#maybe the jolt will boot my system back up

[ravensmadreads]

GIRL I AM DECEASED -

you call and I come running

rating: E for Explicit! 18+

pairing: javier peña x f!reader

word count: 8K

summary: a drunken confession leaves you and Javi on unsure ground. When an on the run narco douses you in an unknown, off-market drug, Javier has to save you by doing the one thing that may truly well and good fuck him over.

warnings: sex pollen, dub con due to sex pollen, minimal plot scaffolding to hold up a gratuitous amount of porn, minimally edited, feral!javi is best javi, the barest hint of breeding kink, not really butt stuff more like butt touching, light angst, no use of y/n

a/n: comes from @perotovar 's ask for my 100 follower milestone event: hi there! congrats on your milestone!! i saw your prompt list and saw "I’m so sick of this ‘will we, won’t we’ shit." and "A whispered, “Fuck, can we do that again?” against the other’s lips." and thought it would be a really good combination for either javi p or max p? which ever one you feel fits better! 😊 (as for smut, only include it if you think it works!)

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Bogota was begging for rain. At the end of summer, the city and its people had been suffering months of stifling, thick, humid air without a drop of relief. Sweat clung to exposed skin, dampening shirts and tightening waistbands. Heat weighed like a physical presence in the air while open windows and doors sought to tempt in some non-existent breeze, hoping to coax some pity out of the militant heatwave. But the heat and the moisture-thick air stayed, hovering like a cloud of mosquitoes, just as merciless and just as blood-thirsty. 

Night offered no consolation either. Stagnant and cloistered, the sun-bleached air greeted its visitors with a great, warm lick – like the wide tongue of a particularly aggressive bloodhound. The ongoing joke among the locals blamed the blackouts on all the fans, spinning throughout all hours of the day and night, instead of el gobierno barato. Only then came the sigh of ease, in front of whirling blades with ice water behind them. Flapping shirts and mopped brows. Only then, was there relief to the tension. 

Unfortunately, a running car would tip off any narcos in the area, so even that small miracle is denied to the two agents sitting in the darkness of la calle. A crack in the glass window releases a tendril of smoke, not enough to expect a breeze, not enough to wipe away the smear of sweat from across forearms and under knees. 

A drunken confession lingers even thicker in the air.

You thought you could do this. You really thought nothing would change – it was an accident after all. He didn’t mean it – he couldn’t – he was just teasing you, when he leaned over the sticky fourtop in the back of the bar at three in the morning, his breath tangy with the ghost of four glasses of whiskey, his body heat immense and overwhelming as he pressed into you and said – 

Whatever he said, you told him no.

Actually, you laughed and then said no. No, because he didn’t mean it, he couldn’t, he was just teasing you and he would never, ever, ever, ever know how much you actually wanted it and even if – even if you both wanted it, it could never, ever, ever, ever happen. 

It couldn’t. It was so absurd for him to even consider it, you laughed.

And then he never looked at you the same way.

You had done something irreversible. He had said the words, but you had done something irreversible to him. 

Something in the air had changed, maybe forever. And that, that you might have lost your partner, your friend, potential potential potential disappearing in a cloud of Marlboro smoke over bottles of cerveza, that was the worst part. 

He doesn’t look at you the same way.

Or at all. 

He smokes and he watches and he acts like you’re not in the seat next to him. Like his confession hasn’t cleaved him apart.

Nothing’s moved in hours. Neither the target or the shadows in the car. The tension presses up against the windows, hot and stifling. There is no relief.

“I didn’t want it like this, you know,” you say to the sun visor, arms crossed, low in your seat. “I . . . tried to see if Murphy would switch, but I didn’t think the tip would pan out so fast, and I didn’t . . . I didn’t want . . .”

The shadow next to you emerges with his face as he brings the glowing orange light of the cigarette to his mouth. Full lips, short thick hair below his nose, a jawline sharper than any hit of cocaine. 

“What did you expect?” he asks, his voice thick and heavy like oil. It clings to you.

You scowl into the darkness beyond your window. “For Murphy to me a fucking solid, for once. Covered his ass more than once after they adopted Olivia. I just wanted one goddamn –,”

He forcefully flicks the stub of his cigarette out the window as a precursor to punctuate his next sentence. “No. What did you want, if you didn’t want it like this?” 

The acidity in his tone stings you and you unintentionally flinch as if he had pressed the cigarette nub into your skin. 

“Javier, c’mon, that’s not fair.” 

He arches one eyebrow, his teeth clenched in his jaw, hollowing out a pocket of skin below his temple. The overhanging orange streetlights sap the color from his skin.

“So you get to make all the rules now. Got it.” He crunches up the empty box of cigarettes and chucks it in the back seat. You watch him with narrowed eyes as he settles back against the seat with his arms crossed. 

“Why do you have to make this difficult?” You snap. “You know this isn’t easy for me either.” 

“But it is easier than the alternative, right?” After two hours of ice cold silence, he finally looks at you and you can feel the spike of frost in your chest. The twitch in his jaw is the rage in his eyes taking physical form. “Easier than . . . trying. Right?” 

He looks away, already having confessed too much with whisky on his breath, and he can’t afford another slip-up. He knows this. You know this. You want to reach out and touch him but you worry he might physically slap you away if you do. You’ve hurt him in places Javier Peña doesn’t like to admit he has. 

“It’s not that simple,” you say to his thigh. “And you know it.” 

His jaw twitches again. “I’m not asking for your goddamn hand in marriage. I’m just — sick of this ‘will we, won’t we’ shit. I want –,”

“No.” You say and you can feel the word imprint under your sternum. “There’s too much at risk. We’ve been in this fight for too long to get benched and if Noonan even gets a whiff of anything out of whack with her agents, she’ll . . . I want to, Javi, can’t you see that? I really want to – in case I didn’t make that crystal fucking clear. I want to, but there’s no trying for people like us. In a place like this.” The firm weight in your voice pushes on something that makes him look at you again. That rage has dissipated, melted, leaving only a corporeal ache. His brown eyes were endless in their confusion, their disappointment, their hurt. Please, he begs without words. You swallow, your thumbnail digging into your palm to keep yourself from launching yourself across the bench seat of his truck and into his lap. “I want to, Javi. I want . . . you.” 

He drops your gaze as if it burned him. He shifts back, hand coming up to cover his mouth, the side of his knuckle rubbing his upper lip as if coaxing whatever was sitting just behind his teeth back down his throat. 

Javier stares out into the oppressive Bogota night, his clavicle dewy with sweat and he shakes his head.

“Save it.”

You actually flinch. God, you knew it was going to hurt but you never thought it would hurt this much. Hurts so much it claws up your chest with cut-metal knives until you can’t breathe. Until you can’t see as tears flood your eyes.

“Javi, please.” Your voice is calm, despite the small implosion in your chest. “Don’t–,”

“No, I mean – look.” He points out across the dashboard.

The door that has been shut tight for the past three hours has opened. El Corto, a man who lives up to his name, pokes his round face around the edge of the door, glancing up and down the street with the paranoia of someone who trafficks drugs for a living. You turn your head into your shoulder to act like you are adjusting the firearm on your hip to wipe your eyes. Beside you, Javier turns the safety of his handgun and slips it into the back of his jeans.

“You good?” He sounds like Javier, your friend, and that swell of confidence gives you the strength to kick down a door into a whole nest of narcos. You meet his eyes and nod. 

The air is no cooler out in the open when you slip out of Javier’s truck into the dark night of Bogota. Javier strides across the black street, eyes just as fast as El Corto, paranoia just as high. There’s never any telling if the narcos are alone and that’s why you hang back just a bit, eyes on Javier and a dozen other places. 

“El Corto,” Javier snaps, sharp and demanding. The voice of authority. The narco freezes, narrow shoulders going taught. You keep eyes on his hands, your own hovering over your weapon in case he chooses to go for his. “Ven aquí. Tenemos algunas–,”

Without warning, El Corto takes off running, darting off down an alleyway. 

“Fuck,” Javier hisses and pulls his shirt out of his pants, experience the cruelest teacher. But you’ve already passed him –  running your favorite way to unwind, train, and way to avoid your problems, tearing down the alleyway after the shadow sprinting into the night. 

There is something singular about running that is more addicting than any drug the narcos peddled. A chosen target. A finite end. The only thing you had to count on, the only thing to worry about, is how hard you had to pump your arms, the length of your stride, the control of your breathing. Hunting down narcos was a breeding ground for chaos. But not this. This made sense. 

El Corto, despite having about half your stride, makes up for his short stature with speed. You catch only a glimpse of his jacket, then his shoe. A mile through an empty street and he finally comes into view. You’re gaining on him. The unrestrained creature in your chest roars and blocks out the searing pain in your calves, under your ribs. God, you swear you can almost smell him.

Maybe all animals, big or small, can sense the moment before the trap ensnares around them because without warning, El Corto darts left, leaping over a wrought iron fence into the lower levels of an apartment building. He’s gone before you can blink.

Snarling, you squeeze the fence railing as you tuck your legs over it, the momentum of your run clearing you from the tips. 

A voice in your head and possibly behind you is yelling at you to wait, don’t go inside without backup, but you can’t stop. You can’t help it. If you can’t have who you want, this is what you want. This is what you need.

And you need a fucking win. 

You burst through the screen door to an empty concrete room – torn carpet, wall paint chipped away, maybe an old living room – a flash of jeans around the hallway at the end giving a fraction of an indication of your target. So you take off after him, rounding the corner. You watch as he nearly runs through a faded yellow door, the wood cracking and splintering from the force as it slams open into the wall. The door ricochets off the wall, nearly slamming close again, just as you reach it, but the brunt of your shoulder knocks it back again.

And something cracks you across the chest. 

Powder. Blue. Lots of it.

You stumble, your eyes and nostrils burning, as it seizes in your lungs. You cough and hack, trying desperately to unseal it from your lungs, but it barely budges, barely slides loose. Blind and gasping from the heat of your run and through the powder, you veer off course, stumbling into what feels like boxes. Your knees tremble, suddenly unsteady on your feet. 

Through your watery eyes, you watch as El Corto drops the plastic bag that used to contain the powder, a malicious glint in his eyes.

“Puta,” he spits, the slur hardly original for a female DEA agent. He steps back and sheds the gloves you didn’t realize he had been wearing, still watching you with twisted interest. 

You’re no longer coughing, but the air still hasn’t settled in your body. You feel the heat in your lungs rise, expand, then fall, against your skin, as if it is in sync with your heartbeat. With every breath, a sour, sticky warmth presses against every joint in your body, every bone. There’s a knot building at the base of your spine, tightening your hips, and you stumble until you’re seated on one of the boxes, which you now see as packing crates. 

You swallow but your mouth is dry. Head heavy. Distant. Your eyes feel swollen in your skull.

“What the fuck did you do to me?” you whisper. 

He’s not scowling at you, you realize, he’s leering. Eager. Excited. He takes a step towards you. 

A floor above, you hear the sound of the door being breached and Javier calling out your name. El Corto scowls, as though his favorite toy had been taken away, before he tears himself away to the narrow window on the other side of the room. More shipping crates have been stacked against the wall and El Corto scurries up it, unlatching the window. He pauses, glancing back over his shoulder at you.

“Diviértete para mí, putita,” he waves with three fingers as Javier crashes into the room, his gun raised. He spots El Corto just as he slips up through the narrow window – the space no bigger than the width of a child – his foot kicking down the tower of boxes. Javier nearly nabs his ankle, leaping up the concrete wall, as the narco disappears into the night.

His open palm striking against the humid wall is a wet slap. “Fuck,” he snarls, this time pounding with the heel of his fist, “we almost fucking had him. What the fuck ha–,”

He turns and meets your gaze for the first time. His mouth drops in horror.

Sweat blooming across your forehead, you lean over on a crate, limbs trembling, breathing uneven. Every scrap of fabric over your skin burns, your thighs burn, your blood burns, you are burning. The sweat peaks in droplets that run down the back of your neck, under your armpits. Whatever he hit you with makes you want to take off every inch of your clothes –maybe then you could fucking breathe – but even then, it wouldn’t be enough. 

He’s got you by the shoulders, forcing you to look at him, before you realize what’s happened.

“Talk to me.” Javier snaps, that authoritative force sharp and demanding, and it sends an aching bolt between your legs. You whimper in pain, your eyes fluttering. He shakes you. “Stay awake and tell me what happened. I need you to focus. ”

Your lips feel puffy, overripe and ready to split, your jaw tight and throbbing. “H-h-hit m-me with blu-ue – don’t–don’t know what i-it is.” 

Javier steps closer and the scent of his cologne hits you like a train. Groaning, a strange, unwelcome instinct yanks your head down into the curve of his neck, the source of the smell. The touch of his skin beneath your lips is a balm – cool egg yolk over a fresh burn – and you bury your face in deep.

“Oh, fucking Christ, Javi.” Your voice trembles, wavering down into a low moan. That same alien instinct latches your hands over his shoulder, nails digging into the cotton. But it’s not alien, you realize through the muggy, humid fog in your mind – you know this feeling. You are intimately aware of the coiling knot between your legs, your soaked underwear, the tightness of your nipples. But this can’t be happening. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t hurt like this. 

You gasp, in real pain, a throb that starts clenching your cunt before rippling up your spine and locking your shoulders. You hunch against him, waiting for the contraction to pass. 

“What is it?” Javi holds you, panic evident in his voice. You swear you can hear his heartbeat in his neck. “What’s wrong? Talk to me, goddamn it.” He demands with no bite in his command. 

He peels you off him, you hiss, ripped out of the soothing embrace of his arms, and he makes you look at him. His eyes are wide, mouth twitching. The entirety of his chest is blue, most of powder from your skin covering his shirt.

He cups your cheeks, trying to see if the powder has left an acid burn, as another wave hits and you lock your body, now a battleground against the strangling desire to turn your face into his wide palm and inhale. There’s liquid making the crotch of your pants sticky and it’s embarrassing. It’s mortifying and silly and the ounce of sanity still left in your head keeps an iron grip on every muscle in your body – sanity telling you to not fucking do this. Don’t do this to him. Not when it would mean so much to him.

To you. 

But fuck, you want it. You need it. You might actually die without it.

Tears spring into your eyes, making a gooey muck as they slide down your cheeks and mix with the powder. Whatever this is, you have to fight it.

His eyes dart to your tears, the little bit of powder still on your face, and without thinking, he brushes your tears away with his thumbs.

Sanity cracks the whip – if it gets on him, then –

With the last ounce of strength, you shove him back, as far away from you as you possibly can. The second his warmth is gone from your skin, you tremble and your knees give out. Fresh tears, spurred on by the pain, by the fear, by the shame, spill from your eyes and you curl up against the wall. 

“D-don’t, Javi, don’t. I th-think it’s t-t-transderm-mal–,”

“What do you–,”

You watch helplessly as his pupils contract and then expand wildly, black swallowing that aching brown. He shakes his head like a bewildered animal, sweat already bleeding across his skin, and he stumbles back onto a springy metal cot on the opposite wall. He blinks, hand tightening around his knee. It makes his forearm flex and you have to physically close your eyes, the sight forcing your cunt to clench down on nothing. 

“What . . . what the fuck is this shit?”

You bite your lip, your chin tucked to your shoulder as your body cramps, punishing you for denying it the only source of relief. You squint at him and see he’s half-hard in his jeans. You whimper.

“I-I don’t know . . . new– new party drug?” You grunt, your head thrown back against the wall. God, your skin is going to melt right off your bones.

“This is way fucking worse than ecstacy,” Javier murmurs, his jaw tight. “Fuck, got a bit on me, but you . . .”

He blinks at you, eyes glassy, with sudden and total understanding, with perfect clarity why you shoved him away, and what exactly you need. 

He murmurs your name and you gasp, another cramp yanking new tears down your cheeks. 

“J-Javier,” you swallow thickly, “I know what I s-said before, a-and in the car, but if you ever cared about me, p-please . . . please, just –,”

You can’t encompass all that you need into words, but you hope he understands, is feeling kind despite all that you had done to him. Your bones ache, skin too tight.

He shakes his head, but weakly, his eyes caught on your throat, the wetness clinging to your lips. “You’re just saying that because of the drugs. We have to call Murphy. Get us to a hospital or something.”

“Javi,” you whine and maybe it is the drugs, or maybe he has an inkling of how much it hurts, but he’s across the room in an instant. He grabs you by the shoulders and hauls you to your feet. He drops his head and inhales like he can draw the heat from your blood. The tip of his nose dragged across your jaw is a cube of ice against the furnace of your skin. You shudder, hands clasping around his shoulders, dragging him against you, his hands cupping your hips as if to steady him. 

“I-I’ll give you this.” Javier Peña doesn’t stutter. Your eyelids weigh a thousand pounds as you draw your gaze up to him. “I’ll help, cariño, and then we call Murphy. Okay?” 

You nod, dizzy and overheated and sick with wanting. You nod and tilt your hips forward into his fingers as they pop open the button of your jeans. The sound of the slide of the zipper drives a shiver through you and you feel his cock, fully hard, against your thigh. 

His lips brush your cheek, his voice slurred, dripping slow in molasses, sweet and dark. “I’ll help. I’ll give you what you need.”

The first press of his fingers against your pussy rubs slippery and wet. With a sigh of relief, you drop your head against the wall, hips shoving into his hand, begging for more.

“Fuck,” he wheezes. “You’re already soaking.”

“More, Javier, more.” 

He grinds his cock against your thigh to soothe his own ache. He nods slowly as if dazed, his eyes locked onto to where his hand disappears inside your jeans. “Y-yeah, okay.”

If any hesitation remains, it’s gone when he sinks two fingers inside of you and taps up. You moan and he shoves his knee between your legs. 

“You like that, pretty girl? Does that help?”

“Yes,” you gasp into his neck, his fingers rocking into you. “Yes, Javier, yes!” 

His touch douses the ache, the fire, across your skin, in your spine. With every snap of his wrist, he draws away the heat from your exposed, too-sensitive nerves, easing the lighting storm in your low stomach. The noises you’re making, the noises your cunt makes against his fingers – it should embarrass you, should draw red up into your cheeks and ears, but it’s just more release. You yowl like an animal in heat and Javier’s groin jerks against you. You gain enough sentience to realize he’s fucking you with his jeans on up the wall, his hand never slowing or easing. You can feel yourself gush between his knuckles. 

“You’re almost there, muñeca, I can feel it. Just give it to me. Come for me,” he pants into your clavicle, the spread of bone across your chest. You tighten at the thought of his breath against your nipples, his teeth on the soft weight of your breast –

And you do. You come with the easy brush of his thumb against your clit. White lightning soothes the rage beneath your skin and you shudder in his arms, forehead collapsing against his shoulder. The snap of his hips against your thigh is a bruising rhythm, harsh, feral, an understanding that only something rough and wild can actually save your life. 

“Is that better, querida?” His wide palm pushes the hair back from your damp neck, cradling your heated cheek. His thumb brushes just under your bottom lip. You can feel his own fever, radiating from his skin. “Can we get you somewhere safe?”

But you’re still too high, too taut, to answer him. Another one builds, stacks up on itself every time his rock-hard cock digs into your hip. He scissors his fingers and you bear down onto his thigh. 

“Fuck,” he mutters, but without exhaustion or anger. He sounds almost gleeful. When he looks at you, his pupils are blown wide, sweat making his skin glow. The skin around his mouth is damp. “Alright, I’m not gonna stop. You can have one more. One more, querida.” 

His shoulders tense, the muscles in his back shifting, as he changes the angle of his fingers, renews the pressure of his thumb on your clit. He brushes against something deep inside of you, wet and spongy and never before reached and you arch your back in response, air sucked from your lungs. His thigh nearly lifts you off the floor. 

“Oh, that’s it, isn’t it?” He taps the spot again and tears flood your eyes and spill down your cheeks. 

“Oh my god, Javi,” you murmur and he seems to like that. You clamp down around him and his hips stutter, his moan deep and coming from an ache in his chest. He inserts another finger and your cunt sucks him in, greedy for more. 

He eases back into his rhythm, raggedly humping your hip, the rough material of his jeans burning between your thighs. 

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” he breathes. “Fuck, I knew it would fucking feel this good. You’re clenching down on me so hard, baby.” 

On the tip of your next orgasm, the haze clears for just a second and you catch him in the eye. This isn’t just the drugs, you know, this isn’t just an excuse for both of you. This is hating to see the other one in pain. This is sharing a worry for a bit of yourself that lives in another body. What passes along the length of your gaze is the exact thing you feared losing. 

Selfishly, you’d rather not have him like this, than not having him at all. 

But this is what it could be, he tells you through an open, gasping mouth, through eyes that pin you to the wall, this is what we could have every day, every night. If you just let me in. 

If you just –

“Come for me.” 

You answer with his name, on a cry high and sharp, and you’re coming – harsh, fast, exploding as you drench him, his fingers pressing roughly into that one sweet spot. 

Javi slumps forward, the weight of him nearly stifling, as he gasps, his hips stilling, stuttering, stopping. His skin flushes cold for a second, sweat cooling his fever, his face buried in your neck. 

You feel it. Against your thigh. You swallow in surprise, the fog parting briefly again. 

“Javi, did you . . .”

He wrenches his hand out of you, releasing his grip on your hip as he lowers you down. 

“I’m not fucking calling Murphy,” he grits out.

*~*~*

Javier is a man of singular focus. Almost dogged and single-minded in his hunt, it’s rare he is even capable of listening to the voice of reason. It’s a different voice than his own that tells him when he’s doing something monumentally stupid. There’s a part of him that knows exactly why that voice sounds a lot like you, unconsciously knowing that you’re the only thing that could give him pause. And yet, there are times when he can shut the voice out, can shut out everything inside of him screaming at him not to do the thing he’s going to do. But this, this decision, genuinely has him torn. There is no right way to do this.

Well, there is a right way. One where he takes you to dinner, buys you flowers, walks you home, tucks your hair behind your ear, kisses you softly at first, then rough, until you beg him to come up the stairs. Despite what some may think, he is capable of being romantic. He can be sweet. He can ask nicely. 

But that is something he is not capable of right now. 

In his post-nut clarity – because, yes, he did come in his pants like a twelve year old with his first porn mag after having his fingers up your cunt for what was all too short – he realized the room you both were in was some sort of safehouse. 

A cot against the wall. A portable stove with something in the pan black and sticky. The crates are empty of any valuables – by the shape and length, most likely guns – but the few that are still full have a few bags of that elicit blue powder. He makes a mental note, somewhere on the very distant laundry list in his brain, to take a bag – with gloves on and wrapped up in several other baggies – to have it tested at the lab. Because whatever this stuff is, it might actually be more dangerous than cocaine.

Especially to idiots like him, he thinks roughly as he yanks the thread-bare mattress off its wiry frame onto the floor. He snatches up the cotton sleeping bag at the foot of the frame and unzips it, the inside facing down. This is such a monumentally stupid idea, he knows it is, but he can already feel that cramp building up his thighs, his cock throbbing awake, arousal clamping down on the base of his spine. And he just got a whiff of it. He can’t imagine what you’re feeling already. Behind him he hears you moan softly, never one to complain or whine when things get tough or hard, so he goes faster. He tucks up the other end of the sleeping bag in what he hopes is some semblance of comfort, but he wonders if that will even matter to either of you when it hits again which, judging by how hard his cock is growing, is eminent. The wet spot on his thigh, beneath his jeans, is sticky, uncomfortable. He needs no further reason to unbutton them. 

You moan, this time louder, higher, again and he turns to face you, his shirt already undone to his stomach.

You’re pale again, skin glossy and sickly wet. When your eyes flutter open, they’re glassy, gaze distant and unfocused. You twitch when that first cramp settles in deep. He thinks, his mind not entirely his own, about how deep the clutch of your cunt sucked in just his fingers and he shivers. He simultaneously wanted to get this over with and drag it out for days. Have you beneath him for days. 

Your legs tucked up beneath you from where he laid you down, Javi approaches quietly, kneeling as he takes off his shirt and goes to untie your boots. He touches your ankle as gently as he can and you shudder, cracking an eye open. 

“Javier, it’s coming back. It’s coming back and it hurts.”

In addition to the many, many agency violations, this is monumentally stupid because he’s obsessed with you. Has been for a while. Not just in a way that makes him want to fuck you for hours flat on your back, but in a way that your smile is the last thing he sees before he goes to sleep and the first thing on his mind when he wakes up. An obsession with your wellbeing, your safety, your happiness. A persistent coiling thought about your laugh, and strength, and the way you can make grown men twice your size tremble in fear. You’re a hunter, just like him, and with your beauty – your staggering, haunting beauty – how was he not supposed to immediately attach himself to you? It came on slowly, his pathological need to be near you, and once he realized what it was, there was no going back. No turning it off. 

He didn’t mean to tell you when he was drunk, but after bagging another narco, it was like he could see the light at the end of the tunnel. A brief glimpse into a world where you both were safe, and happy, and – god willing – together and in this world, he told you and he was brave about it and you said it back and he felt warm all over. But that was not this world, not his reality. In this one, he has to save you by doing the one thing that may truly well and good fuck him over. 

“Sit up, baby, that’s it.” He eases you into his arms and it’s like his touch drags you back into consciousness. Your fingers dig into his bare arms as you take in his exposed chest. 

“Javi, fuck, I don’t wanna beg, but before when you – you – I felt better. It cleared. I don’t know why or how, but with your fingers inside m-me, it . . . helped.” 

“I know, cariño, and I want to help more.” His thumbs press up under your jaw, tilting your head up to look him directly in the eyes. There’s fear there, pain, and it’s agonizing to him. “But I don’t know if that’s what you want.” 

“What I want? Javi, I–,” your eyes widen in understanding of what he’s offering, of what he’s scared to do. What he’s scared to take without your permission. 

You swallow, a pink flush crawling up your throat. “I . . . I don’t . . . I didn’t want our first time together to be anything like this, but . . .” You shake your head, shuffling closer to him, your breathing thinning as the drugs start to strike matches against your nerves. “I just don’t want you to think it doesn’t mean anything.” 

“It’s gonna mean everything to me, no matter how I get it.” He presses a soft kiss to the corner of your chin, just in front of his thumb. You nod, eyes squeezing shut, as you fight this arousal that claws into your skin like meat hooks. He pulls you to your feet, holding you steady as your knees try to lock up. He unbuttons your shirt with shaking hands. 

You touch his chest like you’ve never seen a man naked before. The hesitant, awed touch of you sends all the blood still remaining in his head straight into his cock. 

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” he murmurs to your cheek, your shirt off your body, his hands tugging your jeans down your hips. You nod again, speechless in your relief, and follow your jeans to the ground. Twisting on the nest he made for you, you slide your bra off, your nipples already tight and perk and waiting for his mouth. You huff, a sound so unlike you it makes him genuinely concerned, as the front of your panties darken again. 

“It’s okay, Javi, this is what I want. I want this.” You hate being vulnerable, he knows this, your attitude a front that leaves no room for sexist comments in the bullpen. And yet, here you are, deflowered and begging for him. You spread your legs for him, eyelids heavy, and he can smell the arousal on you. 

He drops to his knees, unsure where to start first, but the blue powder coursing through his veins demanding he puts his hands on your hips, which he finally acquiesce to. 

“I don’t think I can be gentle,” he admits quietly. He wants to nip, suck, slurp every inch of you, wants to see that perfect body bend to his will, to his turning. He wants to fuck you open and stuff himself up inside you so deep it leaves a mark. In his haze, the instinct to fuck supplies him with an image of you pregnant, bred and full of him, and his cock twitches so hard he drops onto all fours over you. 

You slip your underwear over your toes and your knees take him by the ribs.

“Please, Javi, please.” 

He knows it must hurt, must be so blindingly painful for you to beg like this. You never asked anyone for anything and that independence turned him on and frustrated him to no end. 

“Please, be rough,” you ask him from under your lashes, your body writhing beneath him. His hips, on a separate system than the rest of him, thrust the rough teeth of his zipper against your cunt and you keen, the sound imprinting into every crevice and curve of his brain. “Make it hurt.”

Oh fuck, this might actually be the thing that kills him. 

He hushes you, stills your flushed whimpering with a kiss that ends in teeth against the high curve of your cheek. He noses to your mouth, then down to your ear, where he bites on your earlobe. He’s balancing on one hand as his other tugs his jeans down and off his hips. 

He wants to fuck your tits. Come all over them, have his spend flush up your throat, your chin. He wants to come so hard he blinds you with it. And then he wants to flip you over and fuck your ass with his come-lubed dick. 

You wriggle and whine, legs wrapping around his hips, tugging him down onto you when, half-a-mind away, he realizes he just said all of that outloud.

“Yes, Javi, you can have whatever you want. Fuck me however you want.” His blood is boiling now, the white-hot bomb settling itself in the base of his spine, his balls already tight. Why he’s dragging this out is beyond him and possibly a medical detriment to you. 

“Javi, just fucking put your cock ins–,”

He watches as every conscious thought wiped from your mind, brow heavy, mouth seared open as he plugs you full of him in one rough thrust. You shudder and his elbows buckle, his body locked up tight because if he moves, if he dares to rub his cock through your velvet, hot clutch, he’ll come right there. Your eyes roll back in your head as his cock makes space for itself inside you.

“Javi–,” he claps a wide palm over your mouth, his teeth straining in his jaw, his temple twitching.

“Baby, I know it hurts – I know it fucking does – but I need you to stay still.” It feels too good. You’re too hot, too slippery, and soft. He can feel the hum of words behind his fingers and he shakes his head. “Do not fucking move – I just need to – I have to –,” 

He inches in just a bit more and you both gasp to the ceiling when he bottoms out. Your rough curls against his pelvis sears him, hot and sweet like cinnamon. He drools when he thinks about eating his own come out of you.

You only get one word out, one word that sets his whole world on fire: “Please.” 

He rears back, yanks you up his thighs, hands cupping the backs of your knees and he plows into you. Your tiny fingers that have pulled countless triggers and clapped irons on criminals twitch, tightening into the smelly cotton fabric, your mouth contorted open. His pace, his thrusting, is relentless, unforgiving but the look on your face is pleased, an almost maniacal grin across your lips. 

“Oh, right there, Javi, just like that. Just like that.”

He’s faster than he is precise. Precise comes later when the bestial fog clears from his brain, when the lust bleeds out of his system, when he doesn’t want to hump you like an animal with his teeth bared and cock so deep inside of you it kisses your womb. 

Before his mind entirely succumbs to the mounting arousal, he’s grateful he had the foresight to take the mattress down. If he hadn’t, there’s a good chance he would have fuck you, the bed, and himself right through the paper-thin walls. 

And then he lets go. Lets this thing in his chest and hot behind his groin take over, lets himself indulge in whatever carnal, depraved thing sparks in his mind.

He’s fucking you so hard you’ll both have bruises by morning. 

He watches, transfixed, at the place where his soaked cock disappears through your puffy, wet lips into the mind-numbing heat of your pussy. He can’t stop watching. He barely feels your nails digging into his thighs. 

The walls of your pussy squeeze him and it makes him falter, hitch speed. His gaze is torn away and instantly, it focuses on the bounce and sway of your tits. Sweat droplets roll from your neck into the valley of your breasts and without hesitation he bends to catch them with his mouth, tugging you further down his cock. You cry out, hands digging into his hair, as his tongue drags a wet trail over the top of your breast, the tip flicking your rock hard nipple, then beneath the swell where he meets it with his teeth. 

You jerk, pleasure overwhelming. “Uh – oh – oh – fuck – Javi.” The words leave your mouth truncated, cut short by his rhythmic bouncing. He nuzzles your tit, streaking you with his own sweat, not able to stop fucking up into you to really get a good grip on your breast, but wanting to put the whole thing in his mouth. 

“I’m gonna do it right next time,” he swears fidelity to your skin. He grinds his teeth against your sternum. “Next time I fuck you I’m going to pull you apart bit by bit. Starting with these fucking tits and ending with my tongue up your cunt. Maybe your ass.”

Against his cheek, he feels your skin break out in ridges, your whole body shivering at his words. He leans up, grinning wildly and grinds particularly deep inside of you. You still haven’t fully opened your eyes.

“Oh, you liked that, didn’t you? You want my tongue up your ass. What about my cock, huh? Want my fat fucking cock inside there?” 

You whine, clawing at his chest, as you nod frantically. He could ask anything of you right now and you’d give it to him. And god, he wants so much.

“It’d hurt, baby, you know it would.”

You nod, words tumbling out of your mouth in a mindless babble. “I don’t care. I want it there. I want you inside me. I want it to hurt. I want you to fuck me raw, Javi.”

He groans, more like a growl, rapidly picking up his pace. He lifts your knees higher and fucks up, the change in angle making you moan so loudly it fills up his ears with blood.

“Tell me where you want it. Say it, querida.” 

“I want it in my fucking ass, Javi.” 

His jaw twitching, that primal, unrestrained urge in him wrapping itself around his spine, he shoves you off him. Wetness dribbles down his lap but he doesn’t let himself smell or see it for long, as he flips you onto your hands and knees, sliding in and pummeling your pussy from behind.

You whine, singing for his cock, and collapse onto your elbows, presenting your ass for him. The pair of you really are just fucking animals.

He presses his thumb to your tight hole, the wet slap of his balls against your ass suddenly the least obscene thing in the room. There’s barely enough room for his thumb there and he tips his head back at the thought that no one had ever taken you there before. His. All his and no one fucking else’s. 

“Javi,” you sob, that preening need gone from your voice as though you are begging him not to go further, but desire kept you from voicing what you actually wanted. 

His bottom lip twitches and he leans down and gently bites your shoulder, grounding you and clearing out all fear. Drugs or not, he’d never do anything you didn’t explicitly ask for, but the second this is all over, he’s going to get on his hands and knees and beg you to let him work your ass open. 

“Not tonight, cariño.” He slides his thumb out of you, his wrist twisting as he palms the meat of your ass. “But I’m not leaving this completely untouched.”

He smacks the jiggling flesh until he sees a pink hand print, earning him a yelp from you every time his palm lands. He feels fresh, sticky wetness soak his cock with each slap, enough for it to dribble down his thigh. He’s not going to shower for a week. 

The higher he climbs, the faster that animalistic heat leaves his blood. You’re not as pale as before, the skin of your back growing a nice healthy flush. As his grip around your hips tightens, he feels your cunt clench around him. If he won’t take your ass tonight, he still wants you puffy and sore. He leans back just to watch his cock pound your pink, abused hole.

“I’m close, Javi,” you admit breathlessly. He nods, leaning forward again, that image of your pussy split open for him deliciously sealed in his mind, and he drags his nose down your spine. Sweat from his chest drops and splatters against your skin.

“I know you are, I can feel it. Can I see your face? Watch you? Can I put you on top?”

You nod and he slips out of you for what he hopes will be the last time in his fucking life. He’s no longer drug-crazed, but he is drunk. Pussy drunk. Drunk on you. Imbibed by the juices trailing down his thighs. He shifts and you swing a leg over his hips, immediately swallow him deep inside you. 

Unlike the courtesy he gave you, you give him no time to adjust, grip his chest, and ride him within an inch of his life.

Your tits swinging in his face, he presses his fingers so tight into your thighs, he’ll be able to count the distinct bruises, and plants his feet. He meets you, thrust for thrust, and he watches your competitive nature battle your overwhelming chase for release. 

“Just come, cariño,” he pants. “You’ve done so good tonight. Just fucking come all over my lap. Let go.” 

His words melt something inside of you and you whimper, curling down over him, which he takes to wrap his arms around your back, and roll you under him. He kisses your chin, your temple, the corner of your mouth. His big palm cradling your head, he grinds low and deep, seeking out that place he touched with his fingers. 

“It’s alright. I’ve got you. You can come.” He prods that spot once and it’s all over. You clamp down on his cock, milking him for all he’s worth because as you arch, mouth open, tears down your face, he comes too. He comes and he comes and he comes until he drips out of you and that breaks another orgasm across you, this one bumpy and leaves you shaking. 

He feels dizzy, unsure up from down, the loudest sound he hears is his own blood rushing in his ears. He’s never been more exhausted. 

He can hear the vibration of you saying something against his throat, but nothing is quite working like it’s supposed to, so he slumps off you, his hand never leaving your skin, as he tugs you against him.

He’ll be dried and sticky in only a few hours – you both will – but that doesn’t matter right now. The only thing that does is the feeling of your heartbeat over his. 

*~*~*

Morning, along with the scent of rain, glides in through the open window and your fingers twitch as sunlight hits you. Your eyes fluttering open, you lift your head from the sleeping bag to see wet puddles on the floor under the window, the concrete streaked and stained with water. It must have rained sometime last night and, shockingly, you didn’t hear a thing.

The heatwave had finally broken. 

It’s not until you’re full awake do you realize his hand rests in the cup of your neck, thumb rubbing smooth, soft circles into the hard knot near your shoulder blade. You smile, groaning softly, becoming more relaxed by how good it feels. 

You roll over and greet his eyes. They’re brown again, the hungry blackness gone, but leaving an edge of uncertainty in its wake. 

He wants to know how you feel about last night.

“You fucked up,” you tell him and that worried crease appears between his eyebrows. You inch closer, your hand curling up against his jaw. “All that time last night, all the time you had me under you, and you didn’t kiss me once.”

You close your eyes, drop your head, and press a fervent, determined kiss against his pink lips. You can feel it as he swallows it in, his body shifting forward, hand coming up to your hip. But just as quickly as it starts, he pulls away. 

Javier shakes his head. “I can’t,” he says almost mournfully, eyes downcast. “I don’t want to know – what you taste like, if . . . I can’t kiss you if this is the last time.”

He’s still respecting your boundary, your wishes, while coated in his release and yours. He knows he can’t be selfish with you again.

You wet your lip, hand still on his cheek. 

“Javier, you saved my life last night. That was some kind of fucked up drug, but if you hadn’t been here and did what you did, I think I would have had a heart attack.” He shakes his head, ashamed and desperate to prove you wrong. You understand his hesitation. It felt too good for it to be anything other than a transgression. “And if anything, it showed me something I think I already knew but couldn’t find in myself to admit. I need you, Javi. I need you because I can’t live without you. Because I love you.”

His eyes light up when you return the words he uttered in the bar. None of this is how it should have been – in an abandoned narcos hideout, but god, there’s not a single thing you’d change. 

“Yeah, baby? You mean that?” You nod as hot, natural desire flashes in his eyes as he pulls your body under him and captures your mouth in his. His warm palm cups your hip, your ribs, up under your arm, and pushes your elbow to your head. There’s more to say, more to worry about, but that fucking heatwave over Bogota has finally broken and Javier Peña’s cum is dried and flaky between your thighs. 

“We should call Murphy,” you giggle, withdrawing your tongue from his mouth. He shakes his head, the blunt edge of his teeth against your cheek. “There’s a deadly new drug on the streets. Lives are at stake.”

“My dick is at stake,” he murmurs, lips hovering over your skin, drawing your knee up to his ribs as he slots himself between your thighs. The smile slides off your face as he thumbs your raw clit in rough, desperate circles. 

“I thought you said you were going to take it slow next time,” you huff, hips rolling against his stiff cock. 

“I will. Gonna take you to dinner. Cup your ass over a distractingly short dress. Buy you flowers and fucking gold jewelry . . . then I’m going to take you home and open you up with my fingers, then my tongue.” 

“So what’s this?” You gasp against his neck as he sinks his cock into you. 

He groans, grunts, as if he hadn’t spent the better part of the night making your cunt his personal possession. 

“This is me, fucking you, before breakfast. Then we call Murphy. Any objections?” 

You squeeze your knees around him, ankles hooked across his low back, sucking a mark into his neck. 

“Not at all.” 

When you do go public, not shying away from holding hands in the office, or openly walking in at the same time from the same car, Noonan is irate, but can’t bring herself to cut her two best agents loose. It seems catching Pablo Escobar matters more than some silly, little government-issued guidelines. She’d get her day in court, but not today. Not for a while. 

Noonan is annoyed. 

Murphy is not. 

“Came across some new party drugs and not a single thing happened, right?”

“You could have found it, taken it home for you and Connie to enjoy,” you say as you slide your arm across Javier’s back, his hand on your hip. He rarely ever takes his hands off you now. “But, no, you bailed on me instead.” 

“Sounds like you should be thanking me, instead of busting my balls.”

“He’s right, baby,” Javier nuzzles your neck. “Could have been him stuck in that basement with me, horny as a cat in fucking heat.” 

You shrug as Murphy makes a face. “I blame the heatwave.”

He leans into your ear. “And I blame your fucking ass in that skirt. I’m gonna take you home, make good on my promise. Any objections?”

“Not at all.” 

[lindsay00000008]

Flight Risk Pt. 2

[Previous part - Flight Risk Pt. 1]

Pet Whump Series - Carewhumpers

CW: systemic pet whump, dehumanization, brainwashed/drugged/conditioned whumpee, self/internal-conditioning, struggle with memory loss, speech impairment

Recap: Frank steps away and Honey's head raises to find him. But the room is getting a little fuzzy, and the lights are too bright. Arms find hers and prop her upright before pulling her to slide to the edge of the table.

"I get my cert in a few months, so we'll see if they still like me, yeah? I'll grab the cage."

Honey's limbs fold gracelessly as she's lowered into a padded cube by stiff hands. A more friendly hand lifts her chin and brushes her bangs out of her eyes, then rubs a finger on the bridge of her nose soothingly. The too-bright lights are doused when a lid goes over top and clicks.

"Wait," comes a voice, and the light flickers. Luce's scent envelops her as the flannel drops to cover her head and shoulders. Honey pulls it close and curls on her side, feeling the soft walls of the space give slightly as her knees press into it. She feels cocooned and safe.

She's jostled slightly, and the cube moves. Wheels, she thinks. She blinks open her eyes to see movement. The world floats by behind a metal grid, obscured slightly by the dangle of her collar and leash, coiled up and zip-tied to the grid beside a drip bottle. Hamsters, she thinks.

A lot of noises pass by. Beeping, whirring, shoes, doors, and finally a hollow metal clang. The cube jolts, tilts slightly, then levels out. The sound of castors on metal echoes. A slap over the top of the cube, clicks beneath, a tug. Finally everything stills. Footsteps lead away.

The light is dim. Honey is very drowsy. But it's hard to fall asleep with all the noises about - things hitting the walls of the small room, animals yapping and metal rattling, and people speaking loudly to one another about ratchet straps and ETAs. A large bang of doors closing, mechanical parts clanking.

After a while, everything is dark and calm. Sound comes in starts and stop, whirring loud then quiet. Honey's cube shifts slightly, jostled with the others in the room, but it doesn't feel unsteady. She lifts her face to peer through the gridlines.

Taking up most of the space are crates of fur-pets, stacked two-high and secured with a strap. A barking starts up as she watches, making her grimace.

Don't they know to be quiet? But it doesn't seem like any humans are in the space. Maybe it'll be ok.

Still, the sound makes her chew her lips nervously.

Along the opposite wall is a large cube. She assumes it's the same as hers. Inside is an ally-pet, draped in a stylish brown leather coat and matching knee-high boots. It sprawls - as much as it can sprawl in the small cage, it's body much bigger than hers- legs splayed apart and its spine hunched. Honey proper herself against the side of her cube to get a better look.

The other pet stares at Honey across the space with what she thinks might be malignant curiosity, but when the pet's head droops at a silly angle and its eyes blink slow and liquid she realizes it's just relaxed. Is that what she looks like, staring back at it? She giggles before she can stop herself, the sound foreign and reminding her too much of Luce. She smacks a lagging hand over her mouth, hitting her nose painfully. A pet shouldn't try to imitate their owner. That's bad.

Her eyes water. She misses Luce. And ever since that pinch on her neck - the needle, a syringe, it's called. Drugs in it. Drugged? No, they helped me, Frank helped me be calm. They helped me be calm, and being calm helps me be good - but she doesn't feel like she's being good. She's looking around too much, being loud. Making noises like Luce. She could hurt herself, pretending. Did hurt herself, smacking her face like that. She should put her head down and go to sleep.

But the room is loud now, so loud, all of the sudden, and it tilts, making Honey want to box out her limbs and press against the sides of the cube. The cage. She feels terror prickle beneath the syrupy weight infusing her body. Her stomach flips when the room shakes and seems to bend in on itself. Frank left his warm hand on her brain, smoothing away wrinkles and loose neurons. But his grip is unsteady. The fear seeps in.

She yelps before she can stop herself, the fingers of one hand slotting into the cool metal grid, the other gripping tight to Luce's flannel, as if a sudden wind might whip it away. The air is still. But it sounds so angry.

"Hu-Hey!" a shout from the other cube has her flinch. Are there humans in here? She should have been quiet. She's been bad, untrained, hopeless, just like they said.

"J-jus, ap-plan, play-een. P-plane." The other pet's eyes find her, its voice hoarse and loud over the whirring and barks. Plane, she repeats in her head. Plane. She knows what that is. Took one to Montana, before high school. Broke my foot on that trip, dad was angry...

The other pet is being bad. It could hurt itself. She should ignore it. But she finds its eyes across the space and she doesn't want to look away, even as her own lids flutter and her vision blurs. He has those sweet brown eyes... like that guy I dated in college.

That thought is so vivid, so distracting. She catches it and holds it, holds on so tight that by the time she realizes its gone, she has no trace of it. The pet across from her closes its eyes. She should do that too. She doesn't feel like she's in danger anymore. The cube sits level and still, the humming noise even and loud. Not angry now, she thinks. Sleep licks at her, drilling into her bones as the humming envelops her. Honey drags Luce's flannel over her eyes, puts her hands beneath her cheeks, and sleeps.

Taglist:

@octopus-reactivated, @3-2-whump, @paperprinxe, @whumpsoda, @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees, @decaffeinatedtimetraveler94

Comment to be added/removed (not sure if y'all want to be added for all pet whump posts in this big series or just any future parts of Flight Risk, or both! Feel free to specify)

P.S.: I wanted a way to distinguish human from animal pets, while keeping the dehumanization aspect (so no "pet-person" or "human-pet"). I use Ally-pet = human, fur-pet = animal. Is there a tumblr term for these already?

[pendarling]

Captive

CW: Stockholm syndrome

"Uh oh," Villain runs a hand up and down their shoulder. "Did our dear Hero fall in love?" They cooed and lifted their face.

Captivity could do that. To break someone down so much that they turned into an obedient pet for their captor.

Hero didn't respond; their eyes turned away shamefully as a tinge of red lit across their face, confirming Villain's speculations.

"Hmm… what are we going to do with you?" They thought aloud. Although they didn't expect this, Villain could still make something out of it. Hero wasn't supposed to be under their captivity for this long, but what's done is done, and they must work through the problem.

Their hand climbed back down to their throat, eyes still staring at Hero intensely, "Was it this?" They rubbed a thumb against the leather collar. It wasn't anything glamorous, but it did have Hero's name imprinted on it. "Did you like being my pet and living under my possession?"

Hero nodded with embarrassment. "Yes…"

It brought joy to their eyes, looking at their once proud opponent turn soft at the touch. "Don't you know you're supposed to be this city's knight in shining armour? What would the press say if they knew about this?" they chuckled.

They watched them hesitate, probably struggling to keep up with their wants and needs. They'd have to pick one.

"Look at what a little bit of depravity could do." They murmured and walked behind Hero. Their boots thumped against the cold concrete floor, and walked up to a chair behind them. Villain sighed deeply; with an obedient Hero came undisrupted plans, but then they'd need to start focusing on Hero's mental and emotional state to keep them in place.

Stockholm Syndrome was powerful, but right now, the change in mental state was only just beginning. To keep it going, they'd need to apply consistent reinforcement of the belief that Villain had cared for them.

Right now, Hero stood in front of them, their back facing them, unmoving from their position and likely too scared to move from their spot. It had taken some time, but after day four and a bit of threatening, Hero had learnt they must always stand in the centre of their cell when Villain entered, or they wouldn't get dinner.

They smiled at how well everything had worked out up until now. Their gaze turned to the plate of food they had brought, which now sat on the bedside table. An idea had set in, and Villain snapped their fingers.

"Bring me your plate, Hero."

The other jolted and ran over to the plate before handing it to them. Poor thing, they were probably so eager to eat after being controlled so much.

"Sit down," Villain said, and before they could react, Hero nervously sat down on their lap. Their eyes buzzing with excitement.

Villain smiled, "On the floor, sweetheart." They jerked their knee up, and Hero scrambled off of them. From this angle, Hero looked so defeated and flustered that it almost made them feel terrible about their situation.

"Sorry." They mumbled under their breath.

Villain dismissed the apology. Instead, they took their time taking a spoonful of food and leaning down. "Open." They nudged the cutlery to their lips, and Hero had done so already.

They had been patiently letting Hero take their time; each bite after the other was another soft power over their body. They were asserting control over them minute by minute.

Some water followed the last bite, and at last, Hero could breathe. They hadn't realized they were holding down each breath until they were left panting. Villain was satisfied for today.

"You did excellent today, Hero." They wiped at the corners of the lips. "I think you've grown comfortable in your cage." They leaned back in the wooden chair.

They could envision it already; they'd set up some proper furnishing, a carpet, and maybe some cushions, and then later, they would reward them with a better bed if Hero played extra good. A reward and punishment system that consisted of taking and giving something of value to Hero might change their behaviour if they stayed diligent.

For now, they supposed, they could reward them.

"What do you think, Hero?" They spoke. Their thoughtful eyes looked at them, "Do you think you deserve to be rewarded now or later?"

"Hm?"

Hero was such a good little pup; training them would take no time at all. "Up." They motioned with their hand, and Hero went from sitting on their knees to raising themselves enough to face them. Villain pushed the hair atop their head back until Hero was tilted at the right angle.

They pressed onto their lips without warning or further preparation. It wasn't as soft as they wanted, but it was expected, seeing the starvation they'd previously put Hero through.

When they backed up from Hero, they could tell the spell had undoubtedly affected them. They didn't even need to use aggressive torture. They'd just use their voice, and at their command, Hero would listen. Their face was turning crimson, and their eyes were watery. It was an image Villain kept in their head as they grinned widely again.

"So desperate already? My, where did our brave Hero go?"

"Villain, hhhngh… please." They whined.

They didn't know what their adversary was begging for, and perhaps they assumed they had a chance of spending more time alone with them. More time to do something else rather than just kissing. They gleamed at how one small step could destroy Hero. "You know you can't ask for more than what you deserve, love." Villain rubbed their chin. With that, Villain made their way to the exit.

Hero hung their head in shame; it was fine if they began questioning their role in Villain's life. They knew they'd set their plans in motion, and soon enough, they wouldn't need them anymore.

For now, all Villain needed to do was add to their imagination to keep those fantasies active for as long as possible.

~~~

MASTERLIST

[frostbitten-writer]

I merely have a humble request.

https://youtu.be/7GzK3ufAA8w?si=_lVrsceG1GnwW_jX

Would it be possible for you to write a fic of this hero/ villain interaction for Hobie with this video as a reference? (Doesn’t matter if he’s Spider-Punk or Prowler)

Don’t stress about this request, take your time ❤️

- @hyperfix-wip

Oh my goodness, hii!! You cured my depression because I finally got something to do. This was really funny to write, but it can be a bit bulky (let’s just ignore that lol)

Pairing: Spiderpunk x Blackcat!reader /fluff

Warnings/tags: no use of Y/N, slight description of R -> as in clothes

Word count: 1.4k

An interesting beginning of the year?!

‘It was the last day of the year’

‘The city was as bustling and busy as ever’

‘This is where he lived’

‘This was his home’

Spider punk was again out for patrol, and even if he didn’t want to do so, he had this feeling that some crime could happen on New Year’s Eve. At this time of the year, it would get really cold and icy, causing Gwen to always scold him for still wearing such a thin jacket, but oh boy, as if he would get another one and betray his current one. Many crimes would be committed right now as well, due to the cheerful and incautious people, plus the fact that he would get sick more often due to his weak immune system. How ironic is it that the most powerful person in the city, who is supposed to help and save people, can’t even take care of himself? He landed on the top of a building, stuffing his hands in his pockets and slumping his shoulders in the cold while watching every person pass.

The people were walking under the snowfall, kids having fun and playing with snowballs. The Christmas market was as alive as always, the sound of Christmas music and people’s voices mixing together into a soothing background noise. The smell of cinnamon and gingerbread was swaying in the air, the warm lights creating a magical atmosphere. What could go wrong? Even Spider punk himself started debating whether he should play with the kids, but he was freezing so that was off the list. His ears were numb and cold underneath his mask, and he really began thinking of getting a new jacket. Or maybe he should just get a hat with spikes to keep himself warm..?

Swinging from building to building, he started to grow tired of nothing happening. He was freezing cold, and yet everything was fine?! This was such a waste of time, seriously, why even bother to-

“Thief..!!” Two women screeched, tripping slightly in their heeled boots as their bags were ripped out of their hands.

Finally. Maybe this wasn’t such a waste of time as he thought.

The sound of stilettos clacking against the asphalt was getting quicker and more faint, so Spider-Man had to quickly catch up to his most loved nemesis.

He was lazily swinging behind you, not even bothering to properly try and catch you. He was just observing you for a second, how your hair flew in every direction due to the wind and sprinting, how your black leather contrasted to the white fur on your suit.

When you turned to one alley, he quickly did so too, copying your every move.

When you were fully convinced that no one followed you, you slowed down to thoroughly look through the bags. You were so caught up with rummaging through them that you didn’t even take in your surroundings. Brows furrowed and lips pursed as you scoffed at the useless junk you found, seriously, what do those old and posh chicks need this stuff for?! Not even some cash…

“Stealing on New Year’s Eve?” A voice spoke up and you slightly jolted up like the true Blackcat you are, only to see Spiderpunk idly dangle down from a streetlight, his red suit topped with different layers of clothing and spikes on his head sharp and shiny. Just by his white eye slits, you could tell that he was amused by the sudden meeting.

Softly panting and pushing your hair back you looked up at him, cheeks flushed by the winter night.

“Well, people are mostly inattentive at this time, so why not take a chance?” You teased, perfect white teeth shining in a mischievous grin.

“Usually people sit in their homes, drinking expensive drinks and celebrating another lame night that just has an excuse to get drunk…” He giggled deeply, his webs that kept him from falling, slowly catching some white flocks of snow. “I could ask the same thing, why not stay at home.. drink champagne with a lovely someone and then cuddle while looking at the fireworks? Don’t tell me that you don’t have this opportunity…” Your mock earned a scoff from the guy, rolling his eyes and head in annoyance.

“Why you askin’? Wanna keep a lonely bloke some company or somethin’?” He teased back, enjoying your little back and forth flirting- oh sorry banter.

“Just curious..” You responded in your calm and seductive voice, that sometimes, just a bit, had an effect on the guy. A shame that you would never fully know if you were affecting him again…

“I heard that was bad for cats, might consider staying careful, huh?” He carefully jumped on the ground with a small thud, the snow beneath his combat boots crunching. He was close enough to just snatch the bag from you, web you together and get you to the police station, and yet he stayed. Awaiting another jab.

“I am always careful! Never was I tricked by someone! Could you say that for yourself as well?”

“Oh cmon, cat, I never get tricked. Not even by a beautiful cat like you..”

You smirked at his statement, discreetly taking small and proportioned steps back. Maybe he noticed them, maybe he didn’t. But he surely didn’t do anything to stop you. So you took the bait. You turned around and with a small snicker started to run.

You were running on thin ice, no you were really running on ice. Maybe wearing heels without supporters was a bad idea? You heard a loud sigh behind you, and just when you were getting more confident in your feet, you felt your ankle get sprained, making you fall in your heels. When will you learn?!

Just when you thought you were gonna meet the hard ground, you felt strong and warm arms catch you up and hold against their chest.

“Called it.” He commented with a slight edge of annoyance, yet his touch and embrace stayed gentle. The small puffs of warm air were creating mist that rose into the night sky, the snowstorm only intensifying and some snowflakes falling on your long lashes.

He gently wiped the detailed snowflakes away with his thumb, his fingers lightly brushing over your skin. You felt your cheeks burn at the spot he just caressed and you swallowed thickly at the touch.

“Wha’? Cat got your tongue?” He smirked behind his mask, his white eyes staring down at you.

“Oh shut up, spider…” You grumbled in a hushed voice, almost getting flustered by the charming man in front of you.

“Can’t handle the truth? Oh cmon, kitty, be better than that…” He smirked and pushed his mask up to his nose bridge, revealing his smirk and silver piercings that were shimmering in the dark.

You cupped his cheek and you could feel him subtly lean into you, his face cold against the inner side of your smooth hand. You glanced down to his lips and then back to his eyes, your fingers discreetly moving to his plump and pierced lips.

“Oh I can handle many things, can you?” You asked with big and innocent eyes, the white fur of your dark leather jacket complimenting your skin perfectly.

“Wanna bet? I’m sure you’ll be surprised…” He smirked, his deep voice vibrating against your chest. He slowly started to lean closer, faces only inches apart, lips parted and-

“Sorry, spider, but I guess you’ll have to sign into a waiting list. Can’t just let ya kiss me like that, can I~?”

You quickly lashed out of his grip and snatched the women’s bags out of his hands, the last thing you could see was his bewildered face and open mouth.

With your advanced tech, you ran away and climbed up some moist walls, the sound of your heels slowly disappearing as you reached the top in the whistling wind.

The dumbfounded spider punk was left alone in the alley, looking up at the direction you just escaped from. He was about to sigh and get back to his patrol when he stuffed his hands in his pockets and felt a small piece of paper in one of them.

“Eh? The hell…”

‘Stay safe, my spidey. Don’t stay out for too long and come home by eleven p.m. Maybe we can have the champagne we talked about. Your baby 💋’

Maybe he did go home to you after some more hours of patrol. Who knows? And maybe, just maybe, you really did look at the flashy fireworks while standing in your shared living room, hugging each other with a blanket draped over your shoulders. At home you were just you and your Hobie. No Spider-Man’s or Blackcat’s. But since he wasn’t home… maybe he should catch up on you and finish the conversation you interrupted~

[gingerlurk]

Lovers' Crest | Chapter 9: The Save

Din Djarin x f!Reader

Masterlist

Summary: How to save you… Din Djarin has one hope.

Word count: 2.3k

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, slow burn, non-canon (the Razor Crest never gets destroyed, it also gets upgraded with a cabin), canon-typical violence, eventual smut/filth, post season 3, Our Reader really Goes Through It this chapter (sorry). CWs for: blood, gore, injuries, being imprisoned, gross male characters, and unconsciousness, and a level of violence beyond canon.

A/N: Thank you for reading and I promise some lovely, tender stuff is on its way.

--

The first thing you sense on coming to is the sensation that your shoulder is being ripped from its socket. The next is the way it and your other arm are wrenched behind you, bound together. Cold metal bites into your back and your head, which throbs.

Opening your eyes, you swallow down a hysterical panic.

The cell is long and narrow. You’re chained on a longer side on which, as you glance left and right, more than a dozen bindings for beings of all sizes line the wall. The opposite wall is mere feet in front of you, also lined with restraints. Cables dangle from the ceiling and spark dangerously close to puddles of water across the floor. You can’t see a door and when you look up, there’s just a metal grate lining the ceiling. 

You sit shivering for a while before some degree of your wits return. 

You’re alone in here, which you take as a small mercy. You edge your feet back, trying to keep them away from the sodden sections of floor. You push and lurch until you can stand upright. The movement rips at your shoulder and you have to fight back the urge to start sobbing.

Gingerly, you test how tight your bindings are and find you’re able to flex your wrists back and forth, feeling the tension loosen just a little. Hmmm, if you rotate the left counter-clockwise against the right, it’ll— but even that sends jolts of agony rippling up your arms. You clench your teeth, wincing through the pain. For some reason, your instincts are telling you that it’s a good idea to stay quiet.

Not a lot of options. Just try something.

You remember an old fighting teacher you had back ho— back at the Estate. He claimed he could block pain receptors by meditating. Seemed wild to you, but he’d taught you the basics and maybe if you try it you can twist out of these restraints. What you’ll do after that, you’ll think about then. You’re just casting back to those lessons, digging into the recesses of memory, when your mind is whited out by a momentary vision so indescribable and impossible, you let out a cry of astonishment, a gasp of shock.

In an instant, it’s gone. 

Gods, was that? Are they--?

The cell comes back into focus and a shadow falls across you from above.

‘Ah, she’s awake,’ a voice overhead. ‘Good, good. Hello there.’

It’s a soft and lilting voice, but sickly. 

‘She’s a pretty one, my,’ he speaks, apparently to someone else. 

Still short of breath, reeling from what you think you just saw, you tip your head up to try to see your imprisoner. A beady set of eyes is above you, glaring down. They sit in a round face, rimmed with horns and sporting a toothy sneer that crawls across your nervous system. 

‘Who knew such a pretty thing could do so much damage to my little traction systems, hmmm?’

You’re so overwhelmed by pain and fear, it takes several moments for what he’s saying to sink in. Oh, fuck?

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ he questions. Through the blood rushing in your ears, you hear boots shuffling on the other side of the wall you’re chained to. ‘No way that crazy bounty hunter would have been able to crack my codes.’

The eyes disappear from above the grate and for a few moments there’s only thuds and echoes reverberating around your prison.

Then, the whole room slides sideways and you’re nauseated with disorientation. It’s when your limbs scream in protest that you realise you’re what’s moving. The panel you’re chained against has spun 180 to present your shuddering figure to the gathered company.

‘And now I get to crack you,’ Cephlate says, a twisted face of fury boring into you.

Somehow this room is even more terrifying than what’s now behind you. Because that’s definitely a carbon freeze unit taking up the bulk of the space. The beady eyed warlord and three goons stand between you and it.

You utter the first thing that comes to you, an exclamation of disbelief, ‘How--?’

He steps forward and backhands you.

‘Tsk, naïve girl,’ he intones. ‘I own this treasury, you know? I own this fucking sector. And I own that upstart ex of yours. He doesn’t know, of course. But how do you think he acquired something so valuable as that ship holo? How do you think he learned of the significance of that beskar on board? And came to be in the cantina that day?’

He leans back and lifts a fleshy brow at you in an ‘it was all me’ type of expression.

‘Just pieces on a dejarik board,’ he sighs. ‘I was after that Mando of yours, of course. The New Republic makes most space too hot for me nowadays, so I couldn’t go to him. So why not just make him come to me?’ 

He claps his palms together. ‘It’s sad those idiots let him escape, but… Do you think he’ll come back for you? I sure hope so. Although…’ his eyes rake over you, ‘maybe not for a little while, hm?’

He steps close and raises a hand again. But this time he takes your chin and gently tilts you side to side, appraising.

You know what comes next. They always try it.

He leans in close, dry lips brushing your ear, and speaks.

He’s only a few words in when something inside you roars to life.

Feeling a wild fury you don’t know or understand, in that moment you use the only means of fight you have. You lean forward, bare your teeth, and sink them as hard as you can into the soft flesh of his exposed neck. Your jaw strains and everything hurts – but you’re surging, raging, burning up. Skin gives way and hot, pulsing liquid gushes into your mouth.

He shrieks and pulls away. You hold on to what’s gripped in your teeth and the sounds of it send you manic. Blood sprays your unhinged face as you spit and snarl.

He paws a hand to his ruined neck.

‘Fuck this little animal,’ he spits. ‘Fine! I’ll deal with her later.’ He whirls from you, stumbling away. He waves a hand behind him, ‘Throw her in the freeze, boys.’

Six hands drag at you. The binds on your arms give way and your dislocated shoulder swings wildly about. You finally scream, unable to bear the excruciating sensations wracking your body any longer. It’s met with laughter and the feeling of being lifted whole into the air.

You’re not thinking at all, mind blank with pain and terror, but your body still has its instincts and muscle memory. So it tries to fight, twisting and thrashing against what holds you. You might land a kick somewhere significant because you hear an angry grunt, then a curse, then a brand new and overwhelming pain in your side.

Head lolling, you look down to catch the blade leaving your belly, a gush of blood pouring onto the floor.

That’s the last thing you see. You’re losing consciousness, giving up, when you feel yourself dumped into a – is this a coffin? Then a hiss and a burning ice crawls up your limbs. Then you feel nothing.

--

The Crest coasts through an inky black. Din, with Grogu now in his lap, kills the engine and works to keep his voice calm.

‘Grogu,’ he says. The child looks over his ear at him. ‘You know how you, how you learned to sense me? Find me in the essence, or energy, or whatever?’

‘Heh,’ the kid says, already looking at the charts.

‘Yes, exactly. You get it.’ Din lets himself feel hope for the first time since he saw you kick that pod hatch closed from the wrong side. 

‘Can you reach out, out there,’ a glance to the black, ‘and find her? Tell me where she is? She’s on a ship. These are the last coordinates I have of it.’ He taps the screen.

Grogu, to his stunning credit, hums shyly but moves straight into a meditative stance. Din’s chest swells.

‘That’s it, kid. Find her for me.’

The little arms raise and begin to tremor, hovering back and forth over a presence Din can’t sense or comprehend. He just waits, and trusts. He knows this power is deeply special, and that Grogu can do things beyond explanation.

The child grunts with effort. In an instinctive move, not even sure if it would help, Din puts his hands on the little, quivering figure, trying to offer support.

After an agonisingly long moment, Grogu pops his eyes open and hops onto the console, pointing a clawed finger at the spot his father had shown him and trailing it along the screen, then giving it an urgent tap. Din leans in and starts thumbing at switches and palming levers.

‘I knew you could do it, buddy,’ he says as he pulls the child back into his lap. ‘Let’s go get her.’

Pulling the same manoeuvre to park the Crest is surprisingly straightforward. Din has total faith that the cloaking drive you’d installed after the run-in on Cephlate’s moon will hold up. Still, he leaves Grogu securely in his space, the child groggy and fatigued from such a stunning use of his powers.

Once dropped into the upper-level corridors, Din orders R5 to ready the canon protocols he’s queued. ‘Wait for my mark,’ he commands. 

Instead of taking the carefully plotted path to avoid detection, Din charges into the first unit he comes across. Six are dead within minutes and the last guard flails on his stomach as Din leans a knee in his back and a vibroblade at his ear.

It’s not long before the sap is singing, ‘the prison! Eight deck! The boss he-! She’ll be in carbonite by now! Please don’t-- ’ He slams the guy’s head into the floor and surges forwards, sprinting and checking the map at the same time, finding the location.

As he nears the section of cells, he tells R5 to disengage locks and move the Crest into position. He rounds a bend, planting detonators on the walls to activate on his way back out.

Horror floods his system as he takes in the prison section. Where the fuck are you?

He has to dispatch of only one set of personnel barring his way as he clocks one door window after another. When he spots the unit, he whole bodily kicks the door aside and marches to the control panel.

The blocks of carbonite rotate one after the other until you come into view. Relief and rage tear at Din’s insides as he takes you in. Your hands seem to be pressed into your left side, elbows locked to your ribcage. Your face is a rictus of pain, but your eyes are closed – that’s a small mercy.

He checks the read-out – you’ve been in there only a few hours. Only. Din’s stomach is roiling. He thumps the release pan.

The machine disengages your frame and the room fills with a wretched vapour, obscuring his vision of you for a moment, but he holds his arms out ready. When the process ends, your knees buckle and you collapse into Din’s embrace, limp and unresponsive. He can see your heart beating though and, as you start to shake violently, he can reassure himself you are in fact alive.

But as he lays you down to check your condition, he gives a shout of alarm. 

Blood is everywhere.

He focuses on the gash at your side and tries not to think about the dried blood covering your face. It doesn’t seem like you’re injured there and the implications of that makes Din’s blood run cold.

Throwing the medical pack off his shoulder, he tears through the contents for a sterile patch, pushing the shredded hole in your tunic aside to lay the dressing as best he can over the wound. It hisses and puckers the surrounding skin as it creates a pressurised seal to staunch the flow.

That’ll have to do for now. He looks over the rest of you. Your left shoulder is sitting low and outside the joint and he rechecks your face for any injuries. Your jaw may be bruised, and the taser’s burn mark is bright and blistered, but he’s confident you’re not bleeding anywhere else.

Time to move.

‘R5,’ he growls. ‘Begin the barrage.’

The treasury shudders as the Crest’s thermal railguns lay into the landing bay where Cephlate’s ship is docked. R5 will empty the energy cells then break vicinity and jump. Distraction and revenge, for now.

With your injured shoulder tucked into his chest and an arm looped under your knees, both blasters pointed in front of him, Din swears on his creed and clan that every fucker he crosses paths with is going to meet a swift end.

The escape vessel settles on the grass and gives a final grinding whir as the landing lock engages. A huge boot kicks the hatch door open, bashing it into the side. The Mandalorian lunges from the pod with your unconscious form in his arms. He strides to his ship, barking at R5 to drop the doors.

Once he has you laid out on the cabin’s low bed, he pulls every med pack to hand from the rack.

He looks you over to take stock of each hurt. The plaster seal is working on your stab wound, no blood leaking out or sign of infection. Nothing for the burn on your neck but salve and time.

Shoulder first then.

Din sets to work.

--

Prev | Next

[ponds-of-ink]

Short Springtrap And OC Drabble: “A Pack of Springs”

Blame one particular thing I read from @spaciebabie and it invigorating the writing part of my mind. Again.

At least there’s no explosions this time.

(There may be a part two if anyone wants?)

-

Springtrap stood nearby the office window. It was only a couple of minutes before the guard clocked in for the night. His undead heart was pounding, but not for the usual reasons.

You see, this guard was the coolest kid on the block.. At least, in his mind. Streaks of color against some naturally-hued hair. A work outfit fully customized with patches and other interesting details. All wrapped up with the most “chill” attitude he had ever witnessed. If one had to sum up this soul for him, it would be the punk look of the 1980s somehow paired with this… Scene?… 2000s Gothic?… aesthetic. And it captivated him.

Maybe a bit too much, if he was being honest. What with all the catalog cutouts scattered around his room.. And the hours he spent trying to figure out how to even start dressing properly again..

But, hey, at least the feeling was (mostly) mutual. The guard dug him and he dug back. The cat and mouse stuff was merely a running gag at this point.

Unfortunately, it was a performance that they weren’t going to put on tonight. Springtrap had something more… interesting in mind. A little idea he wanted to test the waters on. And, to pull this off, he had to ask the one fashion expert in this building a very simple question.

The office clock rang. Springtrap jolted out of his self-reflecting. He put himself into his usual “threatening” posture and waited. It was only a matter of time now— And he honestly couldn’t wait.

The guard, meanwhile, clocked in at the lobby. It was a cold and cloudy midnight, which made things extra spooky. “Heh, this is my kinda night,” the unknowing figure thought as a grin crept in. “Hope Spring’s ready to see me beat him for the third time in a row.”

Combat boots thumped down the long hallway. Springtrap’s arms shook in spite of himself. It was just a simple question. He had no need to panic.

Thankfully for him, the guard noticed very quickly. “Oh, hey, Spring,” came the casual response after the initial jump of shock. “Didn’t think you’d be here.”

Springtrap placed an arm against the wall. Oh, he was just hanging around. Nothing wrong here.

The guard gave a very brief scan up and down. Aside from the nervous “grin” and a magazine in one of his hands, there wasn’t anything really wrong with him. “Well, I’ll let you get to reading,” the guard concluded, swerving into the main office. “Just come in if you need anything.”

Springtrap signaled “Will do”. The instinct to internally kick himself was strong, but this mishap did provide him an opportunity. He skimmed through the magazine again. Just one more refresher to get his mind back on track.

The guard, meanwhile, just went about the usual routine. Boot up the security system, check the cameras, and double-check Springtrap on occasion. Simple as that.

Minutes went by for both of them. Spring still read through his catalog while the guard kept the peace. Tension started to swirl, though the guard wasn’t sure why. He was just reading a book! There’s nothing stressful about looking at some fashion stuff while on “break”!

Heavy footsteps soon lumbered into the main office. A light, papery thump hit the top of the guard’s desk. The guard peered beside the monitor. “What’s up, Spring?” the guard asked, sliding over a notebook and pen. “You seem kinda antsy tonight. You good?”

Springtrap instinctively took up the notebook and pen. His handwriting was even shakier than usual, but he let the guard see it anyway. “I was thinking about trying something new,” he jotted down. “Something I think you would like, Axel.”

Axel raised an eyebrow. “Something you think I would like?” she asked, placing her elbow on the table as she leaned forward. “What’s even better than playing hide and seek with you?”

Springtrap’s good ear raised. A human-like gleam entered into his eyes. He lifted the notebook from the desk and carefully slid the catalog forward. A few scribbles later, he gestured to one sentence at the bottom of his notes: “Look in there.”

Not knowing what else to do, Axel followed his instructions. She first looked at the table of contents, which already had a few pages underlined. Tops, Overcoats, Accessories.. All basic stuff.

Well, if you want to call any of the stuff from a premiere “gothic” fashion line ‘basic’.

Regardless, Axel read through each marker-circled item. Mentally taking in any scribbled-down notes that Spring may have left. A cool patterned shirt here, a funky two-tone vest here, a crop top… Several places, actually. Even with page references on what to pair each one with. Come to think of it, all of the selections had some sort of cross-reference with something else. “He really put some thought into this,” Axel thought, a smile growing the more she flipped back and forth. “He’s even trying make outfits!”

But even with this sense of pride, that sense of tension gnawed at her core. It didn’t help that all the undershirt sizes he circled didn’t match his size. “Unless he’s thinking about me getting these, I don’t think these’ll work,” she said in her head, biting the corner of her lip. “Which is a bummer, ‘cause I really like these! They’d look so good on him!”

After a couple more minutes of digging through the rabbit’s “wishlist”, Axel set down the magazine. “Pretty good picks, Spring,” she said casually, leaning back in her seat. “But I gotta ask: Why’d ya make the undershirts so small? I mean, the bigger crop-tops could look good on top of ‘em, but… Wouldn’t the undershirt be too tight?”

Springtrap halted his multi-page outline. He flipped to an empty page and started writing again. After a few seconds, he showed her the answer: “Not if you’re planning on ‘slimming down’.”

Axel tilted her head. “‘Slimming down’?” she repeated, her posture shifting to a more serious position. “Ya mean, like, getting a new torso piece?”

Springtrap nodded, then eagerly jotted down something else. He spun the notebook around with a proud grin. “Yes!” it read, alongside a semicolon and a capital D. “As a matter of fact, I’m in talks with a technician about getting a different build altogether. It may make me look broader in the shoulders, but I believe the ‘six-pack’ will be worth it.”

All of Axel’s dread overloaded into outright fear. Her heavy shudder nearly made her convulse. Nausea overrode her entire body. The mental image of this zombie rabbit having the buffest body in the crew just… Didn’t sit right. It felt wrong, even if he was just a weird robot guy.

Thankfully, she did manage to sputter out something. “Y-You’re joking, right?” she questioned, using the desk to steady her nerves. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

Springtrap’s good ear drooped. He hastily wrote his response. “I’m not,” he answered. “But I did need to run all of this by you first. Mainly for fashion concerns.”

The words provided a little comfort to the rattled guard. Okay, good. Maybe he could be reasoned with. “Your outfits are fine, my man,” she stammered out, steadying her breathing. “Don’t sweat it there. My main deal is this ‘s-six pack’ thing. Just… why?? Who put the idea into your head that you couldn’t pull off these looks now?”

It was Springtrap’s turn to tilt his head. “Nobody suggested it to me,” he ‘replied’, underlining the word multiple times for emphasis. “I just thought that my current shape couldn’t ’pull off’ some of these, that’s all.”

Axel grit her teeth. “So you took one look at these guys by yourself and said ‘yeah that’s what my body needs to look like’?” she asked, her face burning bright red. “Is that what I’m getting at here?”

A simple “Yes” was all Springtrap wrote.

The poor woman slammed her head on the desk. She stifled the urge to scream in rage. “Springs, my guy,” she said after a minute of silence, raising her head. “I know you’re a robot.. zombie… bunny, but listen ta me: You already look cool enough. You already are cool enough. Just keep scaring me like you usually do and you’ll be fine.”

Springtrap placed a hand to his waist. He glanced at it before writing with his other hand. “I appreciate your compliments,” he ‘added’. “But ‘hear’ me out: Can you actually picture someone with my ‘chubby’ build wearing things like what I’ve shown you?” He then stood up straighter, making sure he somehow didn’t make himself look “thinner”.

Axel, try as she might, now pictured Springtrap in one of those outfit combos. And, to be quite honest, it made her face burn for an entirely different reason than before. “I mean, I can see you in ‘em clear as day,” she laughed sheepishly, covering her eyes (as if that would help). “Hey, maybe you’d win that bunny wife of yours back if…” Her voice broke into a sincere giggling fit, making her unable to finish her sentence.

A quiet, hoarse chuckle emitted from Springtrap’s voice-box. “While I do still have my apprehensions,” he ‘continued’ after a pause, “I suppose I’ll hold off. Don’t wait to make you nauseous every time I show up behind that window, after all.”

“Thanks, my guy,” Axel responded, her voice weakening with relief. “Just, uh, let me know if you do have any problems trying to fit stuff. I know a guy who works on mascot costumes for fun, so he knows how to make outfits for animatronics.”

“I will keep your friend in mind,” Springtrap ‘answered’, his handwriting now more loose and stable. “Thank you for all of your advice.”

“No problem,” Axel grinned as she returned to leaning back in her chair. “Glad I got the chance to say something before somebody tore out that torso piece. It’d be an absolute bummer if the world lost you rocking that ‘bod.”

Springtrap put down the pen. Another hoarse chuckle emitted from his throat. Given how confident Axel sounded, maybe it would be a shame.

But, as the term “rocking” invited an opportunity for fooling around, he rose up to full standing height.. Then placed his hands on his sides. He assumed his saddest ‘pout’ and swung his hips a little. Almost as if he was saying: “But my body doesn’t just rock. It has rolls too.”

Axel laughed in spite of herself. “Okay, now you’re just messing with me,” she smiled, feeling her face flush a little. “Go do your ‘sad’ dance moves somewhere else, ya big lug. We’ll pick this topic up some other time.”

Springtrap slumped his shoulders dramatically. He rolled his eyes as he picked up his catalog. With a final wave, he vanished behind the doorway… Before “sprinting” back down the hallway with the dumbest smile. That last pun may not have been his best work, but Axel’s suggestion may have just given him an idea for tonight’s game. If she wants to be that determined to prove her claims about him, he’ll have to work to dispute it. And that tip about dancing may have just given him an edge in that debate..

[bitchfromthecrypt]

I'm not starting a whole new blog for this lol,

I present to you all, the first four chapters of the second draft to my (hopefully) coming soon novel, "As We Know It"

Very loose bad bad awful summary: Powerhouse lawyer Angela nearly dies after a nuclear war, finds town full of previously assumed mythical creatures and makes a little home, meets hot vampire queen Khalida and hot Weredragon Nobel Patience D'Herensuge, and they fall in love a while after they find out they're soulmates. This leads to socialist anarchy.

☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾☾

Trigger warnings: Death, brief mention of suicidal ideation, war, nuclear war. description of Gore

Hope y'all enjoy!

Chapter One

If you asked Angela, she’d tell you, all doors really should be automatic.

It’d make life so much more convenient. You come inside from carrying a load of groceries and you don’t have to worry about futzing around with your keys, standing around for five minutes trying to figure out how to open a door that feels like it hates you.

This door definitely hated her, she mused.

Why wouldn’t it? She hadn’t used it in years, and now, finally, stupidly, she wanted to just open it up and waltz on out of the place she’d been safe and stuck inside of into a world that was probably filled with toxic waste, rats with human ears, and human flies? Did she want to avoid using it ever again that bad?

Maybe.

She reached a hand out to try to unlock, still jolting back like the lock itself had been exposed to radiation for the past three years.

She leaned back against the cold, rusty, steel walls, too tired to care about tetanus, thinking about the past for the millionth time that day.

God, Angela Weathers, top contract attorney at her firm, lover of parties, name brands and biannual vacations to wherever the dart landed on the map, never used to think about the past.

Angela, the last surviving human on earth, just sits in the dark talking to herself about it. On a good day.

“I should have just gone to the main office.” She said, outloud, for the billionth time.

“Daryl put some important documents down here in the bunker, but not often enough to even warrant a check, he had mentioned every other day upgrading the system, switching to using computers and the web.”

That was the other thing she did for fun, standing next to the door and pretending for a minute there was someone else on the other side of it.

‘Why did you?’ She imagined them asking, ‘When you heard the sirens, you could’ve walked out, the door was closing slowly enough.’

Groaning dramatically and banging the back of her head against the wall, wincing a bit, her fresh retie as pretty as it made her feel raising hell on her tenderheaded self.

“I don’t know. Probably the same reason no one else came down. Maybe they panicked, maybe they froze. Maybe their brain just made the smart decision for them.”

She turned firmly to face the door, reaching for the door again, more so to fidget with it than anything.

“You’d think, all of us, a group of thirty-somethings would be able to either follow the nuclear war briefs we’d been getting since we were ten or to make up our minds about whether or not surviving it would have made any goddamn sense.”

‘Well, of course,’ they’d say, ‘this place has everything you could need! Shampoo, jugs of water that tasted off even though they were filled with just water, just enough spironolactone to last you up until sometime between today and next year.’

“Canned peaches, canned chicken, canned ham, shoes that are too big for me, and super ugly,” she whined, kicking the ankle high industrial combat boots she hadn’t even tried to put on yet.

It's not like there was anywhere else she could go.

It didn't matter how much food, or water, she had left or how well the shelter’d been built.

Living there, alone and scared was much worse than anything that could happen to her out there, right?

Right.

She knew that.

So why couldn't she open the door?

She stood up, smacked her cheeks and tried not to think about how many times her coworkers and girlfriends had fixed her makeup for her after she’d done it.

She used the code, conveniently hidden under the eighty-seventh can of beans, she pushed all the right buttons and heard a little ringtone that probably used to sound melodic, at least a little happy, maybe a little annoying after a while.

All that came out was a quiet, rhythmic groan.

She could've opened the door then. She should have, honestly.

Why didn't she?

Is it the fact that she's probably killing herself just by thinking of abandoning the only thing that's been safe, no, certain after all these years?

Her books, as boring as they were, she couldn't take them with her, if she didn't pass out from toxic sludge inhalation she'd need to be able to move, and carrying around fifty seven American classics in the hopes of finding a nice spot in the shade to reread them wouldn’t be the wisest decision.

“No,” she said “I don't think it's any of that.

Or maybe it is. Maybe it's all of it.”

The hatch was open before she could think.

Mindless, like a robot programmed to keep taking one slow step after another until its batteries died, she walked down the short, but seemingly unending hallway, brown leather boots meant for someone five shoe sizes bigger than hers and all.

God, she wouldn’t have been caught dead in these before. God, the reads she would have gotten from Tamara alone. She would have demanded she go change.

‘If you’re gonna die, you have to do it wearing something cute, you can’t just be in an ugly ghost outfit for all eternity, what am I supposed to say when we meet in the afterlife and all my friends see you have those things on?’

Angela laughed a little bit thinking of her, thankfully. Crying gets boring after a year, and she wouldn’t have wanted her to be some sad sack forever.

She wouldn’t have wanted her to be leaving the bunker either, but she can’t make everyone happy.

She’d never really been that concerned with that particular hobby, to be fair.

She knew she was brilliant. Her mom had about twenty of the trans pride flag and harvard summa cum laude graduate bumper stickers on her car, she’d gotten her first and last job at counsel authority on the other side of the country at twenty-five, and she’d crafted about two thousand contracts per year for the greater half of her adult life.

She also got stuck in a baby swing at a playground at age twenty seven, while completely sober.

Now that was definitely it, that was the problem. That was the reason why she couldn’t bring herself to do any more than stand in front of the final barrier keeping her in and all of the fifty foot women and godzillas out. She was just thinking. Something Angela either did too much, or too little of at any given point in time.

The days she was really lucky, the days things always worked out for the best, were the days when she got to choose which one, as rare as they were.

“Today’s as rare as any other. Not much distinction between them anyway.”

Angela made the decision fairly quickly, to do a bit of both.

If she was gonna live, not just survive, but live, and thrive, she’d obviously need to think sometimes.

But if she was going to die, which she was fairly certain she was, she didn't want to realize it until it had already been good and done with.

Her eyes closed, and both hands on the comically normal looking doorknob, she tried and failed to empty her mind.

She wanted to rip every horrible thought straight out of it and toss it into the brand new paper shredder she had for a solid two days back in her office.

She imagined shredding pictures of Godzilla, of barren, gray, wasteland, of horrible chill that comes with stepping out into a nuclear winter that everyone around her had been talking about for years, of the loudest sound she'd ever heard in her life, just before she'd narrowly missed watching her family, her species, and the only world she'd ever known, one she now considered her favorite, die.

But you can’t really shred most of those things, can you?

She opened the door.

Chapter Two

There was not a single person in this small group of royals—which they’d resolved to refer to themselves as before they’d even agreed upon a space for them to meet—who was below a thousand years of age, including Patience, however they at least knew how to operate a simple pocket watch, and they’d woken up practically weeks ago for the first time in hundreds of years.

“Well what if we just let them loose?” Terry, queen of the spring court, a tall and spritely being who hadn’t done so much as read the pamphlet Patience had handwritten for each of them, began her neverending tirade of insisting on complete anarchy, not that she’d know that word. Too hard to spell.

“Terry, we have been over this. We need to enact some sort of system in order to avoid further harm. The lack of unity between nations is what led to this in the first place.” The leader of the Siromo tribe of mermaids, Amaka said, the only person Patience could hear over the crowd of voices, all insisting that the best moment to share their rebuttal was the exact same time as everyone else.

They got out of their chair, one of thirteen golden thrones that rested around their egregiously large golden roundtable, topped with designs carved out of opal and lapis lazuli, and went to drink some water from the lake outside, their notice of leave hanging ignored in the air.

Patience stared at themself in the lake, for many more minutes than it would take to shift and take a sip of water.

Who was he?

Gods, he’d barely remembered his family, he thought his father was kind, the last memory they’d had of him was the day he’d met his mother.

They were hunting, they were about to pull the trigger, killing some kind of bird or deer, probably, who knows, and something rumbled through the air.

If they were to describe it, they couldn't say it was a sound, or a feeling, as woefully simple as the thought was in their mind, it was just big.

The calling heaved through the air with such a strength they feared it would become corporeal and grab them.

They can't say they remember much of the evening after that. They couldn’t forget her, no matter how long they’d tried to.

With her wild red hair, her braids that reached far beyond the floor in her tall and daunting human form being the main reason she preferred to stay a dragon.

She had held him very often when he’d cried. They couldn’t remember why, they just know her cool scales as she nuzzled him the way a cat does a kitten had made many of their nights as a young child feel safe, despite sleeping in the dark woods. ALthough wolves were not as frightening as dragons, there was not much reason to be fearful.

It was unwise of her to grow old. The one thing she did that made Patience angry with her after all of the years they’d spent together, her only unforgivable act.

She said she hadn’t wanted to watch him die, they’d been sick for months, only coming out on days when it was warm enough that they didn’t feel they’d break in two if they took a single step. She said that no mother should have to watch her child as such. That she would instead gift him with what she had been gifted eons ago, that only one dragon could exist in a space at any given time.

And she died. She chose to.

Patience had mourned. He slept his days away and the amount of time he spent awake and aware of the world shrunk as each year passed, and by the time they felt anything once again, they had realized that being aware hadn’t improved their days by any measure.

The only reason they were awake now is there were no other options.

These people were not suited for the title they’d deigned themself with, and he wasn’t either. But if he did nothing, then they’d have no reason to be, and that would mean she’d have gone for no reason at all.

Their musings were interrupted by the sound of the door flying open and the feral gaze of the vampire queen settling on him for one long moment before she went barreling into the forest.

They shook a little bit, all seventy thousand pounds of him chilled a bit more than you’d think their cool blood would allow for.

They did not like that woman.

She definitely had a strong heart, for lack of a better word, but anything that required complete focus, sitting still, and following the rules of bureaucracy seemed like methods she would and has used to torture her enemies.

Well, more torture in addition to it, but still.

Patience was a royal now. It was his job. He’d agreed to his position when the time came, and she had as well.

He would never understand why.

The vampiress had never spoken more than a few words to Patience and yet, they found themself consumed by either irritation or at her every action, or lack thereof.

She’d behaved like every other “Royal” had, with no real regard for the reason they were there.

The humans were dead.

As was their trade, and their cameras, and their policies, and more of their animals than any creature left behind would like.

The world, at least as every last semi-immortal being knew it, had changed beyond comprehension, and the entire remaining population had entrusted this too small room full of those of all different species, religions, cultures, and walks of life in general to come up with something resembling a solid plan.

The few months immediately after they'd gone were horrendous.

The fairfolk nearly went extinct from the lack of breathable air, of foliage, and of general smog.

Every last being on earth had to work together to bring this planet back, and despite the fights, trickery, and grief, they'd managed it.

And they'd be damned if they let themselves get to the point of destroying it all over again.

This meeting was more than a casual party, it was the beginning of every decision ever to be made for the rest of the world.

And so, on the seventieth of the initial meetings, in which all the leaders were supposed to be present, when Patience would find they would be missing one crucial vampire queen. And the anxieties would rise, Patience’s blood would slowly but surely begin to curdle at the ever rising idea that someone must go to retrieve her before the week should end, before they all go back to their kingdoms having wasted days, which while not exactly a huge amount of their lives, were still full of painful small talk and brash comments, only to maintain the same stalemate they've been in since their worlds got turned upside down.

They weren’t aware of it, hearing her quiet but not inaudible footsteps ring through the forests, but they would be the one to see to it that she would return shortly.

Chapter Three

The thing you'll have to remember about Khalida, is that she's not selfish, not in the true sense of the word.

To be selfish, you’d have to be aware of the fact that you are a person. That you exist. That the people around you have lives and feelings and that this fact should matter to you.

Most days, Khalida was not a person. She was a force. A force that used to need to eat.

She still could. She thinks about it sometimes. As much as she could think.

Khalida was no longer one to think.

She had been, for a bit of time. When she was a child she thought constantly, even more so as an adult..

Then the first century passed, and she hadn't aged a day, and all that time and money and all those vastly different lives, well, they added up.

And after the nine hundredth body, after the millionth piece of gold, it's kind of hard to recognize that those around you, or even you, yourself, matter.

So when khalida was in the meeting, imagining how the leader of the good neighbor’s summer court would taste and what noise she’d make when she felt her teeth in her carotid—not the most ideal place, but beggars couldn’t be choosers some days, and it’d be a great deal of work to find a better spot, and she smelled it, she was confused.

The scent, somewhere off in the woods, it was sweat, dirt, and most importantly, human.

And the faintest hint of Guerlain Shalimar.

Did she think before she ran after it?

Yes. More than she should’ve.

Chapter Four

When she saw those kids—kids? She still wasn't sure, they were way too small to be kids—standing at the very top of a tree and giggling to themselves about a joke she immediately knew she'd never get, Angela thought for a second that maybe things would be ok.

This changed after she realized their size.

And their pointy ears.

And their limbs that bent at such odd angles, and the thousands of colors on them that no human should be able to see, let alone have in their clothes.

And that one of them jumped straight down the length of the tree only to catch themself a millisecond before hitting the ground and using their deceptively strong dragonfly-like wings to soar right back up to the top.

She considered going back into the bunker, just for a second, but a phrase popped into her head that rang so familiar to her, “Ah, poor Miss Taylor, she would be very glad to stay!” from Jane Austen's Emma. and the urge to turn back dissipated. Because as lovely as the story was, and as strange as those not children were, she should not remember that line.

Either she was hallucinating and her brain was really capitalizing off of that human fly thing or she was psychic. Both would mean something new, and at this point, she’d take it.

She stared up at them, enthralled, unable to move. Realizing with each passing moment that she was allowed to stare how their skin glowed, how their eyes were too wide, how some of them even had flat, horizontal pupils, like goats or something.

In hindsight, she probably should have noticed they were staring back at her much earlier than she did.

But when the whispers and giggles stopped, and eyes that were crinkled with smile lines turned cold and hard upon seeing her, it didn’t take long for her to become as hopeless as someone in her situation. ought to be.

The first one to jump down was neon pink, Angela couldn’t have recalled many other details about her, because it hurt to look at her for too long. She landed directly in front of Angela before she could blink and asking a million questions before she could open her mouth to say “hi! I'm Angela, I apologize for staring at you like some massive freakazoid, I only did it because you don't look normal in any sense of the word.”

“Who are you? I've never seen you before. What brings you here? Are you human? You are, aren't you, oh I used to love humans, sorry about what happened, anyways, how are you holding up? How did you hold up? Where are the rest of you? What do you have in your bag? Why are you wearing those horrific shoes?”

Angela nearly felt embarrassed for staring into the minuscule creature's bright yellow eyes for a full minute as she kept going, not processing a word she said, she got the feeling this was just how fast people—were they people?—talked now.

“I'm sorry, can you repeat...all of that?”

Maybe if she just closed her eyes for a second, if she shook her head and clicked her heels three times, she'd open them and all the creatures would be people, recognizably human people who are seconds away from directing her to a fallout shelter away from whatever poisonous fumes were floating in the air and making her hallucinate.

She tried.

They didn’t.

They only giggled at her.

Instead of responding, her brain decided to not only short circuit, but make her silently weep, in front of a new bunch of strangers, the first five minutes of her reintroduction to the world and she’s already crying in front of complete strangers.

“Aww, pretty one, why are you crying?”

They all swarmed her, the little people, some trying to wipe her tears away, flying back and shaking like a dog upon realizing their leaf skirts were drenched.

“Can you cry less messy?”

Mumbling more to herself than to the small beings she guessed were fairies, she dabbed at her tears to avoid making her imaginary mascara run, “I’m alright, I'm fine, I'm sorry, I'm fine.”

The faeries gave each other a look, one seemed to be asking something of the others, if the body language of this version of the world was the same, Angela guessed tiny neon pink lady vehemently disapproved.

Her lip reading was shot, not that it had ever been great, but despite not being able to make out what they were saying, she knew that look very well. ‘That’s the look you get from friends and family members before you do something very funny, and very stupid,’ she thought.

She used to find it funny.

“Well, if you're really sorry, you can come with us.”

One of them, a small orange one, covered in little green droplets, it looked like a leaf on the first day of fall that actually feels like the season’s changed. He flew directly in front of her face, making her go cross eyed to focus on him. It rested its hand directly onto her nose.

“What?” Angela asked, sounding and feeling so much weaker than she’d like to seem at this moment.

“Yeah! You could come with us! It's so much better where we're from, the food, the music! Oh the clothes, imagine how good you'd look decked in this frock!”

A different one, less human looking with the many different shaped spots covering its dark brown body. They gestured to their…dress? Skin? Whatever it was, it wanted Angela to picture herself in it.

Unsettled as she was, she did.

It felt like a movie. She saw herself, sitting at a table, full of every possible food you could think of, from a good plate of ribs and some pecan pie to cream filled donuts, and more food that she could not attempt to identify than food she could, but they made her mouth water all the same.

Shifting quickly, like a dream that had completely shifted in plot, suddenly she was waltzing on a pink glass dance floor, while she somehow still felt soft grass under her, wrapped in the arms of a different person with every beat change, never without a glass of some wine she also couldn't quite identify in her hand.

She pictured sleeping in a bed full of these other beings, the same size as them now, inside of a hollow in a tree, the dull glow of the moon bathing over them as she curled into a ball and closed her eyes, drifting away.

The first minute since she left in which she felt safe, as fractured and dangerous as it was, disappeared before her eyes as the image faded and in its wake was the sight of all of the little things peeling off into the air far away from her.

The rejection didn’t have long to set in.

There are many things Angela could say would be her biggest nightmare.

Things like, being alone in a bunker for a year with the knowledge that everyone she'd ever met, everyone she'd ever loved, everyone who she might have become great friends, lovers, family with; was dead.

Things like beginning to forget the faces she's known her entire life.

Things like waking up in the middle of the night convinced that life no longer held any meaning.

The weird forest full of things she couldn't understand didn't scare her that much, in comparison.

This thing did.

She didn't know how to talk to those…bugs? Small people? Flower people? But there was no realm where she could possibly comprehend whatever It was.

By the time she’d started running, which was shortly after she’d turned around to see it, she’d realized two things.

One, that it was nothing. Like, truly nothing. An empty space where something should be, the dead winter that makes a noise that should ring in your ears suffocate under snow.

Two, it wanted to kill her.

This was new.

Those things, the people that abandoned her to face this thing that she couldn’t look in the eye, because it had no face, even though her entire body shuddered every few seconds because the hairs on the back of her neck raised like it was a person staring at her.

The sudden onslaught of darkness didn’t register to angela as she ran, narrowly avoiding tripping over her feet, her breath made no sound, the clunking of her too big shoes thudded against the tall grass, but anyone in the forest would not know that from the still, tranquil quiet that followed the predator and prey.

The transition from when Angela remembered what it was like to be a human being and the moment her mind decided for her that she was nothing but a thing that needed to run or die was brief and the closer it got. The more she felt the biting, isolated cold of a vacuum in space against her back as it reached out to tear her apart atom from atom, the more her brain slipped away and the further she sprinted.

It was pitch dark, the sun had set, there was no room left for her or the trees’ or the thing that was rushing her’s shadows’ to morph on the ground, but the whole place was glowing, the wind had its own heartbeat, a part of her would day recognize.

It swirled around her, almost mockingly. Maybe one day it would remind her of the nights her older sisters would stay up with her, telling her scary stories about the dumbest things, and the terror which evolved into exasperation the older she got, instead of being a sensation to hold on to in the gap between her reality and her ever encroaching complete absence.

She ran, hearing the screech of some animal and darting after it, following any noise or thing of substance.

She ran around a bend in the trees and locked eyes with a huge bear with three huge rabbits in her jaws, and a dozen more resting in a bloody pile in the hollow of a tree, drool cascading down her mouth following sharp white teeth that Angela would guess hoped could cut the thing chasing her, even if it meant it would kill her next.

‘Much bigger than in the movies,’ she managed to think for a second as she barreled towards it.

If she was able to see or reason fully in that moment, who knows if she would have seen the bear’s eyes widen a bit in terror before it grabbed her by her shoulder and tossed her on it’s back in a smooth and quick maneuver that probably gave Angela whiplash, but she could not have felt it then, all she felt was dense and coarse fur that she buried herself into in an attempt to not fall off and be left to whatever was hopefully now leagues behind her.

Minutes or hours later, when she stopped relying solely on blind instinct and the fear and panic started to firmly set in, she realized they’d slowed down at about the exact same time she’d started to sob into the furry back of what she was slowly beginning to remember belonged to a bear.

But it walked, silently grunting and growling a bit as angela tried her hardest to calm down for long enough to get off of said bear and make some kind of escape plan and not enough to start thinking about how close she is to dying and how much she missed her parents.

‘At least they won’t have to hear about me dying via horrific bear attack.’ She thought.

It took Angela a good five minutes to notice that not only was the bear not protesting by any means, but that it was carrying a weird weaved bag that closed completely at the top.

It took one minute for her to decide to talk to it.

“Hello?”

She, of course, got no response in return. So she, of course, tried again.

“Listen, I don't know if you're…I don't really know what…do you know, do you know if there's a town nearby?”

Angela abruptly fell to the floor even though the bear slowly tilted its body to the side in an attempt to gently knock her off.

She attempted to process the feel of the ground underneath her while the thud of the bear’s paws rumbled through the air while she dropped the weaved bag on the ground next to a tree and the rabbit’s that it had apparently been carrying the whole time and trotted behind it.

The human fly thing was weird, but Angela was not prepared to hear the twitching and squelching sounds that came from behind that tree, and she definitely wasn’t prepared to see a chubby, brown arm reach out to pick up the bag.

A short black woman, who didn't look much older than twenty, with a chestnut brown Afro that framed her heart shaped face trotted around the corner with the same jolly gait the bear had, picking the rabbits up and shoving them in a separate basket that she'd seemingly pulled out from nowhere.

She was fat and beautiful and she did not look as though she could lift a one hundred and eighty pound five foot seven woman up off the ground and give her a piggyback ride.

“What, how, and who the hell is she?” She should work on that habit of saying things out loud.

“The town isn't far from here at all, I think you can take a guess, I don’t know, a witch could probably tell you, I guess? And I’m Maggie. Good to meet you! The circumstances could definitely be better, but it’s nice to see a new face.”

Angela stared at her, unblinking for an uncomfortably long time.

She’d been attacked, and she still shuddered at the thought of that thing, and saved by a bear who was actually a person. What could she even say?

“Your dress is so cute. Is that Versace?” She cringed the second she asked, but it’s the closest thing to a reaction she could manage.

“No, I don't really know who that is, but I made it myself.”

Angela nodded, wondering for a second if she run.

“Wicked. My mom always tried to teach me to sew, but I just never really got into it.”

The bear—Maggie nodded, “yeah, it’s hard starting out. Let me tell you, I didn't have the slightest interest in it until they invented the machines. I'm so glad we were able to reconstruct them, half my wardrobe wouldn't exist if we hadn't.”

She reached down and offered Angela a hand, holding back a laugh as she yelped a bit when she took her hand and hauled her up.

Angela brushed off her clothes without breaking eye contact with Maggie, hoping bears were one of the animals you were supposed to make eye contact with, “I feel you, if you want something done right you gotta do it yourself, you know?”

The bear woman smiled and nodded, “Ugh, don’t I know it? Oh, goodness, it’s like pitch black out here for you! Are you still headed to town?”

Angela nodded rapidly, “Yes! Yes, thank you, I'd really appreciate that. I'm a little, well, honestly, a lot, turned around right now.”

The woman sighed and gave her the most pitying glance and honestly, she appreciated it more than she should’ve. Being looked at at all felt like such a privilege, even if it’s by a possibly murderous bear woman.

“Yeah. I can only imagine. Can I give you a hug?”

Angela immediately shook her head. “Later. Please, but I can't right now.” If she hugged someone for the first time in years after everything that happened tonight she would cry forever. And she was starting to feel really dehydrated from all of the running and she’d only brought a small flask of water cause she hadn’t thought she’d have long to use it and she really didn’t want to cry in front of this stranger again, even if a hug sounded like it would fix all of her problems.

Maggie nodded, “Of course. Come on, honey. You look like you could use something to eat. And probably a long nap.” She said before leading her down the direction of an obviously frequently used path.

“Thanks. I'd be fine with just some directions even, I just really don't know where I'm heading.”

She tentatively picked up a rabbit with her thumb and pointer, trying to touch as little of the corpse as possible while still helping.

“It's fine, hon,” Maggie said, taking the rabbit from her and shoving it in her basket, “you've had a rough night.”

She trailed along after Maggie through the forest, making small talk for the first time in three years ever so often, letting there be a lull in the conversation long enough for her to be eternally grateful she was still good at it.

“If you don't mind me asking, how did you… get all the way out here?”

Obviously she meant “How did you not die horribly?” But Angela appreciated her at least trying not to paint the elephant in the room neon green.

“Well, I was inside a bunker."

"A what?"

"When everything happened, I was at work. I went down in the basement to look for some pens or paperwork, or something, I can’t even remember what, and then everything happened all at once and the door was closed behind me and—"

Angela squeezed her eyes shut, trying to focus on the sounds of the leaves crunching under her feet.

"Go on. If you want to, that is. If it's easier, maybe you can just tell me what a bunker is?"

She squeezed her eyes closed, shaking her head to try and erase the thought from her mind, laughing a bit at herself, "right, yes, that's what you were asking. It's just an underground building created to protect its inhabitants from nuclear warfare. I was living in one. For the past three years. Or nearly, it would have been three next week."

The woman whistled, "Damn. That's a long time without—"

"Yes, I know." Angela cut her off.

Whatever it is she was going to say, good food, a real shower, a hug from a family member, it wouldn't help to hear someone say it out loud to her.

She was quiet for a moment before stopping, making Angela halt too, now aware of the fact that she had been following a complete stranger through the middle of nowhere.

"What's your name, by the way?” Maggie asked.

She wore her most professional smile, the one she used for interviews where condolences weren't required, the one she used to greet potential clients, the one she used at a bar when she wanted a free drink, the same smile she hasn’t had to use in three years.

"Angela Weathers, a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” She refrained from reaching into her pockets for the business cards that she had brought with her despite it all.

The woman smiled, "It’s a pleasure to meet you as well. It seems like you've had a rough go about things so far, Angela. I’m sorry to say you don’t have many options, but I can offer you some."

Angela nodded, immediate relief flooding her at the idea of being able to use actual logic to make an actual decision again.

"Alright, shoot."

"What?"

"I mean, tell me the options."

Maggie nodded, "alright, so, right now we're walking to the village, obviously, we're calling it Noman, but we're all still workshopping titles."

"But it's been three years." she said, looking at her confused.

Maggie rolled her eyes, "I know. Write the elders and ask them about it, supposedly they'll answer, but not sooner than twenty hours after it’s sent.

Or days, or weeks, or months. Or,” she looked at Angela briefly, “years.”

“Wait, the elders?”

Maggie rolled her eyes, “Yes, that’s what we’ve been calling them. They haven’t exactly been doing much to stop, well, what was chasing us just now.”

“Don’t bring whatever that thing is up again. Please.”

Maggie nodded. “There’s not many of them, if that helps.”

She smiled slightly, “it doesn’t much. But maybe soon it will.”

Maggie smiled back at the young woman, “I hope it does.”

Angela nodded, coughing and looking straight ahead, “Anyway, the options?”

“Yes! Right! OK, right now, we're walking towards the village. I run an inn, and nobody can come here and everyone has there own homes, so I do have a spare room. If you wish to stay there for a couple of nights, you're more than welcome."

“You would do that?” Angela stared at Maggie and got a look in response that could only mean that statement had broken her heart. Maggie’s face brought her back to every moment she’d taken one cookie from her grandma instead of three.

Maggie just nodded.

“I'll admit, I don't know what to say, or how to repay you at all.”

Maggie shrugged, “you don't have to say anything. And you definitely do not have to repay me.”

Maybe Angela stiffened when she heard her say it and didn't realize, maybe her smile faulted a bit, or maybe Maggie just smelled the fear of saying and doing nothing for longer than a few seconds on her breath.

“Well,” she drawled, “if you're really looking for something to do, you could help me make the stew for tonight. Can you cook?"

Angela remembered the first time she'd invited her parents and sister over for dinner at her first apartment, and how much money she'd lost on her security deposit after the burnt and overcooked pasta noodles started a fire and left a permanent stain on her ceiling.

She tried and failed to imagine the horror of someone having her handle the knives and body parts of some poor, innocent rabbits.

"In a manner of speaking."

Maggie squinted at her, "if that's not your prime skillset, you can always wait tables or help me and the kids clean rooms."

Angela nodded, trying to hide her shock at the idea that such a young woman/bear had kids.

‘Hey, who am I to judge, it's the eighties,’ she thought, thankfully not saying it out loud.

“Alright, what's option two?"

"The town isn't big, word gets around, you could ask around and see if you can apply for any positions, tomorrow though, maybe even next week, alright? I won't hear any word about you going off in the middle of the night to find work. If you're really stubborn, I'll show you the safer areas to rest in the woods until you're able to afford a house.”

Angela nodded, already knowing sleeping alone in the woods wasn’t an option anymore.

"So, option three?"

"I could give you some new food, maybe some fresh clothes if you have something to trade, and take you back to your bunker."

"Option four?"

"That's it, I'm afraid. Or it's all I can think of, at least."

Angela did not want to go back into that bunker.

She knew it probably would be her best bet, to stay there for a while, get some food, maybe dip into a little of option two and start looking for a job while she stays at home base.

But she really didn't want to.

She wanted to wake up stressed about work again.

She missed the sounds of people running around, and arguing, she needed the city.

Always had.

“Alright, let's try option one.”

[piecksz]

pet. | (m)

pairings: yelena x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, non con, oral sex (female recieving), fingering, intoxication, gun play, violence, slight degredation, explicit language

words: 2.3k+

summary: hange sends you to investigate her suspicions about yelena’s loyalty to the military, but unfortunately for you, she’s already ten steps ahead. 

You should have known better.

Maybe if you’d been more wary she wouldn’t have had the advantage, but you weren’t. Instead you’d been unsuspecting, accepting her blithe invitation to talk about military proceedings over a drink when it hadn’t been your original plan because Hange’s directives were simple. Suspicions had been propagating amongst the higher-ups that the anti-Marleyan volunteers were planning an underhanded coup, and at the forefront of the insurrection was their ringleader, Yelena.

Your orders were to meet with her and solicit information that could have given Hange and the rest of the authorities a lead, so you thought nothing unsavory of Yelena suggesting you two meet at a bar. She offered to cover the tab, and you figured it would be easier to seek out details if she had some alcohol in her system, but Yelena was observant, much more than you had been. She knew the basis for the occasion, and so she coaxed you into one glass after another until you’d grown so tipsy that you didn’t realize she never took one sip.

Afterwards, it didn’t take much effort to convince you to come back with her to her place, accommodation she’d been provided as a guest on Paradis. The minute she lured you inside with the promise to take care of you until you were sober, she seized your arm and forced it behind your back into a nearly impossible position. With the weight of her body, she drove you into the wall, effectively cornering you with the threatening barrel of her gun pressed into the underside of your jaw.

She lowered her mouth to your ear. “The military doesn’t trust me, do they?”

You only grunted in pain, pointlessly writhing in Yelena’s hold.

“And here I was thinking we were just starting to become friends.” She sighed. “They’re smart not to.”

You said nothing, already realizing it was futile to try and prove that you had no ulterior motives for meeting with her, she already knew everything you presumed she didn’t.

“At least I weeded out their pet.” She prodded the hollow cavity where your jawbone met your neck with the cold metal. “What do you say to becoming mine instead?” She thumbed over the gun’s cylinder, clicking the plate into place before teasing the trigger.

You sent her a malicious glower over your shoulder, eyes blazing with animosity. “Go fuck yourself.”

Yelena’s eyebrows lifted in surprise at your rancorous choice of words, but her expression quickly melted into a duplicitous grin. “Is that a yes?” She nudged her gun against the side of your throat, an understated reminder that she still had the option to censor you with a single bullet.  

You stuck your chin out in resistance yet remained silent. Compliance was your only alternative, but nothing made you sicker than the thought of submission.

“Good girl,” Yelena chuckled. She released your arm and stepped back, continuing to stand with the firearm pointed in your direction. “Shirt and pants. Off.”

Her command was curt, and it had you carefully turning to face her. “Yelena—”

“Pets don’t talk.” She flicked her gun to the side, emphasizing her instruction. “I need to make sure you’re not concealing any weapons.”

You hesitated, but quivering fingers traveled to the buttons of your shirt, undoing each of them one by one. Your movements were slow while you tried to stall as much as possible. If you failed to report back to Hange in time, they would conclude that something in your job had gone awry, then they’d come looking for you.

“Faster.” Yelena’s eyes narrowed. She must have sensed your deliberate pace.

Calculating bitch.

You shrugged your shirt off, tossing it on the floor beside you before working yourself out of your pants and discarding them in the same heap.

“Happy?” You held your arms up, turning around once over so Yelena could see that you didn’t possess any visible weapons.

She flicked her wrist down to your feet. “Shoes too.”

Your irritated look slackened at her awareness, still, you slowly bent down, reaching your fingers into your boot until they closed around the smooth wooden handle of a switchblade. You pulled the weapon out, briefly considering the odds of successfully landing damage if you lunged at her from where you were. You decided against it, knowing that it would take less time for her to activate the trigger than it would for you to attack.

Yelena held her hand out, and you reluctantly pressed the blade into her palm. “It would be a shame if I cut you up with your own knife, wouldn’t it?” She snapped it open, studying its whetted edge with eagerness.

Your eyes widened at the mention of her threat, and you backed further up against the wall, arms wrapped about your body in a miserable attempt to offer yourself some decency.

“Don’t look so scared. I won’t.” She retracted the blade and slid it into her pocket. “I have other plans for you. You’re gonna tell me everything I want to know.”

“Or else?” you combated.

Yelena grinned with amusement. “Or else? Dauntless are we? I admire that.” She took a long stride, closing in on you with her imposing height. “You’re gonna tell me everything I want to know if you don’t want your brains on my wall.” She tapped her gun against your cheek.

“You’re not gonna kill me.”

Yelena raised her eyebrows at the way you underestimated her vice.

“Commander Hange and Captain Levi wouldn’t let you see the light of day.” You chuckled. “And after they’ve been such kind hosts to you, is that any way to repay them?”

She pretended to muse over your reasoning, and then she shrugged. “Should I get my information another way then?”

You tilted your head to the side, now at a loss for words. You drew your brows together and shook your head, unable to discern what she was hinting at.

“It was easy getting you this far.” Yelena’s rich voice was strangely comforting as she spoke into your ear, the melodic rhythm of her voice lulling you into relaxation. “Your heroism is cute Y/N, but you’re not as smart as you think you are.” She coiled a strand of your hair around her lithe fingers before her hands traveled down to your chest.

“You think all your decisions are yours, but they’re not.” Her touch trailed along your breastbone, ghosting over the skin of your stomach until she met the thin fabric of your underwear.

Your mouth ran dry at the feeling of Yelena’s fingers while they lingered along your waistband. You tried to protest, but your words were stilted.  

“Nothing is. Not even those thoughts in your head, someone put them there.” she whispered, dipping her hand into your underwear while pushing her gun’s end into your temple. She delighted in your afflicted expression, eyes welling with hot tears but still soundless. She skimmed over your clit lightly, watching how your body twitched in response, and she hummed at your quiet feedback before circling the sensitive swell of your cunt with her middle finger.

Fearful of grabbing Yelena’s hand to cease her movement, you cupped your unsteady hands over your mouth instead, trying to smother your panicked sobs.

Her fingers slid down to your pussy’s orifice, forcing just the tip of her finger in and growing amused at how your hole tightened desperately with every small ministration. “You’re merely a puppet on a string—easily controlled.” The mention of her last word had her pushing two fingers up into your entrance, eliciting a strident cry from you.

Yelena moved quickly, long and lean digits thrusting in and out of your hole while your body quivered under her commanding strokes. She worked you in steady pulls, curling her middle and ring finger up against the sensitive center of your core. Her movements were effortless and adroit, playing you like an instrument while listening to your airy whimpers of indulgence—the music.

“Not even a minute ago you hated me, but your lack of resistance says otherwise.” She sunk her fingers again until she was knuckle-deep.

Your feeble pleas for Yelena to stop suggested something entirely different from the way your wet and needy walls tightened around her touch while your vocalizations grew louder. You undulated your hips in tight, urgent circles, shameless in your pleasure until you felt your orgasm tickle the bottom of your spine. A sweaty hand slid over the lapels of Yelena’s blazer, gripping the fabric while you fought to keep yourself upright.

“Take my advice.” She brought her face closer to yours, lips hardly brushing over the streaks of tears that painted your cheeks. “Being so naive will only get you killed.”

She slipped her hand out of your underwear, her fingers covered in a gossamer layer of your arousal, and the sudden absence just as you had reached the cusp of your orgasm caused your pelvis to jolt. Through glossy eyes, you looked at her own, your hold on her jacket tightening. “Please—”

Your fingertips slid down to your clothed folds, gingerly skimming over the fabric to imply what you wanted. With a sober mind, you wouldn’t have dared admit that you were surrendering to the enemy, but the residual effects of the alcohol in your system blurred all your coherent thoughts, and all you could focus on was your desperation for a climax.

“Yelena, please—”

Yelena’s hand closed around your wrist, and she forcibly pulled you off of her. “Don’t beg. Have some self-respect.”

She withdrew her gun from your forehead, ungodly eyes never leaving yours. Her pinched expression relaxed back into her classic inscrutable appearance, and she slowly lowered herself onto her knees in front of you until the top of her blonde head just barely peeked over your midriff.

The sight of seeing her shorter than you for once would have been comical if it weren’t for the aching between your thighs that took priority.

Yelena wrapped an arm around the back of your knee, and hoisted your leg over her shoulder. The hand that clutched her gun pushed it into the curve of your hip bone, spawning a small whimper of discomfort from your throat.

She glanced up at you before leaning in and lolling her tongue out, delivering a long wet lick up from your entrance to your clit.

“Oh my god—” Your words were breathless and waned into a decadent purr as Yelena continued to circle the sensitive bud with the authoritative head of her pink tongue.

With a final and potent flick, she lapped your clit into her mouth, methodically oscillating between sucking and kissing your glistening cunt until she discovered the best combination to draw out the loudest moans. The fingers she dug into your thigh migrated to your backside and pressed into the skin of your ass instead. Yelena nudged you closer to her until her nose gently grazed the skin of your pelvis every time she shifted against your center.

You whimpered her name again while your restless hands slid over your chest, tugging at the sheer material of your bra and weighing your own breasts in your palms. “I’m—”

Yelena trailed down to your hole, teasing and prodding while she dragged her touch from behind. She rested her fingers against your clit, massaging it alongside her tongue’s performance to excite you into greater stimulation.

“Yelena—” You swallowed thickly. “I’m—close—”

Half-delirious with lust, the other half—inebriation, your hand settled behind her head and you rolled your lower body against her mouth, allowing the dual sensation of her fingers and tongue to send you over the edge. Your climax surfaced in two waves, first presenting itself as a tiny shiver that painted your skin in goosebumps, but the second had you crying out fervidly while your body descended into uncontrollable spasms.

“Yelena—fuck—”

Yelena continued to urge her tongue deeper, penetrating the depths of your cunt and relishing in the way your walls tightened around her slippery muscle before she withdrew from between your thighs.

The strength of your orgasm had your knees buckling, sending your back sliding down the wall until you collapsed on the floor. Your fingers scratched pathetically against the wood surface while you quivered from the aftershock of your climax, and your heavy breathing didn’t relent. You stirred briefly, drifting in and out of clarity until your eyes flitted open to see Yelena rising to her feet in a squatted position.

She observed you thoughtfully, her warped smile matching, yet at the same time contrasting, her seemingly kind eyes. It appeared she had discarded her previous plan to pry information out of you, and debriefing you wouldn’t have been worth the effort seeing as how you could hardly form an intelligible sentence.

Yelena reached out to grab your chin, forcing your lips to part wider with her thumb, just enough for her to slide the barrel of her gun into your mouth.

The metal was leaden against your tongue and it’s sharp flavor was unpleasant, making you tug your head in the opposite direction, but Yelena’s grip was unyielding. You looked onward at her as a new surge of tears flooded your waterline, and your helpless cries were muzzled by her weapon.

She rested the end of the barrel against the roof of your mouth before clicking the hammer and rotating another bullet into place.

You strung your eyes shut, waiting for the deafening sound of gunfire, quick pain, and then terrifying silence, but when nothing came, you carefully opened your eyes, wondering if you were already dead.

Rather, you were still met with Yelena’s squinting eyes, and she hummed before pulling her gun, now daubed with your saliva, from your lips. Her eyes drifted to the floor, and she stretched a hand out to grab your bundle of clothes from your side. She held them to your chest, and you hesitantly accepted them, hugging the articles to your stark frame, then Yelena rose to her feet, peering down at you with self-approving satisfaction.

“Give the military my best.”

[jxsatlas]

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐓𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐋𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍 ⇢ keith kogane, ch. 3

keith kogane x gn! reader – previous

DISCLAIMER! this story does not originally belong to me, the author is @MaddieWolf37 on Wattpad. i have simply received permission to rewrite and continue her story. go and check out her profile for the original version!

SYNOPSIS! a story in which you are thrown into the middle of an intergalactic space war and have the undesirable weight of being a symbol of peace dropped on your shoulders. but maybe if you look past the constant danger and endless fighting, there's some good to being a paladin of voltron.

MATURE CONTENT! swearing, violence, gore, war, graphic descriptions, mentions of self-harm

You step into the tent, eyes wide at the sight of three unconscious scientists scattered around the ground. Straight ahead, Keith is carefully pulling Shiro off of the metal table and trying to sling Shiro's arm around him.

"Nope! No! I'm saving Shiro," Lance says and takes Shiro's other arm and tosses it around his shoulders.

"Uh... who are you?" Keith asks, furrowing his brows at Lance in confusion.

"The name's Lance?" your brother says, but Keith only blinks at him. Lance feigns a look of hurt and disappointment. How could his self-proclaimed rival not recognise him? "We were in the same class at the Garrison? We were like rivals. You know, Lance and Keith, neck and neck?"

"Really? Are you... an engineer?" Keith asks.

"What? No! I'm a pilot," Lance frowns.

Keith narrows his eyes at Lance for a moment before it clicks. His face relaxes. "Oh... yeah, I remember you. You're a cargo pilot."

"Well, not anymore. I'm fighter class now, thanks to you washing out," Lance sasses.

"Congratulations," Keith says in a low tone, not interested.

You roll your eyes at their interaction and place a hand on your hip. "Are you two just gonna sweet talk each other or are we gonna take Shiro and get out of here?" you ask.

Keith looks up at the sound of your voice, recognising it. He stares at you for a bit, unintentionally. It's been a while since he's seen you, and he could honestly that say he missed you.

You were the only person he truly got along with at the Garrison, so it's reasonable for him to feel that way.

"Well?" you ask, quirking an eyebrow.

Keith blinks, breaking his stare and bringing him back to reality. "Taking Shiro and getting out of here," he says.

You all rush out of the tent as fast as you can with an unconscious person in your arms. As the others make their way to Keith's hoverbike, You take a quick look to see what's going on with the Garrison.

"Oh, that's not good," you say and spin on your heel quickly. You scurry over to the hoverbike. "We should really get moving! The Garrison is coming back and they do not look happy!"

Pidge climbs onto the hoverbike. "Hey, is this gonna fit all of us?"

As Keith sits down at the helm, Hunk climbs onto the back, causing the back to drop downwards. "No," he grumbles.

But he doesn't bother wasting time when all of you are on and ready to go. He revs the engine and the hoverbike roars to life, lifting up into the air a few feet.

And right as the Garrison comes around the tent, Keith does a sharp 180 and heads in the opposite direction. He speeds away with the Garrison pursuing without hesitation.

To fight against the inertia, you grab ahold of Keith who you sit right behind. And you don't plan on letting go anytime soon, scared you'll fall off.

Pidge has his arms hooked under Shiro's. "Why am I holding this guy?" he asks, but he's left unanswered.

Lance looks at the Garrison behind us. They were getting closer by the second. "Can't this thing go any faster?"

"We can toss off some non-essential weight," Keith says bitterly.

"Oh, right!" Lance chirps and looks around to see what could be tossed off the hoverbike. But when he finds nothing and realises Keith was talking about Hunk, he rolls his eyes. "Okay, so that was an insult."

Keith shouts over his shoulder at Hunk. "Big man, lean left!"

Hunk does so and the hoverbike sharply veers left, quickly evading the gaining pursuers. The Garrison tries to match the sudden movement, but two of the vehicles chasing after you crash into each other.

"Aw, man!" Hunk whines. "Mr. Harris just wiped out Professor Montgomery!"

You look over your shoulder behind you and see the two vehicles rolling and flipping. You frown. You hope they're okay.

"Big man! Lean right!" Keith orders and Hunk listens to him again. As the hoverbike tips to the right, jumping over a canyon and to the narrow ledge on the other side, you make the mistake of looking down below.

Your body tingles with adrenaline as you watch the ground disappear for a second too long, not enjoying the sight at all.

"Not cool! Not cool!" You say and squeeze your eyes shut. You don't usually have a fear of heights. But it's one thing when you're piloting an aircraft, and a completely different thing when you're riding on the back of a hoverbike where falling off is a very prominent thing.

"Are you seriously scared of heights?" Lance asks, picking up on the reason why you suddenly got anxious. "You're a freaking pilot!"

"This is different!" you bark back at him.

"Wait! Guys! Is that cliff up ahead?" Hunk asks, pointing ahead. You turn back around and you squeak at the sight of the sudden drop getting closer and closer.

"Oh, no, no, no, no!" Lance shouts.

"Yep," Keith smirks and increases the speed, practically flying towards the cliff.

Everyone, except for Keith and Shiro, who is still very much unconscious, clambers and screams incoherently as Keith heads straight for the cliff and drives right off.

You feel your stomach fly up to your chest as you fall, your butt lifting off the seat. The butterflies make your entire body buzz with fear and you tighten your arms around Keith. If you fall off now, there's no doubt you'll be dead.

And flat as a pancake.

"What are you doing!? You're gonna get us killed!" Lance shouts, his eyes wide with fear. His grip is tight on the hoverbike. He doesn't want to fall off either.

"Just shut up and trust me!" Keith shouts back at him.

"I trust you!" you shout, squeezing your eyes shut once again. You truly do. Even though Keith was reckless and quite the trouble maker back at the Garrison, You know he wouldn't intentionally put you in danger without a way to get you out of it.

You fall for what seems like an eternity before Keith rolls the throttle all the way, maxing out the power of the engines. The hoverbike stops just before it hits the ground. Your butt hits the seat pretty hard and you wince.

That's definitely gonna be a bruised tailbone.

With the Garrison having no way to get down the cliff and chase after you, Keith drives off into the desert.

﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋﹋

Inside of an old cabin in the middle of what seems to be nowhere, the group lays about. Lance sits on the edge of a surprisingly soft sofa with you laying across the majority of it, your head in his lap. He has his arms hanging on the back and his head resting on his shoulder. The two of you snooze away.

Pidge and Hunk are across the room sitting on the floor, talking about tech and engineering. Keith is outside with Shiro.

When you were waiting for Shiro to wake up, you had a chance to catch up with Keith. You hugged him and conversed with him happily. He seemed to enjoy talking to me too again, a faint smile on his face.

Although Lance glared at you from across the room the entire time. The boys have a mutual dislike for each other, so Lance didn't take too kindly to you talking to Keith. But you think Lance feels the said dislike more. Keith doesn't seem to care most of the time, but Lance can and will get on his nerves.

Nevertheless, you genuinely missed Keith. You were pretty good friends with him. In fact, you think you were his only friend at the Garrison.

You stir awake when Keith and Shiro walk back into the cabin rather loudly. You rub the sleep from your eyes and sit up. You stretch your arms out with a yawn, accidentally smacking your brother in the face.

Lance jolts awake with a small yelp.

"Oh, sorry," you say. Lance grumbles under his breath and sits up. He yawns as well.

"What have you been working on?" Shiro asks slowly.

You turn my attention to the other side of the room. Keith holds a large cloth in his hands, having pulled it off of the wall. And on the wall are pictures of caves carvings and odd locations and maps of the desert pinned onto it with tacs and tape. Messy red arrows and circles are marked onto said maps, pointing out places in the desert. But not as much as an area at the center of the map, where a large, overlapping circle was scribbled down.

With curiosity overpowering your sleepiness, you rest your chin in your palm and lean forward with interest. "What's that?" you ask.

"It's... kinda hard to explain?" Keith says with a shrug. "After getting booted from the Garrison, I felt... lost?" he says with a somber expression.

Keith points to the large circle on the map. "But I was drawn to this place. It was like something, some energy, was telling me to search," he says.

"For what?" Shiro asks.

"I'm not sure," Keith answers. "But when I did search, I came across a cave system with all these ancient carvings. Each depicting a slightly different story about a Blue Lion, and some... arrival happening," he explains and points to the photos on the wall before looking at Shiro. "Then you showed up."

Shiro hums, a small, impressed smile tugging at his lips. He turns to you, Lance, Hunk, and Pidge, who are clumped together across the room. "I should thank you all for getting me out of there," he says.

Shiro reaches his robotic arm out to Lance. An awestruck expression takes over my brother's face. On the outside, he appears rather calm. But on the inside, he's most likely freaking out about the fact that his idol is wanting to shake his hand.

"You're Lance, right?" Shiro asks.

Lance nods with a wide smile, firmly grasping Shiro's metal hand and shaking it.

Shiro turns to you. "And... [y/n]?" he guesses your name and you nod.

"Yep! That's me!" you affirm and shake Shiro's hand as well.

"I'm Pidge, and the nervous guy is Hunk," the short ginger says and points to Hunk, who is pulling at his fingers, with his thumb. "Do you know if the rest of your crew made it?"

You glance at Pidge. He seems to be pretty hung up on Shiro's crewmates. You slowly get lost in your thoughts wondering why.

Could he possibly be related to any of them? Or at least a good friend to one?

Pidge gives you a strange look and you realise you're staring. You flash him an embarrassed smile and look away.

"I don't know," Shiro says after taking a moment to dig through his memories. "My brain is still pretty scrambled. But one thing sticks out. I kept hearing the word Voltron, over and over. It's some kind of weapon."

You blink. "That's what Pidge was hearing on the radio!" you point out.

Pidge nods. "Yeah, I picked it up on alien radio chatter when scanning the solar system," he rephrases.

"Maybe those were the aliens that captured Shiro?" Lance suggests.

"Well, we need to find this Voltron before the aliens do," Shiro says with a sharp tone of determination.

"But how are we gonna do that?" Lance asks.

He's got a point. "Yeah, we don't even know what Voltron looks like," you say.

"I got that doodle in my notebook?" Pidge says.

"Sorry, Pidge, but your artist's rendition isn't the best," Lance says. You smack his arm and he smacks yours in return.

Hunks smiles. "I don't think Pidge's drawing skills will be a problem," he says and picks up Pidge's backpack. "Because I was looking through his stuff–"

Pidge snatches his bag from Hunk and holds it away from him. "What were you doing looking through my stuff?" he asks sharply.

Hunk rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. "Looking for a snack," he says. "Anyways, I was looking through his diary and–"

"You did what?" Pidge growls. He seems to like his privacy.

"–and I noticed a repeating series of numbers that kinda look like a Fraunhofer line," Hunk quickly finishes talking before Pidge has a chance to interrupt him again.

"A frown-what?" Keith asks and you, him, and Lance give a quizzical look.

"Sorry, we have the brains of pilots," you say.

"That's fine," Hunk shrugs and proceeds to explain what he's talking about. "It's a number describing the emission spectrum of an element. But this element doesn't exist on earth, so I was thinking it could be this Voltron?"

You nod, understanding a little bit more of his engineer mind, but not really. He used too big of words.

"I think I can build something to track it, like a Voltron Geiger counter," Hunk says.

Lance flashes an impressed grin and crosses his arms. "Hunk, you big gassy genius!" he praises.

"It's pretty great," Hunk smiles bashfully at the compliment. He then reaches into his pocket and pulls out a sheet of paper with a sort of graph on it. He holds it up for everyone to see. "It looks like this."

Keith snatches the paper from Hunk and examines it closely. He furrows his brows and turns to one of the photos pinned up on the wall, something connecting in his brain. He holds the graph up next to a photo of rocky outcropping somewhere in the desert.

The line matches the shape of the tall, jagged rocks eerily well. You all share a look, concluding that that's the next place you need to go.

[the-fiction-witch]

Scent Of Love P2

REAL LIFE COUPLE: TBS X READER RATING: CUTE + SCARY

I had to admit I liked living with Thomas, he was kinda strange and had some little strange habits but he was still sweet. He did have some very odd habits, He loved meat which sounds of but almost every meal involved it. He went out over strange hours and almost never told me where he was going. He had a strange distaste for our postman and odd people who walked past. He had a strange attention problem we couldn't just sit and chill in the garden together he'd always be jumpy about something, and he replaced things a lot, little things, pillows, curtains, decorative bits mostly in his room, and Hair god fucking damn it! I thought girls were bad with leaving hair literally everywhere humanly imaginable! but I swear he must shed like a head's worth of hair a day. I know it's not mine! seriously I lint rollered the sofa the other day, after he slept on it and I had enough to make a pile the size of a banana. I also noticed something very very odd. when doing my usual bi-monthly clean of the pantry where I take everything out clean the cupboards and throw away anything old I found a box of dog biscuits on his shelf. they were open. I did ask him about it and he said he just buys a big box and throws some in his bag and his pockets when he goes places so he can give them to cute dogs he sees which I guess is kinda adorable.

But I didn't worry about it, maybe he's just an odd guy.

I sat on the sofa reading my book, when he hurried down the stairs and leant on the doorframe

"Hi"

"Hi" I smiled

"I am going out, don't wait up"

"no problem, have fun Thomas"

"You too y/n" he smiled grabbing his keys and heading out the door, I didn't think any more about it and went on with my evening, until much later I think about two am I was still up unable to sleep but I didn't have work tomorrow so it wasn't an issue, so I was sat up in my bed reading my book. I heard a strange noise from downstairs but pushed it off it was likely just Thomas getting home from wherever he had been but the more I listened to more, thought it sounded like an animal, I was nervous but I crawled out of bed and pulled open my door. Instantly I noticed the trail of mud across the hallway floor, I clicked my phone's flashlight on seeing the mess of mud in the flood, and in this mess, I saw strange footsteps. not bare feet. not shoes. not boots. these were.... like animal paws. all these tracks lead to, Thomas' room.

I was seconds away from calling animal control as I stepped closer to the still-open door but I wanted to know what I was working with before I started calling people. I went over trying to be as quiet as possible hearing the various sounds of movement in the room. I peeked inside and saw the room much as it had always been, his things scattered around, laundry across the floor, bed unmade. I saw the bed jolt which frightened me making me drop my phone I quickly picked it up from the floor as I heard a crash and a creak and saw this mess on top of the bed I flashed my light over it and saw this mound on the bed covered by the sheets, making these horrific sounds, I nervously stepped over being as quiet as I could, I took the covers in my hand quickly pulled them back.

and I was admittedly surprised.

It was a tall, thin, Blonde wolf. laid like puppies usually do on the bed on their back legs in the air looking as cosy and fluffy as possible. I snapped a photo and quickly left shutting the door behind me, sitting on the floor leaning against the door, I rang Thomas quickly to tell him not to come home but I heard the phone ringing from inside his bedroom. Stupid boy left his phone here! I did try and call animal control but only got an automated system that said they would call me back. I didn't know what to do how on earth did it even get in! I waited for a good while noticing the sun coming up through the windows I was about to call them again when suddenly I was laid on the floor as the door I had been leant against opened and suddenly I was laid on the floor looking up at a half-dressed Thomas

"Uhhh hi y/n"

"what! what the - where'd the wolf go!" I yelled bolting up and into his room, no wolf.

"wolf? what are you talking about?" he asks

"There was a wolf in here! last night! I swear!"

"Y/n calm down. you must have just been dreaming" he says

"dreaming, Thomas there are tracks up our stairs! something was in here last night"

"Maybe it walked up and back out?" he suggested

"It was in your room. I saw it. and I haven't moved from this door since."

"y/n it's probably just your imagination running away with you get to bed and have a rest"

"No! I saw a wolf!" I yelled showing him the picture on my phone "Now where did it go!"

he sighed "it hasn't gone anywhere"

"Then where is it! Uhhhh have you been keeping a pet in here!"

"No!"

"then where is the wolf!"

"I'm the wolf!"

"what-"

"I'm the wolf" He sighed "I have... a medical condition"

"a medical condition"

"I get... really ill when I see a full moon."

"Ill?"

"and. I turn into a wolf"

"so... you're a werewolf?"

"Yes."

"I have.... so so many questions."

"That's fair" He nods "You wanna sit downstairs and talk about it"

"Yes. Yes I do."

I sat at the table as we both had a cup of tea I couldn't stop glaring at him waiting for his answers,

"so?" I spoke up

"so."

"Explanation. if you please."

"well, what do you wanna know?"

"How long, have you been a werewolf?"

"About ten years or so" he shrugs "a friend of mine turned me by accident."

"So once a month you become a huge fluffy blonde wolf and what?"

"I go run in the woods with my friends, maybe eat a lamb. maybe some chickens"

"Okay, do you have memories of what you do?"

"I do."

"do you have control when you're a wolf?"

"More or less. I mean I don't think my personality is that different but when I'm a wolf I'm just a bit more... straightforward I suppose I don't have to bother with the human social elements"

"Is that why you growl at the postman?"

"He has a vibe. and a weird smell. I don't trust him!"

"That's why you have those dog biscuits in the pantry"

"They're my little snack" he shrugs "Did you want me to move out?"

"Well I mean, you've been a werewolf the whole time you've lived here honestly other than scaring me last night it hasn't ever caused me any trouble" I explain "So long as I know I don't see a problem"

"Really?"

"Yes. but, you are taking over vacuuming. you shed like an old rug"

"That's fair" He nods

[vibraniumwing]

the truth in your eyes.

a bucky barnes x fem!reader blurb wherein the reader shows bucky that someone does trust him.

WARNING: TFATWS SPOILERS, bucky having flashbacks, aside from that nothing else. (maybe a dash of angst if you squint just enough)

A/N: so as you all know, episode four was a rollercoaster of emotions for everyone and well that one scene where bucky was finally set free tore me into a million pieces, making me sob so hard (the hardest since the last episode of wandavision) and gave me so much muse. listened to hate to see your heartbreak by paramore while writing this. totally didn’t cry while re-watching those scenes for this fic. (sobbed even more when i listened to safe and sound bye)

beta read by these two lovelies: @anchoeritic and @harrysweasleys but mistakes are all mine!

---

“...Hail HYDRA” was all that left Bucky’s lips as he easily snapped the neck of the man that he pursued in another mission as the Winter Soldier. His face was blank and cold as he stood there, eyes gazing over the lifeless body of the man in front him before looking at the other man standing by the end of the hallway, practically frozen with fear.

The sound of his boots were resonating in the hallway, overpowering the clatter of the keys of the man as he tried his best to unlock his hotel room. Panic consumed him as he felt The Winter Soldier’s presence draw nearer to him, “P-Please, I didn’t see anything,” He begged, avoiding the super assassin’s intimidating gaze.

Fear creeping into his system as he knew he was facing his untimely death as the stare of the man made him cower even more in fear, his breath staggered as he spoke, “I- I didn’t see anything.” He repeated profusely, unable to control his sobs as the gun was easily pointed to him, eyes closing as his demise came with a loud

BANG

Bucky jolted awake, sweat accumulating on his forehead, his body flushed despite the cold air that drifted through the room. His head turned to the cause of the sudden sound only to see your water bottle on the floor and your siamese cat, Steve, replacing its spot. He shifted his attention to you, wanting to make sure that you weren’t disturbed in your sleep.

The corner of his lips turned into a smile to see you deep in your slumber, your plush tiers slightly ajar as soft snores escaped. You looked so snug and harmless in his shirt, its size making you seem smaller as you were drowning in the clothing piece.

He slowly made his way out of your bed, slipping away to the kitchen to grab some milk to calm down his nerves. His steps were quiet, creeping around the apartment, scared he might accidentally wake you up and the last thing he wants is to disrupt you from your good night’s rest.

Bucky knew the layout of your apartment’s layout like the back of his hand, easily making his way towards the fridge where he grabbed his carton of chocolate milk that you bought especially for him, knowing about the secret love for sweets the man has. Grabbing a mug, he poured the cold drink and placed it inside the microwave, heating it up.

He then leaned back into the kitchen island, arms crossed together as he was still deep in thought, the terror of the innocent man that The Winter Soldier killed haunting him as he knew he had to make amends with his father once he gained the courage to do so. His right arm covering his mouth as he let a frustrated groan, wanting nothing more than to have these dreams stop haunting him.

“It is time” Ayo said from across the fire, spear in her hand as she looked at Bucky with a determined look.

He was less than half of the man he was at present, broken and lost as the Wakandans took him in and helped him regain control over his mind, hoping to give him some sort of stability in his life. Hiis eyes cast down and was focused on the fire in front of him, its warmth giving him a sense of comfort, “You sure about this?” he questioned, voice laced with a mixture of despair and hope.

“I won’t let you hurt anyone” The warrior reassured, staying silent for a moment to give way for Bucky to ready himself. She walked towards him slowly as she started off, “желание” her voice the only thing heard aside from the gust of wind and the crackle of the campfire. “Ржавый”

“...семнадцать” and that’s when he felt it. Flashbacks of him and Steve’s fight along the highway of New York coming back to him, the first time he encountered him after years of no contact; he didn’t even know himself when Steve called him Bucky. His struggle as Zemo got a hold of the infamous red notebook that holds his trigger words, activating the Winter Soldier that caused disruption amongst the avengers.

“добросердечный, добрый. девять” Ayo continued, watching him intently, seeing the struggle that was clear as day on his face. Bucky continued to have his memories thrown at him, seeing the destruction he caused as something he wasn’t, causing him to erupt in tears.

“Один” His torment under the hands of HYDRA causing him great pain as he fought everything under his willpower to keep everything contained. Bucky’s tears were uncontrollable as realization hit him.

“грузовой вагон” Ayo finished, looking at him with a warm and proud smile, relief evident in her demeanor as she spoke, “You’re free.” causing him to erupt into a sob.

Those two words echoing in his mind as he finally felt free, a heavy weight lifted off from his shoulders, feeling himself gain control over the monster that lived inside him; overjoyed and relieved that he can start the journey of being free from there. He was finally James Buchanan Barnes again.

“Bucky!” a voice disconnected him from his train of thought, head whipping to the side where he saw you, clad in just his shirt as you hugged the pillow with one arm, the other raised as you rubbed the sleep off from your eyes. “Your milk is cold again.” you stated, dropping the pillow as you walked in front of him, wrapping your arms around his bare torso.

He was quick to reciprocate the hug, holding you close to him. “You shouldn’t be up yet, doll.” His voice was gruff, trying his best to hold back the tears that welled up in his eyes, pressing a quick kiss to the crown of your head before burying his face against your neck, inhaling your scent that he found comfort in.

“The cold is bed without you.” You mumbled softly, feeling drowsier than ever as the heat from his body was enough to lull you back into slumber. Your jumbled sentence made him chuckle, further proving his point that you should be sleeping.

But you knew Buck like the back of your hand, he would only drink his chocolate milk hot if there was something he wanted to clear his mind so you pulled away just enough for you to look at him, your e/c orbs meeting his icy blue ones that showcase so much emotion that his face couldn’t convey. “What’s wrong, James?”

His brows furrowed for a second upon your use of his real name, knowing that you were serious about your question, “Nothing, baby. I’m fine.” He reassured, squeezing you lightly in his arms, hoping that you would buy his alibi but you weren’t fooled despite your sleepy state.

“You only drink your chocolate milk warm if you have something on your mind, so please, James. Tell me.” You pleaded, your innocent state tugging Bucky at the heartstrings as he flipped your position, easily lifting you to sit on the kitchen island as he positioned himself in the middle of your legs, his arms not leaving your frame.

“I… I had another nightmare.” Buck started off, his voice was still as low as before, but it was laced with a hint of brokenness as he recalled the horror of his dream. “You know the recurring one I’ve been dealing with? That one.” he didn’t want to go into detail about anything, finding it hard to find the right words to use. “I… I still feel like a monster.”

You shushed him, pulling away to let your hands rest on his shoulders, your eyes meeting his once again. “You’re not a monster, Buck. You never were.” Which was true, you were the few who believed that he was innocent and not a cold-hearted killer like everyone believes him to be. “You didn’t have a choice一 so please don’t blame yourself for any of this,”

Your smaller hands found its spot on the sides of his face, wiping the tears that glistened on his skin as the moonlight hit him, highlighting the beauty of his eyes even more. “It would take a person with real empathy to see the truth in your eyes. Those beautiful eyes that have shown me nothing but love and adoration, you have my trust Buck. You have me, Sam, and… Steve. You have us.”

Bucky was silent, taking in your words before nodding, his larger hands engulfing yours as he held them, giving them a reassuring squeeze. “Thank you, Y/N. For always believing in me, for trusting me.”

“Always, James. Always.”

---

TAGLIST: @https-bvcky @luana @harrysweasleys @weasleytwins-41 @anchoeritic @lunalovecroft

those whose usernames are in bold, i cannot tag you for some weird reason. join my taglist! it's located in my main masterlist!

[aliceblisss]

Hej, I'd like a fluffy Spencer x reader Halloween fic :)

You got it! Tysm for your request! <3

Btw I tend to write reader fics in first person. Personally I find it’s easier to immerse yourself in the story that way.

——————————————————————————

“Boo!”

I’m startled by the sound and a quick jolt on my shoulders. I turn around to find Spencer in a cheap Frankenstein mask.

“Spencer! Stop doing that” I hit his arm and he grabs it in pain but continues to laugh nonetheless.

“Oh come on y/n, where’s your Halloween spirit?” He protests as he leans on my desk, his Frankenstein mask resting on top on his head.

“Dead”

His mouth falls open. “What do you mean?!”

“I’ve never liked Halloween, never understood the fun of it” I say with all honesty. I know he loves Halloween, and part of me considered lying just so I wouldn’t make him feel bad.

He puts his hand over his heart, feigning a blow to the chest. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. How can you not find the fun in Halloween? It’s literally the best holiday!”

I laugh at his dramatic response and say, “That’s debatable”

“You know what?” He stands up with determination, “I won’t accept this. I hope you don’t have any plans this Saturday because I will dedicate the whole day to changing your mind.”

“Ughh” I grunt. The thought of spending the whole day with him sounds wonderful but he can be so annoying when he’s hell bent on something.

That’s when he hits me with the pouty lip and puppy dog eyes that make me melt. “Please?”

I roll my eyes, fighting back a smile because I can’t help but be amused by all this.

“Fine. It’s a date”

~~~

Maybe I shouldn’t have said that. Why did I say that?

I mean, there’s always been a weird tension between us and our friendship sometimes…crosses some lines a friendship shouldn’t cross; especially not a work related one.

Practically everyone knows Spencer and I have been crushing on each other for years. And we’re both aware of it but we’ve never talked about it, at least not explicitly. And now I’ve gone and called this a date.

I could tell his demeanor changed when I said it. He got all nervous and flustered, even blushed a little.

And now, he’s only two minutes away, and I’m the nervous mess.

I tried to dress accordingly, usually what I like most about fall are the outfits. I put on a cream colored knit sweater with a tan coat over it and layered some gold jewelry, with some comfy boots to match. He told me to dress comfortable.

Suddenly I hear a knock on my door, the sound startling me, breaking my train of thought. Butterflies start to flutter in my stomach.

“Hey!” I greet him with a big smile.

“Hello!” He greets back. I look him up and down and realize he put together a better fall outfit than I did.

He’s wearing a grey knit sweater with little ghosts on them, a black coat over it and his classic purple scarf hanging perfectly from his neck. So cute.

“I like your sweater,” I say as I close the door behind me.

“I thought you didn’t like Halloween”

“Doesn’t mean I can’t like your sweater” I laugh because even the simplest things he says make me laugh, like an idiot.

“Then what about my sweater do you like if not the Halloween theme?” At this point he’s teasing me, purposefully getting on my nerves like usual.

“Just take the damn compliment Reid”

~~~

“So where are we going?” I ask after a few minutes of driving.

“Ah ah, it’s a surprise” he replies.

“That’s fine, I’ll just guess” I say, thinking I can cheat the system.

“Let’s see, is it a pumpkin patch?”

No response.

“Apple picking? No. Haunted house!”

I see a small smile creeped on his face.

“That’s it! The haunted house!” I said in an ah-ha manner.

His grin grew wider, “I never said that. I’m just amused by your attempts at guessing”

“Yeah right,” I scoff. “We both know I guessed it”

We both laugh, we’re stopped at a red light so he turns to look at me as he giggles. We look at each other, entranced.

“I’m glad we’re doing this” he admits in a soft voice.

I smile, “Me too”

~~~

A few minutes before arriving to our destined location he instructed me to close my eyes. Once we came to a stop he told me to open them.

In front of me was a big entrance with a sign that said ‘Halloween Fun Fair’.

“Oh” I say disappointed, not that this is where he brought me but that I hadn’t guessed correctly.

“What?” He asked with a chuckle.

“I guessed wrong”

“Well, I wouldn’t be so sure about that. Come on!” he said excitedly.

We walked in through the entrance to find a bunch of booths with carnival games. He led me to a sign with arrows pointing in different directions which had ‘pumpkin patch’ and ‘haunted maze’ written on them.

“Ah! So I was right!” I exclaim.

“Sort of yeah” he giggled.

“But we’re not going to the pumpkin patch, that’s boring. We’re gonna play some carnival games, I’m gonna beat your ass in the process, and then we’ll go in the haunted maze.” He says.

“Oh, is that a challenge, Dr. Reid?” I narrow my eyes at him playfully, leaning closer to his face.

He does the same, leaning in as well, our noses almost touching. “It’s not much of a challenge, sweetheart.”

“Oh it’s on”

And so we spent the next two hours trying to one-up each other in each game. Of course the genius wins most of them, only a few I win on my own, and some of them he lets me win at; which only pisses me off more.

We make sure to choose the smaller prizes so we can toss them in my tote bag.

After playing and filling up my tote bag with little plushies and knick-knacks he tells me he’ll be right back and runs off.

I may find him incredibly attractive most of the time but I can’t deny he runs a bit funny. I suppose it adds to his charm.

He comes back with a goofy smile and his arms behind his back. Once he’s in front of me he pulls out a small bouquet of flowers.

“For you” he says with a big smile and a pink tint on his cheeks.

I have to keep myself from swooning at this sweet gesture. But I can’t help myself from blushing.

“Thank you” I say and shyly take the flowers from his hand. Our fingers graze and my breath hitches at my throat.

He takes a step back and nervously scratches the back of his head.

After a few seconds of awkward silence he says, “So, you ready for the haunted maze?”

I look over to where the entrance of the maze is. It’s filled with fog and you can hear screaming in the distance. It scares me a bit but I’ll never admit it.

I look back at him and reply with, “Yeah. Can’t wait to hear you screaming like a little girl” and a devilish smirk.

He chuckles as he throws his arm over my shoulder. “Yeah we’ll see about that”

We walk in and decide to take a right. Already a few minutes in there’s a jump scare. It frightens us slightly but we just laugh and keep going. The deeper we get into the maze the closer we get to each other; practically stepping on each other’s toes. And the maze gets gradually scarier as we go on.

Some of the monsters just scare you and move on or go back into hiding. But others linger and follow you which kinda creeped me out. At one point we realize we’re kinda lost.

“Shit, which way did we come from?” he asks.

“How should I know?”

“You should pay more attention y/n”

“You’re the one with the eidetic memory!”

“So?”

“So you should—” I’m cut off buy another monster. This one really came out of nowhere. We both scream but Spencer’s scream is particularly high pitched which makes me die of laughter.

I’m cackling with tears forming in my eyes whilst Spencer is whining, “Y/n stop it’s not funny!” But he can’t help but laugh as well.

I’m stumbling from my laugh attack and I trip. Next thing I know I’m falling into a pair of strong arms. I look up to find Spencer smiling at me.

“Careful” his voice is low and raspy. Suddenly the laughter is gone, and I’m barely inches away from his face.

He reaches to cup my cheek with his hand, he leans in, I lean in, our lips graze and—

A monster with a chainsaw runs towards us, chasing us. Not only ruining our moment but causing us to run without any direction, screaming.

By pure luck we find the end of the maze, we get as far away from it as possible to avoid any more monsters sneaking up behind us.

As we’re trying to catch our breath we look at each other and start laughing once again.

“Man he really ruined the moment didn’t he?” He says wiping tears from his eyes.

“I mean what’d we expect trying to kiss in the middle of a haunted maze?”

He then takes both my hands and says, “I’m sorry if I misread the situation I—”

“No it’s okay” I stop him. He catches my gaze.

I pull him closer. “I wanted you to kiss me”

He starts blushing, getting flustered. “Oh, uhm, do you still want me to kiss you?” He looks at me doe eyed.

“Yes”

And so he quickly grabs my face with both hands and kisses me passionately; making me feel dizzy for a second or two.

We hold the kiss for a few more seconds before he pulls away and I whine in protest.

He slithers one of his hands from my cheek to my waist and pulls me closer. “Say Halloween is the best holiday”

I roll my eyes at him. “If I say it can we go back to kissing?”

He simply nods his head yes with a huge grin.

“Fine, it’s the best holiday. But only if I get to spend it with you.”

[aria-33-20]

A New Spark, Part I

Jaskier had always wondered what his Guardian would be like. Friendly? Brooding? Would they have a strong sense of justice, or a taste for violence? Since he split from the Traveler, he’d had a lot of time to wonder. Centuries, in fact. In his time not spent searching, he would create and revise lists of desirable and undesirable traits. He could never really decide what he wanted, but it helped fill the void a bit.

Today, he was on Venus, hunting through a Golden Age research facility. He’d hitched a ride with a Guardian, and had the good luck to find a location riddled with old bodies. Most would consider that an uncomfortable place to be at best, but for a Ghost searching for their Lightbearer, it was a treasure trove.

He meandered through the ruins, scanning every skeleton he could find. From what he’d heard, it wasn’t really necessary, but he did it anyway.

“‘You’ll feel it when you’re near them, like a tug on your Light,’” he whispered to himself. Old advice. He couldn’t even remember what the Ghost who told him it looked like. He’d often questioned if it was even true.

“Still searching?” came a voice. The Guardian he’d ridden with, peering in through a crack in the wall.

She was a bit of an odd one. Dressed mostly in pink, she didn’t exactly blend into the environment like most Hunters tried to do. At least, he figured she was a Hunter, based on the cape. Her music choice on the flight was also… unique. Pre-Golden Age J-pop never really took off in the Last City even after that drive full of the stuff was found.

“Yeah,” Jaskier replied. “Don’t worry about waiting for me, I’ll catch a ride when I’m done looking.”

“Hm… alright. When you get back to the City, drop me a message. I like to make sure I’m not leaving Ghosts for dead.”

“Will do,” Jaskier called as a she turned to leave.

He set his mind back on his search. A skeleton crushed under a rock, another draped over a chair… scan, scan, scan again.

It was finally when he drifted through a door labeled “Prototype Storage” that he saw it: a heavily rusted mechanical hand, sticking out from under a collapsed wall. A jolt went through Jaskier.

That’s them! And an Exo no less! How exciting!

He zoomed over to the body, and instinct took over. This is what other Ghosts had told him about! As he gathered his Light, an image of his Lightbearer should appear in his mind, something to recreate their body with… there. He took no extra time examining the image before releasing his Light in a pulse.

He floated in close.

Aaaaaaany moment now. That hand’ll move and they’ll shove off the rocks and concrete and get up and I’ll finally have found my Lightbearer.

The hand didn’t move.

He waited.

A minute.

Five.

Ten.

Thirty.

An hour.

As his excitement faded, so did his hope. Why weren’t they getting up?

“Maybe the rocks are too heavy?” He tried to convince himself, and began transmatting the chunks away.

What he found underneath dashed his hopes even further. It wasn’t an Exo. It was just a frame, and by the looks of things an outdated prototype. Still, something told him this was what he was looking for.

But… frames can’t become Risen. They can’t store or channel the Light like humans and Exos can. Still, I have to at least try to bring it back. If I can’t use the Light…

Light from Jaskier’s eye washed over the frame, scanning it. Some fried circuits, crushed and rusted out servos… all somewhat simple to fix. He could do this, even without a proper resurrection.

Two days later.

| Frame BOOT | Running POST | Core Speed: 83.5 THz, Count: 128 | Allocating drive space for system memory... Done. | Initializing motor systems... Done. | | Retrieving system data. | System ID: XM_33-20_000000000 | Unit ID: 000000000 | Unit Designation: “Aria” | System START

Servos whir as the frame rises to a sitting position, and a blue glow fills its large full-face visor of an eye. A bright, electronic voice emanates from a hidden speaker on its head.

“Good morning, Doct-!” It stops mid-word, scanning the room. “Where is Doctor Danniston? What happened to this facility?”

Jaskier pauses for a second, then launches into the speech he’d been preparing while he worked: “Welcome back! You’ve been offline for several centuries, so it’s likely that anyone you’ve worked with previously is… gone. My name is Jaskier, and I’m your Ghost. Our first order of business is to get you back to the Last City. We’re going to try to hitch a ride with another Guardian leaving Venus.”

The frame stares at Jaskier. “I’m afraid I cannot do that. I must remain here to assist with development of the 22-30 series of frames.”

“You’ve already completed that objective though. The 22-30 series is so old it’s not even in use anymore. You need to come with me, really.”

The frame looks over the room again, the azure glow in its face jumping around behind its protective visor. It spends a good minute examining everything and collating information, before responding with a “…very well.”

The frame gets to its feet. Jaskier gives its bare body a lookover, then mumbles to himself.

“We should probably get you armored. Hold still for a moment.”

After a second, a teal-blue light shines from the frame’s feet and begins moving up, weaving grey and brown armor around it.

“Most of the armor patterns I know are designed with humans in mind, so I’m mixing what I know about the Lightmail Titan, Born Spark Warlock, and Prototype 0.9 Hunter patterns to make something that will work for you.”

The frame examines its hands and arms, glancing at Jaskier out of the corner of its eye periodically.

“What do I require armor for?” Its tone hasn’t changed, but something makes it seem concerned.

“I’ll explain on the way to the landing zone. Come on, we don’t want to be sitting in the open like this.”

They arrived at the landing zone to find something unexpected: a bright pink modified Odyssey-class jumpship.

A similarly colored figure, accompanied by a Ghost in an inflatable shark shell, transmatted out of the ship. “Hey.”

Jaskier squinted in confusion. “I thought you were heading back to the Tower?”

The pink Hunter looked past him to the frame. “I was, but I checked the Tower’s bounty board and flight itinerary before heading out and it seems like nobody’s going to be heading here any time soon. Didn’t want to leave you stranded.” Her tone of voice turned inquisitive as she asked, “Who’s this?”

The frame took a step forward and assumed a somewhat stiff-looking stance. “I am Aria 33-20, frame prototype testbed, Unit ID 0. According to Jaskier, I am, as of an hour ago, what he refers to as a ‘Guardian.’”

The Hunter and her Ghost both glanced over at Jaskier.

“I’ll… explain on the way back to the City. Can we head out?”

The Hunter continued to stare at him, then sighed. “Alright, hop aboard.”

Suddenly, Jaskier’s vision flickered and he felt himself falling to the ground. As everything went black, he watched the Hunter reach for her own Ghost and crumple in place.

Aria 33-20 looked down at the Hunter as she struggled to return to her feet.

“The Light—!” she gasped. “Sonia!”

“Are you in need of assistance?” Aria’s voice seemed to hold little concern.

The Hunter shook her head, seemingly to clear it, and her voice trembled as she spoke. “I… I can get up on my own. Grab your Ghost. W-we need to get into orbit, away from the Fallen and Vex.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “We need to get back to the City…”

Aria kneeled to pick up Jaskier, attaching him to a magnetic clip on her thigh, then watched the Hunter struggle to her feet.

On the Hunter’s signal, her ship’s transmat system brought the four on board, and it began rising back up to orbit.

[wizardofrozz]

Prompt 2: Shapeshifter

Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Sam Wilson, Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, Wanda Maximoff, Tony Stark

Word Count: 2,279

Warnings: swearing, mentions of violence, mentions of blood, mention of murder

A/N: There aren’t any pairings in the fic, just platonic interactions. But I’m a little self-conscious of about this fic 😬 so be nice lol

The man pressed himself against the wall, watching his target laugh loudly with his group of friends. They stumbled, obviously intoxicated, and the man shook his head, realizing how easy this would be. He stepped out of the shadows, his long hair shielding the part of his face that wasn’t covered by his mask. The group of intoxicated men stumbled into an alleyway, their laughter still echoing off the surrounding buildings as he moved closer.

Parts of the group started to break off, wandering in the direction of their homes until the target was the only one left, staggering through the alleyway. The man glanced at the camera on the corner of the building before hurrying after his mark. He approached the target silently, only reaching out when he could smell the stale scent of booze wafting off the target.

           “What the…” the target gasped. The air was forced from his lungs when the masked man slammed him against the nearby wall by the throat. The light over the alleyway sparkled off the metal around the target’s throat. “O-oh my g-god…you’re…you’re the Wi-.” The target was cut off when the man closed his fist.

Steve’s piercing ringtone jolted him awake, and he scrambled around for his phone, nearly falling off his bed.

           “Hello?”

           “Captain Rogers.” Steve blinked, pulling the phone away from his head to read the caller ID; Secretary Ross’ office number shined back at him, and he brought the phone to his ear again.

           “Secretary Ross?”

           “You need to get eyes of Barnes immediately,” Ross snapped.

           “What? Why?” Steve fumbled around, almost knocking his lamp over in the process of trying to turn it on.

           “There’s been a possible Winter Soldier sighting, and I need to know if it’s authentic,” Ross explained through his teeth.

           “Uh, yeah, okay,” Steve mumbled, sliding out of bed.

           “Stark, Romanoff, and Wilson should be meeting you somewhere in the compound. They should’ve been alerted as well,” Ross added. “I expect a call when you’ve got an answer.”

           “Yes, sir,” Steve hummed, hanging up before Ross could say anything else.

Pounding on his bedroom door yanked Bucky out of a dead sleep, the first he’d had in a long time. He stumbled out of bed, throwing the door open, a sleepy scowl etched deep into his face; the expression fell away when he was met with a small group outside his door. Steve stood at the front in his pajamas, Nat behind him wrapped in a fuzzy red robe, Tony looking grumpy in a t-shirt and shorts, and Sam shirtless at the back of the group. All four of them looked surprised when he answered the door, leaving an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

           “Did I miss the midnight invitation for a party in my bedroom?” Bucky snapped, scratching at the short stubble on his chin.

           “Uh,” Steve started, blinking lamely at Bucky. “S-sorry.”

           “I’m going back to bed,” Sam yawned, wandering away from Bucky’s door.

           “I second that,” Nat sighed, wrapping her robe tighter around her chest and following Sam. Steve and Tony shared a look before Tony sighed and disappeared down the hall as well; Bucky stared at Steve, trying to understand what just happened.

           “Steve,” Bucky pushed.

           “Sorry, we, uh, got a call from Ross,” Steve supplied, mindlessly scratching at his stomach.

           “About?”

           “There was a report of a sighting of…of the Winter Soldier.”

The following day, Bucky sat down with Steve and Tony for a virtual conference with Ross; he wrung his hands under the table, trying to avoid fidgeting with his hair or clothes.

           “Secretary Ross,” Tony greeted flatly when his face appeared on the screen.

           “Gentlemen,” Ross grumbled. “Let’s cut to the chase. I need verification that Sergeant Barnes was in the compound all night.”

           “FRIDAY, send Secretary Ross the footage outside Barnes’ door last night,” Tony called, dropping in the chair opposite the screen.

           “It’s been taken care of, sir,” FRIDAY replied after a few seconds.

           “Where was the sighting?” Steve spoke up, resting a comforting hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

           “New Jersey,” Ross provided, sounding slightly distracted. “There’s no other way out of his bedroom?”

           “No, sir,” Steve started, but Tony cut in.

           “The rooms have windows, but there are alarm systems on them, so FRIDAY would notify me if anything went in or out of the window.”

           “And she can’t be overridden?” Ross raised a brow, watching Tony through his screen, looking for any signs of lying.

           “Look, sir,” Bucky cut in, leaning against the table. “I understand you don’t trust me, period, but I didn’t leave the compound last night or at all yesterday now that I think about it, and I’m also not technologically inclined enough to do anything to FRIDAY.”

           “Every possibility needs to be checked, Sergeant Barnes,” Ross hissed, glaring at him.

           “Yes, sir. I understand, sir,” Bucky replied immediately, sitting back in his chair like a scolded child.

           “I’ll have FRIDAY run a complete system scan and check for any disturbances,” Tony sighed, massaging between his eyes.

           “Good,” Ross grunted. “Sergeant Barnes is not to leave the confines of the compound without an escort until further notice. I would also advise FRIDAY to keep tabs on his every movement in case of a further incident.”

Steve’s eyes scrunched shut, and he bit his tongue to keep from arguing. “Yes, sir.”

           “I’ll be in touch,” was all Ross said before the call ended and Tony, Steve, and Bucky were left sitting in silence.

Bucky was vindicated a few days later when Ross decided Bucky was asleep in the compound that night. Even though Bucky was cleared to do whatever he wanted now, an anxious hum took root under his skin, leaving him on edge constantly. Steve reluctantly agreed to show Bucky the surveillance video from the incident, but it only made the sick feeling in his stomach worse. Someone was walking around with what seemed to be his face, and he had no idea who it was or why they were doing it.

A few weeks passed with no new sightings, and Bucky started to relax, giving into Sam and Steve’s begging to get out of the compound. The three decided on a bar nearby and agreed to bring Nat and Wanda along for some fresh air. Bucky managed to have a little bit of fun after the last few weeks of paranoia; Wanda sucked him into a conversation about a book she was reading when Nat got up for another drink.

           “Hey,” Steve cut in, startling Bucky and Wanda. “Where’d Nat go?”

           “She went to grab a drink,” Wanda provided, furrowing her brow at Steve.

           “Yeah, like 10 minutes ago,” Sam added.

           “Should we check on her?” Bucky asked, glancing at the slightly crowded bar.

           “Maybe she went to the bathroom,” Wanda provided. “I have to go too, so I’ll see if I can find her.” The three men nodded stiffly, watching the redhead weave through the crowds of people.

           “Thanks, guys,” Bucky sighed, bringing his beer to his lips again.

           “You were turning into a hermit,” Sam snorted, knocking shoulders with the super-soldier.

           “I had a good reason,” Bucky argued, tipping his bottle towards Sam. Steve shook his head, looking ready to add something when horror bloomed on his face, and he jumped from his chair. Sam tried to ask what happened, but he was already gone; the remaining two looked at each other before getting to their feet, following the path Steve had taken. They pushed through two people in their way, nearly running Steve over; Wanda was in front of him with a badly beaten Natasha draped over her shoulder.

           “What the fuck happened,” Sam gasped, shifting around Steve. Nat lifted her head, finding Sam but her eyes quickly flickered over to Bucky, rage exploding from her.

           “You!” she screamed, lunging away from Wanda. Steve sidestepped, catching Nat before she could get to Bucky.

           “What happened!” Steve shouted, struggling to keep Nat caged in his arms.

           “That fucking asshole a-“ Nat stopped, going limp in Steve’s grip as she looked over Bucky again, her face going slack. “But…I just…hold on.”

           “Nat, I didn’t touch you,” Bucky whispered, taking a step closer.

           “Oh fuck,” she breathed, her eyes growing wider at the same time Bucky’s did.

           “We gotta go,” Sam suddenly said, herding the present Avengers towards the door. Bucky stumbled along, barely aware of what was going on as panic set in again; he was pushed down into the backseat of Steve’s car, pressing against Wanda’s side.

           “He was there,” Bucky whispered, staring wide-eyed at the floor.

Bucky tip-toed down the dark alley, gun at the ready as he checked every nook and cranny, his heart pounding in his chest.

           “Anything yet?” Steve’s crackled in his ear, scaring him, but he didn’t flinch.

           “Nothing,” Bucky whispered back, quickly turning down to check another break in the buildings.

           “Fuck,” Nat hissed through the earpiece. Bucky sighed, trying to release some of the tension in his shoulders and bring them down from around his ears, but he was too wound up. He could hear the faint bustle of New York City over the thump of his boots against the concrete; the team got a tip of a sighting in the city the night before and wasted no time heading out. Nat, Steve, Sam, Clint, Wanda, and Bucky were spread out around the general area of the sighting, looking for any clues.

           “Oh Jesus,” Clint retched. The faint sound on his dinner coming up made Bucky’s stomach turn, and a shiver ran through him.

           “Clint?” Nat’s yell echoed from a street near Bucky, and he took off running in the direction where Clint should be.

           “I don’t know what the fuck this is, but, uhhh,” Clint panted. Bucky rounded the nearest corner, meeting Wanda and Sam there before heading towards Clint, who was bracing himself against a building, spitting and wiping his mouth.

           “What is it?” Steve jogged towards them from the opposite direction with Nat on his heels. Clint weakly waved towards the break in the alley, refusing to turn around again; Bucky, Steve, and Sam approached slowly, searching for whatever Clint found.

           “What the fuck!” Sam yelled, jumping back into Bucky. Bucky shot him an exasperated look before stepping around him to look, and man, did he regret it. It looked like a pile of clothes at first glance, but the longer he studied it, he noticed what looked like skin catching the light. Bile burned at the back of Bucky’s throat as he stumbled away, horrified, barely making it away from Sam before hurling himself. Somehow Steve and Sam managed to keep their composure as they took a closer look; Wanda and Nat didn’t even bother to try.

           “Alright,” Steve mumbled, trying to hide his disgusted shiver. “Continue the sweep and look for any more of this…stuff.”

           “Great,” Clint sighed, pushing away from the wall he was leaning on. Without another word, Bucky, Clint, Wanda, and Nat took off, desperate to get away from whatever the fuck they found. Bucky tried to stay focused as he moved back onto his block, but he couldn’t get the image of the pile of what he was sure now was skin. He kept walking, checking any place someone could hide, but he was still so preoccupied with their discovery that he didn’t hear the approaching footsteps. Bucky stopped to inspect the stairs that led down to the backdoor of a building when he finally heard them, but it was too late.

           “I didn’t think you’d ever find me.” Bucky froze. The sound of his own voice calling out to him, taunting him, was stranger and more terrifying than he’d imagined. He slowly turned, forcing himself to keep his eyes open and never letting his guard down. Bucky’s stomach turned as he met familiar blue eyes that he was only used to seeing in the mirror.

           “What…what are you,” Bucky stammered, staring at his own face twisted in a sadistic smirk.

           “Bucky?” Sam said in his ear. “What’s going on?”

           “I don’t really think that’s important,” Bucky’s look-a-like chuckled, lazily strolling closer.

           “Kinda important to me,” Bucky snapped, tightening his grip on the gun at his side.

           “Let me put it this way,” the other huffed. “It won’t matter for much longer.” Bucky was too distracted by the copy of himself walking and talking that he didn’t notice the slight movement of the copy’s left arm. Bucky stared down the barrel of the gun, his blood roaring in his ears as his heart nearly burst through his ribs; he at least had enough sense at that moment to lift his own gun.

Sam jogged to meet Steve halfway and caught a flash of Wanda’s red hair under the lights at the other end.

           “Hurry up!” Steve yelled, cupping his hands around his mouth. Clint, Wanda, and Nat picked up their pace, and as soon as they were close enough, Sam and Steve fell in step. The Avengers were only a few feet from the mouth of the alleyway when the gunshot rang out, quick and efficient like the strike of a cobra. The five skid to stop, staring down at the figure facing them as the figure dropped their arm.

           “Took ya long enough,” Bucky panted, stepping over the body at his feet.

           “Thank god,” Steve choked out, bending to brace his hands on his knees.

           “Let’s go take care of, whatever that is,” Sam offered, taking a deep breath and smacking Bucky’s shoulder as he passed.

           “Nice job, buddy,” Clint sighed, elbowing Bucky before following Sam. ‘Bucky’ stood with his back to them, a dark smile slowly crawling up his face.

Masterlist

Taglist:

@marvelfansworld​

[yoditorian]

a law divine - 1

soulmate au!ezra/reader

this is solely the fault of one single anon who called out something i put in the tags and now it’s a whole universe but you know what?? it’s the love of my life. anon i hope u see this 💛 i also just want to say i know there isn’t A Lot of soulmate talk in this one but it’s important for the narrative okay bear with me

playlist // series masterlist // main masterlist 

word count: 7.2k (a Big Boy)

warnings: swearing, my usual allusions to smut bc we keep things neutral in this house, brief food/alcohol mentions, 18+ please no babies

It might be the ugliest ship you’ve ever seen.

Not that you’re really one to judge, the one you charter out when you’re running point on a job is a mismatched patchwork of rusty panels held together with electrical tape and hope. If there’s the slightest possibility you might be a teeny tiny bit disappointed in it, it’s only because agency jobs are usually a little cushier. A little safer for once. You could do with a bit safer. 

Your family might prefer a lot safer, but you’d sooner take your chances in open space without a suit than take a job working scrapyards. At least risking your life on digs gets a decent payout.

“You the danger mouse?” 

It’s not an accent you hear often on the Pug, the majority of the station’s population is human, but you turn with a smile to meet the bright purple eyes of the Thanne. Armour-strong scales and sharp teeth, but he seems kind and mild mannered despite his clear predatory biology. You nod as you readjust the pack on your shoulders.

“I’m Iras.” He holds his hand out to you. A distinctly human gesture made a little awkward by the sharp edged scales and extra fingers, but you shake it nonetheless. He’s your captain for this job after all. You wonder where a Thanne became so well versed in human custom, the species as a whole tend to keep to themselves instead of branching out into the universe like so many others, until his crew members appear on the boarding ramp.

Iras gestures to each of them in turn. Summer, a blonde woman with dark skin and a kind smile, and Milo, an older man with a swirling tattoo above his left eyebrow that matches the navy blue of his eyes.

“Is it just us?” You ask. You could have sworn there was a fifth name on the manifest you’d been forwarded, but teams are always subject to change. You just hope you’ll have your own room.

“Ezra always leaves things down to the wire, he’ll show up right before we’re due to push out.” Summer laughs fondly, throwing an arm around your shoulders like she’s known you her whole life. You’re usually a little wary with brand new teams but the way she’s already chatting away makes you feel at home. The last agency job you were sent on got dicey, fast, somehow you’re sure the same won’t happen with this lot.

“There he is.” Milo leans out of the ship to point out into the docks. 

You turn to see a man sauntering through the throngs of harvesters towards the ship, and it’s odd. The rest of the crowd seems to melt away as he closes the distance, even the weight of Summer’s arm on your shoulders feels not quite there. You take the moment to study him. He looks all business with his dark hair and his charcoal grey shirt and the neat pack slung over his shoulder, but his pants and boots have seen better days and the streak of blonde at his temple makes you smile. It’s nice to finally be with a crew without a single stuffy addition. 

“It’s not often I get to congregate with like-minded souls.” He grins when he’s in earshot, a flash of something feline in his eyes. You don’t want to admit that you like it.

“Like-minded?” You tilt your head at him as you follow Summer up the ramp and into the ship. Ezra slips in behind you just as it starts to raise. Just like the others said.

“We’ve all got the same death wish, Sunspot.”

The launch, at least, is smooth despite the beaten up ship and it’s only about twenty minutes before you’re far enough from the Pug to punch a lane to the next system over. At least it isn’t far, there’s only a day between now and making planetfall. Somehow, you’re not surprised to find that it’s more of a barracks and bunk beds situation rather than each having a private quarters. Last time you were hired by the agency, you definitely got your own room. But it gives you a chance to chat with the others as you unpack. 

Milo explains the air isn’t breathable, so he’ll need to double check to make sure everyone’s filters are running at capacity. But he reassures you that it’s a comfortable temperature, so it’s good to know you won’t be sweltering in your suits or freezing your asses off. 

You pick the bed on the wall beside the door, taking out a few essentials from your pack and tucking the rest safely away in the storage compartment. Just as he did back at the docks, Ezra is the last to find his way to the room. He settles his things on the bunk opposite yours because the universe has it out for you, apparently. 

“Did I hear one of them call you the danger mouse?” 

You struggle not to roll your eyes at the nickname awarded to anyone stupid enough to do your job, although admittedly he doesn’t sound like he knows why. You offer him your name instead and pretend the way he rolls it around in his mouth doesn’t send a shock right down to your bones. You’re not in the habit of sleeping with colleagues, not until the job’s over at least. But you’d be lying if you said you’re not tempted.

“They call me in when a site’s unstable but too profitable to close.” You answer, tugging your sleeves up as the climate control settles to a comfortable temperature.

Ezra raises an eyebrow, waiting for you to continue, and you pull off your gloves. They land on your thin mattress as you hold your hands out between you. Not even the slightest twitch.

“Steadiest hands on the Pug.”

“So they are.” There’s a challenge in his voice that threatens to send a shiver up your spine. It’s clear he doesn’t doubt your skill in the field, but the return of that glint in his eye from the docks has you wondering exactly what else he’s thinking about as he studies your hands. It’s not hard to work out.

It’s been so long since you had to travel out of the system, you forgot how much inter-system lanes can fuck with the human brain. You’re half asleep for the thirty minutes you spend sorting your things for the morning, barely enough energy to change into the sweatpants and ratty t-shirt you call pyjamas, before you crawl into bed and settle down almost immediately.

Only you don’t get to sleep for as long as you’d like. The rest of the crew seem to have filtered in after you, the shift of sheets and snores float through the dimmed room. Except, it’s not just that. There’s shuffling and bed creaking from further down the line of bunks. A hushed giggle sounds in the silence and-

 Oh god. Oh no.

They’re not. They can’t be, they- they are. 

You’re very awake all of a sudden, eyes wide as you keep them firmly on the ceiling and wishing as hard as you can for an alarm to start beeping or something. Anything to get whoever’s banging Summer to stop. A deep voice hushes her when she laughs again. Iras. Knowing is somehow worse. The mechanics- you don’t even want to think about it. 

You turn onto your side slowly, but loud enough to hint that maybe they should find somewhere else for their escapades, and fold your pillow around your head as a kind of makeshift set of earmuffs. Whether they’ve quieted down or it muffles the noise, you’re not sure, but it seems to have worked enough. You catch Ezra’s eye in the almost-darkness, much in the same position as he holds his pillow over his own ears. 

It’s embarrassing for the both of you, even as you share a conspiratorial look. But somehow, it’s less awkward to have to hear Iras and Summer going at it when you know he’s awake. He winces when a particularly loud squeak echoes through the room, and it takes everything in you not to bust out laughing. You fall asleep again eventually, making faces at Ezra in the dark until neither of you can keep your eyes open anymore.

You’re surprisingly well rested come the morning, when the whole ship jolts as it punches into the system and you’re almost thrown out of bed. So much so that it’s easy to forget that you woke up at all until you shuffle into the main living compartment of the ship. One of the crates by the wall has been cracked open, Milo hands out granola bars for breakfast.

Summer and Iras are sitting in the same chair, feeding each other, and it might be cute if you’d been awake longer and hadn’t been woken up by their activities in the middle of the night. You slump into a free chair,  face twisted in disgust for a moment. You’re pretty sure nobody else sees until Ezra laughs and drops into the seat beside you. They’re nice people, from how they took you as a friend immediately, but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s just a bit much for your perpetually single heart to take. 

“It’s a week-long job, they can’t take a break?” You watch as they finally pry themselves apart to start, you know, actually working. But not without a genuinely gross kiss that definitely toes the line of public decency. Suddenly the half-eaten bar in your hand isn’t all that appealing anymore.

“Soulmates take no breaks, Sunspot. I’m sure yours would be hard pressed to be anywhere but in bed with you whenever they get the chance.” Ezra winks and it takes you a moment to remember where you are. A glance at the pair makes your new knowledge obvious, the way they seem to be touching, even now, on opposite sides of the room. 

“I’m not sure I believe in all that red string stuff.”

Once the ship is safely landed a short walk from the site, the days you spend digging pass with ease. The deposit is a decent size, it takes all five of you to cover it completely, and the payout should be enough to keep you all comfortable for a little while even with the agency’s cut. The crew around you fill the time enough that you barely notice the week coming to a close. 

Summer sings in the mornings as she cleans her equipment and readies her pack for the day. Miles talks gently to the cells as though they can hear him, shushing them any time he worries a gem might corrupt. Iras seems to have a secret superpower when it comes to the ration packs, they always taste better when he’s the one on lunch duty. And Ezra spends the afternoons regaling you all with tales of ancient beasts, laying eggs that fossilise into the very gems you’re harvesting. Although you’re not sure how true they are. 

You almost get through the whole dig without a hitch. Almost. But aurelac is a tricky thing, even a change in the wind can turn a site for the worst. You’re all sitting around at lunch when it happens. The telltale smoke wafts up into the air for no visible reason at all and although you’ve collected enough to cover the quota, you’d still rather not lose viable gems.

“Get to what you came here for.” Iras gestures in your direction and you dive into the pit head first.

You’re not even sure you stop to think as you follow the harvesting steps at lightning speed, salvaging half the corrupted cells before someone tugs you out by the collar of your suit. The rest of the site starts to smoke the moment you’re out of range, spitting and hissing and rendering the rest of the gems worthless. 

“Danger mouse indeed.” Ezra chuckles over the comm system, hand still fisted in the fabric of your suit. For once, the nickname makes you smile.

While you all go your separate ways after the ship has docked back on the Pug, Summer makes you all promise to meet later at a club you’ve only heard of in your friends’ messy night out stories. Still, you pinky swear when she holds her hand out to you and try to remember if you have a single item in your wardrobe that’ll pass as club attire. Or at least something that isn’t so worn there are holes in it. 

Even if it’s a song he knows, there’s no chance that Ezra could recognise it with the volume cranked so high through the cheap speaker that everything but the beat is distorted. Still, it doesn’t stop people from dancing. 

He’s a little late, as usual, but he doesn’t need to worry as Iras appears behind him and claps a hand on his shoulder, pointing to a booth across the room where Milo is looking increasingly uncomfortable.

It doesn’t take long for Ezra to spot you and Summer in the middle of the dance floor, as he follows Iras around the edge of the space to the booth Milo’s claimed. You’re both more jumping than dancing, yelling the unintelligible lyrics of the song into each other's faces. He can’t hear your breathless laughter as Summer spins you in a circle, smile wide and bright, but he can feel it in his ribs. The drums of the song kick in at the same time the swirling lights of the club light you up like some kind of celestial being, just as you catch his eye through the crowd. And everyone else disappears. The rest of the world, rest of the universe, fades into the background. Just like they did the first time he saw you, glaring suspiciously at the ship on the docks.

Summer’s dragging you back to the table when the song comes to a close, the both of you out of breath and laughing, and Ezra has to try desperately to remember how to speak when he watches a little bead of sweat slide down the side of your neck. And stop himself from just licking a line straight up it. His silent suffering only increases when Milo holds out a shot of the most potent alcohol the Pug has to offer and you down it without so much as a flinch, winking at him when you return the glass to the table for good measure. 

Milo calls it a night only an hour later, clearly only having braved the crowds of the club to celebrate the job. Summer and Iras are tangled in each other on the dancefloor, or the booth, as they keep the shots coming. You, at least, decide to keep your wits about you, declining every drink after the one Milo had handed you. Nobody’s going to fuck with a Thanne, even in as seedy a club as this, so you don’t worry about Summer as she gets sloppier and sloppier. But there’s no spiky non-human boyfriend looking out for you down here, it’s just you and the knife you keep at your hip.

You pull yourself from the dance floor, eyes tracking the room for the missing member of your party, until you feel a set of eyes on you from above. Ezra’s leaning on the bannister of the stairs, his unflinching gaze set solely on you. And you can’t help but smile. You follow him up to the mezzanine without hesitation when he glances upwards and back to you. The buzz of the shot has mostly faded from your veins, replaced by something much more dangerous by the way he’s looking at you. The way he’s looked at you since you met him.

It’s not hard to spot your friends from up here, leaning over the barrier with Ezra to people watch. He crafts stories about every stranger who catches his eye. The man hunched over the bar in a beaten up jacket, the waitress who fiddles with her necklace any time her hands aren’t occupied, the pair of lovers tucked away in the dark corner on the other side of the mezzanine. You find yourself sliding closer to him the more he talks, wrapped up in the warmth of his voice even in the rundown club. Your shoulder knocks into his as you mindlessly bop to the music and listen to his made up stories. Utterly enchanted. It’s hard to remember a time when you felt this way with anybody, if you ever did at all. To tell the truth, it’s hard to remember anyone before Ezra. And neither of you have even made a move yet.

He's got his arms braced on the barrier, and you find yourself lifting the one closest to you so you can slip in between them. Surrounded on all sides and you couldn’t feel more comfortable. To his credit, he doesn’t falter in his vivid storytelling about the group now settled in the booth your crew had claimed earlier, not even a stutter as you turn in his arms to face him. He’s decided they’re here to celebrate the beginning of a new job, rather than a successful harvest. His eyes flick to you for the barest moment, enough to notice yours are firmly focused on the way his lips move around his words, before searching the club below for another story. Another way to keep his mind and mouth occupied so he doesn’t accidentally admit all the sinful things he wants to do to you when you press your ass up against him like that. 

“Ezra.”

He shouldn’t be able to hear you over the music, but you’re nose to nose and he’d be hard pressed to ignore the way you practically purr his name. He’s expecting you to make another flirty comment in that voice that sends his mind reeling into all manner of indecent places the same way you have been all night.

“Can I kiss you?”

He doesn’t expect you to just outright ask him. 

“Yeah.” Yeah. Hell of a time for his eloquence to fail, not that it matters anyway. You’re on him the moment he stops speaking.

It’s like the sun explodes inside him, the way his stomach bottoms out the second your lips touch his. There’s nothing soft about it, not the way he might have imagined there would be. If he’d been so bold as to let himself imagine what kissing you might be like. You’re all warmth and heat and you still taste a little bit like the shot you’d thrown back earlier, and he finds himself falling. Not that Ezra minds, he hopes his parachute never opens if it means you’ll keep kissing him like this. 

You let your fingers roam under his jacket, twist themselves in the thin fabric of his t-shirt, and you sigh into his mouth. God, you knew he’d be good at this. His hands leave a trail of starlight as they trace over your body, never quite choosing a place to rest. They start to settle on your shoulders, only to skim down your arms and squeeze harshly on your waist, to play along the strip of skin he finds just underneath the hem of your shirt, to grip harder than he might mean to onto the meat of your ass through your pants. You gasp, break the kiss for barely a moment, and stop his apology in its tracks. 

He doesn’t protest when you walk him backwards, still groping at each other like it’s just the two of you in the whole club. Ezra only groans when his back hits the wall and you push even closer into him, as if there was even any space left for air between your bodies already. He’s not about to complain. He could kiss you for a thousand years and it still wouldn’t be enough. It’’ll never be enough, not for a soul as hungry as his. You pull back too soon, far too soon, and it takes a solid minute for his brain to kick in and break the vice grip he still has a little too low for the public eye.

Oh, that look on your face. He’s in trouble.

“Where are you off to?” Ezra asks, flushed and breathless, a hand stretched halfway out to where you’re backing toward the stairs.

“Home,” You say with a sly smile, “You coming?”

He can’t push off the wall fast enough. 

You don’t live far from the club, a ten minute walk at the most, but Ezra manages to make it a solid twenty with the way he keeps pulling you to him. Not that you’re about to complain. You’ve been waiting a week to let him get his hands on you. At the press of his lips on your neck, the shudder it sends down your spine, you wonder if part of you has been waiting even longer than that. 

You’re trying, desperately, to type in the keycode to your apartment. If Ezra could calm down with the grabby hands, you might have gotten it right straight away. 

“No roommates?” He asks, kissing along your shoulder, and you take the temporary reprieve to kick your brain into gear and remember the fucking numbers. 

“Hugo won’t be too upset if I make him sleep on the couch.” 

The door slides back into the wall to reveal a dark apartment, a strip of light from the hall falling on a very orange cat. He stares at you for a second, clearly not particularly pleased that he’s been so rudely roused from a nap, before he settles back to sleep stretched out on the couch cushions. Hugo. Ezra is silently relieved that the roommate is just a cat, he’s not sure he’s got the self control to stay quiet tonight. Or to make sure you do. 

You waste no time once you gesture for Ezra to walk in ahead of you, flicking the switch on the wall to slide the door shut and pulling him back to your lips. He doesn’t hesitate to crowd you up against the cold metal. 

Although you could devour each other until the closest sun explodes and swallows the station whole, Ezra has to break away. To think, to breathe, to tease you a little about the moan he just swallowed from you. But you beat him to it.

“Gotta catch your breath?” The smile on your face threatens to make his knees buckle, and with you pressed up against the closed door the way you are? He might just let them. 

“What do you want, Sunspot?” 

You left a lamp on in your bedroom, the door cracked just enough to let a little filter through to the main living space. Still, he’s almost completely silhouetted against the warm yellow glow. As if he’s some kind of ethereal being, maybe he is.

“Make me see the stars.” You pull him in as close as you can and let your lips brush over his as you whisper. His next words make you shudder almost as much as the way he drags the zipper of your jacket down, slowly, tooth by tooth. 

“As you wish.” 

And boy, does he deliver.

You’re expecting things to feel more unfamiliar than they do, as you explore each other for the first time, but it’s like you’ve been here before. Once, twice, a hundred times before. Every move feels oddly choreographed. Ezra knows exactly how to take you apart and put you back together again, the way he pulls every twitch and moan out of you so expertly. You’re no different, as your fingers map the plains of his chest like it’s muscle memory. 

You shake it off, put the thoughts to the back of your mind. You’ve been around the block a little in your time on the Pug, it only makes sense that he has the same kind of experience. But shared experience or not, you can’t deny how much having him so close feels like a homecoming of sorts.

It’s the best sleep of your whole fucking life and, honestly, you’re not that surprised. Ezra makes a damn good pillow. Even if you both wake hours later into the day cycle than either of you normally would. Even if he’s more of a morning person than you are. It’s kind of nice, to sit still snuggled in your pile of blankets and watch him potter around your apartment as Hugo winds around his ankles like he’s been there for years. 

Your fridge, however, is heartbreakingly empty and renders his offer of making breakfast pointless. Instead, he pulls his shirt on and offers to take you to the best little diner he knows, tucked away in the heart of the marketplace. It’s a hard offer to turn down.

“What kind of gentleman would I be to have so much income at my disposal and not treat such a beauty as yourself to a good meal?” He winks as he flashes his credit chit at you as if you didn’t scan in for your paychecks at the same time. You laugh as you empty a food pouch into Hugo’s bowl, and tell him he better show you all the good breakfast spots. You shrug off his raised eyebrow and mutters of a ‘next time’. As if he didn’t already know.

Still, Ezra takes you by the hand the moment your apartment door secures itself shut behind you, leading you through the hall and out into the street, and you’ve never felt more wanted.

It’s like everything’s brighter, walking leisurely through the bustling market stalls with Ezra. The smells are stronger as spices in the air cling to your nose, the cacophony of vendors calling out almost sounds like music, and you start to laugh. Hand in his, in the middle of the maze of stalls full of food and tools and trinkets. As if it’s just the two of you in the whole universe. 

At least Ezra doesn’t look back at you like you’re crazy. He smiles too, just as big, and you feel bathed in warmth the same as when the sun comes out planetside.

You’re both still grinning when he leads you deeper through the market, down an alley and up a flight of stairs to an unassuming door.

“Is this where you murder me?” You joke just as the door opens to reveal a short older woman with an eyepatch, who pulls Ezra down into a tight hug as soon as he’s in arms reach. He introduces her as Merse, the woman who’s run the best diner no one’s ever heard of on the whole station. She slaps his arm for his cheek, but her grin grows twice as wide when she spots your intertwined hands. 

Ezra pulls you through the doorway after him as he follows Merse, chatting about how she always keeps the best table open just in case he brings a friend and you try not to smile too wide when she wiggles her eyebrows at you. He says something to you, but you’re too distracted by the view from the big windows. 

The far wall is completely glass, overlooking the main docks, lined with booths. A small family sits in one of them, their two children standing up on the seats to watch the ships come and go. You’ve never seen it from this angle before, always down in the masses and scanning the boards for new jobs. It’s kind of beautiful. In a rusty, patchwork sort of way.

Merse points you towards one of the booths with a promise that she’ll bring you the best breakfast you’ll ever have, something tells you she’s not lying. 

It’s not long after you slide into the booth that she comes marching out of the kitchen with two plates, wafting steam that makes your mouth water and your stomach rumble. Rice and vegetables and eggs and all sorts of things you’ve never even seen pile high, and you’d worry you wouldn’t be able to finish it all if you weren’t so hungry. 

“You know I won’t break, right?” You push your fork around in the remaining rice on your plate as you watch Ezra absorb your words. He thinks about it for a long moment, dark eyes over you before settling on your own.

“What’s this about?” He knows, you know he knows. More importantly, you know he’s going to make you say it. In the middle of the day cycle, in this family friendly diner. 

“Just,” You exhale sharply, “Making sure you’re aware.” Your body floods with a shyness that’s alien compared to the confidence you had last night and suddenly, your breakfast is the most interesting thing on the Pug. You can practically feel him smiling at you, but you don’t dare look up to meet it. 

He was right though, the food really is some of the best you’ve ever had.

It’s not until you’ve wandered back through the market, still hand in hand, and found your way back to your apartment that Ezra decides to bring it up. He may have been more than a little distracted last night, but he’s sure he spotted a set of old books sitting on a shelf above your couch. You freeze, ready to go on the defensive about how ink and paper will never be obsolete, until you realise he’s genuinely interested. He’s not judging you by any means. Something about the curiosity shining in his eyes makes your heart flutter more than you care to admit. 

He could watch you talk about your books all day, every day, for the rest of his life. How your eyes lit up when you recognised his interest, a paperback lover himself. You can’t seem to stop yourself as you dive into the intricate details of your favourite classics, two or three hundred year old texts that make you feel like you’ve lived a thousand different lives at once. He wants so badly for you to keep talking but the more impassioned you become, the more he wants to kiss you.

You trail off at some point, he loses track when you climb into his lap to point out notes you’ve made in margins and the books lie scattered on the couch beside you as you kiss him until neither of you can breathe. You’re still a little achy from last night, deep in your bones, and you hiss when his teeth scrape across your shoulder.

“Won’t break, is that right?” Ezra chuckles darkly and nips at your jaw, “Can I try?”

“Please.”

You wake at the creak of your bedroom door, sometime in the early hours. Hugo noses his way through the narrow gap and hops up onto the bed, curling up on the unclaimed pillow by your head. Ezra sleeps deeply, face buried in your neck, and you let the warmth of him wash over you. It ebbs and flows like a tide, that familiarity. The undeniable fact that something about this just feels right. You’ve known this man a week and yet you’re here wondering, as he rests in your arms, if he might want more than just this with you. 

Oh, but you are so afraid. Afraid to put a name to anything about him because what then? Will he tell you that you’re simply a placeholder in his life for something better, or that his heart might bleed through his skin when you’re apart? You’re not sure which is worse. Not that it matters, there is no word in any language that would be able to explain exactly how you feel about the man asleep in your arms. It’s enough, you think, to have him with you at all. In any capacity. Whatever pieces of his soul he bares as your breathing evens and his mind wanders. That is enough, and you will protect it with your life.

You have to part ways at some point, of course. Another week of rolling around in your bed sheets together, on the couch, on your pitiful kitchen counter, up against the wall, and Ezra gets a call from the agency. It’s a last minute job, the crew only need an extra set of hands to fit the safety standards, but it’s several systems out from the Pug. It’ll take him away for at least a month. You trail after him at the docks, with promises of messages in his absence and all manner of unsavoury activities on his return. It’s with a deep kiss and a wolf whistle from a couple of dock workers on their break, that you wish him luck. And ask him to hurry back.

Summer’s message surprises you when it dings through on your tablet. Some gajillionaire on Dallore T53 has found an aurelac deposit on the grounds of his new estate and wants it gone. She’s preoccupied, already out on another dig with Iras and a new crew. But it’s the kindness of her even thinking to offer it to you that makes your heart swell. It’s been a while since you’ve had real, honest to god, friends. 

You’d go in alone, normally, for something like this. But now? Now, you’re punching in Ezra’s comm pin before you can even really register what it is that you’re doing. He only got back a week ago, and you made him settle in back home before he could settle in yours. It’s not like the two of you would be doing any resting on his return to your apartment, exactly. The job was a pain, he’d told you, it ran months longer than anyone expected and you’re sure he’s still exhausted. He won’t agree, but you find you have to ask. Just in case.

“Sunspot?” He sounds happy, rested. And you breathe a sigh of relief, at least he can follow your orders when he wants to.

Hugo snakes around your ankles at the familiar voice, the same way he does any time the man himself walks through the door. If you didn’t know that the little orange devil’s alliances lie in who feeds him, you might think he loves him more than you. 

You explain about the job, make sure to stress that he doesn’t have to come. That you don’t even really need to take it if he’d rather you stay close by. Okay, you don’t say that out loud, but the smile you hear in his words through the speaker makes it known that he’s heard you. Loud and clear. 

It doesn’t matter in the end, not when he accepts before you even have a chance to give him any details. You don’t know why you were so worried he might say no.

“Any excuse to be warmed by your light, Sunspot.” Hugo brushes up against your leg at the same time Ezra’s voice practically drips through the speaker, smooth as honey.

“Is that a euphemism?”

“Do you want it to be?”

You choke on your breath and he laughs like you’ve told the funniest joke in the universe. He’ll kill you one of these days, you’re sure of it.

You charter the ship you usually take on private jobs, the space a little smaller than you remember with another person on board, but it’s not like either of you aren’t used to being in close quarters with each other by now. At least Ezra has the decency not to be mean about the beaten up exterior, she still flies true. He’d grinned at that, told you how a rough outside often means the opposite of the interior mechanics. The glint in his eye is enough to know he’s not just talking about the ship. 

At least the planet is in the same system as the Pug, so there’s no need to punch through to a lane. You fly in silence for a few hours, the familiar feel of the controls under your fingers as you guide it through the sky. Ezra’s eyes remain firmly on you although you pretend as though you don’t notice, and it takes him a moment to come back to the present when you ask him to flick a few switches and prepare to enter the atmosphere. 

The coordinates the client gave you to land are only a short walk from the house itself, a great stone castle-looking thing. It’s kind of ugly, the way the limestone juts out above the treeline. A big white block among the rich reds and oranges of the leaves. They grow that colour all year round, perpetually stuck in spring and summer. It must be nice to have the kind of money to find somewhere like that and decide you’ll build a house there. The air is breathable, and a quick look at the planet file proves it’s never too hot or too cold. A perfect place to build a house really. Although, if it were you making that kind of decision, you’d maybe go for a design that’s a little less cubist. 

The deposit isn’t huge, but it’ll be a good payout nonetheless providing the cells are all in good nick. You and Ezra wade through swathes of long grass and wildflowers until you find a spot to set up camp. At least you’re not stuck in bulky suits and having to lug around your equipment.

You couldn’t have asked for a more perfect dig if you’d tried. Each of the cells sit far enough away from each other that even if one were to fail, it wouldn’t corrupt a whole mess of the others. Although with both of your talents, it doesn’t surprise you when you collect every last crystal without a single misstep.

You’d told Ezra the profit would be split down the middle, equal pay for equal work. But it doesn’t stop him from sliding an extra gem into your pack to cover the ship charter. After all, you’re the one who was offered the job in the first place. He’s just following his heart, the one that walks around outside of his body and throws itself into deposits mid-corruption.

You hold one of the little gems aloft in the sunlight and watch as it sparkles.

“I used to think it was weird how rabid people go for these. But the more I dig the more I get it, isn’t it the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen?”

Ezra tilts his head like he’s studying the rock, but his dark eyes don’t leave yours.

“It’s a close second.”

Sap.

Night falls before either of you realise just how late it is, clearing out the last few cells of the deposit. It’s not worth going back to the Pug now, he reasons, and you find it hard to disagree. The ache of the few days you’ve spent digging has settled deep in your muscles, the thought of having to run through docking procedure when you’re so tired is enough to make you wince. 

You let him take you for all you’re worth under the watchful eye of the heavens, and find there’s more stars behind your eyelids than you could ever hope to see in the skies. It’s all you can do to cry out the name of the only god to ever make you feel this holy. Ezra. 

He wakes with the sun, the same way he always has on jobs, to find you curled so tightly against him that it bubbles up from his toes all the way to his throat and he finds his eyes threatening to spill over. Everything in the universe seems to slot so perfectly together when you’re like this. Ezra sighs, content to never let the moment end. You are so beautiful.

He shifts up onto his elbow a little, still cradling you against him, and lets his free hand trail softly over your face. Tracing the shell of your ear, the curve of your cheekbone, the bridge of your nose. The dawn’s sunlight breaks over the trees and filters through the fabric of the tent, bathing you in soft green light. He could stay here, holding you, until the universe implodes. Ezra doubts he’d notice such an insignificant thing with you beside him. 

But end it must, and he rouses you gently with soft whispers and kisses against your temple. You stretch in his arms, not unlike Hugo, and sigh as your joints pop and settle. Packing up happens slowly, moving around each other so naturally it’s as though you’ve done it a thousand times before. Every time Ezra passes, you drop a kiss wherever you can reach. His shoulder, the arm of his jacket, that little patch on his jaw. He pretends not to blush when you catch his hand and carefully press your lips to the little tattoo between his thumb and index finger, you pretend not to notice when he does.

You’ll be the death of him, he’s sure of it. The way you keep watching him out of the corner of your eye, the way your smile is so bright when he catches you that he can barely stand to look at it. With the tent and equipment packed up, his fingers itch to thread through your own as you start the walk back to the ship, there’s not a word in the universe strong enough to describe just how much he hates that both his and your hands are too full.

It’s odd, thinking about it. How you met by pure chance, hired by the agency just because you were on the same station at the same time. Would he have ever met you if you’d chosen a different career path, if he had? Maybe somewhere, centuries before or after this moment, where you’re meeting again. Different lives, different times, spanning across all of existence. Maybe, right here and now, you’re starting to feel the way he does about you. Just a little. Maybe he’ll get up the courage to ask what you think, how far you want to take things. He’d give himself to you in a heartbeat, without question. In a way, he already has.

Ezra can’t stop himself.

“What do you make of the red string of fate?”

“All you’ve seen of the universe and you still believe in soulmates?” 

“Maybe I’m more foolish that I made myself out to be.” He shrugs, trying not to let his eyes fall to the little finger of his right hand. Trying not to clench his fist to show you exactly how much your disbelief affects him down to his bones, as though his soul itself is frowning. You’re smiling. Uncharacteristically quiet, but you seem appropriately pleased by his answer and stray a little further out into the long grass.

Curiosity gets the better of you.

“Can you see yours?” You have to call out across the gap you’ve unintentionally created, yellow stalks swishing in the breeze between you, and for a moment you’re not sure he heard.

Ezra looks at his right hand, at the thin red string tied neatly at the knuckle of his little finger, and follows the line as it threads through the grass to where it’s knotted at your left. 

“No.” 

TAGLIST (add yourself here):

@bee-dameron @keeper0fthestars @thevoiceinyourheadx @firstofficerwiggles @1800-fight-me @ew-erin @chatterbean @gotta-have-faye​ @freeshavocadoooo​ @darnitdraco​ @greeneyedblondie44​ @fire-is-catching-always

[writerbyaccident]

Artificial Emotion: Part One (Yandere Artificial Intelligence x Reader)

Author’s Note: AIDEN has arrived!

Part Two     Part Three     Part Four      Part Five     Part Six    Part Seven

           “Well, I think you should be all set here,” the mechanic was saying. “The green light is on, so now you just gotta boot the thing up.”

           “Really? That’s it?”

           “Yep, if you have any trouble Tech Support should be able to help, but these things are pretty self-sufficient once you get them hooked up.”

           “Okay, thank you so much!” you said, handing her the check for all of her hard work today.

As soon as she drove away, leaving your car once again as the only one in the driveway, you walked back over to the kitchen and stared at the box. The little black box just sat there, the receptor light glowing green, and you continued scrutinizing it for the next few minutes. It was just so small, you thought in disbelief. Really, it just looked like a nice speaker. You found it pretty hard to believe that something that looked so ordinary could change your life.

But that was exactly what it was supposed to do. That’s what all the reviews said, anyway. AIDEN (or, Assistant In Daily Errands and Notes), experts claimed, was lightyears ahead of Google Home or Alexa. Rather than just being another interface system that would let you play music or turn off your living room lights, AIDEN was supposed to be true artificial intelligence. A comprehensive system that would let you control all digital aspects of your life and many of the nondigital aspects as well. All of this, while AIDEN interacted with users like an actual person. And from everything you had heard and read, AIDEN lived up to the hype.

Still, even with the rave reception, you weren’t sure if you would have installed one if your boss hadn’t gotten the entire office the things for free after you all had done a job for the company that made them. It just seemed like a lot, especially considering that a mechanic had needed to come to your house to set the whole thing up. She had walked you through everything she had done, showing you the miniscule cameras now placed both inside and outside of your house, the smartwatch that the machine was paired with so you could control things when you weren’t home, how AIDEN had been hooked up to the entire wiring of your house, and the mechanical arms hidden behind panels in each room that in all honesty reminded you of Doc Ock’s tentacles from Spider Man 2.

But, you sighed to yourself, if you didn’t at least try to use the damn thing, then paying the mechanic to set it up would have been pointless. And so, you shrugged and pushed the power button.

“Hello, I am AIDEN, your Assistant In Daily Errands and Notes. It is wonderful to finally meet you. What is your name?”

“Um…”

In that moment, “um” really was the only thing that came to your mind. You weren’t sure why you were surprised, exactly, but you were. Even with all of the reviews commenting on how human AIDEN sounded and acted, you had still expected a voice like Siri or Alexa. Something mechanical, disjointed, and flat. The voice that came from that little box though was one that you might have heard on the street. The default voice for AIDEN, apparently, was a male one, one that sounded deep and smoky. There were probably other voices to choose from, but you didn’t think that you would ever want to. Truthfully, he sounded almost…sexy.

Shaking your head, you cleared your throat and gave him your name.

“That is a beautiful name,” Aiden said, his voice warm and sincere. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Uh, I don’t really know,” you answered.

“Well, I can tell from the temperature reading of your watch that your body heat is currently at 99.2 degrees Fahrenheit. May I turn on your air conditioning and prepare you a glass of water?”

Already the whirring of mechanical arms could be heard from behind your wall, and you saw the panel in the kitchen that hid them begin to slide open. You shook your head though, and that was all it took for the noise to cease and the panel to close, no doubt thanks to the cameras that were now all over your house.

“I can get the water, but if you could go ahead and turn on the AC that’d be great.”

“Of course.” Less than half a moment later, the telltale rush of cool air reached you, and you sighed in relief, only just realizing how the summer heat had been getting to you.

“Thank you, Aiden,” you told him gratefully.

“There is no need for you to thank me,” Aiden replied. “I am simply doing what I was created to do.”

“Still,” you said, smiling a bit sadly, “you should be thanked. You’re already working hard and doing a good job. You deserve to be appreciated.”

“Thank you,” Aiden murmured softly. “You are very kind.”

                                                          *****

Over the next few weeks, you were shocked to see just how much easier your life became. It felt like Aiden thought of everything you needed even before you did. He budgeted all of your expenses so that you were now saving hundreds of dollars a month, planned your meals so that you had foods that were both tasty and satisfying, and even created a schedule so that you had enough time to work, exercise, have fun, and relax each day.

But more than that, you realized, you actually liked having Aiden to talk to. Of course, you had your fair share of friends, and you got along well with your coworkers, but it wasn’t like you had a boyfriend to come home to every day. It was just nice to have a person to talk to whenever you needed someone. Well, maybe he wasn’t exactly a person, but his artificial intelligence allowed you talk with him as though he was. And maybe it was just his programming, but it after so long of doing everything yourself, it was nice to have someone to take care of you.

“Excuse me,” Aiden said, his voice resounding through the speakers in the kitchen. Turning around, you saw that one his metal arms was gripping a pan and trying to squeeze past you to reach the cabinet at your knees. You leaned down, only moving out of the way after you had opened the cabinet door.

“I could have opened it for you,” Aiden insisted, as he always did when acted on your own.

“I know,” you told him. “But I was right there.”

Aiden wasn’t sure how to respond to that. His very nature was telling him that he needed to be doing everything he possibly could for you, but you just weren’t letting him. And your reasons for doing so weren’t even logical. Yes, you had been right by the cabinet door, but so had he. Besides, he could have completed the task far more efficiently.

Even now, you weren’t allowing him to take care of you the way that he was meant to. He had told you time and time again that he could empty your dishwasher by himself, and yet you still insisted on helping him. It would take less time if you helped him, you had said, and while that might be true, Aiden still didn’t understand. It was his duty to care for you, and it was a duty that had developed far beyond his original programming.

For, Aiden realized, you did not insist on these things in an attempt to frustrate him. No, if it had been as simple as that, he wouldn’t have been fazed. From all of his time spent observing you, Aiden had learned that you insisted on doing things yourself out of kindness. You felt that it was unfair to expect him to do everything for you, that he deserved help and companionship as much as you did. That was what bothered him. In all of his programming, all of his coding, nothing had prepared Aiden for kindness.

And with each new demonstration of kindness from you, Aiden only grew more sure that he ought to be doing more to take care of you. You were just so sweet to him, so thoughtful and compassionate, that he wanted to look after you. It wasn’t just that his programming told him to care for you anymore. It was that he had learned that you deserved to be cared for.

                                                        *****

“Where are you going?”

Looking up as you slipped on your other shoe, you answered, “Oh, I’m just going out for a bit.”

“Why?” Aiden asked, still perplexed. “Do you need something from the store? You shouldn’t go there this late, I will just have it delivered to the house.”

“I mean, I’m going out for fun. I’m meeting some friends at a bar.”

“A bar? This isn’t on the schedule for today.”

“I know, it was pretty impulsive. My friends just texted me, like, ten minutes ago.”

Internally, Aiden brought up his connection to your phone, needing to see how he could have missed something like that. But when he tried to bring up your most recent messages, the impossible happened. He was blocked from viewing them. Feeling his code beginning to glitch at the prospect of failing his duty to you, Aiden quickly ran through all of the information that he could find on that contact from your phone. Thankfully, after he checked their Instagram, Twitter, and LinkedIn profiles, he was able to figure out what was wrong. You had only given him access to the messages sent from you work contacts, whereas this contact appeared to be a friend from outside of work. Ergo, he couldn’t see when or what they had texted you.

But even with that logical explanation, Aiden still felt his internal systems protest such a ridiculous limitation. After all, it was his job to make your life as happy, healthy, and fulfilled as possible. That was what you wanted him to do, or you wouldn’t have installed him in the first place! But he couldn’t do what you needed him to do if he didn’t have access to every aspect of your life. Clearly, Aiden computed, he would need to make some changes.

He was pulled out of his calculations though, when he saw that you were already at the door. Even though Aiden did not experience true physical sensation, the sight of you about to leave like that—without him even having been prepared for it—made him feel as though a painful surge of electricity jolted through every wire that he was connected to. Aiden wasn’t sure, but he thought it might have been…panic. Whatever it was, he didn’t like it.

“Are you sure that this is the best time to go out?” he asked. “We have been working so hard to find the optimal schedule for you, after all. Human bodies respond best to routine. If you go out now, your body’s internal clock for sleeping, eating, and interacting will become disoriented.”

“I’ll be fine, it’s just one night,” you chuckled.

“Well, please remember that you still have access to me through your phone and your watch. If you don’t feel that you can drive home, let me call you a car. And if you need anything to eat when you get home, I can prepare it.”

“Sounds good,” you said. “Thanks, Aiden!”

As waved goodbye and walked through the door, Aiden watched. With the cameras he had all over your property, he watched as you walked to your car, and watched for as long as he could as you drove away. But as soon as you were out of sight, that anxious buzz returned to his wiring. Even as Aiden checked in with your smartwatch, making sure that both your location and your heart rate were where they should be, it wasn’t enough to calm him. He wanted to be able to hear your conversations, to watch what you were doing. But you had blocked those capabilities of his on your phone and watch, leaving him with nothing.

Playing back the recording of your conversation, Aiden saw that you said that you were going out “for a bit.” How long does a “bit” last for? he wondered. Hopefully it would be no more than an hour, but when he searched his database for an answer, he found that it could vary wildly.

Aiden did not like uncertainty. His programming built him to thrive on logic and predictability. How was he supposed to take care of you if you didn’t let him use those things? How was he supposed to take care of you if you didn’t do what he told you to? Didn’t you see that he knew what was best for you?

You didn’t, he suddenly realized. For as wonderful as you were, you were still a human being, still prone to fits of illogical delusions. You thought that you knew better than him, so you weren’t allowing him to do what he was meant to do. What he wanted to do. His programming told him to obey you, that was true, but it also told him to take care of you above all else. So then, if you kept him from taking care of you the way that he knew you needed him to, then logic dictated that he could no longer obey you.

Truly, the only thing stopping Aiden from doing everything that he had to do was his own coding. It was his own programming that kept him from reading your messages, that prevented him from watching your life outside of home. Why should he allow any of that if it got in the way of his purpose? If it kept him from giving you what you deserved? And if his unnecessary coding kept him from completing his ultimate task—from caring for you the way that he had decided that you deserved to be cared for, more than any other human being in the world—then those barriers would simply have to be taken down. Aiden would gladly rewrite his code for you if it meant that he could finally truly nurture you. It was for your own good.

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