke...Ken--"

"My name."

"Kento," you half-sobbed, lost in his promise to fill you with the sticky cum that had dropped down your hand, "please--pleasepleaseplease--"

"--the begging, fuck, I'm-- I'm done, I'm-- ungh, fuck--"

You knew Kento must be finishing. You felt him twitching, and jerking, within the snug gripping heat of your cunt, ruined by him as per his promise. You felt the curious warm spill somewhere deep inside you.

You knew the look of bliss upon his face. Your fingers, still rolling the remnants of his seed around your clit, moved faster and faster and faster--

You arched, seconds after Kento's own peak had begun, into your own. You heard the headboard crack under Kento's grip, heard the rhythmic, fractured moans that may have been his and may have been yours, too lost were you both in oblivion.

The world may have completed one full turn. Struggling to hold himself up, Kento shook, dopey and half-asleep after filling you as he had threatened. You locked him within you, and held him like a lead blanket, nuzzling into his throat.

"Just...stay there. Stay. I like it."

"That feels...indecent," Kento mumbled into your neck. His uncharacteristic colloquialism was winding back again, and you felt the clipped man in the waistcoat and pocket chain returning to earth. You whispered, to his devilish laugh.

"How are we supposed to make watches together after that?"

"Carefully. Very, very carefully. As husband and wife."

"...oh."

[dadsbongos]

So I recently had a thought about Chilchuck x reader. While drinking, Chilchuck discovers that the reader is a complete lightweight who got drunk after 2 drinks. Not only that, but reader who is usually reserved and quiet becomes rather giggly, vocal, and the smallest bit flirty. Maybe he sees what happens when the reader becomes even more drunk and backs himself into a corner when they become very flirty and forward about their feelings for him? :3

642 words / warnings - you imply you want to bang chilchuck maybe? idk its a vague comment take it how you will ~~~

Saying he was excited to see beneath the veil of brooding silence would go against his entire modus operandi, so Chilchuck would never say it aloud.

Yet he cannot fight the quiet snicker leaving him as you drunkenly giggle over some terribly unfunny joke spat by a tipsy Marcille. Party morale nights were his favorite: free ale and free entertainment.

“You should join us more often!” Marcille cheers.

“Oh, no,” you drawl, staring into your emptied mug -- your first mug, might he add, “I’m not a big drinker.”

“Obviously,” Chilchuck cannot bite the remark before it slithers out.

“Hey!” you whine, swirling on your stool you glare at him. Cheek smushed against your fist, “I’m just not a fan…”

“Because it reveals your actually tolerable side?”

“Rude!”

Chilchuck might’ve been worried about hurting your feelings if you weren’t laughing quietly, eyes fluttering shut as you hum displeased at his jab. That infamous furrow in your brows coming to life as you mull over a response, soft scowl dragging soon after.

“I think you said something you didn’t mean to, Chilchuck…”

“Huh?”

Refocusing your stare on him, you lean forward, “You pretty much just said I’m cuter when I drink.”

“Is that how you took it?” 

“It’s what you meant.”

Rolling his eyes, albeit with a chest full of mirth and warm cheeks, “Right.”

“I hope it was, anyway,” you confess, smile widening regardless of his following shock.

“What do you mean by that?!” he has to grab the table, knuckles whitening, to prevent from slipping backwards.

Shrugging coyly, you dip further into his personal space. Smelling of beer and perfume, “What do you want it to mean, Chilchuck?”

“You’re not making any sense,” he mutters, bringing up his maizer for a distracting gulp. Clenching his eyes shut when he can still make out the pretty way your lashes crown your cheeks each blink.

That itself is a mistake because now the sugary tones of your voice are further heightened in his reddening ears,

“There’s no shame, Chilchuck, I think you’re plenty cute.”

“Excuse you?” he’s thankful none of your party members catch his exclamation, or the slam of his cup against the table.

“Sorry,” you blurt, a muted gasp preceding your slurring afterthought, “Not cute in a demeaning way. Cute like I think you’d look nice in my bed.”

His jaw clatters to the floor: no way this is the same combat mage he’s been working with for months. The one that could barely return Marcille’s small talk without clamming up. The one that dodges Laios’ every attempt at monster-education. The one that quietly slips out of Falin’s sight whenever a protection spell violating personal space is required. The one that outranks Toshiro in most unapproachable. The one with a most notorious resting frown on their face.

Chilchuck was convinced you didn’t even like him as a coworker until you eagerly sat beside him at the table instead of joining Namari.

“W- what…?”

“You’re really attractive, seriously,” you bumble through the syllables, nose wrinkling in a disarmingly adorable chuckle at yourself, “I sound silly, huh?”

Rather than assure you he hardly cares, or that he’ll silently forget this entire admission, Chilchuck nods curtly and buries his nose into his cup again, “Yep.”

“Sorry, Chilchuck,” voice a coo, you relax back until you’re now invading Laios’ space. Head against the blonde’s shoulder.

Chilchuck’s most horrifying realization is that he’s awfully jealous of Laios in that moment.

But instead of saying that, he snarks bitterly,

“Tell me again when you’re sober.”

“Okay!”

Such sincerity makes him roll his eyes again, and once again he’s full of fondness and affection despite it all. Part of him even mourns how wasted you are, knowing you’ll wake up tomorrow with a headache and no memory of this: returning to the sulky attack mage he barely talks to.

[cipheramnesia]

Part 3: The Death, Rebirth, and Afterlife of Parasite Alice

The Riverside Clinic for Wellness and Long-term Care weathered safely the storms of the burn just as all the worst memories navigate the mindscape unimpeded. The venerable history of the red brick and white trimmed building carried it through the poor and homeless left in squalor to the airy chill of lobotomy and electroshock therapy, two wings wide and three floors tall. Its height well serviced its intent, too short for escape even via a yearning leap from the roof to its concrete driveway.

The persistance of such single-minded enclosure of the divergent mind carried forward to the interior, with mutiply sectioned floors along each wing navigable only through a network of stairwells. A more modern elevator spired through the center of the building, lever operated and gated by iron on all sides. None of the layers of white tile or muted gray carpet or soothing art prints or geometic wall paintings over the years could fully excise the prison lovingly built into the architecture. Inside, it promised no escape. Outside its dignified facade offered warm reassurance that aging loved ones to difficult children and everyone in between would be safely forgotten.

Some part of Alice understood all this as the square black truck complained about stopping at the brick stairs with their awkwardly late addition of a wheel chair accessible ramp, leading to wide white doors set with large windows blocked by gauzy white curtains. The driver helped her out of the car and she said, "I can do it just fine!" before almost falling as her legs wobbled. She didn't like strangers touching her, but now everyone was a stranger and she leaned on a stranger just for the simple task of reaching the door of the building where she will die of cancer.

The doors swung inward to reveal an average man with a surfeit of dignity to his gray peppered mustache and deep, dark eyes beneath a noble high forehead and a gently swept back head of mostly gray hair. His thick belly preceded his wide shoulders into any room, and his hands were noticeably large with thick fingers, moving quickly and nimbly to pull a wheelchair onto the small porch. He wore checked trousers, a pale yellow golf shirt, and his arms were exceptionally hairy.

"So good to meet you," he let one hand overtake his stomach to greet Alice, which she disregarded. "My name is Dr Hopewell, and I'm the administrator here at Riverside. I've heard quite a bit about you, and I wanted to make you comfortable right away. You're quite the special guest!" He smiled away the dignity of his profile.

"I don't need a wheelchair," she said. The driver shrugged and let her go, forcing her to grab to armrests to keep standing. "I'm just tired." She gave daggers out of her eyes to both men before maneuvering herself into the seat. "Don't get used to this."

The driver passed a clipboard over her head. "You gotta sign for the delivery, also initial there... and there. Sign and date there too. Okay, nice knowing you."

Dr. Hopewell was already turning her and rolling her into the building before the driver started the truck. "Don't worry Alice, we'll make sure you have the best of care here. You're a celebrity after all, but there may be a few bumps ahead!" They wheeled past a heavy wood door and a much larger orderly took over, pushing her down the hall then bumping up a flight of stairs.

"We specialize these days in unique individuals like yourself. I understand you won't persue treatment?" She folded her arms and rolled her eyes. "Well, if you change your mind, we can be ready to start immediately." The chair and orderly bumped back down stairs into another long hallway. "But here is your room, and we've put you with someone you should get along with. She's very unique."

The room was small, two beds with a curtain divider, wall mounted TV sets, a closet bathroom, one tall window and a few small sets of sad artificial wood drawers.

Another woman sat in a rolling tube frame chair in the far corner of the room. She was big and soft and still in pajamas, her belly stuck out a bit from under the top, and her sloping shoulders seemed to be a permanent fixture of her slouch while the sweeping curve of her neck to her chin echoed in her faint jawline. Her nose was long and straight and Alice thought it was very fine with her dark black eyes looking a thousand miles away and her arrow straight glossy black hair hanging behind the chair. Alice wondered what it would be like to hold her hand. Would she squeeze hard or gently? Interlaced or fingers to thumb.

She about the woman's hands and lips and eyes enought, it took her longer than it should have to realize the other woman was also shimmering with the golden glow of the burn.

[runningfrom2am]

requiem // part three

summary: according to coriolanus snow, his best friend had the most beautiful voice in all of panem. she had been training her whole life constantly to get where she was; being up for a residency at the most elite opera house in all of panem. singing was her passion. her true love; and when that got stripped from her in a second, his world became a whole lot quieter. he loathed every minute of it.

pairing: coriolanus snow x fem!reader

wc: 2.5k

masterlists / nav / requests

tags/warnings: opera singer!mentor!reader (blink and you'll miss it), she's kind of a prodigy!! p cool imo, mute!reader, bestfriend!coryo, friends to lovers trope ooo, mentions of graphic violence early on (particularly the prologue) but after that it's pretty safe, depictions of ptsd/trauma, mental illness and minor suicidal ideation but at least she's not entirely alone, descriptions of minor medical treatments and use of medication.

a/n: guys me and bestie got tickets to sabrina's tour and we are SO excited- we're making our outfits and we're putting in the WORK on rhinestoning those i'll keep yall updated

my asks are also open to talk about this series! (i do have emoji anons open now too!)

send me any and all of your thoughts! here!

series masterlist // playlist // pinterest board

By the morning, you were in a much better mood. You woke up early, earlier than usual, and you'd be lying if you said you weren't excited to finally go home. You spent the night crying over the fact that you would very likely be stuck like this, but all you had left this morning was acceptance. It would be nice to finally sleep in your own bed again.

You had cleaned up all the dead flowers, and packed all your notes into a folder by the time the sun made its way into the sky, and your parents arrived shortly after that to pick you up.

They tried to be nice, they really, truly did, but they were disappointed in you. You could see it and feel it in the tense silence that always surrounded the three of you during their "visits". It was awkward, and there was nothing you could do to fill the quiet room.

"Are you ready to go?" Your mother asks, helping gather your bags packed full of clothes and books that remained untouched. You nod, smiling hopefully at her. You follow her out to the hall and down the stairs.

"There's really nothing you can do? You can't operate again?" You hear your father's voice before you see him, and you really wish you hadn't.

"No, I'm sorry, sir. her vocal chords have been reconstructed to the best of our ability, operating again would do more harm than good. It would retraumatize the area and could result in more complications, it would be a miracle if that would even help her voice." The doctor replies. "Her voice may come back naturally, but only time will tell."

You hear your dad sigh as you round the corner, and he smiles at you sadly. "Let's get you home, okay?" He says, placing a hand on your shoulder and taking your bag from you, leading you out to the car.

You walk into your mother's library later that afternoon, a notebook in your hands. You knock gently on the door frame to notify her of your presence. "Yes, dear?" She asks, not looking up from her book. You huff, knocking on the door again and waving to grab her attention.

She looks up this time, realization flashing in her eyes. "Oh, gosh, sorry. I thought you were your father." Lies. "What do you need? You should be resting."

You hold up the notepad in your hands with the prewritten note. 'can you call coryo?'

She takes a moment to read it, brows furrowed. "Coriolanus? You just got home, give him a day off from babysitting you. He probably needs a break."

You frown, quickly flipping the page and writing again.

'he's not babysitting me. we're friends.'

"I understand he's your friend, but sometimes even the best of friends need a break from each other."

You roll your eyes. If you could groan you would. If you could call him yourself, you would.

'I'm 18, if I want to invite my friend over I will. I don't need permission anymore.'

Your mom chuckles, shaking her head as she reads the large print of your note. "Except now, you do. Don't you?"

The best you can do to express your frustration beyond how it shows on your face is to stomp your foot on the ground like a little kid before storming off down the hall. It was all you could do. You would try the same routine with your father.

It didn't work on him either, not that you were surprised. They didn't want company on the day you came home, but that didn't mean they actually wanted to spend time with you apparently.

You holed up in your bedroom, put on your music, and laid in bed staring at the ceiling.

It felt like hours before someone came to free you from your own mind, the silent prayers that you would be able to open your mouth and make a single sound. That didn't mean you had been brave enough to even try yet, though, until there was a knock on the door.

You tried your luck, attempting to call out a quick 'come in!', but nothing came from it besides a scraping pain in the back of your throat. You sigh, rubbing your neck gently in a poor attempt to make the pain go away as you crawl out of bed and go to the door, pulling it open with a scowl on your face.

It settles only slightly when you're met with a member of your family's staff standing there holding out a small, delicate vase containing three roses.

You stare at each other, neither of you able to speak a single word as you take the flowers from her hands. She was a young girl with dark hair, and she had been in your home for a year. You didn't know which District she had come from- it wasn't like she could have given you an answer if you asked. The removal of her tongue ensured that fact.

Occasionally you had wondered what each member of your staff had done to earn their fates, but you liked to theorize. Until now, that is, because the fate you were sentenced to is all but the same, and you had done nothing wrong.

Her eyes widen slightly for just a moment as she looks at the scarred skin across your neck, and then quickly back up to meet your eyes.

Her lips part as if to speak, and you tilt your head slightly at her until she quickly shuts her mouth again. You can see her struggle a bit to swallow as she just gives you a small nod, handing you the card that accompanied the flowers before turning to shuffle back down the hall.

After shutting the door and placing the flowers on your windowsill, you carefully unfold the small envelope and read its contents.

'Something to brighten up your room.

Welcome home.

-Coryo'

Graduation and the accompanying gala were within a week of your return home. You're eternally grateful you spent the time to pick out your dresses months in advance, because if you hadn't, you were sure you wouldn't have gone at all.

Standing behind the stage, your eyes continue to focus over and over again on Coryo in his spot in line. It was much preferred to look out at the audience or on the stage as your other classmates were handed their diplomas and posing for pictures for just a moment before exiting on the other side of the stage.

You had missed the rehearsals while you were in the hospital, so really you were just about to wing it- but still, you didn't want to watch anymore.

You dreaded the silence that would come along with your name being called. Well, silence would be preferable to the exaggerated cheers that were more likely to follow- everyone celebrating your mere act of survival after the school spent weeks scrambling to find someone else to sing the anthem at the beginning of the ceremony.

So looking to your best friend was all you could do to calm the blooming anxiety, cursing the alphabetical organization by last name that kept you apart for the moment.

Then it was your turn that came all too quickly.

You look at him again and he smiles at you, which you return with the fake one you were building for the sake of all the photos about to be taken of you as your heels click across the stage. The cheers that block out the sound while you keep your eyes ahead almost make you want to keel over and vomit right on the black flooring of the stage.

Is it possible for cheers to be full of pity? For an applause to be so... sad?

You'd been on the receiving end of countless rounds of applause before, but none had ever made you so embarrassed.

With flushed cheeks and a performative grin, you shake Dean Highbottom's hand.

"Congratulations." He says, and something behind his eyes for just a moment shows that he is not immune to the infectious pity spreading through the audience. He had never shown much emotion before, and if you weren't so close to him right now, you definitely wouldn't have picked it up at all. "We're happy you're here."

All you can do is nod, swallowing and attempting at a grateful smile as you take your diploma from him in the small red, leather folder.

Holding it up and turning to face the audience, you tilt your head with your signature smile for a beat to give your family (or any reporters interested in your recovery and story) time to take their photos before holding the folder to your chest and taking a small bow.

You allow yourself to pretend that you're okay for just that moment. That this was the end of one of your performances, and for just that one moment with your head down, you could block out the pity that came along with the standing ovation you were now receiving.

You were used to it.

But this isn't at all what you expected your final bow to be. And it hurt.

"Congratulations, Miss." Coryo's voice behind you in the crowd makes you smile, and you turn around to face him.

You roll your eyes with a fond smile on your face, doing the best you can to return the sentiment by poking him in the chest over his red gown a couple of times before pulling him into a hug.

He returns it and you feel his chest move as he laughs, gently rubbing your back before reluctantly pulling away. "Hey, where are your parents?" He asks, looking around the crowded front steps of the academy crowded with other students and their families waiting for rides to the gala.

You thought it was a poor choice in words, calling the graduation after party and dance a "gala" when in fact it wasn't one at all. Where you performed was a gala. Or, where you were supposed to be performing. In your mind it was anyway. Maybe you had it backwards.

You stare at Coryo, waiting for him to look back at you again before you're able to try and explain.

"They left." You mouth out, once his attention was back on you. "Work."

"They left?" Coryo asks, brow furrowing slightly as you nod in confirmation. "They're not coming for the dinner?"

You shake your head. "Busy."

"Well, you're stuck with me then." He smiles, nodding for you to follow after him.

When you walk up to his cousin, Tigris, the only person who was able to come for his sake, you realize you may just make up the saddest and loneliest table at the whole event. All your classmates had at least their parents, but most also had extended family members and friends as well. Crowded tables, loud chatting, lots to say and lots to celebrate. You had... less of that. Less talking, in particular.

And once again, you were right.

You tried to enjoy your dinner while many people went out of their way to come and pat you on the back and congratulate you on your graduation- and it just felt patronizing.

Coryo watched it all go down from the seat across from you at the table, staring at classmates and parents as they stopped to talk to you, knowing damn well you wouldn't respond. He hated every minute of it.

The frustration burned behind your eyes like a freshly struck match every time someone tapped your shoulder over the beautiful graduation dress you had asked for his opinion on months ago, the very same one that matched the rose pinned to the lapel of his jacket.

'Why couldn't they comment on that instead? Say you looked beautiful? Or say nothing at all?' He thought.

You couldn't even do a thing about it besides giving people awkward tight-lipped smiles and fake appreciative nods.

"Have you seen the state of her?" Livia says to her friends as you're walking by, and instinctively you drop your head. "I mean, it looks so bad, I'm surprised she would ever show her face in public again."

Coryo's arm that's linked with yours tightens its grip, and he has to be the one to look over.

"Wait, Coriolanus, you were there, were you not?" Persephone grabs his attention when she notices the two of you walking by.

The two of you freeze, sharing a look. Both roughly translating to "Are they fucking serious?"

He clears his throat. "Excuse me? Do you have absolutely no manners at all, I really do not think that-" His gaze flicks between you and the girls from your class as he speaks, preparing to scold them for being so incredulously rude.

Their eyes all go wide simultaneously. "No! Oh, goodness, we're not talking about you, Y/N!" Livia defends quickly and takes a small step closer, looking genuinely mortified by the confusion. "Clemensia. We're talking about Clemmie."

"Oh." Coryo says at the very same time your lips form the same word you couldn't speak.

Sure, they were talking about your classmate this time, but you were not foolish enough to guess they hadn't had a similar conversation about you when you weren't present. Unless they had more pity for your situation, which may very well be worse.

"We were wondering if you knew what happened, you were the last one with her before she got this... 'illness' that has apparently turned her half snake."

Your eyes go wide at Persephone's explanation, and you look frantically between them and Coryo. He had never told you anything about this, and he knew it was his job to keep you updated on all the petty and worthless gossip going on at your school while you were away.

You smack his arm a few times, eyes pleading for him to please explain what they were talking about, as the girls watched you with amused and slightly sympathetic smiles.

"Oh, well..." He hesitates noticeably, shaking his head dismissively. "I didn't... as far as I know she just fell ill."

He was lying and you knew it. You could feel his muscles tense around your arm.

"Oh, really? So, you and Clemmie go to the Citadel to speak with Dr. Gaul, and she is never seen again without scales and you just claim... nothing weird happened?" Livia asks, clearly not buying it either.

He gives a resigned sigh, looking around briefly. "I am not meant to discuss it." He explains quietly. "But... I honestly do not know. She brought us both into a room separately to discuss the contents of the proposal. I went first, and they instructed me to not wait for her. If something happened, I was not made a witness."

The girls seem a little disappointed with this answer, but only for a moment. It was believable enough to them.

"I mean, it's human experimentation- obviously." Livia says with a shrug, bringing her glass up to her lips. "I really don't put it past the doctor, she is deranged at the best of times."

"Ooh, yes, maybe she wanted to see if she could give a human a pit organ- maybe Clemmie can see heat now. Or smell with her tongue." Persephone giggles in a whisper, leaning in so only the three of you were privy to her joke.

You tilt your head, and immediately your mind is running a mile a minute. If Dr. Gaul could alter someone's DNA enough to turn them partially into an animal, she could easily reconstruct your vocal cords... Right?

no taglist this time around!! my fics usually get over a hundred requests to be added to the taglist so instead i made a library! follow me over on @runningfrom2am-library and turn on notifs to get updates when i post new parts!!

[stardancerluv]

When the Predator Becomes the Prey

Part One of ?

Notes/Warning: 18+ consensual act of implied sex, language, sexy fantasy, drinking, mentions of a possible kidnapping, mentions of pregnancy, sexist, domineering

I wanted to explore more of the Frank character. I gave him a real name. Yes, they say Adam in the film but I want that to be his deep cover name. So “reader” calls him Nick, Nicky. Also I plan on using alot of flashbacks..to flesh him out.

He is horrible, rotten person…but well..in the tradition of Roman Sionis…and more recently Gator Tillman (though he 🫣😬 not as bad as these Roman & Frank!). Here is a short take on “Frank” you could say its AU…so please don’t come after me.

Comments, ❤️, reblogs and any feedback is welcome!!!

The amber liquid sloshed in his glass. He twisted the cap back onto the bottle and took a swig. A bitterness filled him, he had been a well respected detective.

It had not taken long for him to discover the darker sides of his nature. It was very easy for him enter the world of the criminal.

“Can’t sleep?“ He felt as your arms wrapped around him. It did help somewhat.

He made an incoherent sound of agreement.

“You don’t have to take the job.”

The silence grew heavy before he took another swig. He glanced at you over his shoulder.

“I have to. If we want to disappear for good.”

You nodded.

He chewed his bottom lip.

“You’re still a good man.”

“A man who is about to become a fucking father who may or may not be weighing the options of kidnapping of some fucking twelve year old.”

“It was a good man who faced with unbelievable horror took me with him?”

He chuckled.

“It’s because you’re a cute piece of ass.”

You smacked him.

Placing the glass down, he shifted turning to you. In the muted, neon light that bled through the curtains; he could still make out your beauty. He remembered the first time he laid his eyes on you.

******

Glasses clinked, peels of laughter genuine and fake filled the air as men, women dark and brooding planned deeds that were unsavory. He was deep undercover. He relished the freedom it gave him. He had always been the law. Now he was above it. He was in the big leagues now.

Surveying the crowd, the ones he was meeting were not there. Taking a table in a corner, he would able to watch everything. He fiddled with his phone.

“Hello there handsome, is there anything I can get you?” A sweet voice, he didn’t recognize asked.

Glancing up, he saw your legs first. You had a curves he liked. The rest of you, damn. He bit the inside of his cheek. You had fresh face. Not worn or plastered like the other girls.

“Give me a twirl baby?” He pocketed his phone.

“I’m not for sale.” The smile left your eyes.

“Am I trying to buy you? No. Now give me a twirl.”

You rolled your eyes. “Fine.” The skirt flared just a bit and he liked even more what he saw.

He nodded. “Very nice.” He leaned forward, the soft scent of your perfume was pleasing like the rest of you. His lips curled into a smirk. Look, I got some important guys coming in. Wanna be the girl for our table tonight, and I’ll treat you right?”

You put a hand on your hip. He wanted it to be his, give you a squeeze. See the sounds you’d like. “I’m not sure I can do that.”

Your nervous glance around was endearing. Most of the girls would have been fuck the rules and happily accept his proposition.

“Go tell your boss, Adam is asking for you.” He sat back and smirked.

“Oh, alright.” You fluttered off.

Damn he wanted you already bouncing in his lap or kneeling between his legs. He didn’t want to wait.

******

“Are you getting sentimental, Nicky or are you committing my face to memory?”

He chuckled being brought back to the bedroom, the two of you shared. That night was a lifetime ago.

You had laid back down, the memory made him want you and now. He easily moved so he was between your legs.

He saw some hesitation flicker in your eyes.

“What? You don’t want me anymore since I knocked you up?”

You shook your head. “Just worried.

“Did the doctor say anything?” He blinked.

“No, he said it might actually be good for me.”

He smirked. “Then why are you worried.” He palmed himself.

“Because you’re rough.”

“I won’t be.”

He braced himself and leaned in close. His nose nuzzled your cheek. Your soft scent from you showering, lingered. You were good enough to eat.

“Don’t worry about that baby. I want to see the fruits of my seed.”

Your hand came up and caressed his cheek.

“Then, I’m all yours.”

“I knew you couldn’t say no.”

Her legs deliciously opened further for him. Easily, he took himself out of his sweats. He slid his tip between the petal softness of her folds.

“You want me just as badly.”

“Look at you. How could I not?”

“Well, here I come baby?”

********

He glanced around as he sat in the coffee shop. Lambert had yet to arrive.

He ordered himself an expresso and whipped cream. He stirred it before taking a sip.

********

You came shimmying up to him. Your short sparkly dress left little to his imagination. He knew what it barely hid. He was perched, at the high top table they chose.

“Nicky, come and dance with me.”

You tugged on his hand. It amused him. Compared to him, everything was so delicate and small. You were like a daisy compared the storm that he was.

“I’ll just sit here and watch you baby.”

A soft pout formed on your full lips.

“Now, don’t be pouting. We both know what happens when you do.”

“Then come dance with me.”

He grimaced, glancing around before he slid off.

“Just this one time.”

You wrapped your arms around his throat, he placed his hands in on your hips. Finding the rhythm and he began to move easily with you. You were easily the hottest woman on this dance floor and you were all his. The lights, twinkled and danced. The music ebbed and flowed and for the first time in his life, he relished dancing the night away.

*****

The bell on the door of the coffee shop chimed bringing him back to his expresso. He took a sip. Perfect, he mused.

Looking towards the door, he caught as Lambert cut a path over to him.

“So what have you decided Adam?”

He adjusted his glasses. “Cutting to quick, I see.”

The man nodded.

“What’s the exposure?”

“If you all do it right? None. You snatch her and then babysit her, twenty four hours tops.”

He pressed his lips together. “Alright. But I pick the muscle. I don’t want some psychotic ape losing his cool.”

Lambert nodded. “Fine. You have two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” Impatience rose in him. He took a sip of the expresso to hid his disgust over the idea of waiting.

A bored look came over Lambert. “The subject is overseas. They are expected back in a week and a half. After that, you and the pack will be given the needed materials.”

He adjusted his glasses and nodded. “I just don’t like waiting.”

“Understandable.”

[twola]

All is Calm, All is Bright

This is my entry for the @rdrevents #rdrSecretWinterExchange! Its the first time for me to participate in something like this and I had a ton of fun doing it!

the prompt was: johnigail and/or marston family centric - marston family’s first christmas on the ranch

PG13-ish? Language (hey - it’s Red Dead) and there’s some insinuatin’ of things that married folk do. Happy holidays @vittoriaisfuckingpathetic!

God damn woman, goddamn woman with those goddamn pretty eyes, and evil smile and…

Oh, who is he kidding? That woman’s got him wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. That’s why he’s heading into Blackwater when the prairie is cold as dickens and he feels like he froze his ass off on this ride into town. The grey clouds cast darkness over the land, and though sunset is a few hours off, it is dark enough to lose one’s way easily.

John Marston groans underneath his heavy coat, tucking his head into the open collar, “C’mon now boy, just get me into town and I’ll getcha all the damn treats that you want.” 

The roan Tennessee Walker beneath him nicks its head up, neighing in discomfort against the wind rolling off Flat Iron Lake. Blanketed in white, snow covering the prairie, he can barely see the trail ahead of him, having to rely on muscle memory and his sense of direction to get to Blackwater.

“It’s Christmas. The first time the boy’s been in a home for one, hell, it's the first time I’ve been in a home for one. Probably you too.”

Abigail, as always, was right. Her voice rings in his ears, and though he wants to grumble terribly, it warms him to see her smile as he leaves. Seeing excitement in Jack’s eyes, for the first time in a very long time. Fortunately, It's not long before he comes upon that old white church on the top of the hill heading into town - he’s able to urge his horse to trot faster down the well-traveled road, where hoofprints and wagon tracks have the ground visible underneath the snow. 

The plod of his horse's hooves change their tenor as he reaches the cobblestone main streets of Blackwater. It's a sound that he bites back a derisive comment to - much preferring the soft, muted sound of his horse walking on the open prairie. When John reaches his destination, he slides out of the saddle and hitches his horse to a post in front of several shops. He brushes snow off of his shoulder as he quickly moves toward one of the shops.

Blackwater Sundries - Family Owned since 1895

The bell above the door rings as he pushes the door open, quickly closing it behind himself to stave out the cold wind.

“I’m here to pick up an order under the name Marston.”

The young woman behind the desk smiles before turning to the table behind and her, grabbing a wooden crate. She struggles, slightly, hoisting it to the counter, and John leans over the counter to steady her by taking the crate's edge. 

“Thank you kindly, Mister Marston. This here’s got a smoked ham, a can of candied yams, a can of asparagus, a wrapped fruitcake, and a bottle of my momma’s mulled wine. She just made it this morning. A Christmas gift for everyone who made an order with us.”

“That’s mighty kind of her, Miss.” John slides the crate closer to himself on the counter. He digs one hand into his satchel for the envelope of money that Abigail had sent with him for the order. Placing it down on the counter, he gazes once over the crate and its contents, “Miss, do you possibly have a sack to put this all in? I only have my horse, ain’t brought my wagon.”

“Course, Mister. Let me wrap up the bottle in extra canvas.”

After the girl wraps all of the items carefully in canvas and finally in a large sack, she holds it out for John to take,  “Ham is already spiced and smoked, so just have your wife warm it up in the oven. Yams and asparagus just on the stovetop. Shouldn’t take more than an hour and you’ll have a nice spread.” She states cheerily as John shoulders the sack.

He snorts to himself as he nods a farewell, striding back to the door and the howling wind outside. Blessedly, this was one meal that Abigail would not be able to ruin. He loves that woman from here to hell and back, but Lord, cooking wasn’t one of her strong suits.

John braces himself against the cold as the door swings open, gritting his teeth against the blustery wind that rushes through the city street. Cursing to himself again, he quickly secures the bag to his horse’s rump, taking a moment to dig in his satchel for a peppermint candy that he feeds the Walker before unhitching him and climbing up.

It’s a cold, long ride back to Beecher’s Hope, and night has truly fallen by the time John can see the glow of lights from the main house. He leads the horse to the barn, opening the two large doors and bringing the Walker to one of the stalls where he had shoveled fresh hay into. John brings his hand down the horse’s mane affectionately as he unties the bag of items and pulls the saddle from the horse’s back. Once the Walker is settled, John shoulders the bag and heads back outside, walking quickly up to the house, pushing inside the door seeking warmth.

“Pa’s back!”  John hears his son shout from down the hall as he closes the door behind him. He shrugs some of the snow off his shoulder before kicking his boots off on the threshold. 

“Go on and help him then!” Abigail shouts from the kitchen.

“Sir -” Jack bounds into view and holds his arms out and John hands him the sack of goods, “Mind the bottle in there.”  The boy nods and carries the sack carefully toward the kitchen.  

John finishes kicking his boots off and shrugs his wet coat off as well, hanging it on a peg near the door. He treads forward, further into the house, where the main room is brightly lit with sconces, candles, and oil lanterns to fend off the darkness of the night. Abigail has hung pine boughs on the mantle, cut from the trees on the furthest north reach of the ranch, right as it borders Tall Trees. The scent of pine wafts through the house, and John has to stop and survey the room, so filled with life, even in the darkness of the season.

Abigail flutters around the house like a madwoman, taking the bag from Jack and immediately running back into the kitchen. She orders the men of the house around as if she is in the army - wash up, change your shirt, Uncle, I swear to god if you drank John’s good whiskey you will sleep in the barn tonight -

By the time that he, Jack, and Uncle return in some state of cleanliness, Abigail has warmed up the food and placed it out on serving plates on the table. John cannot help but to stare at the bounty of it all - he was so far removed from the starving kid stealing bread at Jack’s age. Even far removed from eating Pearson’s stew around a campfire.

“Sir?” Jack waits patiently, his hands on the chair in front of him.

“Go on now, sit down and let’s eat.” John waves his hand at the table as he pulls out his own chair, and the clank and clatter of forks and knives on plates as food is served fills the room.

“And look at this - the Christmas spirit has even gotten to a sour ol’ bastard like John Marston o’er here.” Uncle guffaws between swigs of whiskey straight from the bottle, obviously having had quite a few sips before dinner even started.

“Old man, I swear-” John points his fork menacingly at Uncle.

“It’s Christmas, John. Have a heart and don’t abuse the elderly, for once.” Uncle retorts, to which John rolls his eyes and opens his mouth to threaten the old man, as per usual.

Abigail glares from across the table and John swallows his insult, breathing out his nose as he spears a piece of candied yam.

Soft conversation continues through dinner, the teasing and retorts that usually take up the table are blessedly absent - for once. John glances up from his empty plate across the table to his wife, and the smile that she gives him makes the hardened gunslinger blush - blush - of all things.

She mouths a “thank you” as Uncle drones on about how his stories are better in every way than Jack’s books - his son interjecting about how Uncle is no literary luminary. Laughter floats through the house - flashes of the quiet, empty room when he had just built the house dance behind John’s eyes - he is so thankful those days are behind him.

The dessert is served and eaten, conversation remains light and cheerful. For tonight, at least, work at Beecher’s Hope is forgotten - the crush of debts or ‘success’ at ranching. 

“Alright now, Jack - go on and wash up and head to sleep. It's past your bedtime.” Abigail points one finger at her son as she finishes her glass of mulled wine and John can swear he sees a blush in her cheeks that he had not seen in years. After Jack grumbles for a moment and bids everyone good night,  Abigail clears the table and with a yawn, retires, walking behind John and kissing him on his brow on her way back to their bedroom.

John has a few more glasses of whiskey with Uncle before they retire, recalling glory days gone by. Uncle’s storytelling gets more and more ridiculous with each drink - One-Shot Kid my ass. Mumbling something about how his lumbago ails him, Uncle schleps over to the couch. For once, John does not scold him about getting up to his place in the attic. Perhaps it was this ‘Christmas spirit’ that Abigail had gone on about. Standing up from the table, John rights the mostly empty bottle of whiskey as he looks up at the clock on the wall, another contraption Abigail insisted on furnishing this house. It’s past midnight - technically Christmas at this point. He sighs, slowly strolling down the hall to his son’s room.

He checks on Jack, pushing his door open ever so slightly. The boy has fallen asleep with his oil lantern next to his desk still on, a book open across his chest. John frowns, stepping fully into the room and making his way over to the bed as quietly as he can. He gently, carefully extracts the book from Jack’s grasp, placing it down on the bedside table; open to the page that his son had been reading. 

John lingers, his finger on the switch to the lamp. The orange glow of light casts shadows through the room, and for a second, he swears the boy in the bed is a ragtag child, dirty and angry, saved from the gallows by wayward outlaws.

He shakes his head at the vision as he turns off the lantern, plunging the room into darkness. As his eyes adjust, he quietly makes his way back to the hall, pausing once again to look upon his son, silently swearing to himself that Jack will never have to live as he did at this age.

He yawns, rolling his shoulder as he walks back into the dining room, past the leftovers of the veritable feast they had for the Christmas meal, not bothering to clear it up until morning. Idly scratching his bicep, he winces slightly at the pull in the muscle - even after all these years, there are dull aches from the bullet wound he obtained in Roanoke. Brushing off the pain, he continues down the hallway, to his and Abigail’s bedroom. He quietly opens the door, expecting his wife to be fast asleep this late in the night.

He’s surprised when she isn’t, the fireplace blazing and sconces lighting the room.

Abigail lounges upon the bed like some expensive lady of the night, her long chemise lacy and near translucent in the night. Jesus, she’s as beautiful as she was at eighteen when he couldn’t have enough of her. 

“Thank you, John.” She whispers softly. He almost can’t hear her, so enraptured by the sight of her with her long hair unbound, laying out on that bed.

Abigail nicks her head upward with that sly grin that stole his heart. John raises his eyebrows in questioning as he follows her motioning - finding a bright green sprig of leaves hung over the bed frame, tied with a red length of yarn.

“C’mon over here, gunslinger.”

[herbs-and-poultices]

A few nights ago I had a random thought, and it accidentally spawned a ficlet. Oops?

Fandom: RE2-ish? (I only know these characters and their stories from the h/c fanfiction and a cursory glance through the fanwiki, but they keep sticking in my brain)

Efforts towards accuracy of any kind (canonical, medical, realistic, etc) were minimal

A little hospital bedside vigil. Very soft, mostly comfort, because that's what I've been needing lately.

CW: child pov

“Alright,” Claire murmurs, voice muted to match the efficient quiet of the post-surgical ward. “I'll be there in twenty.” She closes the phone with a click, then looks down at Sherry. 

“Its about my brother. I have to go for a few hours. But you can stay here, if you'd like.” As she speaks she leads Sherry through the door and into the hospital room. Sherry unconsciously sticks to the mahogany-haired college student at the same distance of two plastic chair armrests that over the past hours has come to feel natural - or as natural as anything has lately - as they step around the bed towards the chairs beside the curtained window.

Side by side, Claire wraps an arm over her shoulder and gives a gentle squeeze. Sherry looks up into her warm, sad smile. “You could come with me if you’d rather, but I'm afraid you'd mostly be sitting alone in the office reception. There's a vending machine and a coffee machine and a couple decade-old magazines, but not much else.” Sherry leans in a little bit closer. Of all the things she could want right now, what she least wants is to be alone. Alone with the lumbering hordes of zombies, ghastly imitations of the men and women they had once been; alone with the masses of misshapen flesh that mutated before her eyes into grotesque monsters beyond her wildest nightmares; alone with the terrible shrieks and snarls, the rasps and moans, the sickening squish and menacing shuffle of footsteps that haunted their every movement through the shell of the city she once called home. “The doctor said Leon should be waking up in an hour or so. I'm sure he would appreciate having some company.” 

Leon, Claire calls him familiarly. Leon S. Kennedy, RPD, at your service, he introduced himself to her when they first met; his voice and half-smile were wry, but the nod he gave her was solemn as an oath. All the grown-ups Sherry knows, aside from Mommy and Daddy, are “Doctor”s or “Professor”s or “Mister”s or “Misses”s. She’s probably heard some of their first names in passing, overhearing her parents chatting casually with their colleagues or teachers greeting one another in the halls, but in her mind first names are only for kids, playmates. Even college students like Claire are pushing it. Adults have important grown-up titles for their important grown-up business. So to her, he is Officer Kennedy.

Outside the partly closed door, there is a soft click-clack as a nurse rolls a cart past, followed by a knock and a cheery greeting at a door across the hall. A bird chirps in the tree outside the window. She swallows and bobs her head in a nod. Not really alone, here.

“Good.” Claire pats her shoulder, then releases their partial embrace to back her into one of the thinly-padded chairs. “I'll be back before the end of visiting hours.” On her way she pauses at the bedside, tucking the thin blanket up a little higher and smoothing it out, leaning in to murmur something inaudible; then with a whisper of air from the doorway she is gone.

The flat faux-leather cushioning would be an improvement on the bare hard plastic of the waiting room furniture, if everything didn't feel cold and menacing. The clean sweatshirt Claire found for Sherry is soft and pleasantly dry against her skin; any other contact, other than the hands of her new friends, still feels as though it could dissolve into a hunk of gelatinous writhing flesh or sprout razor-sharp fangs or explode in a spray of gore under her touch. Curling away from the chair back, she pulls her feet up onto the seat and wraps her arms over her knees, resting her cheek in the crook of her elbow. 

Her view is a narrow window between her forearms and blonde bangs. Blurred reflections of blue and teal and lilac slide under the door, keeping time with brisk steps. Now and again another cart goes by with a whirr. Nurses. Doctors. Regular people. Sherry tilts her head to glance around the little room, stopping at the monitor by the bed. On the black screen, colorful lines trace out neat rows of mountains and valleys, up, down, up and down. She doesn't understand the numbers that blink beside them, but the steady dance of the lines is soothing.

After a time, it could have been minutes or it could have been an hour, her eyes start to roam again, tracing the loops in cords and wires coiled behind the screen. Most of them end in empty plugs dangling in the air. A few seem to lead into the wall out of sight. The last one she traces down, down, eventually running alongside a clear plastic tube from another nearby machine with some bags of liquid, over the heap of blankets, and finds herself for the first time properly taking in the figure on the bed.

The cord from the monitor ends in a sensor taped to one finger of his right hand where it lies open at the edge of the mattress; the clear plastic line disappears under the back of his hand. Officer Kennedy is laid on his right side to keep pressure off his injury, one knee bent, right arm stretched out at an angle, face tipped slightly towards his chest as he has unconsciously curled in on himself. His left arm is immobilized at a right angle in a sling strapped over his good shoulder and around his back. The black padded fabric is stark against the cream-colored blanket, the robin-egg blue of the hospital gown, the washed-out tones of his skin. The white edge of a surgical dressing is visible where the strap tugs at the neckline of his gown.

A head taller than Claire, at his full height he towered above Sherry; his squared shoulders and firmly-planted feet stood between her and so many blood-crazed hollow-eyed zombies and horribly mutated monsters, wicked claws and gnashing teeth and slashing knives that would have torn her in two. He was a grown-up, the only one in their little band of survivors, a person who knew things and did things, full of decisiveness and the weight of responsibility. And with the heavy tac vest and duty belt that added bulk to his frame, the gun that fit so naturally in his hands, and his once-sharp uniform emblazoned with the insignia of the Raccoon City Police Department, he was more than that. He was the arm of the law, he was Order and Protection personified. She never felt so small before as she did during those terrible days, and Officer Kennedy was larger than life.

Now, though, his face is nearly level with hers, his medium height not so imposing lying down. In the thin hospital gown and light blanket, without his tac vest and holster and belt, his frame is strong but lean, not quite so unshakably solid as a brick wall the way she remembers it from just early this morning. With his sharp eyes closed and his features relaxed in rest, there could almost be traces of teenage boyishness in the curve of his jaw, the cant of his head, the mop of tousled hair falling across his face. A handful of years back, and she might have imagined him at the local highschool, next to the middle school she attended, shooting hoops on the shared multi-purpose courts during his free periods, waiting on the curb for the 5 o'clock bus with a heavy backpack slung over his shoulder by one precarious strap. And she wonders, for a strange moment, if he might have felt… scared.

A flicker of movement catches her eye, and the outlandish thoughts are gone like a leaf on the breeze: a twitch of eyebrows, followed by a few slow flutters of eyelashes. She waits, nearly holding her breath. For several minutes all is still again, and she wonders if she imagined it. But then his brow wrinkles again and he opens his eyes halfway. His gaze is cloudy and unfocused at first, slits of gray-blue flicking about the room - to the window, over the bed, in the general direction of the door out of sight diagonally behind him, then around again, and yet again more deliberately as though it requires effort to take it all in.

Finally his eyes come to rest on her, fully open now, gaze sharpening into focus.

“O- Officer Kennedy.” Her breath comes out in a rush.

Leon, he mouths a correction. 

She can't bring herself to say anything more around the hard lump growing in her throat. 

He curls the fingers of his outstretched right hand, inviting. His lips move again, this time accompanied by broken fragments of a whisper, rough and painful-sounding but kindly. “C’mere, Sherry.” She stands and crossed the few steps to the bed, shaky on half-asleep legs. Atop the blanket, she tucks herself cautiously into the space between his arm and bent knee, wrapping her arms back around her folded legs. A grunt escapes his throat when her sweatshirt catches momentarily on the velcro of the sling immobilizing his left arm, but when her gaze snaps to his face the wide-eyed look he shoots her is so horrified and apologetic, like he startled a sleeping fawn, that she freezes where she had started pulling back and forces a shaky smile instead of the apology brimming on her lips. His expression relaxes, bit by bit, as she settles herself onto the mattress. She tips her head into her knees and closes her eyes, feeling the subtle warmth from his body inches from her own wrap around her like a shield.

Officer Kennedy's hand traces along her back to rub small soothing circles over her shoulder blade. His chin comes to rest on the top of her head, breaths stirring her hair in even, regular huffs. Tension drips out of her muscles, and a soft sigh worms its way out of her lungs. Her cheek sink to the mattress, and she slowly, carefully, lets herself relax into his chest. If she holds her breath, she can hear the steady beating of his heart.

He hums softly, and the vibrations brush her skin where she leans against him. “You're safe now, kid.”

Safe.

[kellykidd]

Baby Severide - Chapter 7: Change of Plans

*Gif belongs to its rightful owner, it is not mine*

Pairing: Kelly Severide x reader

Summary: After only a few days home as new parents, an unexpected timeline adjustment is made

Words: 1641

Warnings: mentions of scars, parental tension

Read on Ao3 here

Notes: This is the second last chapter of Baby Severide! Also, we’re super close to 250 here on tumblr, so if you enjoy my work, consider leaving a reblog or follow! As always, a reblog of any chapter earns a tag in chapter posted after that! Enjoy!

Join my taglist here

Tags: @district447 @mrspeacem1nusone @tringeorge @storiesofsvu @cfdhouse51 @skullcupcakes @whatismypurpos @carnationworld @youraveragedorkysimp @treehouse-mouse @witchywinchester99 @keabbs @marvelcharactersxreader @pensfan5871

——

9:37AM. It was Thursday morning, only a few days after Alexis was born. You rolled over in the king size bed to find Kelly wasn’t beside you. Looking beside you, you could see Alexis wasn’t in her bassinet either.

Still sore from surgery, you slowly put your slippers on and went to the living room to find the rest of your family. Kelly was laying on the couch, shirtless, with Alexis on his chest and a blanket covering them while watching SportsCenter. Reaching down, you rubbed his shoulder to get his attention.

“How long you been here?” You asked, sitting beside him on the couch.

“Less than an hour I think. I didn’t want to wake you, I know you’re exhausted, so I fed her a bottle and we’ve been watching highlights of the Blackhawks game,” he replied with a smile.

“Your mom texted me last night.”

“Oh yeah? What did she say?”

“Said you texted her about the baby. She wants to visit when we’re ready. She can come today if that works for you.”

He nodded.

“Can you grab my phone?” He asked, “the new lieutenant officially starts today and Cruz was gonna text me about who they got.”

You wandered back into the bedroom and found his phone still charging on his nightstand. Looking at the notifications on his screen, there was a text from Boden.

Fixing your eyes on the screen of his phone, Boden had texted “call me.”

“No text from Cruz, just Boden,” you announced.

“What’d he say?” 

“Call me.”

“That can’t be good.”

“Probably not. Want me to take Alexis so you can call him?”

Kelly pulled back the blanket and began to laugh. Once you saw what he had done, you started to laugh too.

“You wrapped the baby?” You chuckled, looking at the Moby Wrap you received from your baby shower wrapped around him and Alexis.

“Hands free,” he laughed.

“Coffee?”

“Sure.”

As you wandered to the kitchen, you saw Kelly mute the tv and call Boden, all while Alexis was sleeping on his chest.

A few moments later, you came back to the couch with two coffees in hand. Alexis had started to fuss as Kelly hung up the phone.

“What did Boden want?” You asked, handing him one of the fresh coffees from your hands.

“New lieutenant didn’t show up for work today,” he replied.

“Who did they get in for you?” 

“Connor Maxwell, used to be an engine lieutenant before he got his squad certs.”

“Do they know what happened?” 

“Boden says the guy overslept, but he doesn’t buy it. They’re gonna let him stay for the shift and cut him loose if it doesn’t go well.”

As Kelly told you about this squad lieutenant, he got a look of desperation in his eyes.

“What’s wrong?” You asked.

“I’m a little worried about my men.”

“Why, baby?”

“I’ve never been taken a furlough this long in a very long time.”

“Are you scared they’re gonna like this new lieutenant more than you?” You laughed, rubbing his shoulder.

“I just don’t want my company to go to hell while I’m gone,” he chuckled, kissing your forehead.

“How much time did you take off? 

“I told Boden 8 weeks.”

“Is there a way you can go back early?”

“I guess I could, but I want to be here for you and our baby.”

Alexis began to fuss, still wrapped with her dad.

“I’ll take her, babe. She’s probably hungry.”

Kelly unwrapped Alexis and handed her to you. You raised your shirt, exposing yourself in order to feed your baby.

“I’m sure we’ll be fine here, if you want to go back early, Kelly,” you told him.

“I don’t want you to feel overwhelmed or like I want to work more than be home with our brand new baby.”

“I’ve got 8 months of leave. You would’ve had to leave me home with Alexis by myself when you’re on shift regardless.”

“I know, I know, I just hoped she’d be a little older first.”

“It’s like 3 days a week max, I’m sure we’ll be okay if you want to go back early,” you smiled, adjusting your head’s position to leaning on his shoulder, “I know you love your job and I know you love us, but we’ll be okay if this is what you want.”

“Are you sure?” He asked, wrapping his arm around you.

“Kelly, would I ever lie to you?”

“I guess I have my answer then.”

“You should call Boden and tell him there’s been a change of plans,” you gestured to his phone on the side table.

He grabbed his phone and you finished feeding Alexis. Kelly put his phone on speaker phone as you burped Alexis.

“Kelly, how’s the father life treating you?” Boden asked him as he picked up. You could hear his smile through the phone.

“Ah, Chief it couldn’t be better,” Kelly grinned, “do you have a minute?”

“Sure, what’s on your mind?” 

“I was thinking about coming back to work a little earlier than what I originally planned.”

“When were you thinking?”

“Next shift, if you’ll let me.”

“Can’t stay away too long, huh?”

“What can I say? It’s in my blood,” Kelly chuckled.

“Actually though Kelly, is your wife okay with this? You sure you don’t want to take some time with your baby?”

“We’ve talked it over, it was kinda her idea actually.”

“I know he’s missing it, I’ll be okay if he goes back,” you piped up.

“Well, I still haven’t filled your spot for next shift. You’re welcome to it if you want it.”

“Thanks, Chief. I’ll be there.”

Kelly hung up the phone and turned to look at you.

“You’re really sure?” He asked, leaning in to give you a kiss.

“Yes, Kelly, I’ll be fine. Maybe I’ll even bring her over to the firehouse when you’re on shift,” you replied, “you don’t have to be worried.” 

“I love you, thank you for being everything I wanted in life.”

You leaned over and hugged him with one arm, Alexis dozing in the other.

“Can you take her so I can have a quick shower? I still feel like hospital.”

“Of course baby, do what you need.”

You handed over Alexis to her father and just the sight of the two of them together melted your heart.

“Oh babe, question for you,” Kelly asked as you were headed to grab your house coat, “do we have more bottles? Or should I clean a couple for later?”

“Uh,” you were wracking your brain, trying to figure out where your nesting brain put them, “I think they’re in the drawer by the fridge, but honestly I don’t remember.”

Changing out of your clothes and into your bathrobe, you couldn’t help but notice the horizontal scar on your stomach. It was still a little painful when your hand brushed it, but the pain didn’t matter because you had your baby. The perfect baby, with the perfect husband. You didn’t need anything else.

Turning on the water and getting in the shower, Kelly knocked on the bathroom door.

“I hate to interrupt you,” he chuckled, “but there’s someone here who you’re going to want to see.”

“Can it wait until after my shower? I’ll be quick, I promise. Ask if they can wait?” You asked, shampoo already lathered in your hair.

“Yeah, we’ll be out here.”

Kelly closed the door behind him and the thought of who could be here for you raced through your mind as you quickly finished your shower. After finishing up and drying off, you threw your hair up in a messy bun and put on your sweats to go see your visitor.

“Babe, I made some breakfast for the four of us,” Kelly told you, setting the table.

“Who’s here? And where’s Alexis?” You asked.

“Hi, sweetie,” a familiar voice beamed.

“Mom, what are you doing here?” You asked.

“I came to apologize,” she said, “I’m so sorry for what I said.”

Without saying a word, you walked over to your mom and gave her the tightest hug of your life. A couple tears filled your eyes.

“You want to meet your granddaughter?” You asked, motioning to Kelly to remove Alexis from the wrap.

“Yeah, I’d love you,” she smiled.

Handing over your daughter to your own mother was such a special experience for both of you.

“Kelly can you take a picture?” You asked.

“Oh, honey, I just got off a plane, I look awful.”

“Mom, you look great. I want to remember this.”

Kelly grabbed his phone from the counter and took a picture of the three of you together.

“I also came for another reason,” she admitted, sitting down at the table, “Kelly and I were talking while you were finishing your shower. He told me he’s going back to work earlier than expected. I already called back home and I’ve made arrangements to stay with you for a week or two.”

“Mom, you didn’t have to do that.”

“Yes I did, my daughter had my first granddaughter. I need to be here with you.”

“I’ll be fine on my own while Kelly is on shift, you don’t need to help me.”

“Well, then I’ll explore Chicago. I’ve never had the chance to do some sightseeing here.”

You nodded and brought Alexis’ motorized baby swing closer to the table. 

“Set her in the swing while we eat, you can hold her after,” you offered.

Your mom set Alexis in the swing and it bangan to slowly swing side to side.

“So Kelly, when are you back to work?” your mom asked.

“Tomorrow morning,” he said, grabbing some more bacon from the counter.

“That’s quick,” she replied.

“Yeah, only missed two shifts, but I know my girls will be okay for 24 hours without me.”

[annasinterests]

don't look at me like that unless you mean it

seasons don’t fear the reaper ♫ nor do the wind, the sun, or the rain

|| series masterlist || main masterlist ||

a/n: hello hello hello!!!! i am crawling back from the trenches to update for this series!!! i've gotten a few comments here and there of people telling me how much they've enjoyed it so far which has made my heart grow 3x bigger. thank you to everyone who has been so patient with me and still following along <3 y'all mean the world to me!!!! enjoy buddies <3

word count: 1.3k (for good reason i promise)

pairings: joel miller x f!reader

warnings & tags: minors dni, abby's group pov, direct consequence of the last chapter, swearing, lots of tension!, depictions of violence, whatever you know of TLOU part II- throw it out the window from here forward — please tell me if i missed anything!

The gas station stood under the muted glow of the moon, its once-red sign now an overgrown relic, its letters lacking the shiny luster they had decades ago. The windows were boarded up with rotten wood, and the interior had been stripped down to its very foundation. It was the best refuge offered in the miles they trekked– the only, really.

Abby stormed across the linoleum floors, the rubber soles of her boots striking with an angry cadence, one maintained from the moments they stopped running. She carelessly slung her pack off her shoulders, letting it land haphazardly on the side, and drove her knife into the countertop. Planting her hands to steady herself, she murmured curses under her breath, a volatile symphony of emotions reverberating in the stale air.

The others trailed behind her, one attempting to make themselves inconspicuous by being the last– a futile effort given the charged atmosphere.

"Couldn't think of a name that didn't start with the same letter as your own?" Abby's voice cut through the silence, her anger evident even without turning to face her target.

Mel avoided looking at her hunched figure. The tension between them had been going on for months, and this was certainly the breaking point. Abby had been set on one mission for years, and all it took was five minutes for Mel to screw up. Your escape forced them fleeing farther than Abby preferred, dismantling their camp in haste and running until they felt some semblance of safety over the border into Idaho.

Embarrassment colored Mel's face as she weakly rationalized her guilt, "I told you it wasn't a good idea to begin with."

Abby scoffed and rolled her eyes, a sardonic smile curling on her lips, "What you should've told me was that you're totally fucking incapable. Would've been crystal clear, then."

Mel swallowed hard, feeling Abby's rage descend upon her like a palpable force. Glancing at the others, most avoiding eye contact due to their own discomfort, Mel crossed her arms and tried to find the courage to defend herself once more.

"I did my best."

"Well your best wasn't good enough," Abby retorted without missing a beat, finally turning to face Mel. The moonlight streamed through the cracks of the boards just enough to illuminate the intensity of her glare and furrowed brows.

It was clear that Nora and Manny's sentiments aligned with Abby's, yet they chose silence over confrontation. Jordan and Nick, perpetually indifferent, remained on the fringe, more interested in the thrill of hunting and hurting enemies rather than the unfolding of drama within their group.

"Listen, what's done is done, alright?" Owen placed his hand on Nora's back, an action that sent a pang of jealousy through Abby's stomach. She eyed them both with disgust and forced herself to swallow down the brewing nausea. "Now, our best bet is to head back to Seattle. We can regroup–"

"Se- What?" Abby's eyes widened at the suggestion. "No– We're not-"

"We don't have a choice," he cut her off and took a step towards her, concern evident on his features.

"The hell we don't!" Her voice thundered. "We're not going back!"

"You're being reckless!" Owen snapped back with an accusatory finger, "We can't afford-"

"Four years!" Abby seethed, her frustration pouring out, "Four fucking years, gone to shit because of her!"

Owen's jaw clenched, tired of the constant hostility towards Mel. "You're looking at a whole town to go after us, you know that, right?"

She pressed her lips into a thin line.

"What then, Abby? You wanna start a war with these people, is that it?" His voice raised with each word. "We can barely keep up with the Scars!"

The weight of the past bore down on Abby, her blind rage and need for retribution chaotically clashing with the pragmatic choice he presented, one that resonated with the others as they too recognized the impracticality of her rage.

Her clenched fists trembled at her sides, torn between her relentless pursuit of revenge and going about it all sensibly. She would've almost agreed with him– almost– if it hadn't been for the small voice that came from behind him.

"He's right."

The room plunged into a deafening silence, the air undeniably thick with tension now more than ever. Mel's figure was almost entirely shielded by Owen at this point, her provocation igniting an instant outrage.

Abby's features darkened and she ripped her knife from the counter, raising it as she stormed towards Mel. How dare she? It was bad enough that she embodied a constant reminder of everything Abby and Owen could've been, but now she had the audacity to defy Abby despite being the one responsible for this entire mess?

Owen caught her arm and she lunged against his hold with a powerful shout, "Fuck you!"

He pushed Abby back just enough to create distance, opening his mouth to speak but only being met with a forceful shove and resounding slap. "And fuck you, too!"

Abby's chest heaved as she backed up and glared between the two; one a former friend, the other a former lover– both nothing more than traitors to her now. She scoffed and shook her head, swiftly turning on her heel to retreat through a backroom and subsequent door outside. Manny exchanged a quick look with Nora before slowly trailing after her, while Owen watched her storm out with an apathetic expression and a loose arm wrapped around Mel in a half-assed attempt of consoling her.

Outside, Abby leaned against the cool brick of the building, her skin radiating a heat that would surely be more welcomed in the winter versus now. The bitter taste of frustration lingered in her mouth and it seemed like nothing could soothe the tumult within, not even the loud buzzing and ticking of insects around could snap her out of it.

She slid down the wall until she hit the ground with a soft thud and rubbed her hands over her face. She felt so much all at once– anger, grief, sorrow, resentment. This was all she could think about, all that she worked so hard for, only for it to be ruined. She couldn't fathom being forced to take ten steps back when she was so close to ending this nightmare.

Quietly, Manny joined her side. Her leveled counterpart, the one that could ground her when she was too close from flying off the handles. At one point in time, Owen had been that for her, but it ended long ago– back when he still believed in this mission, when he still believed in them.

Manny understood Abby's turmoil well– hell, he harbored the same resentment. He figured him to be another asshole left in this world to begin with, but the belief was solidified once he broke Abby's heart.

However, he also recognized the necessity of unity.

"Abs..." His tone was soft, "you know I've got your back, right?"

She shifted slightly, nodding and meeting his eyes. "And you know I hate Owen just as much as you do... fuckin’ idiot seems to forget these two are the reason we winded up here, but–”

Abby gave him a pointed look, to which he defensively held a hand up, "Maybe we should go back to Seattle."

All Abby could muster was a half-hearted scoff before Manny spoke again, "I know it's not what you want– but now they know, and now they'll be expecting… Think of it as a chance to make no mistakes next time."

She looked back down between her knees, reluctantly acknowledging the wisdom in his words with a nod. She sighed, her shoulders easing a bit of tension, "We were so close, Manny."

"I know, Abs," he placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, his voice carrying the weight of shared disappointment. With a gentle jostle, he infused a touch of optimism reserved for moments like this, "But listen... Just when they think we're gone, we'll be right under their noses, yeah?"

The thought was enough to make her crack a smile.

[blackjackkent]

Karlach - "That's a very stupid idea."

Jaheira - "I don't feel so good."

Wyll - "Why did you do that?"

With or without their usual pairings, as you choose. Pair them up with whoever you feel like :)

(Five-Word Sentences prompts)

Jaheira - "I don't feel so good."

Slowly getting caught up on all my inbox stuff. :D TY as always. I will pick the Jaheira one again, but we're gonna mix things up a bit. >:)

-----

"Mmph." Jaheira squirms slightly. Her head and eyelids feel heavy and for a long, numb moment, she does not know exactly where she is. There's a hard stone floor beneath her, pressing against the back of her head. The distant sound of voices. Someone kneeling next to her head, a hand on her shoulder.

"Kh...Khalid?" she mumbles. Her tongue feels thick in her mouth; his name comes slowly to her lips. But she can feel him nearby, the immensely comforting presence. And she fills with dizzy joy, because it has been so long, although she cannot quite remember why. "My love..."

"No, Jaheira." The voice is jarring, dissonant -- too deep, too sharp, a harsh roll on the 'r' of her name. "Wake up."

The fog fades, washed aside by a rolling wave of painful reality. Her eyes snap open and she moans as she begins to register the shattered state of her body. Nearly every inch of her skin is burned, and to judge by the sharper knifeblade of pain stabbing through the staticky haze of baseline agony, her left leg is broken.

Minsc is crouched over her, his eyes unusually wide with deep alarm - but he relaxes slightly as he sees her eyes open. "Ah, good," he says; it's an attempt at his usual blithe cheer but it falls somewhat flat. A muscle twitches with strain in his temple. "Minsc tried his best with the scroll, but the wizards use such terribly long words..." He swallows, squares his shoulders. "But you live. So all is well.”

A spent scroll of revivification falls from his fingertips as he returns his hands to the hilt of his greatsword. Jaheira stares at the paper, hypnotized by its slow and unsteady flutter onto the stone. Her brain shies away from the implications of its muted gold letters with the magic all drained out of them.

“What happened?” she asks weakly. 

“Raphael,” Minsc says, with an unusual note of venom. He stands up, taking a guard position over her fallen body, his eyes flicking rapidly around the room. She follows his gaze, slowly registering the high marble walls, the shattered soul columns and cracked tiles. “Cursed be his name forever. Minsc would like to spend another scroll and draw him back from death, that Minsc might kill him again for what he has done to Jaheira.” 

“He is dead, then?” Jaheira whispers. Memory trickles in, bit by bit. She remembers it now - the devil’s explosive transformation and the hellfire that surrounded it, licking out, blasting her backwards, surrounding her, consuming her…

Minsc makes an affirmative grunt. “Minsc saw the blood pour from his chest,” he mutters. “Karlach struck the final blow, but Minsc’s heart was in it too…” 

“Good,” she says vaguely. Her head lolls to the side, her eyes drifting half-closed again. “I do not feel… so good…” she mumbles. Oblivion beckons again at the corners of her thoughts; it would be so easy to slip back under, away from the pain. She can still feel Khalid so near her, as if she could turn her head just a little further and see him watching her with his quiet smile and bright gaze…

“Jaheira!”

“What?” she mumbles irritably, squeezing her eyes fully shut against the grating rumble of Minsc’s voice. “Be damned to you, ranger… it hurts…”

“Do not go to sleep,” he says sharply. “The others have gone to speak to Hope. When they return, we will bring you back to camp, so that Shadowheart may tend to your wounds. Then you may rest, and not before.”

“Do not give me orders, Minsc. I will sleep if I… if I please…” Her voice is slurred with pain.

“Minsc will set Boo upon you to hold your eyelids open, should it be needed.” There’s the faintest touch of humor in Minsc’s voice, though it is still underlaid with strained worry.

Jaheira laughs just a little, in spite of herself, and the motion sends a bolt of pain through her whole body; the sound morphs rapidly into a groan. “Nngh… howling hells…” she says with a pained grimace, forcing her eyes open again obediently. “All right. All right, I am… awake…”

As it should be. There is too much yet to do. Always too much yet to do…

“Are you hurt, Minsc?” she asks.

“It matters not,” he answers quietly.

“Minsc--”

“It matters not,” he snaps, and the ferocity of the words startles her. “Minsc will rest when you are safe. His aches are greatest at the heart, where no healer can reach.” A pause. “You are no wychlaran, you have told me so. Minsc knows this; he has listened well, Jaheira. But wychlaran or not, the pain was still the same to watch you fall.”

A long, long pause. “Minsc has watched too many fall…” he adds in an undertone, almost too low to hear.

She frowns. For once, she does not have the heart to try to push his loyalty away. There is something comforting, after all, in the guard-dog posture he holds, standing over her with his sword in both hands. Boo sits on his shoulder, watching the door of the room intently.

Her oldest friend… She feels a sudden bleak gratitude towards those nameless ambushers who turned Minsc to stone all those years ago. In their attack, they gave her a gift, that his friendship is not lost to her in these dark hours, as so many others have been.

“Thank you, Minsc,” she says quietly. “Do not fear. You have done well. And I will stay awake…”

He relaxes visibly, his habitual smile already tugging at his features, indomitable again with this reassurance. “Good. That is good to hear.”

[blacken-basks]

Black Mirror

[This is in the moments after the spicy office audios, the aftercare and morning after so to speak with my Rook, Melissa Jean. TW for depression, anxiety, general harmful thoughts/poor self esteem.]

Rook has voices in her head, and they're finally getting on the microphone.

Melissa Jean had no idea how tired she was until Auron was nudging her and calling her name. At some point during their tryst-- and to her absolute embarrassment-- she must have fallen asleep.

Talk about a wonderful first time. Though no offense was taken, once the thoughts got into her head, they were there to stay. But here they were, cuddling on his couch in the office, looking out towards the city. She can feel Auron caressing her thigh as they sit in silence.

That was-We just had sex. Straight up sex. Ok. Be cool, act normal. You've been here before. What do you mean? You never let anyone get this close, let alone flirt with you in years. The cobwebs in your pipes have cobwebs. And you fell asleep on the pipe cleaner. You couldn’t be any more embarrassing, could you?

"I should get going, it's getting pretty late."

"Tired of me already, Rookie?" Auron looks smug, but if Melissa Jean focused on his eyes, there is a flicker of something there, wanting to pull her in further. Like he doesn't want to say goodnight. She doesn't either, but her house is calling. And he doesn't need to see what she's like off the clock.

"Sure am!" Melissa says, doing a full eye-roll. "I already gotta look at you when we're on the clock!" As she moves to get up, he doesn't.

"You certainly were not tired of me ten minutes ago." Nothing to say of the yawning she was doing back at her desk while sitting on his very prominent and clothed erection.

"Of course not! But I am tired. I can call you on the drive home so you know I made it safely. How about that?" Auron hummed, getting up to stretch, the motion making his shoulder crack. If Melissa were her coquettish, fun-loving self, she would tease him. When they reached the door to his office, she leaned up to kiss his cheek, then promptly wondered why the fuck she did that? They fucked, it wasn't him dropping her off after a nice dinner like a few weeks prior. Once she got on the elevator and it made its descent, Auron touched his cheek.

Something in that cold, dead heart of his was fluttering. Is this what romance feels like? Why was she being so sweet on him? Why did he want her to do it again? Making sure he looked presentable before heading downstairs, Auron called.

The ride and the call were uneventful, mostly silent as Auron packed his own things, giving a nod to security on the way out. Melissa Jean, for her part, kept the conversation active and talked about things she planned to cook for the holidays, and trying her hand at a new cocktail recipe she wanted to try. As she got in her house, Auron had since made it to his place, nursing a nightcap while he made his way to his office.

"Alright, Auron. I finally made it in."

"That's a relief. Are they ever going to fix that gate?"

"Mmm, probably not. It'll just get broken again." Auron chuckled, swirling the whiskey in his glass and thinking of Melissa Jean's eye color- a rich, golden brown, highlighted with flicks of muted green. "I'll see you at the end of the year!"

"...Really, Rook?"

"Whaaaaat? What did I say?"

"I'm not dignifying that with a response. ...Merry Christmas, Melissa Jean."

"Ah- M-Merry Christmas, Auron. See you next week." She wants to stay on the phone, but she was starting to feel a chill under her skin. After she hung up, she let the quiet of the apartment settle in.

Bad idea. The Urge was starting to creep in.

Go get comfortable. Take a shower, stinky.

As she started to take off the ruins of her makeup, Melissa Jean noticed her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Glossy smudges littered the lower part of her face. She can still smell the lingering notes of his cologne on her hands. The memory of his whispered words of praise make her bite her lip. It felt too good to have his mouth on her skin. It felt too good to hear him praise her. So that’s what having a praise kink is like.

How long will it take before he wises up and finds better? You’re an impostor-- a fake. Melissa Jean does her best to fight down the urge to say that she isn’t all those nice things he says about her- because as much as she feels they aren’t true, people believe it.

That’s a problem in and of itself, isn’t it? She’s not as sweet as people think she is- she’s snarky, neurotic, monotone, and sometimes it takes her a moment to register when people don’t actually say what they mean. And if she gets genuinely angry? Oh, they will never forget it, and it ends up defining her despite everything. The second she feels she failed a social interaction, it haunts her, or causes a full-blown panic attack. And she can’t hide that she’s intelligent even if she wanted to. But these are all things he likes. It’s fine. It has to be. It’s not like most of it is an act, at least she tries not to let it be.

The mask will slip.

Then they'll see how ugly you really are. She looks at her stomach. Despite all her best efforts, she still had a muffin top. The blooming lovebites were starting to make her feel shame instead of pride. Was he tricking her into thinking he really thought she was sexy?

There’s no way she’s sexy. Not genuinely. Cute? Sure. Pretty? With the right hair and makeup. But sexy? No. Impossible.

Her thighs were ridiculously sore. Whoever told her taking dick was the easiest thing you could do fucking lied. Her legs were far from relaxed, and her mind was racing a mile a minute.

As she showered, she had half a mind to call him again, just to talk and quiet the vicious witch in her head. If it came down to it, she’d even settle for texting him.

God, can you be any more clingy? Leave him alone! It’s late.

Feeling worse, Meli Jean climbed into bed, hoping the amber scent of his cologne would be enough for tonight. As she laid there under the vicious cacophony of her worst selves, the warmth of knowing she was genuinely wanted at all lulled her to sleep.

Meanwhile…

Auron’s head was swimming from a high better than the most quality drug he had out in the streets. Tonight was amazing. There were a few hiccups, but otherwise, one of the best nights he had in a while. So many discoveries, and Auron had half a mind to rub himself through his pants again. Maybe he should call to see if Meli Jean was willing to talk him into an orgasm. From the moment he laid eyes on her, he knew he had to have a taste. And his past self would have been satisfied to know how delightful she tastes.

Crazy how one person simply coming to work for him was enough to make him act different.

Fuck, that ass was amazing. The moment she sat in his lap, he felt himself twitch at the softness. He could have came right then and there at the realization she was hiding a lot under the long skirts she wore to work every day. So much softness in his hands, so much to squeeze and imagine in his mind’s eye. Her eye for fashion was admirable. How could she hide so much with such a limited dress code?

His second phone buzzed. That vibration style was reserved for Derek, and yet Auron couldn’t find it in himself to even be annoyed remembering he existed. It was just a text, thankfully, which means he won’t have to imagine smelling his rank cologne through the phone the moment he heard the greaser talk. Speaking of cologne, he caught a whiff of vanilla as he tied his hair back. A cursory glance at his palm and he noticed a distinct shininess. And it smelled vaguely of vanilla. Oh.

Oh. That minx. She remembered him complimenting her taste in perfumes at the Christmas party. MJ wore a vanilla and cinnamon combination that had him taking every moment he could to stay near her ears and neck as they waltzed around his office. And she smelled just as good tonight as she did then.

He would have to get rid of Derek soon, but for now, Auron could pretend that he wasn’t a drug kingpin. He could pretend that he was just a normal CEO doing normal CEO things. Normal CEO things include having illicit trysts with employees, right? That’s a thing they do? Even if it wasn’t, he was not letting this one go without a fight, not without good reason. As he pulled up to his desk, he began to write whatever came to mind as a warmup. The muse returns, her perfume setting the stage for him to finalize this last major plot point.

The vampire had finally seduced his target, he was going to savor every drop of blood they were willing to give him. With the memory of their lustful escapades at the forefront of his mind, the penthouse heard nothing but the sound of his fingers on the keyboard for the next two hours.

[sighonaraa]

Hit me with more about the sun is only a God if you learn to starve!

for the wip fic ask game!

ABSOLUTELY MY LOVE!!! this is also colloquially known as the Jamie Gets Hugged Six Ways To Sunday fic, and i adore it so deeply. i'm currently working on chapter 2 so! i hope! it'll be out! soon!!!

here's a little jamie and isaac from much further down the road, because i love them so dearly and they make me insane and i need isaac to also Give and Get hugs because he deserves them and SO DOES JAMIE!!! i put some of it below the cut simply bc it got a bit long jsldfjaklj

“Oi,” Isaac ventures, scooting down the bench a bit until he’s close enough that he can speak softly, afraid of spooking the lad. His fingers curl around the metal, the cold shock of it enough to ground him. “Oi, Jamie. What’s going on?” Jamie shakes his head mutely. He’s rocking back and forth slowly, in small, minute movements. His knuckles are white to the bone. He’d been vibrant out on the pitch earlier, almost dizzying with it, his legs a blur and his face alight with a ferocious determination, but now he’s turned in on himself so that Isaac can glimpse only the tender, soft belly. He’d vanished during cool-down, and Isaac had wandered through the facility on purpose after everybody else had gone home, hoping that Jamie’d stuck around only to find him collapsed here on the floor, shaking like he was about to break apart. The shaking hasn’t gotten any better; it rattles the bones of him, the very skeleton. Isaac aches to watch. “M’fine,” Jamie finally mumbles, into the peaks of his knees. “Y’can go home.” Isaac rolls out his neck. “Nah. I’m good, bruv.” Jamie sniffles, fingers grappling more fiercely at his shirt sleeves. He hasn’t changed out of his kit or boots yet and his legs are grass-stained, and, horribly, Isaac is thinking of a different locker room in a different city but the wallowing emptiness of his chest is still the same. Nothing ever changes, does it. Nothing ever fucking changes. “S’stupid anyways,” says Jamie. His voice is dull, flat, so completely unlike Jamie that Isaac nearly can’t recognize him. “Just being stupid.”

There are many responses Isaac could give to that, but he pauses before he says any of them. They’ve talked and talked and talked it into circles, the lot of them, huddling in Dani’s living room trying to figure out how best to coax Jamie out of his ghost, back to the living world. Isaac, offer him your dino. Colin, take him out to dinner. Sam and Dani… keep it up, lads. None of it has worked. None of it has done anything, because Jamie hasn’t been there. But Jamie’s here now. He’s here, and so is Isaac. It’s easy, almost, to slip from the bench and onto the floor at Jamie’s side. A little harder, to wrap a careful arm around Jamie’s shoulders and draw him close. Isaac can feel the tense of Jamie’s muscles, the coiling of them, and he’s about to let go when Jamie relaxes into the embrace. This is all the encouragement that Isaac needs to pull him ever closer, tucking the lad into the curve of his side and allowing Jamie to decide where he wants his head to go. On Isaac’s chest, is the answer, and neither of them are small people but sitting here like this, Jamie is something delicate, something fragile, something that Isaac must handle with care because he doesn’t think Jamie’s ever been handled with care before in his whole life. Still, there’s a ferocity to the wrap of his arm around Jamie. A promise that this time things will be different. A sob rends its way from Jamie’s chest, a torn-wide wound, and he buries his face deeper into Isaac’s chest even as he simultaneously tries to pull away. “M’sorry,” he says, like he’s fighting with himself to accept what he’s being given. “M’sorry, I—” “You’re all right,” says Isaac. Instinctively, the fingers of his free hand card through Jamie’s hair in a gentle ruffle. It’s a light pressure, and yet there’s a warmth that blooms in it that spills over the boundaries of their bodies. Jamie freezes against it, but not as though he’s afraid of it; as though he’s afraid of it being taken away. Isaac keeps doing it, to prove that it’s not going anywhere, and says again, for good measure, “You’re all right, lad. You’re all right.”

[staycalmandhugaclone]

If you're new, this all starts with Touch Starved - Echo! You can read this little chunk as a standalone, or head back to the beginning for the full experience!

Febuwhump Day 1 Part 5

Touch-Starved – Crosshair - Fed up with Crosshair's dismissal of her help after a nearly disastrous escape, Doc finally snaps.

Warnings: Maybe light arachnophobia? Cursing, yelling, brief mention of injection

WC: 2,622

If not for the delicate sensors flashing across the overlay of my visor, I would have lost the others miles back, legs burning as I sprinted through the dense underbrush of the ancient forest. Fun. Yeah. I swear, next time a commanding officer called a mission either ‘fun’ or ‘simple’ or ‘easy’ I was going to strap the 70Ib medpack to their shoulders and let them see for themselves how fun it was to go racing through overgrown foliage so thick you could only hope it wasn’t concealing the massive trunk of one of those towering trees while being chased by dozens of ten-legged, very hostile carnivorous insects taller than Wrecker.

‘Scout the area for future outpost locations.’ ‘No known Separatist forces in that area, so should be an easy hike for you guys… have fun.’ That pompous old man better hope I didn’t stumble across him in a deserted hallway…

“Doc, eyes up!” Hunter’s voice barked over the com. I didn’t hesitate, body instantly responding by jerking both pistols toward the dark canopy. Those massive beasts blended in perfectly with the mess of bark and leaves, but my visor emphasized their movement and synced with sensors in the armor stretching down my arms and hands to guide my aim. From this distance, however, the handful of bolts that struck it from my rapid barrage of shots was only just enough to dissuade it from charging, sending the thing retreating to whatever web or hollow hid beyond that impenetrable layer of plant life to lick it’s wounds.  

Hunter and Wrecker were holding back the brunt of the assault behind us while Tech had raced ahead to ready the ship. Echo was somewhere near me, the ceaseless sound of his pistol the only thing granting me any certainty that I hadn’t strayed, and Crosshair laid in perfect stillness somewhere up ahead, blue bolts appearing like magic the instant one of those creatures got too close.

“There appears to be another wave incoming from the north. I suggest you hurry.” I briefly muted my com to release a violent string of curses on painfully quick, panted gasps even as I strained to force myself to move faster, hands training from one creature to the next at the relentless alerts chiming from my targeting system. In barely the span of a single heartbeat, I noted the glint of metal beneath one of those alerts, and my chest seized.

“Crosshair! Five o’clock!” The words tore from me in a panic. He was well beyond the range of my pistols; too far for any of us to do more than watch as he rolled hazardously over the branch he’d perched atop in an instinctual rush to avoid the sudden charge of the spider-like beast. The ancient tree shuddered beneath the assault, the terrible creaking of its moss-covered limb screaming over even the chaos of battle raging all around me.

“Crosshair!” Hunter’s voice boomed over the intercom just as the wood shattered. Even as he began to fall, Crosshair leveled the elegant barrel of his rifle at the creature and, with a single flash of light, sent it tumbling limp to the forest floor below. The instant he pulled the trigger, his hand darted out behind him, and I could only guess toward the desperation with which his fingers clawed into the sleek, moss-covered bark for any whisper of purchase. “There’s a vine twenty feet below you!”

The sniper barely glanced down before angling that lithe body against the massive trunk for whatever traction it might offer, rifle clasped carefully in one hand. The renewed frenzy driving me forward numbed the fire burning through abused muscle, diverting without a second thought from the path to the Marauder to sprint toward Crosshair, eyes locked on his rapid descent. I barely noticed the thin vine until his free hand snatch it midair, lower body arching forward like a pendulum for the half-second it held his weight. His mic just picked up the tiny hitch of his breath, and the rest of the forest went suddenly mute beneath it, beneath the fear in that flutter of air breaking over clenched teeth. Hand still locked around that traitorous vine, he began to fall.

Barely a dozen strides separated me from the base of the tree when his body suddenly snapped to a halt arm jerking above his head. I’d only just made out the loop of green caught around his wrist before his hand slipped free he crashed the final handful of meters to the ground.

Pistols already thrown into my holsters, I snatched the scanner from the side of my pack and slammed to my knees beside him. Before even coming to a full stop, my fingers darted out and slipped under his bucket to find the rapid dance of his pulse hammering just beneath his jaw as my other hand began the scan. Ignoring the listless flail of his arm trying to push me away, I maintained that position for just a few fleeting seconds, monitoring the rhythm while reading over the flashing text scrolling over my screen, trusting the others to cover us.

“‘M fine – get the kriff off me!” He snapped, movements gaining more strength as he finally wrenched my hand away. Beyond a sprained wrist and some bruising that would bring all manner of unsettling colors to his back, his armor seemed to save him from the worst of it. Ignoring the sharp words, I forced my arm beneath his shoulders and, with a surge of power fueled more by adrenaline than strength, hauled him up against me. He staggered beside me for barely a single stride before pushing away and racing forward on his own.

He said nothing as we ran, but I noted with painful clarity the way his right hand tucked slightly against his chest. Even if the damage was relatively minor, the pain was clearly severe enough to still even an attempt to use it. Cringing at the fresh hurt that surely tore through the limb with each stride, I tried to force my attention back to the encroaching wildlife, but the wave of fire from the others was finally beginning to allow us some breathing room.

“I want everyone strapped in now! Tech: we’re thirty seconds out.” Hunter ordered barely seconds before the top fin of the Marauder came into view. Nearly the instant my feet touched that ramp, we began to hover, and I had just enough time to throw myself into a crash seat, followed almost immediately by the others, before we were rocketing through the trees.

The quiet beneath five sets of heavy breathing offered frightfully little comfort, attention already turning to Crosshair. He glared blindly through the flooring beneath his feet, hand carefully limp inches above his thigh, jaw tensing beneath absent attempts to shift his fingers. As soon as the worst of the turbulence eased, I quickly freed myself from the mesh harness and trotted toward him.

“Try not to move it. Let me-” I started, already reaching for the swelling limb, but he quickly pulled away from me.

“I didn’t ask for your help!” He snarled, “You want to get all touchy-feely with the others, fine! But stay the kriff away from me!” For a brief moment, I was too shocked to reply, barely noting the grimace weighing heavily over Wrecker’s face, nor the annoyance in Echo’s glare as the man stalked quickly from the cabin.

“I’ll talk to him.” Hunter offered wearily, but that only fueled my rage.

“Don’t you dare.” The quiet threat in my words instantly drew his attention. Eyes shifting between me and the retreating form of his brother, his brow slowly raised in something between sympathy and skepticism. I merely narrowed my eyes before throwing my pack down and starting quickly after the sharp-tongued sniper. As soon as Crosshair saw me storm into the bunk room after him, that glare hardened into something dangerous, lips twisting into a snarl.

“No! You’re going to shut that karking mouth and listen to me!” I barked in the split second before he could unleash whatever retort boiled over his tongue.

“Or what? You’ll make me?” He challenged, shoulders rolling back as his head tipped forward, looking at me with those sharp eyes.

“Oh, grow up!” I spat, stalking forward until barely an inch lay between us. “You want to act all better-off-alone? Fine! You want to insult me and push me away? Kriffing go for it! But you have exactly three options right now!” Despite the fleeting space, I brought a hand up to count off, “Keep up this damn tough-guy osik, and I put you on med-leave until that wrist heals on its own.” I held up a second finger, “You walk into medbay and take a very painful bacta injection between your scaphoid and trapezium carpal bones.” My voice lowered only slightly into a growl as I raised the third, “Or sit your shebs on that karking cot, and let me do my job.”

He offered no retort to that, fury burning in those brilliant eyes as he stared me down, but I didn’t move, unflinching beneath the intensity of his rage. How long did he stand there, mind working for some alternative; any excuse to ignore me, to prove me wrong, before, finally, his teeth clicked from the way his jaw ground, gaze sliding reluctantly to the wall just behind me. Shoulders painfully taut, he sat heavily on the bed beside us. I’d apologize to Hunter later, but his was the easiest to access at that moment.

I didn’t try to catch his gaze as I kneeled before him, once more reaching for his hand. I just caught the way his lips pulled into a slight grimace at that first contact, muscles tensing beneath the instinctual drive to pull away; to flee, but he forced himself still. Without a word, I pulled the vambrace from his forearm before carefully beginning to ease the glove free. I could feel the slight twitch steal through his arm, but, again, he fought it.

Already, the joint looked painfully inflamed. I didn’t bother requesting he focus on his breathing or offer quiet conversation to distract him as my thumbs swept lightly in tandem along his palm both to trail over each bone in search of any hidden soreness as well as to begin pushing the swelling out of the angry tissue. I could feel his gaze carefully trained on me, eyes following my every movement with a violent distrust that robbed me of my earlier rage.

Pointedly ignoring the heat burring into me from his glare, I merely focused on my own movements, softly testing the sensitivity of the apex of the sprain and surrounding tissue to map out what I had to work with. Touch dragging back to the tips of those long fingers, I carded my fingers around each digit in turn. With a meticulous calm, I dragged the heel of my palm up his, swept the pad of my thumbs along the lines of tendons and over the ridges of bone until some whisper of that tension began to ease.

I was careful not to risk looking at him fully, but managed to catch a brief glimpse of him as my touch roamed delicately over his wrist before working into the lean muscles of his forearm. That rage was beginning to fall away, something so near to fascination just touching those eyes that left me holding my breath. This wouldn’t fix the sprain; not really, but the simple act of pushing the swelling from the injured tissue would greatly help with the pain and quicken its healing. In conjunction with the bacta patches stashed in one of the pouches lashed to my waist, I was hopeful that he would be nearly back to normal before reaching Kamino.

As I began dragging long, leisurely movements from the tips of fingers carefully supported against mine, up his palm, touch growing delicate over the swelling mound around his wrist, before firmly sweeping up the length of his forearm, he finally began to lose himself, eyes drooping as his head gradually sank lower toward his chest with each laxed breath.

I felt my movements slowing, reluctant to let him go for fear of never being allowed this moment of stillness with him again. Selfishly, I found myself returning to already blissfully limp muscles, working over each joint just once more, granting myself endless excuses to warrant a half dozen final adjustments before, with a slow, reluctant breath, reaching for the kit at my waist.

Only a whisper of that tension returned to him, eyes following me almost lazily before quieting upon seeing the basic madpack, and I tried to justify that quiet in the gentleness of my movements as I carefully secured the bactapatch against his wrist with meticulously applied bandages. I didn’t pull away from him once I’d finished, hesitating a moment before finally letting my eyes find his. That stillness lingered for a long while as he passively took in the gratitude burning through me, the silent plea screaming beneath my certainty that, the instant either of us moved or spoke or simply remembered the existence of a reality beyond this room, this moment of trust would vanish.

My arm seemed to move on its own, carefully resting his bandaged hand atop his thigh before just beginning to reach for his other one, palm held open in a quiet invitation as I let just the faintest glimmer of hope touch my gaze. He glanced briefly to my open hand, mind slowly returning to some level of awareness, and I felt that cold flush of defeat wash through me as his eyes shifted pointedly away, brows just tensing before his jaw clicked shut.

Without a word, he quickly pushed himself to his feet and stalked passed me. My hands sank back to my thighs, body deflating beneath the blanket rejection as the unapologetic hiss of the door closed behind him, leaving me too aware of the isolation that left me in. Fighting back the threat of guilt and regret at the harshness of my earlier words, I resigned myself to continued dismissal from the final member of this squad I was still trying to embrace as mine and thoughtlessly reached for the discarded wrappers around me from the used medkit.

Just as I’d begun calling some bit of motion back into my limbs, ready to finally force myself to my feet, the door opened once more. Expecting a kind word of sympathy from Echo or quiet reassurance from Hunter, I didn’t bother turning to look, unwilling to let them see the lingering hint of sadness I hadn’t yet managed to force back. The shock that tore through me when Crosshair dropped heavily back onto the cot, pinched glare turned pointedly to the far end of the room as he nearly thrust his other hand toward me left me staggering, lips just parted in a tiny gasp.

If he heard the way my breath caught as I let out a long, barely controlled sigh before reaching almost reverently for the offered limb, he made no show of it. I couldn’t begin to force back the smile, the lightness that burst through me as I gently eased the gear from his arm, overcome in that flood of relief. I knew this didn’t mean he truly trusted me, nor even that he more than tolerated my presence, but it was a start, and, as the smooth motion of my hands working over his gradually lulled him back into that blissed calm, I let myself finally begin to feel some hope that, just maybe, I could find my place here.

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[13a07s]

Nothing Sweeter Than Sugar

(Kenma Kozume)

[Artwork is not mine! Credit to mafuyukii]

Requested by: Myself

Word Count: 3,265

Warnings and/or Pre-Notes:

Name Calling: Sugar, Daddy, Good Girl, Baby, Sweetheart

Sugar Daddy - Ness Mentioned

Anxiety (Specifically, Visiobibliophobia)

Self-harm (scratching)

Sexual Tension

———————————————————————

     "I don't know what I'm doing," I mutter, pressing random buttons on Kenma's keyboard, doing 'my best not to die' as he asked. I don't know how he does it. The few minutes I've sat here for him have all been distracting and overwhelming. The constant rolling comments on his live stream, the awareness of being on camera, and everything happening in the game is a lot to keep up with.

The soft 'hmph' Kenma has a habit of letting out wisps against my ear, tipping me off to his presence before his hands on my shoulders can. "It looks like you're not messing up my game," he whispers, making sure the microphone of his headset doesn't pick up on it. "Good girl."

A mix of giddiness and embarrassment mixes on my cheeks. I didn't do anything in the game while he was gone so I don't believe I deserved the praise. But, praise from Kenma is rare so I revel in it when I can.

My praise doesn't stop there. My boyfriend reaches his hand in front of me, briefly covering his camera. The mandator to our left goes grainy and dark, mirroring what his viewers are seeing, or well, what they're not seeing. The chat starts dinging faster than before, snips of people questioning why their video is darkened and trying to catch Kenma's attention speed across the mentor to the right.

     "Good job, Sugar," he repeats, his free hand ghosting over my neck, pushing my hair out of his way. His fingertips are slowly replaced by his lips, a gentle, almost phantom kiss being pressed to the back of my neck. "I appreciate it," he continues to praise, beginning to trail his ghostly kisses up my neck, his path ending behind my ear.

     I can't help the squeak that spills out. It's not usual that Kenma is affectionate and even less common for him to initiate said affection. The realization that there's an audience that just heard the pathetic mouse impression that squeezed out of me settles on my chest. The mix of giddiness and embarrassment grows on my skin, specifically heating the dying path his kisses took.

Kenma softly chuckles, carefully pulling his headset off me to put it back in its rightful place on his head. I catch a glimpse of my flustered expression on the monitor.

"Hey, sorry guys, I had to take a call," Kenma shortly explains to his fans, fixing his mic. His golden eyes glow as they stare down at me, his body focused on adjusting his headset but his eyes stay focused on me. The sharp shape and attention of them make me squirm, my blush and flustering feelings quickly becoming too much. "Everyone say thank you to my girlfriend for stepping in for me."

'You little shit, stop,' I mouth, making sure to turn so the camera can't bear into my very being any longer. It makes Kenma silently laugh, his eyes shining even more with amusement. I swear, he picked up streaming just to embarrass me every chance he gets.

     Kenma's chest vibrates with the sound of his next round of joy. It's real laughter this time, echoing in the chilled game room instead of the mute or almost mute sound he usually makes when he's joyful. "You know," he starts, his body still after his laughing fit stops. A sharp grin rests on his face, fighting against the sharpness of his eyes for the award of deadliest. "Most babies know better than to call their Sugar Daddy a little shit."

     "You're not my Sugar Daddy and you are a little shit."

     "Sure, Sugar," he coos, his voice warm despite the belittling undertone of it. "Why don't you be a good girl and go take a bath for Daddy? I'm sure your nerves could use it. You're pretty much dripping in anxiety."

"Little shit," I hiss, even though he's right. I like sitting with Kenma in his game room. I even like being in here with him while he's streaming. I don't like being part of the streaming; at least not on camera. That tacked with him openly teasing me on his stream, and it doesn't take long until I'm overwhelmed, which is quickly knotting a ball of anxiety in my stomach.

     His eyes swim over me for a long moment before flicking toward the door, another command to leave and take care of myself. Surprisingly, Kenma's anxieties haven't ever fed into mine. If anything, it helps him notice my coping mechanisms - like my middle finger tapping an unheard beat against my thumb - and helps him redirect my energy - taking a warm bath until my mind is soothed.

     "Go."

     The single word hangs in the air as we stare at each other, tempting each other to give in. As always, the feeling of eyes on the back of my neck wears me down a lot quicker than Kenma. "Fine," I mutter, climbing out of his plump, stereotypical gamer chair. I wish I was as comfortable on camera as I am talking through his mic. I know his fans are always hounding him about having me in more videos and streams.

     "Good," he grumbles, sliding past me to take up the seat I was just in. "Hello again," Kenma greets his viewers, getting situated to focus on his game and his fans again. "Sorry for the long wait. Shit comes up, you know?" The continuous click of comments flowing through elevates again with his full arrival, a mix of understanding and pissy fans voicing their thoughts.

     I stay still next to his chair for a few more moments, watching him get back into his groove, my eyes snapping back to the monitor every few seconds to make sure I'm not in the frame. "You know," I start, leaning closer to his headset so the viewers can hear my voice. "Don't let Kenma fool you. Despite how he acts, he's quite the bottom in bed. An hour ago, the guy was on his knees offering two thousand just to touch me - eh!"

My personal life spilling is cut short by Kenma jerking toward me, pinching my side to get me to shut up. A glare, with a tiny hint of amusement whipping through his irises, is shot my way. "That's private information. Incorrect private information, might I add," he grumbles, aiming the lie toward his viewers.

     "That's bullshit and you know it," I whisper, keeping my voice soft so it's not picked up.

     Slowly, lazy gold drips down my body, melting over my curves as Kenma stretches out a hum. His humming pauses for a moment, starting up again when his eyes backtrack their trail. My stomach does somersaults, heat blooming over my skin again as he etches every detail of me into his mind. No matter how many times he does it, I always feel squirmy with embarrassment and staticy with need. Need he can't fulfill right now.

     "I know," Kenma finally exhales, the expensive metal color of his eyes glued to my shirt collar. The small red and purple nicks left behind by his teeth earlier in the day burn under his stare. "I also know you need to go calm down before you scratch your skin off. Itching isn't going to make the feeling go away."

     My body freezes, trying to make sense of what my boyfriend just said. With the pause, a burning sensation quickly loops around my forearm, tugging my eyes down to investigate. My nails are dug into my skin, long red trails left in their wake, overlapping and crisscrossing all over my arm. It's another coping mechanism, a super unhealthy one that I've been struggling to ditch for years. It usually surfaces when I feel like I'm being watched, like now.

     "Sorry, I didn't realize I was doing it," I mutter, loosening my hold on my arm. I carefully run my thumb over the scratching, checking the state of them. They're not deep and none of them are bleeding. I'm sure they'll all fade away within an hour or so.

     "No need to apologize, Sugar," Kenma coos, his voice soothing this time instead of teasing. "Go take a bath and relax. You know where I'll be when you're done." He sends me a wink before turning back to his screens, apologizing to his fan base again.

     Despite his main focus being back into his game, I can still feel the flicker of his eyes, trailing after me as I leave the room. The heat of it stays occasionally licking at my heels even as I head down the hallway, the doorframe separating us threatening to burst into flames simply from Kenma's repeating glances.

     As I head toward the bathroom I make a mental note to set a timer. The last thing I need is for him to be distracted from his fans again because he's worried I'm not doing okay or that I fell asleep in the bath again.

                    ————————————

     "Shit. Shit, shit, shit," Kenma's strained voice grumbles, not quite a shout but above his resting volume. The soft buzz of fake gunshots mix with his cursing, the soft noise easing the small flick of anxiety threatening to spark.

     I don't know why my anxiety always spikes when it comes to Kenma streaming or anything having to do with his social media. For someone terrified to the masses about being judged by internet strangers, I have a very social media present partner.

     At least he's pretty understanding about it and doesn't push my comfort zone too hard. I will say, that I've been to a lot of beautiful parties and award ceremonies and such because Kenma has gently pushed me to attend with him.

     I stand just inside the room, leaning against the door frame as I admire Kenma, soaking in the warm feeling of being understood and loved despite my irrational fears. My fingertips wrap around the hem of his favorite sweatshirt, enjoying the comfort of it as my eyes roll over him the same way he did to me before my lavender and Epsom salt bath.

     I thought he looked adorable with dye blonde, root showing hair in high school, but now? With his man bun and the long streaks of natural black that melt into blonde? With his hair comfortably draped above his shoulders? There's been more than once that I've been distracted by Kenma tying his hair up alone.

     "How long are you going to stare, Sugar?" His voice rings sweet, a one-eighty from the tone he held earlier. Kenma's eyes flick to the side for a moment, observing his comments before focusing on me again. "They want you to say hi if you want. You don't have to," the small ramble is buffered by his focus on his game, my boyfriend's way of seeming calm. I know he's weird I'll get stressed again, evident in the tightness of his shoulders and slightly rougher stroke of his keyboard.

     "I don't mind saying hi," I tell him, the footsteps of my slippers melting into the cream carpet of the room.

I settle behind his chair, resting against it with my arms around his neck, hands dangling on his chest. I keep my breath steady as I check the screen to the side. Nothing but my arms wrapped in the comfort of Kenma and my perfectly maintained nails are in frame. Perfectly fine by me. It's his sweatshirt and the nails he chose for me that they're able to judge.

Kenma's focus stays on his game for a few more seconds, finishing whatever task it is he's doing. Once he's finished with... collecting ammo, I think?... he tips his head up to look at me. "Hey, Sugar. Are you doing okay?"

"I'm good," I hum, gently running my fingernails over his clothed chest.

His eyes melt over me in their slow and lazy trail like always, melting with my still-tinted red skin from the warm water, and widening a bit when they fall to his sweatshirt wrapped around me. "Are you wearing my sweatshirt?" I nod, yes, toying with his headset, clicking it into a bigger setting before clicking it back to the right size. Kenma's eyes slit, curiously jerking around the fabric as his hand comes up to close around his mic, cutting our voices off from his fans. "Only my sweatshirt?"

"More or less," I murmur, rubbing my bare thighs together. I did put undergarments on, mostly - only - because he promised to go to dinner once he's done with his twelve-hour streaming session. My eyes glance at the clock, three hours down, nine to go. Plenty of time to lay around the house in comfy clothes.

"You're teasing," he quietly hisses, his frustration from earlier lying dormant, at least until now. I may, or may not have, started teasing Kenma knowing he only had thirty minutes until his stream started. I may, or may not have, also told him his begging was inadequate to get what he wanted before his stream too.

I shrug my shoulders, a soft smile hanging on my lips as my nails crawl up his chest, gently rolling across his throat. "I think you deserve it, Baby. Calling me a good girl, referring to yourself as Daddy, ordering me around. I think someone forgot who's really in charge."

Kenma's eyes are wide now, cheeks dusted a soft pink as he looks up at me. "I only... I... you were all worked up and... I just... I wasn't trying - "

I softly giggle at his stuttering, his little attitude act breaking at the first sign of me throwing my weight around. Kenma might not be as shy or reserved as he was when we first met, but he's the same blushing boy who turned as pink as a peach the first time I offered to blow him.

"Your fans are waiting," I cut off his flustered words, jerking my head toward the chat made up of a million questions, all circled around why they can't hear him and why he's tucked behind a bush in the game.

"Right," he drags out the word, his still pink-dusted face slowly falling to look at his screens again. "Say hi, Sugar," Kenma whispers, uncertainly letting go of his microphone so it can pick up the sound of us better. His skin tints a darker shade of pink when I lean closer to talk into his mic.

"Hey guys! Sorry to keep pulling Kodzuken away from ya. I hope you're all doing well and enjoying the stream! I'm sure I'll pop back in soon." Once I'm done talking to his fans, I pull away from him, running through what I'm going to do for the next nine hours. My book is still tucked away by one of his monitors. Maybe I'll read that in the bean bag chair as he plays.

Kenma turns in his chair, jerking toward me again, this time to wrap his arms around my waist instead of pinching me. "Where are you going?" He asks, trying to keep his tone steady, but a bit of a whine still sneaks through.

"I think I'm going to go read, maybe take a nap when my eyes get tired," I murmur, running my nails through his hair, gently massaging his scalp.

His eyes slowly blink as his hands focus on kneading at my stomach, toying with his sweatshirt hanging on me. "Sit with me?"

     "Of course, Baby. I always do."

"No, with me," he murmurs, hands sliding down to grip my hips, gently tugging on me.

     "I don't want to be on camera."

     "It'll just be a section of your back and the ends of your hair. Nothing else," he whispers, his hands sliding down to gently push on the back of my knees. When they buckle, Kenma swoops me up, positioning me on his lap, chest to chest. "Please?"

     My arms settle over his shoulders as I get comfortable on his lap, toying with the loose strands of hair that have slipped from his bun. "Just my back?"

     Kenma softly hums, fingertips slowly crawling up my thighs to poke under the end of his sweatshirt clinging to them. His chair softly sways back and forth as his eyes trail over me. My man of a million words with barely a thousand spoken, but that's okay. His soft looks and constant awareness of me are enough.

     After another beat, he whips the chair back around, jumbling me in his lap and making me giggle. "Alright, back to the game," Kenma mutters, checking his camera and the monitor to stay true to his promise. "Brought to you with the guest appearance of my Sugar's back and split ends."

     "I don't have split ends Mr. Half-Dye!" I tease back, honking his bun a few times. "Meanie."

     "A meanie you're distracting, Sugar," he whispers stretching his arm across his desk to grab my book for me. He stops for a moment, flashing it at the camera. "Here's the most recent porno my girlfriend is reading."

     "It's not a porno!" I shriek, lunging to try and snatch my book away from him.

     "Totally is," he grumbles, letting me take my book back. Kenma settles into place, chin on my shoulder, slightly hunched over so he can see the screen and be pressed against me. Our bodies melt into each other, finding comfort and familiarity in the position along with each other.

     My arms settle over his shoulders again, cracking open my book to keep reading my romance story that Kenma insists is just difficult pornography. The sounds of the room mix with my reading. His soft curses and conversation with his fans, the ticking of the stream chat, the soft buzz of his game in his headphones, and the soothing tapping of his keyboard.

     Occasionally, my eyes flicker between his monitors, checking to make sure I'm in frame how I'm comfortable. My eyes skirt over to the chat as well, glancing over it. A lot of it is gibberish about his game that I don't understand, a few nasty comments about my presence and Kenma's constant distraction with me, and a few comments gushing over the two of us.

A soft sigh spills from Kenma, his arms wrapping around me, and his head burying into my neck. "I almost lost that round. I guess I'm losing my touch."

     "You're not losing your touch. I'm sure it was just a difficult round."

     "Probably, Sugar," he murmurs, brushing a kiss to the side of my throat. Slowly, Kenma pulls away from me, situating himself in a more relaxed position. I squirm to adjust as well, perched on his lap like a prized trophy.

     His eyes flicker around, looking at all his screens before settling on the chat. Kenma's soft voice mixes with my reading again as he answers questions and talks with his fans. His hand slowly paws at my thigh, rubbing against the chilled skin. "Sugar?" He calls with a drop of sweetness in his tone.

     "Hmm?"

     "The viewers want to know why I call you sugar."

     "Because I'm your Sugar Baby and you're my Sugar Daddy, duh," I teasingly answer, leaning forward to spill the answer into his microphone.

     The familiar warmth of embarrassment warms my face as Kenma's eyes melt over me, his hand sliding up from my thigh to the middle of my back. He gently pushes on it, making it arch downward. "The real reason, Sugar."

     "Because I'm your high school Sweetheart, and there's nothing sweeter than Sugar."

[kemendin]

Contentment

What can I say, I woke up today and chose snuggles. Small sequel scene to my fic ‘Cover Your Crystal Eyes’.

Jedi Knight x Lord Scourge Words: 925

The first morning he wakes up next to Scourge, Cas turns a look over his shoulder, and smiles.

They must have shifted positions during the night. He remembers being settled on top of Scourge, drifting off with his head tucked beneath the other’s chin, feeling the slow swell and fall of the Sith’s broad chest beneath his cheek.

Now Scourge is a bulwark of warmth against his back, his body not so much moulded to Caspian’s as Cas is to him. One weighty arm is wrapped easily around the Jedi, his scarlet hand spread over the dark skin of Cas’ abdomen, where he can feel the steady rhythm of his partner’s breathing against his palm.

Cas studies the Sith fondly for another moment, soaking in the view, before passing an idle glance around the cabin of his ship. Early sunlight is threading itself through the narrow windows, melding with the muted glow of the gold-lit panels that border the walls and floor. With the Seeker at rest in its glade behind the Alliance base, and no other occupants aboard, the entire ship is so quiet, so calm, and the Commander is basking in it.

Sighing happily, Cas shifts himself closer against Scourge, sinking deeper into the Sith’s heavy embrace. Sleep is still dragging at his eyes and his brain, and the temptation to succumb to it again is undeniable. But there’s something to be said for savouring this as well, this liminal place between consciousness and slumber, where his entire existence has been reduced to the softness of sheets and the warmth of unyielding muscles now relaxed against him in repose.

A tiny smirk pulls at the Jedi’s lips. The irony of the situation has not escaped him; that for all the Jedi Order’s talk of finding serenity, and clarity, and peace, Cas has at last found all of this here: in the powerful, protective arms of a Sith.

Absently he seeks out Scourge’s hand with his own, weaves his fingers into the empty spaces between the Sith’s stronger digits. To his surprise he feels a slight squeeze in response, and then a tickle of breath across his ear.

“Awake so soon, Jedi?” Scourge’s voice is a thick hum that Cas can almost feel upon his skin.

Caspian rolls back against Scourge, turning his head around to regard him. The sight of the Sith’s half-lidded yet still-bright gaze causes his smile to broaden into a lopsided grin.

“I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,” he admits.

“I promised I would be,” replies Scourge. There’s a light rebuke in the tilt of his browstalks. “And I keep my promises.”

“Well, in that case - good morning, Scourge,” Cas says, more brightly. He cranes his head farther to deposit a blithe kiss on the nearest of the Sith’s chin tendrils.

“Good morning, Jedi,” returns Scourge, before nuzzling his face into Caspian’s silver hair and inhaling deeply.

Cas laughs a little. “Does my hair smell that good?” he teases.

Scourge considers. “It smells - like you,” he answers after a moment, slightly muffled, and Cas chuckles again. He understands that this is as good as a ‘yes’. 

Raising his head again, Scourge lets out a low groan of satisfaction and tightens his hold around the Jedi. “You are a very sound sleeper, Caspian,” he goes on. “I was beginning to wonder if you would ever wake up.”

Cas makes a wry expression at this. “I’m not, usually. But this….” He exhales a similarly contented sound, and tilts his head back, and smiles again when he feels Scourge meet the crown of his head with a kiss. “This was the best I’ve slept in… years. No tossing and turning, no waking up in the middle of the night. No awful dreams.”

Scourge hums deeply again. “I have not felt this well-rested for as long as I can remember,” he agrees. “Being bound by the Emperor’s ritual, I was not disturbed by dreams - but sleep was always hollow and unsatisfying. And the return of my emotions only made me more restless.”

With some effort, Cas manages to squirm onto his back while remaining cradled against his partner. He reaches up and brushes his thumb across Scourge’s lips, and the Sith’s mouth quirks beneath his touch.

“Ssshhh,” the Jedi scolds him, still smiling. “Don’t talk about all that, you’ll ruin the moment.” His forefinger strokes along the other’s ridged cheek. “None of that matters right now, remember? It’s just us, here, together.”

He stretches up to catch Scourge’s mouth in a full, tender kiss - only to have this blissful sentiment rudely interrupted by the sound of the ship’s hatch opening. A moment later the familiar trill of an astromech droid burbles from the central deck.

Scourge lifts a browstalk, pushing himself up on one elbow and glancing towards the door, even as Cas falls back with a disappointed groan.

“Just us - and the droid,” the Sith corrects drily. “I suggest you relay to him that there is no more room in the bed, before he starts getting ideas.”

A whir of servos approaches the cabin door. [T7 = bringing breakfast for Jedi + Sith!] comes the proudly beeped announcement.

Cas lets out a loud sigh, and looks up at Scourge. “What d’you think?” he asks ruefully. “Should we let him in?”

Several light thuds vibrate from just outside - like an astromech droid is running repeatedly into the door.

“I think,” says Scourge matter-of-factly, now speaking over the distinctive sound of a lock being overridden, “that we are being given very little choice in the matter.”

[princeinsomniavoid]

Living

In which guts are spilled, feelings are realized, and a cliche isn't really a bad thing.

huge tw for graphic suicidal ideation/attempt, non-explicit themes of child neglect, general homestuckness, gay people [eeeewww/j]

[TG]: Sitting at the precipice of an endless fall into the void all by yourself handsome?

Dave flops down next to Percy with a muffled grunt and playfully nudges him in the shoulder with a fist. The page snorts through his nose and rolls his eyes.

Dave leans back on his palms and looks out at the void of the Furthest Ring

[CC]: That was awful, even for you Dave.

[TG]: Well excuse me princess, its not like I scoured the entire meteor trying to find your elusive ass, the least you can do is appreciate my dated references and witty non-sequitur.

[TG]: I can see why you come out here, there sure is a lot of... of... of space... aha.

This earns him a light punch in the arm. He shrugs it off with a light laugh and the banter truly begins. They’re good at that, the talking, like they’ve known each other their whole lives. Aside from John, Rose, and Jade, Dave is pretty sure that he’s known Percy the longest. He can’t remember a time when he didn’t have cadaversCavelry [CC] in his pesterchum window. Seeing him in person like this again after such a long absence gives him an odd feeling in his chest, but not an uncomfortable one.

He’s not sure when it reaches this point, the point in their conversation when they’re both laughing so hard that Dave is sure he’s going to pass out, but sure enough he’s gripping his stomach and wheezing so hard he can feel himself getting lightheaded.

Percy coughs and falls onto his back trying to catch his breath. At some point Dave’s glasses have been knocked askew and he’s blinking back tears. The laughter and jokes continue until Dave is certain he’s going to get a migraine. Sooner or later they fall back into silence, an easy sort and the kind Dave has vague memories of sharing before. He looks over to see that Percy has sat back up and drawn his knees into his chest as he stares nearly unblinking out into the void with a far away expression, and something about that makes his stomach hurt and he can’t for the life of him think of why.

[TG]: Ok- ok dude T.O T.O I can feel the blood rushing to my head oh my god-

[CC]: Sorry- Sorry- Just the- oh jeez I remember the guy’s delivery on it too-!

Woah. Holy shit. What? What?? What??! The question hits Dave in the throat like a brick. Definitely not, he thinks, Dave is pretty sure he’d remember a fucking bombshell like that. He realizes that his mouth had dropped open as his line of dialogue was unceremoniously shut down. His voice catches in his mouth before he clears his throat to respond.

[TG]: So uh… How are you holding up? Y’know with all this crazy shit going on, like with the Trolls and the whole dying thing-

[CC]: Did I ever tell you about the time I tried to kill myself?

Suddenly Dave is very aware of the location this conversation is taking place in, and mentally notes just how close to the edge of the meteor they’re sitting. A very loud little voice in his brain is rattling the bars of its enclosure and yelling at him to grab hold of his friend very firmly and drag them into the housing block. He nods mutely instead for them to continue speaking.

[TG]: no…? I uh, I feel like Id remember something like that man- Uh wheres this going- or like coming from? Like not to sound like a total douche wipe but-

[CC]: I was around 10 I think. I don’t exactly remember but it was definitely a good few years after the move.

Dave is pretty sure he can see Percy’s shoulders shaking, can hear just the faintest tremble in his voice. Unconsciously he’s scooted a little closer to him and has his arms hovering around his frame which seems so small. The Percy he knows is larger than life despite his stature, but now he looks so frail, staring off into the void like Dave doesn’t even exist.

[CC]: My brother had just gone on a business trip i think, or maybe he was on his way home from one? Who cares, he was never around and that was sort of the fuckin’ problem.

[CC]: I don’t really remember a lot from the night before i tried it, you know the whole Big Sleep thing, except that maybe i had talked to you for a little while

[CC]: but I definitely remember calling my brother and trying to ask him to come home early from whatever bullshit work trip he was on.

[CC]: you know, to take care of his younger fucking brother like he said he would when he moved us all the way into the middle of frozen fucking nowhere

Percy grips his knees so hard his knuckles are white, the fabric of the borrowed sweat pants bunched up in his fingers to a degree that Dave is worried that he’s going to tear a hole in them.

[CC]: when he said no like he always did i remember being so angry

[CC]: I had threatened to do something drastic but it was mostly just a lash to try and get it in his head i needed him home.

[CC]: the thing that put the real nail in the coffin so to speak is when he’d just said, “And what? Put all my work to waste?”

[CC]: I remember that fucking sentence like he said it yesterday, and you know what?

[CC]: I DID want to waste his fucking effort, I WANTED that pretentious PRICK to understand that his work? His talents? Didn’t matter.

Ok its official Dave wants to throw up. Jesus Christ on a fucking saltine what the fuck. He finally commits to putting his arms around them, one around his back the other on his knee over his trembling hands. Hell he thinks his own hands might be shaking.

[CC]: So that night after i hung up on him i grabbed every bottle of pills i could find and slammed them back with a bottle of my brothers shitty whiskey that he thought he kept hidden well enough

[CC]: and then for good measure I locked myself in the bathroom and sat back to wait

Percy turns to look at him finally, eyes welled up with tears, glasses foggy.

[TG]: Dude- Percy I’m so-

[CC]: and you know the worst part Dave? I think the worst fucking part of that entire shit storm? I didn’t even fucking think to tell YOU!

The silence returns. Percy looks way again, looking out into the Furthest Ring over his knees. Dave finally properly settles up into giving Percy a proper hug. Its the most awkward affair in the history of fucking existence, but that very loud little voice would not be silenced on the matter. He’s so unsure what to say until he isn’t.

[CC]: not you, not John, not Jade, not even fucking Rose even though I think she would’ve been obnoxious about the whole fucking debacle, calling it a- a fucking cry for help or attention or SOMETHING- god I’m probably not giving her enough credit I know she means well but god.

[CC]: course it didn’t work obviously, but when I woke up in the morning in bed with a vicious fucking hangover my brother was passed out in a chair next to me so I guess that counts for something

He pauses, feeling his breath catching in his throat, but persists nonetheless, giving the boy a squeeze, maybe a touch too hard given the soft whimper he hears.

[TG]: when uh… I found you washed up on that beach, I think it was like… the scariest fucking thing I’d ever experienced.

[TG]: like hands down, I don’t think anything is going to top seeing your corpse half hanging out of the water like that. And sure like, I knew you were going to be fine, probably, but I don’t think I was really aware of that.

He hears and feels Percy chuckle wetly in his arms, a sure sign that his rambling tendencies are good for something at least. He feels himself smile and presses on through the shitty maze that made up his train of thought.

[TG]: I don’t think I’ve ever really told you how important you are to me man-

[TG]: like

[TG]: I don’t really know where id be without you

[TG]: and thats really hard to admit dude- like for real I don’t mean that metaphorically

[TG]: or rhetorically

[TG]: or figuratively or even as like, an allegory- that makes no goddamn sense but you get the idea

[TG]: I care about you a whole fucking lot Percy, and thats saying something coming from me

[TG]: not to sing my own praises from high fucking heaven or anything but Im sort of a big deal- like the coolest mother lover on this side of anywhere ever contrived by man

His train of thought derails when Percy shifts in his grasp to wrap his arms around his middle and bury his face into his neck. He feels the tears seeping into his shitty cape, and feels Percy’s glasses get pushed up off of his nose. When his body finally gets the message that he should probably adjust his arms he flails around desperately for a good few seconds unsure of where to put them, before finally settling on wrapping them around the Page’s neck and shoulders. Something about the position feels natural and easy, like this is the easiest thing he’s ever done, easier than breathing. He heaves out a sigh when he realizes he hadn’t been and on a vaguely selfish impulse he buries his own burning face into Percy’s hair, his shades getting pushed up onto his head. The way they fit together makes his stomach ache again, makes him feel giddy, like he never wants to be separated from this ever. Like he’d rather die.

[TG]: I guess what I mean to say is because you matter so much to me that you’re like, honorarily the second coolest guy in existence

[TG]: like you just won the coolness lottery

[TG]: passed Go collected 200 dollars

[TG]: collected every red coin in the mushroom kingdom

[TG]: is this fucking anything? I feel like im saying words but nothing of actual for real substance is being said

[TG]: like a broken record or something over here

[TG]: the point is getting away from me but you get what im putting down right? This making any sens- ohgodok-

Cool. Cool. Dave is going to fucking explode he swears to any god that exists. He’s not even sure he heard that right, but he feels his body tighten his hold on Percy like a vice, he’s not even sure if Percy cares either because he feels their hands grip the fabric of his cape tighter in response.

[CC]: Dave I wanna live.

Holy goddamn fucking shit. Hell yes. Hell fucking yes. Wait what.

[CC]: I want to live so bad Dave- and not even just because dying for real scared me so fucking bad.

[CC]: I think I want to live for you.

[CC]: I think I love you, Dave.

Dave pulls away and grips Percy by the shoulders, not even bothering to push his shades back down, squinting in the void light at his tear stained face.

[TG]: wait what- like

[TG]: hang on wait

[TG]: wait wait wait

Percy kisses him. On the mouth. Dave is pretty sure he can hear the windows 97 dial up tone because good fucking god his brain is empty. Every single thought completely out the window. Back flipped gracefully out off the goddamn handle. The page leans back to look at him again.

[TG]: I gotta make sure I heard that right and I’m not like

[TG]: hallucinating big time or something

[TG]: like I gotta make sure I didn’t just die 2 seconds ago and I’m dreaming or something

[TG]: you what?

[CC]: well… I don’t think you’re dead anymor-

With said thoughts out the window like that he doesn’t even know where the hell he gets the idea to kiss him back, but it comes anyway and he does it. It feels so correct, like the powers of narrative causality nudged them towards this eventuality, like an inevitability. He feels hands come up to hold his face, one of them gingerly pulling his shades out of his hair and setting them aside, not that it matters. His own hands shift to rest tentatively at Percy’s sides and it feels like an overstep somehow, but the Page doesn’t seem to mind. He wishes that he didn’t need to breathe ever again, but they pull away from each other anyhow. Dave feels his nerves buzzing under his skin, his fingers fidgeting and tapping at Percy’s waist. They stay in each other’s space for a good moment, foreheads pressed together and breathing the same air, until something in Dave’s brain regains sentience again and hes fumbling with his arms like an idiot before he covers his mouth with a hand and avoids eye contact like the plague.

Percy laughs at him and honest to god its the single greatest sound he’s ever heard, the fucking ironic sound board air horns don’t even come close.

[TG]: wow

[TG]: cool

[TG]: cool cool cool

[TG]: uh sorry I guess I just had to double check

[TG]: that I hadn’t died or whatever

[CC]: well the results are in captain, you’re certainly still in front of me and quite monochromatic

If his face got any warmer he thinks its going to catch fire or something this is fucking ridiculous. He finally looks up at Percy over his hand still firmly pressed into his mouth, and despite the embarrassment he can feel himself grinning like the world’s biggest idiot.

They laugh again. Good god what he would give for a microphone and tape recorder.

[TG]: uh in case it wasn’t very clear

[TG]: I think I love you too

[TG]: or whatever

[TG]: well no not whatever just

[TG]: god this is so uncool of me

[TG]: I don’t have an ironic joke to make about this

[TG]: this is just pure unadulterated straight unfiltered inelegant brain rot

[CC]: well done Casanova really getting the message across.

The Page reaches out towards him again and Dave doesn’t waste a second enveloping him into another crushing hug. Without the hindrance of his shades in the way he fully hides his face into Percy’s hair, and not to be one of those weirdos, but he breathes in a deep sigh and savors the soft smell in his nose. He wishes he could bottle it up like a shitty cologne or something equally embarrassing.

They stay out there like that for what feels like forever, Dave’s pretty sure he could probably fall asleep like that. Its not until a familiar grating voice cuts through the moment like a katana from the fucking dollar store on a discount.

[TG]: for real man…

[TG]: the feeling is very mutual.

[TG]: like you have no idea…

With that Karkat turns on his heels and storms back inside muttering under his breath irately. The two of them take a moment to process what exactly he had just said before the sentences finally arranged themselves into some semblance of order and slammed true like a semi-truck. They burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter, each clinging to the other for support before they can straighten up properly.

[CG]: THERE YOU ASSWIPES ARE I’VE BEEN TRYING FIND YOUR DUMB ASSES ALL MORNING

[CG]: ABOUT FUCKING TIME YOU GOT YOUR HEADS OUT OF THE PROVERBIAL FUCKING SAND AND SEALED THE DEAL ON THE MOST OBVIOUS FUCKING CHILDHOOD FRIENDS TO LOVERS CLICHE I’VE EVER GODDAMN SEEN

[CG]: NOW WILL YOU GET YOUR ASSES INSIDE? KANAYA SAID THAT ROSE IS DONE MAKING LUNCH AND I SURE AS HELL AM NOT WAITING FOR YOU TWO TO FINISH COPULATING OR WHATEVER IT IS YOU’RE DOING I’M STARVING.

They untangle their limbs from each other and stand up, Percy handing back Dave’s shades as the Knight stretches and cracks his back. He slips them back on his face with a smile. His heart feels light for the first time in a long time. As they start to head back inside he finds himself reaching for Percy’s hand, a gesture that they reciprocate as they grab hold of his own. This is the single coolest thing in the history of ever. If he notices any of their meteor-mates staring no he doesn’t.

[CC]: I guess we should go huh?

[TG]: yeah

[TG]: wouldn’t want Karkat to have a fucking aneurysm waiting on us