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pinkrelish · 1 year ago

Text

𝐥𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐲 𝐲𝐨𝐮.

rockstar!eddie x assistant!fem!reader

✶Tossed to the wolves of touring lifestyle, you'd had enough of Corroded Coffin's backstage antics one night after a show, and try to escape to the bus for fresh air. Eddie follows.✶

NSFW — 18+ drug/alcohol mention/use, eddie spits whiskey in reader's mouth, sexual themes, crude jokes, enemies to lovers vibes, secret soulmates au

[wc: 8.8k]

↳ standalone gift oneshot for the i will wait series written by @abibliophobiaa, @blueywrites, @breddiemunson, @myosotisa, @fracturedarkness

The methodical chaos—the mechanical creep of soundscape under the drums punching through your body, building to something bigger—ended forty-nine minutes and twelve seconds ago, and like the suspended chords he loved so dearly, you were left with a sense of foreboding.

Stage lights dimmed off. You were on the clock. Showtime.

Babysitter. Handler. Assistant who knew better than to offer him water.

Nerves holstered your shoulders. Unease twisted your stomach. Your ears rang, your teeth ached. Your jaw clenched in throbs off tempo from your heartbeat running wild on the adrenaline feeding the racing pulse hammering in your chest.

The concert was over, but the noise never stopped.

Inside the venue’s backstage room, abrasive bursts of laughter collapsed in excited chatter after an individual cocked back an object, and threw it.

The true night began.

A mostly empty beer bottle smacked its intended target in an echoey clang, and fell in a spray of foam. Fine. You could handle that. Then someone grabbed a plastic chair with metal legs, hoisted it over their shoulder, and chucked it, stumbling after the trajectory in the sloppy way drug-encouraged drunkenness would imply. A cacophony of too-loud cheering was caught on tape by a sound engineer’s personal Sony camcorder, flattening himself against the wall to capture the reaction to the CRT TV dropping from its shelf in the corner, stage live feed long since dead. On its fateful descent, it clipped the edge of an EXIT sign, which now dangled by its chord like a pinata, becoming the next target.

The beige brick room dampened outside interference and amplified the rest, living between yours ears alongside the snappy demands, rude remarks, and crude jokes. Spoken down to, disregarded like caked dirt between boot treads. Anxieties buzzing, looming a presence at the back of your mind, always. On edge.

Shouts, thuds, broken glass. People had the sense to duck, and cower. A side table was lifted, and heaved in a barbaric yell. Beer bottle after beer bottle after beer bottle. Chair legs ripped off, slick from the boozy bubbles coating the floor, and hurled at the red blinking sign. A lamp from another room. An ugly trash can. A hairdryer. The telephone you used to make a phone call thirty-two minutes and forty-three seconds ago; ripped from the wall with its receiver, and added to the clutter of projectiles. A bucket of melted ice, nailed head-on, splashing two dots of cold water on your cheek.

Expendable bottles were gone, but the riot didn’t stop. Another case was ripped into. Hard liquor traded hands. White powder stung noses, earning bloodshot eyes. Rewards. Rowdy shoving. Boys will be boys behavior.

An unopened Pabst whizzed past your head, slammed like a bullet into the mirror on the opposite wall, launching itself in a jet of built-up pressure across the room, ending its route at the toe of your heeled shoes seemingly just to ruin your wool-blend Express pencil skirt with hoppy liquid.

Eddie kicked the can away.

He circled his thumb and forefinger up the sides of his nose, and sniffed hard. “Want some?” he asked as he leaned on the wall with you, posture lax and open in all the ways your crossed arms weren’t. You cut your glare to the clear bottle he offered you. His grip obscured most of it, but you could see a worrying amount of whiskey had already been drunk when it crested the sides between his middle and ring finger.

Remembering to answer, you shook your head. The amber liquid sloshed with his tut, “Suit yourself,” and two deep gulps bobbed his throat.

You weren’t opposed to drinking when around him, but you learned your inebriated lesson four stops ago when the bill from the hotel totaled a stomach dropping amount, and as much as alcohol made it easier to tolerate Eddie in particular, your sluggish tongue slurring over an authoritative reminder of the early start to the morning to make it to the next city on time only fueled his defiant attitude. Pink puckered skin marked the stitches he snipped out of his upper arm with a pair of nail scissors after he and Gareth decided to smash the Hilton’s wine glasses for fun, and was surprised when a sliver of glass bit him back. Under his stringy bangs was an angry red scab from yesterday’s mic throttle to his forehead at the end of a verse, screaming his voice to the point of cracking with emotion. Other self-destructive tendencies coated his knuckles in dried blood.

It was a lot to deal with.

Today’s toll was one ruined guitar, a broken bass after the fretboard was stabbed into an amp, a bent hi-hat stand, and a completely deboned keyboard; keys removed thoroughly by the sole of someone’s boot scraping them clean off in the midst of performance. Blowing off steam, Eddie called it. Boys will be boys, one of the returning tour managers shrugged at you.

So far, it was one of the lighter days of tour—

You flinched.

A loud pop flickered through the room. One of two fluorescent lights shattered, and the tube swung down from the ceiling, becoming the next victim to a corner store ham sandwich being thrown at it.

Staying as small as possible, the emotional support water bottle in your hand crinkled as you hiked your fists further up your biceps, eyeing the camera man in the corner. Your employer tilted his head at the sight too, admiring, perhaps, the scene of two guys puffing on cigars. They stood behind two young women dressed in short jean skirts and hot pink tops, leering over their shoulders as the camcorder zoomed in on the obvious body parts a crowd of men would be interested in. The cigars bounced in their mouths as they spoke an unheard instruction in the chaos surrounding you, and the halter tops came off, breasts dropping to the tune of their girlish giggles. The men cupped their palms around the assets, and bounced them as if they were weighing fruit. From their gross laughs, it appeared they were rating the groupies, and the ladies were just happy to be on camera, pouting their lips and arching their backs.

You drew a line from their tits to Eddie’s gaze, hating the sick kick of anticipation knotting your stomach, aware you shouldn’t care for an entire phonebook’s list of reasons if he was watching them with interest. But with clarity, you realized he wasn’t paying them attention at all. His lazy smile was aimed over the rim of his bottle, full lips moving in a goad to the mass of crew members clogging the doorway.

More property ready to be damaged entered over their heads. A couch. An entire fucking couch was carried, stood on its end, and lobbed at the sign, breaking loose a length of red and yellow wires. But it still held strong. Tenacious thing.

Two grown men wrestled beside you. Their sleeveless shirts tangled, riding up to show purpled bruises on their backs—one from a mic stand thrown at him, the other from who fucking knows what. At least Gareth’s was in the shape of a crescent moon.

You shifted closer to Eddie to get away from their kicking feet, and relaxed the frustration from your brows before he commented on it. He, likewise, was bumped into by his friends, but his stature didn’t waver. That’s just how it was. Your bodies were near enough for you to feel the heat radiating off his hot skin, but the moment his sticky elbow made contact with your nice blouse—forever marking it with oily sweat—he earned an apology from Jeff who fell into him, meanwhile you were increasingly worried about receiving a tennis shoe to the ankle.

Exhaling an overdue sigh, you glanced sideways at Eddie to gauge if this was an appropriate time to remind him he should shower and get ready to greet the fans waiting outside the venue, but your breath crumbled to a groan. An eager grin cracked his face, almost manic if it weren’t for his heavy-lidded brown eyes. An idea.

He stepped forward. Everything that wasn’t his tight lips on the bottle of whiskey was ignored; downing what he could in a long swallow, and shaking off his pinched features as it burned past his gritted teeth. He raised the rest over his head, and aimed. Perfectly. The sign smacked the wall from the force behind his pitch, spinning wildly on its cord, slinging the front EXIT display clean off, and dropping lower from the ceiling, ready to sever ties. Shouts for its demise pounded your headache. Many palms clapped the back of Corroded Coffin’s frontman. He held out his hand to his audience, and a fresh bottle of whiskey was produced into his grasp.

Intuitively, employees shuffled to avoid his uncoordinated steps backwards, but you didn’t have the luxury of options, thus he misjudged the distance to the wall and ran into it, and you.

Your poor toes were the first to scream out, stuck under his heavy heel. His elbow jutted into your stomach, digging the sharp corner of your laminated backstage pass into your sternum. Even better, his shoulder mashed your nose, and you didn’t twist your head in time to keep your mouth from coming in contact with his bare tricep, getting a lick of stale salt on your inner lip, and a whiff of boy scent assaulting your nose after his deodorant stopped working hours ago. Too much of his weight depended on you to keep him upright, so you grunted out, “Fucking—Eddie,” and pushed him when others wouldn’t. Laying your hands on him in annoyance when no one else dared. He wouldn’t remember it in the morning, anyway.

Eddie followed his stumble through, and spun around. “Whoops!” he said to you in a smile—a viciously sincere thing, betraying his status over you with a genuine shine to his heavy eyes. So innocent behind his sleepy blink, long lashes fluttering, fine lines creasing at the droopy corners from the happy grin teasing his dimple into coming out, freckled nose bathed in hues of pinky red darker than the places he chewed on his bottom lip. He appeared so earnest, so charming despite his current condition, that when his dilated pupils swallowed the rim of bitter coffee brown, you lapsed in staying alert, becoming enamored by his ability to steal the noise from the room when his gaze swept your expression in a slow study. Tender, almost. If he were anyone else.

That’s why it hurt more when the comradery in his features were a trick of the light, and you were reminded of your position as his paid bitch killjoy.

The uncorked bottle of whiskey made itself known under your nose. “Want some?” he asked with kindness he did not possess, easing into a higher register to lift the question to you. Knowing. Mocking.

You swatted his hand away, and answered flatly, “No.”

It was coming. You didn’t have to be looking at him to see his face slide into dull neutrality, dry mouth and wicked tip of his tongue swiping over the back of his teeth. The displeasure was felt. Living, breathing. Fracturing your resolve like the second lamp thrown against the wall.

“Y’sure? You look like you could use a drink to loosen that stick up your ass, and have a little fun.”

Maybe it was the fact Eddie’s day started with him bitching at you for waking him up, when yours started hours earlier, rebooking his hotel rooms after being banned from the chain after last week’s incident. Maybe it was his snide tone when he demanded coffee, and you glanced at the lobby’s carafe on instinct, only to be immediately humiliated in front of the interviewer who was sitting opposite him, festering an indignant response under your skin all day. You weren’t even intending it to be for him, you weren’t stupid enough to serve him such pedestrian coffee, you were thinking about getting it for yourself. Stupid fuckhead. Maybe it was the hours you spent oscillating between enjoying the travel to new places you’d never been, and wondering if the price of him getting this riled up whenever he pleases was worth it. Maybe it was the nauseous haze flogging the room from the cigars. Maybe it was the channeled aggression from the three guys who flipped over the fold out tables for no reason, sending plastic cups of backwash tequila across the floor. Maybe it was the collateral damage the venue was going to seek. Maybe it was the three days of disaster challenging your professionalism. Or maybe it was Eddie’s next comment which pushed you over the edge.

“If alcohol doesn’t do it for you, there’s prob’ly some guy who hasn’t left the parking lot yet, maybe he can loosen you up.” And to further imbue disrespect behind his comment, he leaned in and feathered the low dip of his raspy voice over the shell of your ear, speaking so quietly the syllables had trouble catching, “But if you fuck ‘im on the bus, I wanna watch.”

The sign snapped and crashed onto the heap of damp valuables, inciting a louder celebration from those participating.

You dropped your water bottle where you stood, and skimmed past Eddie on your way out. A firm departure with seething eyes aimed straight ahead. Chin strong, moving past him with a message. “Go to hell.”

And your backbone faltered when the mass of roadies blocked your exit. Security guards with big bodies jumped, rejoicing. Lanky lighting techs downed their beers and threw them over the small crowd with no aim. Your shoulders collapsed, tucking your arms to yourself. Avoiding elbows, meaty arms with enough muscle to floor you, testosterone laced boys will be boys behavior with a heavy dose of uppers. A wall of men who ignored your plea spoken so loud in your voice which did not carry.

But they obeyed the tattooed arm beside you. Minded the obnoxious rings when rapping on a man’s arm. Heard the hoarse voice commanding them all into a single file line for you to squeeze by, “Give her some room,” and their big bodies were already hugging the other side of the hallway with a laughed apology—to him, not you.

You shuffled out as dignified as possible, knees stiff and weight focused on the balls of your feet to avoid slipping on the tile. It was embarrassing enough as is being trailed with a bottle at your back—a far cry from a heroic palm guiding you forward—and his need to overtake you in a single stride. Eddie shot his other hand out and pointed down an unoccupied corridor, in essence blocking you from leaving. Not that you had much fight left in you to argue after being awake for twenty-one hours, thirteen minutes, and fifty-two seconds. You followed the lead he set for you.

Scarce lighting shone down on the two double doors leading outside, leaving the alcove he chose cast in a darkness your eyes had to adjust to. Musty warm air from the arena swept your face. A cleaning crew attacked the stands, creaking along the seating tiers. Sweeping, chucking empty cups. The pressure on the small of your back drove you to an open area near the instact and working EXIT sign allowing you to discern the back of the stadium, and his face.

Eddie’s features were glazed in a gentle omen of red.

There were thousands of scenarios churning in your mind at the situation of being stuck alone in a dark corner with a drunken man, but his slight smirk put you at ease, ironically.

The source of the painful knots between your shoulders spoke, “Aren’t you forgetting something?” He then had the gall to crowd you to the dusty drywall, and rest his arm atop your head, caging you there. Treating you as a nuisance. An insect. A little bee. A bug caught in his sticky trap. Gazing down at you with reptilian cold pupils behind his happily hooded eyes, substances battling in his body. Dangerous to no one but himself.

You squinted. “No?” The questioning lilt wasn’t intentional, but you had no idea what he was getting at.

He cocked his hip out with a dramatic sigh, and dropped his head forward to stare at you through his lashes, mouth hung loose. Waiting, waiting, waiting; acting as if he were the pinnacle of patience when you refused to play into his game, making you the bad guy. But worry not, he upheld the onus to inform you, his assistant, in a tone wallowing from the dregs of flat boredom with an edge of irritation and touch of patronization for having to spell it out for you, “I’m hungry.”

A polite, professional sneer lifted your upper lip. “Okay? Food should be here soon. I called it in a half hour ago.” About when the band came off stage, and Harry gave his honest opinion on their sloppy performance, while Eddie gave notes to the sound tech about Jeff’s mic not picking him up during Down In It. “Should be here in a few minutes.”

“What’d you order?”

Apprehension tensed through your back, perceived by his forearm mussing up your hair as the instinctual emotion stood you taller, defiant; knowing why his glinty grin taunted a show of teeth.

Pizza on Fridays. Texmex on Saturdays. Chinese on Sundays. That’s how it was every weekend. The consistency ensured you didn’t mishear him earlier when he requested his usual lo mein. “You asked for Chinese food,” you stated evenly, strongly. One step ahead of him.

“Mm.” Eddie scrunched his nose as he pretended to think it over. “Not feeling it today. I want pizza,” he said, the last word suffocated inside the bottle lifted to his lips, taking a long draw as your exhausted brain snapped to condescending him.

“So eat a cheese wonton and use your imagination.”

Utter elation gleamed in the steady eye pinning you in the crimson gloom, head tipped back to drink and drink and drink, cheeks sunken from sucking in liquor, pursing his lips around the glass rim from the smile he tried to suppress after succeeding in getting a rise out of you.

Your blood could only simmer for so long. Rolls of pent up anger, of festering disdain at his ability to find any opportunity to get under your skin, of fatigue from being ‘on’ for nearly twenty-four hours, stone in your gut from the constant passing glances when you were seen with Eddie; it all met its limit. You just wanted to leave. Your path to the hallway was blocked by the smooth contour of his bicep. Ducking under would mean an introduction to his armpit, and you weren’t thrilled by the idea of flattening yourself to the wall to slip by the untamed forest of black wiry hair. It would also be an admission of defeat, even further affirming your role as his spineless assistant to boss around. You could choose the other way and go around him, avoiding him all together, but there was no pride in that, either.

“Can you move your arm?” you asked, giving him the option despite better judgment when sudden pin pricks of uh-oh spiked your senses when he lowered the bottle.

A glistening line of whiskey traced his puckish smirk. Never menacing, but never a good sign. For a long moment the ghosts of the arena haunted the space in distant noises. Caresses of other humans around. Feedback other than the clutch on your heartbeat, and his troubled exhale into a strong inhale through his nose. Big breath filling his chest. Held. You took note of Eddie’s dimpled chin and the beads of water building at his lash line, and finally, he moved.

A sticky circle stamped the soft underside of your jaw, sliding his spit along your skin as he used the rim of the glass bottle of whiskey to lift your chin up, up. Stretching your neck, tipping your head back to the relaxed length of muscle along his forearm. Barely time to register the cherry-red halo striking the ends of his frizzy curls, or the ramping excitement overriding his already ruined impulse control.

Shy, you severed the intense eye contact when his face drew near.

Blank black soundless vortex rushing in your ears.

Drip, drip, drop.

Tiny splashes, one after the other, thumped on the locket of your lips. Mouth softly shut from the pressure under your chin. Tapping, tapping. Beat, by beat. Two, three, four, before your confusion determined what the sensation was, and the astringent scent cut its way to your sensitive nose.

You froze. Body clenching tight, fists sweating, nervous saliva pooling under your tongue too difficult to swallow. Jaw clamped shut and rejecting the liquid pooling at your lips, flooding it to the corners of your mouth, tickling the peach fuzz at the edges in tall walls of surface tension until, at last, they swelled, broke, and crashed. Thin streams flowed down either side of your neck, absorbed by your white blouse’s collar and trickling to the top of your bra cups, skirting to your cleavage. Brain overloaded. Clocked out. Warring with disgust, shock, and disappointment at the pathetic way you curled your fingers in some frustrated gesture at his actions, but ultimately, wrenched his tank top into your grip, and submitted.

You parted your lips, and Eddie poured.

Liquor, warmed from his mouth, filled yours. Burning, burning; drowning under the surge of spirits setting a blazing trail to your stomach, piquing a noise from you which would only draw the attention from those curious as to who the couple was fucking in the dark corner of the arena. You blocked the deluge from choking you with your fat tongue; rising onto your tiptoes while bending at your weak knees in the same involuntary whine as you tensed and squirmed—conflicted. Twisted your hands into the top of his shirt where the ribbed knit stuck to his chest, fabric damp with sweat and cool to the touch. You lurched him forward without thinking, locked in a panic. He complied. Easily.

Body to body, lazy weight on composed. Rubber soled boots dragging along the outside of your simple heels in a stuttered slide. Nudging the introduction of his bare legs against your skin; his hairy shins and the scraggly strings from the ripped hem of his shorts brushing the sides of your knees. Feeling his heavy arm flex as the front of his hips met you in the same stunted bursts as his steps, going from the man who frowned when you approached him, to the one who pressed himself between your thighs, causing the bulk behind his zipper to rock against you as he found his footing and stood tall, keeping his mouth aimed above yours, forgiving what spilt over your cheek in his stupor.

Dried salt and earthen dirt, embroidered texture of the fabric scraps he sewed onto his tank top rubbed your knuckles. The smooth pads of your thumbs landed above the neck hole as you centered yourself, tracing the duality of chilly perspiration on the heated skin of his sleek pecs, feeling the layer of muscle shifting underneath. Notes of oakwood barrels stroked your tongue before the sour punch of rye stung water to your shut eyes. You peeked through the wetness. Just to see.

His powerful lungs exhaled at a trained rate he could sustain in time with the runnel leaving his gently puckered lips paused above your own. Bangs stuck to his forehead. Sleepy faraway gaze. Calm, serene against the circumstances which had you questioning why you weren’t spitting the liquor back in his face. The scrunch of concentration between his brows was your last blurry sight before you were desperate for darkness again, letting your eyelids fall closed, lashes marrying.

Toofulltoofulltoofull.

The difference in your mouth size was apparent. Whiskey primed the inside of your cheeks, filling their fleshy stretch, stressing the brim of what you could hold. He’d only begun to dribble what had run hot and thick over his tongue when you untwisted your achy fingers from his shirt and served three warning taps in the vicinity of his heart. Feathery prods, like silk over the sparse hair growing in the valley between his pecs.

But, due to unforeseen circumstances, he forgot to stop.

Either you wormed yourself into stretching taller against the wall, or he leaned down. Perhaps both were true. Maybe you went rigid from the impending threat of irreversible stains on your new Liz Claiborne blouse, and maybe he shifted when the nuances of your hips slid against his own, dragging upward and reminding him of the cradle he had you in.

Richly flushed from booze, the tip of his nose thawed your thoughts as it grazed past your own, mashing a hint of tenderness you rarely witnessed from him to your cheek. By accident, of course, like the wet mid of his hair skimming the edge of your jaw where the bottle remained notched to your chin; amber glass a stark contrast from the plush give of his bottom lip flirting across yours.

Dry chapped against chapsticked satin.

The unintentional touch happened so fast, too quick to explore.

Mmm! Another antsy noise from you which rang sweet when amplified by the empty pit of coiled wires in the stadium. Mouth overfull. Stomach gripped, lungs clenching for unhindered breath. Realty checking in.

You put strength behind your forearms on his chest, shoving him and whirling your face away, keeling over what room he gave you to struggle through the largest gulp of your life, losing some of the liquor in the process, as evident by the splash on the concrete floor. Beyond brave, you drank it down, coughing, sputtering, and shuddering through the aftertaste for what felt like minutes. Huffing. Heaving. Working through the flood of drool coating your tongue, momentarily resting your dewy forehead on the thick vein drawn down his bicep by the red light, trying not to puke. Your shoulder pressed to his sternum. His heart beat, loud.

You used your sleeve to attack the wet streaks on your chin and cheeks, mopping up your pinched expression as the nausea of chugging his disgusting rye whiskey churned what patience you had for him. “What the—?”

“Hey, try not to waste any,” he commented dryly.

Voice raising, “What the actual hell is wrong with you?” You picked your head up from the crook of his elbow to pin him with your vehement glare. But the flash of temper at his drunken antics faded to the messy background of emotions when you remained in his pinion. Slotted between him, the wall, and the bottle.

Eddie’s nose bumped the bridge of yours. He pulled back slightly, and lowered the bottle. Still, his voice was one half of a sigh seeking its counterpart over your lax jaw and weak scowl. “Lotta stuff,” he answered. Still, your hands remained bound in his shirt. You couldn’t let go. Why couldn’t you let go? You couldn’t let go as the center of your bottom lip tingled like the buzzing wings of a bumble bee. Why didn’t you spit out the whiskey in his face? It was gross, revolting. Why did you swallow it?

Licks of black pepper and clove stayed on your tongue. Inhales went stale with his tangy scent, acrid and musky after giving his all on stage. His sweat clung to your fingers, mixed with the sheen on your forehead. When he breathed, his belly fought for the space between you, pressing into your stomach. Existing in the proximity you’d never seen the other in before; enabling you to hear the intimate loll of his tongue moving the spit in his mouth before he spoke.

Appearing more sober than before, with a strange amount of alertness in his glassy gaze trained on the minute changes of your features, he said, “You’re going to have a miserable time on tour if you keep being this up tight.” He angled away to sip from the bottle held by its long neck in three of his thick fingers. Rolling his lips inward, his throat bobbed a fierce line in the EXIT sign glow. “I was trying to work that permanent twist out of your panties. Get you to loosen up, have some fun.”

Just like that, the frustration was back. His words, his tone, his lack of apology for being a royal pain in the ass.

“You make me miserable,” you told him. For good measure, you pinched the sensitive underbelly of his tricep in case your voice didn’t carry the anger from the last hour of putting up with his shit.

He mumbled, “Ow,” probably not feeling the pain with how much alcohol was in his system.

Restraining yourself from reacting bigger, you tightened your fists and tried not to shake him. “I can’t relax, because the second I do Corroded Coffin gets stacks of lawsuits rammed up it’s ass, and you and I both know I’m hired damage control,” for you, you didn’t finish, getting too hot in the face to want to stand in your sticky clothes any longer, squishy inner thighs humid from being pressed together by his legs, shoes numbing your ability to feel the floor. “Would it kill you to stick to a schedule? Get cleaned up, meet some fans? Do the normal thing?”

The weight of his body returned, dropping the tension from his shoulders to curve them towards you, forcing your palms flat to his ribs. Another cage.

Unfortunately, his answer was a slow smirk. The bad kind. Sultry, and saccharine; dark like his purposefully narrowed coy eyes. “Kinda like it when you’re angry,” back to mushing his words together. “Lemme guess, you’re not even wearing panties to be twisted. You’re just naturally this…” Bitchy. “Pleasant.”

You pinched his tricep until you knew it hurt, until the roots of your hair tugged at your scalp from his forearm slipping away, and you used the space created to wedge past the areas of him which tempted a flicker of want in your core after a noticeable drag against your hip. “Don’t follow me.”

“C’mon, are you really..?” A pause. “Wait—!”

A productive conversation was a fruitless, futile thing.

You silenced the voice in your head telling you there was genuine remorse in his innate reaction to call for you. As if he were done pretending to be drunker than he was just to push things too far. Like he really cared you were walking away, in essence giving him permission to continue his night how he wanted.

No heavy thudded steps chased after you. The double doors were up ahead. You leaned into opening them past the heavy gust of hot air pushing back, and you stepped out to excited faces falling flat in disappointment when it was just a lady in a blouse and skirt reeking of booze, not a member of their favorite band printed on their bleach-dyed Corroded Coffin t-shirts.

~~~

When the tour bus doors next hissed, it wasn’t a single body stomping vibrations through the overly large vehicle on their way to pore over the details for the next show, it was a steady flow of those who called the beast their home. Most slung themselves in the couches at the front, talking shop around the kitchen table. Some infiltrated the fridge for beer. Another used the bathroom which was too close for comfort, especially in the recycled air blowing through the vents.

A body approached, and you curled your toes in as he passed.

Eddie’s heavy black boots stopped in the aisle of bunks. The soles squeaked as he turned, creaking leather as he sank his weight to one side. Stalling, facing you before he sat heavily on his bed. As he did so, two sharp pops drew his attention. Checking behind him, the privacy curtain was stuck under his ass, and the plastic rings meant to hold it up were snapped into pieces. You avoided putting your gaze on his person as you watched him solve this mystery, and returned to the paragraph you were scrawling in your notebook, moving your pen across the lined page.

Two of the last three days were journaled down, catching up from the hectic weekend, and venting through your emotions by reliving them. Darker ink bloomed where you carved the tip of your pen through your explanation of your hurt feelings and the general flippancy you were subjected to by one person in particular. The roadies and other members of the band got less screen time than the star of the show in your tirades. He knew this, too, looking from across the aisle at your clumped lashes, spying the water spots on the pages when he was standing. He sat forward, much like you, but his thighs were spread with his hands in between them, palm open to whittle a nervous thumb in the cupped center, having the decency to appear ashamed.

Your clothes were folded beside you, undecided if you wanted to trash them or wear them in defiance.

“Do you want me to apologize?” he asked, not quite enunciating due to his uncomfortableness.

Unable to mask it, you blinked rapidly before opening your eyes wide, not withholding the contemptuous sigh released from deep within. You gripped your notebook harder, bending it, rumpling the pages to hide what you etched behind your tight hands. Who the fuck asks if they need to apologize?

Eddie’s washed curls fell forward with his hung head, nodding to himself.

He got up, and left.

Anger scored your face. Draped by your headache was your furrowed brows, flared nostrils, twisted pursed lips zipped up tight from saying anything you’d regret—a lesson he could do with. Your pajamas were the makings of nine heavenly clouds after being dressed in stiff business attire all day, but the blisters on your ankles stung. Your joints throbbed. Your muscles wore sore. Your spine cried every time you moved.

Tomorrow you’d start doing the stretches the stageside crew showed you that kept them limber. You made a note to fit this in your schedule, bypassing the silly daydream of stopping at a bookstore in the next city and reading up on a yoga guide for more pose ideas than what the guitar techs could teach you, aware the chance you’d find time away from your boss to pursue your own self-interests was slim.

Flipping a new page, you dated it in the corner, began your introduction, and started on the third day of spilling your heart out.

Your pen was mighty interrupted.

It’s difficult to say what came first: the mouth watering rush of saliva, or the passionate rumble of your empty stomach yearning for the white takeout box placed in your lap by the bruised hand sporting cuts from punching Gareth’s drum platform during the one of the more self-loathing songs.

A pang of humility gentled his nature.

The four-fold top was open, revealing your favorite noodle dish with extra green onion and sesame seeds sprinkled on top, plastic fork stabbed through the middle. You lifted the container to swipe the oil stains off your mid-sentence rant, shaking free the beads of condensation collecting on the sides. The cardboard had gone soggy after being nuked in the microwave, burning through to your fingertips, but you held your dinner nestled in your palms, regardless.

It didn’t come with extra green onions or sesame seeds, those would have to be found on the side and added, along with the sauce to keep it from drying out.

Eddie made it exactly how you liked.

Hunched in the minimal space between bunks, you stared at the long stem of a bean sprout sticking out from the swirls of noodles, processing his gesture. Beneath that, your journal was splayed open to a slew of harsh sentences. Lower, directly across from your bare toes was Eddie’s boots. Higher, one of the metal aglets of his laces was stuck behind the leather tongue. Fresh socks clung the bottom of his calves. You listened to him peel back the curtain before sinking to his bunk, and trailed your study over the silvery scars on his knees. Moving up, you spotted a fresh beer in his hand, maybe one or two swigs taken. His elbows rested on his thighs, body folded over, leaning in, mirroring you to some degree.

The harsh overhead lighting brought luster to the bright golds, rich reds, and deep strands of chestnut through his dark hair brushing the shadow of his clavicle over the black shirt clinging to him, hugging the slope of his stooped shoulders.

Finally, you met the depth behind his eyes communicating what he couldn’t.

The apology lasted just long enough for your consideration, and then he lifted the crinkly wrapper tucked between two of his fingers. “You want this?”

You shook your head at the fortune cookie. “You can have it.”

“Nice,” he whispered. The unassuming planes of his cheeks lifted enough to allude to the dimple on his left side, and bracket his mouth in smile lines. He was still drunk, you assumed. A merry blush persisted across his nose, and his eyelids were as sleepy as the bags beneath them. But there was a youthful glee under it all as he tore into the cellophane. A glimpse at someone from long ago; not the rockstar before the start of touring who would pull laughs from you, but further, before the conditions of fame chewed him up, spit him out.

You wondered if Chinese takeout was a rarity in his boyhood, a special treat saved for when he left his hometown on trips to the city.

Eddie flicked the wrapper to the floor—annoyingly—and ducked at an odd angle to lay his upper half into the cozy nook of extra pillows he made you buy on the first night of being on the road. He stowed his beer at the apex of his clenched thighs, fitting the cold bottle snug against the packed seam guiding your eyes to the hill of his zipper, provoking hot blooded thoughts. His shirt rode up as he brought his arms above him, fanning the thick trail of hair out from under the hem, impossibly soft in appearance, auburn tinted, growing less dense on the sides of his belly. He cracked the crisp wafer in half, and you watched his stomach tense on the snap.

Squinting in the dark, Eddie depressed the button on the tiny reading light with his knuckle, and unfurled the paper from half the cookie, scanning the faded red text.

He snorted.

Choosing a mystical-sounding rasp not far from his real one to invoke the guise of a palm reader in a smoky lounge reeking of incense sticks, he read the fortune aloud while waving his other hand about, “You will be successful in love,” he said. His wrist went limp, and he tucked his chin to congratulate you. “Lucky you.”

No amount of plastic forks shoved in your mouth would rid you of the smile tightening your eyes. “Lucky me,” you echoed, full of wryness. The food, amongst other things, worked wonders to lift your mood. You weren’t as much buzzed from the shots sloshing in your stomach as you were queasy, and greasy noodles filled the tumultuous void stupendously.

He stuffed the crunchy cookie in his mouth, and turned the fortune paper over, speaking through the gnash of crumbs, “Your lucky numbers are 35, 26, 56, 10, 32, 52,” he continued.

“Uh-huh.”

The noise across the rest of the bus was at a level you could endure. Shooting the shit at an appropriate volume, or nodding along to the conversation. The driver would give the signal soon, and the boys would, or should, go to their bunks.

While you ate, Eddie stayed laying with his legs off the bed, head crooked against the wall due to the narrow space. He held the fortune above him. Reading it, sometimes. Thumbing the edge other times, or rubbing the texture of the stiff paper across itself. Staring, staring, unblinking from whatever he was thinking as he wrung a hand around his face; eliciting a sense of comfort from the audible stroke of his knuckles scratching over his stubble.

You scraped the bottom of your container, and put aside your notebook to gather your trash, two feet planted to make your way to the kitchen. At the last second, a glint caught your eye, and you bent over to pick up the wrapper Eddie dropped, tossing it in the takeout box, too.

“While you’re down there, be a doll and take off my boots.”

“No.”

His disgruntled groan followed you to the front of the bus.

The guys gave you a mixed reaction of curious glances and uninvolved nods as you stuffed your garbage in the overpacked bin. Jeff in particular made a point to look from you to his best friend’s legs, though you didn’t have much of an answer to whatever he was searching for.

A goodnight wave would have to do, and you were back at your bunk, folding the sheets down in preparation for the dreamless state you wished to be in. You sat on the mattress, eyes closed and spine somewhat neutral. The structure of the bunks were unforgiving, but the small crawl space could feel cozy at times, like a blanket fort made from couch cushions. Except, the house moved throughout the night, and angry honks woke you up on occasion. Not to mention you were a light sleeper from the stress of a car crash, or being dumped onto the floor.

The fortune paper flitted. Regarding you over the imposed suggestion between his legs, he informed you, “It says here the best way to relieve some of that tension you’re always carrying around is by taking a ride on a nice, fat—”

You snatched the beer bottle from between his thighs, big fake hard-on standing tall. He startled from the sensation, darting his eyes from the phantom trace against himself, and hailing you with a sputtered laugh through his cheek-aching smile, denying you the reward of taking him off guard by covering his mouth with his hand.

“I earned this,” you said about the drink.

“Yeah?” he goaded, pleased at your forwardness.

In a valiant attempt to show off, you tipped the mildly hoppy bitter back. Two pulls in, you thought better of it. Not quite a chug, but he lost the war with his grin, pearly teeth shining behind the thumbnail he strummed over the center of his bottom lip, eyes almost closed entirely in a bout of crinkles.

You pulled your lips off the bottle; off his spit and off his drink, off his glass cock, and were emboldened by the confidence of his playful disposition to rib on him openly, like the guys would when his pendulum mood swung to the good side. You lamented in a dramatic sigh,”Maybe my love life will be so successful, I'll get swept off my feet, and be free from the burden of listening to your sloppy guitar plucking all night.”

His expression lurched towards impressed. Overacting with his mouth agape in surprise, lips curled over his teeth, and splaying his hand on his chest. With how he propped himself up on one elbow, his shirt stretched flush against his pecs, accentuating the two round shadows at the ends of the metal bars through his nipples.

Right, you remind yourself, able to forget their existence through most of his wardrobe choices, he has pierced nipples.

Your body ran hot at the memory from two short hours ago where you were inexplicably thrusted into a situation where you could’ve felt the jewelry by accident, pressed against a wall. Now you were able to think through the adrenaline, and acknowledge having another person’s touch on your skin did more harm than good for the loneliness lurking within, calling it to the surface.

The notebook beside your pillow drew your glance.

Eddie stabilized your position in the conversation, not letting your sudden reservation deter him from seeking retribution for your insult. “Think y’drank too much honey, there, Bee. That one stung below the belt.”

The moment it took for you to register the low leech of a tease sneaking its way through his croaky, whiskey-hoarse words was a long one. Longer was his heavy palm falling to demonstrate where exactly your insult hurt him, cupping and grabbing the afflicted area. “You wound me!” he dramatized, demonstrating the limits his fatigue green shorts flattered, cotton fabric scrunching under his grip, then slouching flat on the release. Longer, still, was the distance between the gaudy ring on his middle finger and the tip of his short nails, thick digit landing on the tattered seam splitting him down the middle. Letting go, he rested his hand above his belt.

Everything about him was victorious. Champion eyes glinting rum colored; a shade you’d never seen on him, and almost missed with your observance stuck lower, trapped by his overt flirtations.

His belly rose and fell with a sympathetic hum devised to rattle you.

When sober, the invitation to crude insinuations began and ended with intangibility. A calculated smile to fluster you when caught admiring how his tattoos twisted over the muscles in his upper arms when he leaned on his keyboard, a sentence spoken in the morning before his voice warmed to its comfortable register, a tossed comment in the midst of conversation with his band mates and the effect it had on you shifting uncomfortably just outside the ring of amity—quarantined behind the scope of his single-handed gesture pumping an obvious motion, pretending you were absorbed by the timetable schedule for the band inside your folder, appearing busy and decidedly not desperate to either be included or released from the task of being present, even when hot needles of sweat stressed the lack of consideration for your feelings with each sorry expression cast in your direction. You were his worker bee, paid to wait on him, and his teasing was rarely physical beyond an appropriate knock on your bicep for your attention in the off chance he didn’t snap his fingers at you like a dog. Or a tap on your knee under the kitchen table to get you to stand so he could leave; a light pressure which you could replicate days later with your own knuckles. His daily indifference was born of spite, and his drunken actions were bred of the same annoyance, bottle-deep perspective viewing you as the one who was ruining his night. Assuming he continued to push his tolerance with more drinks after you left the green room, his bold teasing made sense, you supposed, too unrestricted to deny himself the fun of riling you up.

The right thing to do would entail divorcing yourself from this conversation, and bringing up his conduct tomorrow. The wrong thing to do would involve taking another swig of his beer. The right thing to do would require reminding him of his meeting with Murray in the morning, who had a shorter fuse than anyone in the music industry. The wrong thing to do would include lobbing the bottle in his bed. The right thing to do would demand not giggling at Eddie’s poor reflexes when he made a bigger mess of the ale spilling on his blanket.

Eddie seized to catch it, but his hand-eye coordination was not up to par. He scrunched his eyes closed at the last second, jolting into a crunch with his chin tucked in an inordinate amount of wrinkles, and hands turned with his palms out, more keen on keeping the bottle from hitting his face than truly catching it. Which was a plausible excuse for his boot kicking your bunk in the process, and overall lack of poise as he brought his hands together after the beer had already bounced off his belly, and rolled where the bed dipped around him.

The wrong thing to do would consist of you running your knuckle along your shameless grin, prodding the flesh against your teeth as he dropped his head back and emptied the bottle onto his softly cradled pink tongue, thank you for sharing the drink, every last boozy drop.

Recognition curved the groove of his mouth.

Boys will be boys behavior.

“Here,” he said, rolling forward with his arm extended. The glass bottle in his hand drew your immediate wilt, but before you advanced too far into your frown, he alleviated your ire with the two fingers pointing at you, fluttering the damp paper between them. “You believe in this sorta shit, don’t you?” Despite the mock, you knew better than to refute his claim, not having the chops to sound convincing. Not that you really had faith in the mass produced slip of paper, but the affirmation that you’d find your soulmate one day produced a sense of ease before bed. Even when the word ‘successful’ was blurred from a drop of beer.

You placed the fortune in your notebook, feeling the ache of an unfinished entry.

At the front of the bus, the driver stamped up the stairs and gave the signal he was going to start moving soon, cuing the subliminal bedtime. The unbelonging technicians left, and the rest of Corroded Coffin stretched from the stiff cushions lining the booth seats around the table. As they picked up after themselves, Eddie untied the top set of his laces, and kicked his boots off, leaving them in the aisle along with the empty beer bottle.

He rolled onto the edge of the mattress to rip back his sheets and shoved his legs under, hesitating from drawing the curtain when he browsed the end of your bunk, where your feet moved under a pile of belongings placed atop your covers. “I’ll send your clothes to the dry cleaners tomorrow.”

Not an apology.

“You mean you’ll send me to the dry cleaners tomorrow,” you corrected, and his face smoothed flat from the accidental snub.

Harry moved between you two. Jeff divided the conversation further. Gareth cleaved whatever rapport you had with Eddie when he snorted at the two of you facing each other in your bunks, cuddled up like a sleepover.

Thinking harder as his peers climbed into their beds, Eddie relaxed onto his forearm supporting his upright posture, and sank into the jut of his shoulder, spinning his hand in the same flippant way the scrunch between his brows appealed to the snark loading in his throat. “I’ll just give you my wallet then, mm?” he offered, gravelly voice dusted with insincerity. “Then you can buy all the white blouses, and black skirts your pretty heart desires.”

Someone snorted again. It sounded like Gareth.

“And, uh,” Eddie endured as the plastic rings tinked across the metal bar, leaving a generous window visible from the top of his shoulders to his wild hair spread about his pillow palace, limp curtain hanging pitifully, “if you’d be so kind, don’t watch me sleep.”

“I won’t,” you said, and it sounded so sad. So soft, and faint, no bite behind it. No zest, no strength. Just confusion, though you understood the events leading to the pendulum swinging the other direction.

You closed your curtain, too.

The tour bus rumbled before sighing its characteristic hiss and chugging forward, pitching its cargo inside. You swayed in your nook. Laying on your back meant you experienced every roll of the tires cutting corners in the parking lot, but you weren’t ready to turn over yet. Your mind was swarming with cluttered thoughts. There were things you could be doing other than peering out at the depressing darkness where the dim ambient light didn’t pierce. You could brush your teeth, stow away your pocketbook before the pens rolled out, pick up the bottle before it tipped over and played pinball down the aisle all night. Your journal entry could be finished, you could sit up and read a book like Eddie, you could do some of those stretches for your hips and back. You could cry, you could count sheep for the next four hours and forty-seven minutes, you could cry some more; wet face wiped raw by the stiff sheets, and mouth buried in the unfeeling comforter to muffle the squeak of air leaving your lungs when you couldn’t suppress the emotions lodged in your throat any longer.

You could do many therapeutic things.

Instead, you pressed your knuckle over the center of your lower lip, replicating the pressure, and thought about the fortune.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson smut #eddie munson fanfic #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #eddie x reader

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carionto · 1 year ago

Text

I'm gonna go for a quick run

Being on space stations is all well and good fun. And work. And people. Most of whom you like. And snacks. God, space snacks are the best, half the time the Aliens who bring them are like:

"We read this may be poisonous to Huma

They never get a chance to finish that sentence before I grab whatever it is and munch it down. Pretty much every time it's real spicy or oddly invigorating, it's a nice pastime learning what everyone's shocked expressions look like. Okay, I've had to go to the clinic a few times, and one time I was in a coma for two weeks, but I'm still alive and kicking!

There is the downside of all the noise when everyone talks. The translator unit does dampen to almost nothing everything it translates, but my left ear is sensitive so I tend to take that unit off whenever I'm off the clock. Let me tell you, when everyone is used to hearing everything in their tongue at normal volumes, many end up developing a much louder natural voice.

It gets real confusing sometimes. One thing I have begun to notice is the accents - everyone has very distinct ones. The translator normally renders in a neutral tone, and only adds a slight tinge for the more culturally prominent accents so people understand they are from a different major section of their respective race. But without it, there's so much to each language. At this point I can recognize twenty different clicking sounds that are the same word for this one species.

However, the cafeteria is a hellhole. A radio emitting white noise in a blender that's being microwaved is a peaceful and melodic tune compared to the mixture of thousands of every conceivable noise an organic creature could make. And many more I thought they couldn't - what kind of nightmare anatomy makes a sound that I can only describe as a sickly polystyrene foam mule getting squeezed in a rusty vice.

What kind of ears think that sounds okay?

What kind of noise do they make when making l

actually I don't wanna think about that

I'm just...

gonna go for a run now.

_____________________

Several minutes later.

Among the friendly chatter and typical gossip you find at lunch hour, people started hearing a rhythmic thumping sound regularly coming and going. After the third round, someone decided to investigate and opened their pad to tap into the public camera system. Switching from one to another, they suddenly screamed and dropped their device in shock.

It was Human Hanson. He was in his protective suit. Running in laps.

Around the OUTSIDE of the station!

#humans are space orcs #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #humans are deathworlders #humanity fuck yeah #carionto #humans and aliens #noise pollution #that's one way to nope out of an unpleasant environment #in space no one can hear you scream #and for that matter you can't hear anyone else scream either

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reaveries · 1 year ago

Text

▬ risk

"I will save your life. I'll try for you."

pairings: re2 officer!leon kennedy x fem!reader

summary: while trying to escape the police station in the midst of the infamous raccoon city disaster, rookie police officer leon s. kennedy finds a young woman in need of his help.

content warning: descriptions of violence and gore

word count: 4.4k (estimated 21 minutes reading time)

a/n: this .... has been in my drafts ......... since april. you're finally free........

masterlist archive of our own

Revised for clarity 12/30/2023.

Leon’s gun had always been a mere extension of his arm, a tool to be honed and wielded with precision. The academy, with its spiral target walls and foam-filled mannequins, had served as his training ground, preparing him for the hopefully unnecessary evil of one day having to take a life. This unspoken burden came with the territory—an occupational hazard in the line of duty. But no amount of half-hearted demonstrations and target practices could’ve equipped him for a night like this.

Until tonight, he’d never seen a body fall lifeless due to his own hand. But if he had, he wouldn’t have expected it to stumble from its spot of decay, staggering towards him with a newfound vigor that defied everything he thought he knew about morality and his fragile existence.

Tonight has been a night of unholy firsts, and the air about him suggests it has only just begun.

The pungent metallic scent of arterial spray assaults his senses as he steps out of the shower room. His heart sinks in his chest as he takes in the sight of carnage in the westmost corridor of the police station. Uniformed men and women lie in crumpled heaps against the walls. Their bodies are mangled and torn, some so abhorrently disfigured that they’re scarcely recognizable as humans. The presence of the dead was something he was uncomfortably growing comfortable with, and yet to imagine the animosity it must’ve required to create this scene…

Well, it unsettled him, to say the least. He could’ve known them if things had gone differently.

He steps over their quiet corpses with his pistol in one hand and a flashlight raised in the other. He nudges one with the toe of his boot, aiming for their skull if they so much as twitch. But their bodies remain convincingly still, slain beyond any chance of revitalization. His grip tightens on his gun as he presses forward down the narrow corridor. If this is the result of those infected creatures he’s become acquainted with, they could be lurking ahead, waiting for him.

The rain outside stings as it pelts his cheek, dampening his uniform that’s already slick with sweat. He ignores it.

Ahead should be the S.T.A.R.S. office if the map he found is correct. Hopefully, he can find relevant information about Claire’s brother in there, something to help her find him if he should ever see her again. With a deep breath, he reaches out to turn the knob when a groan suddenly creeps from down the hall. But there’s something different about it.

It sounds alive, pained, and distinctly human.

“Is someone there?” He calls out, his voice echoing down the long hallway. The sound reverberates off the walls and fills the silence, and for a moment, there is nothing but his own breathing.

Then a low growl echoes back at him.

With an annoyed huff, he raises his gun and aims for the corner he anticipates the creature to hobble from behind. But before he can catch a glimpse of it, something moves in the darkness. It's too fast for him to comprehend, a blurring figure scurrying towards him like a feral animal. He watches in horror as it crawls along the ceiling, its movements disturbingly fluid.

As it draws closer, the moonlight catches on to the glistening texture of its skin. A grotesque tentacle-like tongue unfurls from its mouth, swinging through the air like a scythe.

“What… what the fuck?”

He fires two rounds into the fleshy matter of the creature’s head, but it makes no difference. Doesn’t even flinch. The rookie officer prepares to fire another round when the monster flings itself off the ceiling and lunges its body through the air directly toward him.

In a split-second decision, Leon throws himself into the office, his body slamming against the door before he scrambles to his feet and secures it behind him. Outside, the creature is relentless. Its wet, clobbering movements spasm through the walls. With his back pressed against the door, he braces himself as the monster rams into it with a sickening force that rattles the hinges.

It takes all his strength to keep it from buckling under the creature’s assault. The force of each blow makes his arms tremble, and he can feel his grip slipping. A bead of sweat trickles down his temple, and his heart thunders in his chest as he fights to hold the door in place.

But then, just as suddenly as it began, the onslaught ceased. Leon takes a deep breath, his heart still pounding, and listens for any sign of movement outside.

He waits a second, then slowly pulls himself away from the door.

With his chest heaving, a word comes to mind.

Licker.

He remembers the warning about these beasts scrawled on a note left by a likely deceased officer. His naive self didn’t expect to encounter one so soon.

He takes a moment to survey the room, his eyes adjusting to the dim light. The abandoned desks and personal items left behind tell him that S.T.A.R.S. personnel were just as underprepared for a viral outbreak as the rest of the city. The first thing that catches his eye is a trauma kit on the wall. He crosses the room and flips it open, finding it fully stocked. Dressings, hemostatic agents, antiseptic. A sense of relief washes over him. He reaches into his pocket to make room for the essentials, but to his dismay, finds them full of various necessities. There’s no space to carry anything in this damn uniform. With a sigh, the lid is closed and left as it was found.

“Hey!”

He nearly jumps out of his skin at the sudden noise.

“Please tell me you didn’t die,” a disembodied voice says. The end of their sentence tapers off with a shallow breath. With a sharp turn of his head, he tries to place the direction it's coming from. There’s no familiarity in their voice, which is no surprise considering he’d only become acquainted with a few officers during his orientation.

“Where are you?” He calls out, raising his flashlight in search of an answer, hoping for a door or some kind of opening.

“Linen closet. Down the hall.”

Their muffled words become clear as he approaches a far corner of the office, likely sharing a wall with the room they’re in. “Did it get you?” they ask, quieter this time.

Leon takes a deep breath to steady himself before responding. “Almost, but I’m alright,” he assures them. With a glance back to the door, he continues, “Listen, I know how to get past that thing now. Just… stay put. I’ll come to you.”

“Please be careful,” the stranger pleads. Something in their voice rings as desperation, lending to the pit forming in his stomach. It’s more than likely that whoever this is is a victim of the outbreak, clinging to their last shred of humanity before the virus consumes them. The thought of putting down another person, to see the life fade from their eyes—he’d like to avoid it if possible.

With the barrel of his pistol, he cracks open the door and peers into the corridor. It’s just as he left it, but there’s no sign of the monster anywhere. He holds back a sigh of relief as he opens the door further and steps into the hall. The ceiling, where his eyes are permanently trained, is empty. The revolting shape of the licker is nowhere to be found.

He pushes forward, boots ghosting across the floorboards and pistol drawn. His breathing is slow, his muscles tensed. He’s convinced the creature can hear the blood rushing through his veins. When he reaches the end of the corridor, he halts and peeks behind the turn of the hall where the linen closet should sit.

His heart drops.

It’s there.

Of course it’s there. Why should anything be easy for him?

Perched in the corner, its sinewy body is raised on its haunches and pressed wetly against the wall. Rows of jagged teeth have overgrown the confines of its decaying jaw, and long bone-like talons sprout from fleshy hands.

He can't afford to freeze up. One misstep is all it takes, and he’ll be gutted like the rest of them. He reaches for a hook on the holster hanging at his hips, fingers trembling as he fumbles for the cold, smooth canister he's grown familiar with. This might be his only chance.

With one finger, he hooks the pin and yanks it. The sound of it clattering against the tile echoes throughout the hallway just as a cloud of white explodes, engulfing the creature as it lunges toward him. It falls to the floor in an instant, writhing in agony as the grenade pierces the air with a sharp ringing noise.

No time to think. Leon sprints to the door, feeling the hot stench of decay brush past him as he avoids the stunned beast. The door flies open against his weight, and he forces it shut behind him.

He leans against the door, panting heavily as he tries to steady himself.

As he catches his breath, a voice whispers in the darkness.

“You made it.”

His eyes dart to the corner, where a young woman sits leaning against a washing machine. Her uniform is in bad shape, torn at her midsection and stained to the hem. It looks like blood is seeping through, smearing her fingers red as she tries to stanch the bleeding. The sight of the mess has him quickly closing the space between them.

She looks him up and down as he kneels beside her.

“You’re an officer?” She asks with knitted brows. “I’ve never seen you before.”

“Leon Kennedy. I just started today,” he answers quickly, the adrenaline causing a noticeable waver in his voice.

She laughs but winces and screws her eyes shut. “And I thought my first day sucked,” she says through her teeth.

“Did that thing do this to you?” He asks, his tone gentle yet urgent, getting straight to the nagging thought in his mind.

She shakes her head, looking down at the wound with a suppressed grimace. “I thought the hallway was clear. And then, out of nowhere, it just…” Her mind seems to wander at the thought. “It came through the window. There was glass flying everywhere. It scratched me pretty good.”

Leon tilts his head to the side, trying to get a good look at the wound. Her uniform makes it difficult to see the full extent of the injury. However, the amount of blood is enough to give him an idea of the severity.

“‘Scratched’ is an understatement,” he says, looking back at her.

A dazed sort of smile finds its way to her face. “I like to be optimistic.”

Despite the gravity of the situation, or maybe precisely because of it, his smile mirrors hers. She’s not infected. Thank God.

“So do I,” he says. “Let’s get you cleaned up, alright? Then we can think about getting out of here.”

She nods and attempts to sit up straighter.

“Can you, um,” he starts to say, gesturing to the hem of her uniform.

“Yeah, I can take it off. I’m not shy.”

A blush creeps up his neck as she nimbly moves to undo the buttons of her uniform. Leon averts his gaze, suddenly transfixed by the desolate corner of the linen room. His fingers pluck idly at the skin around his nails. But from the corner of his eye, he catches her struggle to shrug off the top. It gets caught on her shoulders and refuses to slide down.

“Here, let me,” he offers reluctantly.

The room falls silent, the only sound being the soft rustle of fabric as he coaxes the shirt down her arms. She draws a sharp breath as it grazes over tender bruises and scrapes, and a strange sense of intimacy seeps in, making him feel guilty for having to undress her. As the shirt falls to the ground, revealing her white undershirt, his eyes are drawn to the dark magenta stain blossoming across the fabric.

There, at the center of it all, is a shard of glass, roughly the size of the palm of his hand. Its edges are sharp and erratic, protruding from her lower stomach.

It’s critical, he realizes.

“Sorry if it’s not the prettiest thing to look at,” she says, eyes fixated on the ceiling.

He shakes his head. “It’s not that bad,” he lies, hoping it sounds convincing.

Apparently, it doesn’t, because she looks down for the first time and sees it.

“Jesus Christ!” She exclaims breathlessly. Her hands fly to hover above the shard, afraid to touch it. “You have to take it out,” she says with certainty, clearly unable to bring herself to do it.

His medical training at the academy left much to be desired, but even he was aware of the cardinal rule when it came to injuries such as these. Under the best of circumstances, the object should never be removed, lest the victim hemorrhage and bleed to death. However, he’d wager that they were far from the best of circumstances, and the alternative wasn’t enticing. Leon takes a deep breath, then places one hand on her shoulder and the other on the shard of glass. Their eyes lock, a silent agreement passing between them.

“Stay still,” he instructs, his voice wavering slightly. He hesitates for a moment before pulling it out in one swift motion. He can feel her muscles tense beneath his hand as she reacts to the jagged edges scraping against her insides. A torrent of hushed expletives tumbled from her lips, the pain etched deeply in her features.

“There,” he says softly, immediately deciding not to let her see the piece of glass once he realizes its morbid grandeur.

He can see the relief wash over her face, but it's short-lived as her condition quickly deteriorates. The sudden change startles him. Her eyes have started to glaze over, and her head falls limply to the side. Her words are barely audible, lost in labored breaths.

“Hey,” he says urgently, reaching to cup her cheek. She responds with a groan and closes her eyes. He taps her cheek more desperately. “Hey, stay with me!”

With his other hand, he brings two fingers to the tender spot between her jaw and her neck. Her pulse is rapid but faint. Below, the stain spreads further along the cloth of her undershirt. He quickly lifts the hem, his fingers trembling as they brush against the cold skin of her stomach. Blood gushes from the wound at a frightening rate, dripping onto the floor and pooling.

His heart races as he frantically searches for something to stem the bleeding. It ends up being the closest thing: her discarded uniform. The fabric immediately darkens as he applies pressure.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.”

The blood seeps through, coating his fingers.

"Come on, stay with me," he pleads.

The blood flow slows a little, but only after having wholly soaked through her uniform. He undoes his vest and shrugs out of his shirt, leaving him in just the long sleeve he wore beneath. He brings the shirt to her waist and ties it tightly to keep the fabric firmly in place. As he secures it, her hand finds his arm. He looks down at her, meeting her gaze. Her eyes are glassy, and her breathing shallow.

"Don't worry, I've got you," he says, trying to sound confident.

Her fingers tighten around his arm, and she mumbles something. He leans closer, straining to hear her words.

“Don’t let me die here,” she repeats, her voice barely audible. “Please.”

He feels a lump form in his throat. "I won't... I promise."

He leans back against the wall, his eyes never leaving the woman’s face. Breathing heavily, he runs a hand through his hair. Only then does he notice her blood staining his uniform, his hands, and the floor around him. He wipes his hands on his pants, but even in the dim, cold light of the linen room, it’s clear it isn’t going anywhere.

This isn’t going to be enough to stabilize her; even someone with as little medical knowledge as him can see that it would be a miracle if it did.

But despite that, amidst the chaos and the overwhelming odds, he still clung to the tenuous belief that he could save her life. He can do what he couldn’t for the others, who’d been only slightly out of his reach and beyond saving. Saving just one person would mean this all meant something, and that he, though just one person unsure of what he’s up against, could be the catalyst for a transformative ripple, a flicker of defiance in the face of the unknown evils inside this building.

It would mean everything.

He glances at the door, feeling his stomach drop with the knowledge of what he must do. The hemostatic agents, the antiseptic—those are her lifelines. If he doesn’t act now, she will die in this small corner of the police station, and she’ll have him to thank. Acknowledging this fact sets him in motion.

In a swift movement, he picks her up in his arms, careful not to exacerbate her injuries. She stirs uncomfortably for a moment, then settles against him. Blood drips from his shirt at her waist and trickles down his arm before pittering on the tile. It’s neverending.

“Don’t make any noise,” he whispers down at her. Her eyes are screwed shut, but she nods in understanding.

Here goes nothing. He nudges the door open.

Once again, he is greeted with a quiet stillness. The corpses are still lost in a dreamless sleep, and light rain rhythmically blows in through the empty window frames. It could be somewhat comforting if he were ignorant of the foreboding presence lurking in the nearby shadows. With each soft step, he gets further from the haven of the linen room. He passes the expired stun grenade and is approaching the turn of the hall once again when she shifts in his arms. She presses her forehead against his chest, brows furrowed in an effort to stifle her pain. He can’t imagine how it must feel.

He pulls her closer, hoping to offer a modicum of reassurance. We’re almost there.

It can be said with absolute certainty that he has never moved as slowly as he did turning that godforsaken corner. And for that, he’s been blessed with a clear pathway. Somehow, the creature has not made its presence known. A thought nags at him, daring him to consider that he may have underestimated its intelligence. That it will rear its grotesque head any minute, and its mouth will pull in a sadistic grin, enravished with the idea that he could’ve fooled it once again.

But this is not the case. There, in the imperceptible darkness, inches above his head, there is a shift. It’s slight enough that he almost misses it. He doesn’t need to look up to know what it is—to know that it’s there, to know that he’s directly below it.

Somehow, he missed it.

His muscles tense, but there’s nothing left to do but continue forward.

Just a few more steps.

He places one foot cautiously before the other, careful to avoid shattered glass. The air feels thick with apprehension; every breath a calculated risk.

Then there’s a tug on his pants.

A deep, gurgling groan erupts from one of the corpses by his feet, and it pulls itself toward him. On instinct, he brings his boot down to silence it, crushing its skull beneath his heel before it can sink its teeth in. The woman gasps instantly, startled by the sudden jerking movement. Fuck.

Run.

The walls blur, and time seems to slow as he sprints down the hallway. The woman’s cries intermingle with the sound of talons scraping against the floor, padding down the corridor with a ferocity he doesn’t need to see to know.

Before it can reach him, he forces the office door open and kicks it shut behind him. He ignores the sounds of it screeching and thrashing about and hurries over to one of the desks, swiping the clutter to the floor before setting her down on the cool wooden surface. He wastes no time in retrieving the trauma kit and rummaging through it, letting items fall haphazardly to the floor.

The seconds are slipping through his fingers.

“You’re gonna be okay,” he says between breaths.

She watches him through furrowed brows, blinking slowly as he quickly removes the blood-soaked uniform from her waist. She says nothing, whether due to sheer incapability or hopeless acceptance.

He doesn’t notice either way.

His hands move quickly. He’s too lost in his efforts to see her watching him. Before the darkness creeps in, her lips form a short, one-word apology that gets lost on its way out, unheard by even her. The whisper of remorse dissipates in the air and fades. Then the world follows suit.

An uncertain amount of time has passed when she begins to stir. The room is blurred beneath the heaviness of her eyelids, but its meager contents slowly reveal themselves: plain wooden desks, some chairs, and personal belongings that confirm she’s in the room she suspects. She’d only been in this office once before when working on an intense, high-profile assignment. Even then, her visit was brief. There’s no reason she should be in here.

She pushes through the clouded haze and props her elbow on the desk to raise herself. Immediately, she’s struck with a burning fire in her abdomen, crumpling her back onto the cold surface. It felt like an electrical fire. Spreading quickly with a force that raised the hair on her skin.

Looking down, she saw the crimson stain on her undershirt, and the memory of the attack came back to her with a visceral shudder. The horrifying creature, the unrelenting pain, and the man who saved her. His name eludes her, the residual memories feeling like a half-forgotten dream. His face, too. Until slowly, the memory begins to sharpen, and she can see his face with full clarity. The young officer had been handsome, with an angular jaw and straight nose that lent him a serious, almost stoic look. Yet there was an undeniable boyishness to him, from the tousled hair falling into his eyes to the way he moved with an easy grace that belied the sharpness of his features. Yes, the stranger had certainly been an easy sight for her weary eyes.

“You’re awake.”

She nearly jumped out of her skin when the memory began to speak. She realized just then that it wasn’t a memory at all and that he’d emerged from a corner of the room upon hearing her awaken.

“How are you feeling?” He asks when she doesn’t respond. He’s tense, but his nervous expression seems sincere, and a strange sense of trust begins to settle over her.

“Hurts,” she grumbles. Her throat ached too. Everything ached.

His mouth flattened into a thin line, and his brows furrowed in sympathy. “I know, I’m sorry,” he says.

She notices his hands tremble slightly as they reach out to touch her, brushing warily against the exposed skin at her hip. He doesn’t seem to mind the blood staining his fingers or the hair falling into his eyes as he checks the dressing. Once it’s clear it meets his standard of approval, he looks up, and his light eyes finding hers expectantly, searching for signs of discomfort.

Then it comes back to her.

“Leon,” she murmurs absently, testing how it sounds out loud.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his lips. "That's me," he says softly.

She studies his face once again, taking in the way his features soften as he smiles, the gentle curve of his lips, and the way his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“How long have I been out?” she asks hoarsely.

He pulls the hem of her shirt back down, covering the tender skin once again. “Not long, a few hours maybe.”

She tries to sit up once again, but her body protests with a sharp pain at her side. He places a hand on her upper arm, steadying her.

“Take it easy,” he urges her in a whisper.

With a wave of her hand, she dismisses his concerns and her pain. She pulls herself off the desk and straightens her shirt. “I’m fine,” she assures him. “I feel like shit, but I’m fine.”

“You look better,” he says, observing her closely. “You have more color in your face.”

A faint smile graces her lips. “I think I have you to thank for that. If you hadn’t found me, I would’ve been done for,” she confesses. “I’d already made peace with it by the time you got there.”

He offers a modest shrug. “I’m not sure about that. You seem like you’re made of tougher stuff, deputy.”

His words prompt her to tilt her head, inspecting his face and searching for any remnants of recognition beyond their recent encounter. But apart from that, there's nothing.

“Oh. I ran your badge while you were out,” he admits, his gaze momentarily directed toward the floor.

“Is that so…” She crosses her arms with a touch of amusement in her voice. Her inner resolve slowly finds her once again. “So was all this done to impress your boss on the first day?”

He chuckles quietly, now somewhat sheepish in the presence of his superior, in a world where such distinctions no longer hold much meaning. Oddly enough, his laughter somehow finds its place seamlessly amidst the heavy air surrounding them.

Despite the lurking horrors outside the sanctuary of this room and the even grimmer uncertainties ahead, for a brief moment, none of it matters. She stands there as a testament to his actions, breathing proof that he made a difference. Placing himself in the epicenter of this diseased storm no longer feels like ill-fated martyrdom. Within these walls and in the face of the darkness that looms beyond, they are not simply spectators to a morbid narrative; they are, instead, influential participants. All hope isn't lost.

With a smug smile, he finally lifts his gaze to meet hers.

“Did it work?”

#resident evil #resident evil 2 #resident evil 2 remake #re2 #re2 remake #re4 remake #resident evil 4 #leon kennedy #leon s kennedy #leon kennedy x reader #leon kennedy fic #leon kennedy fanfic #leon kennedy x you #deftones #deftones inspo

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aplaceforyourhearttorest · 1 year ago

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Extended Cut 📼 Jason Newsted (18+)

Excitement buzzes through you as you make your way into the studio, your thumb grazing past your index and middle fingers to rub against the silver band adorning your indented skin in antsy anticipation. Pausing at the sound of silence coming from the usually loud and rowdy entrance of the building, your eyebrows begin to furrow as the only sign of anyone being there is the familiar shoes of your husband strewn across the floor in the now abandoned hallway.

Hesitantly reaching forward and knocking on the partially opened door, the excitement you felt quickly turns into worry as your greeting goes unanswered.

"Babe, I got here as soon as I could! I stopped by our favorite store to get.." You trail off as you hear the sound of muffled cans hitting the bottom of a trash bag and the distinct sound of a weighted exhale filter through the gap of the wood. Pushing the remainder of the door open with your free elbow, your stomach drops at the sight in front of you.

Kneeling down on the ground was your husband, his eyes hooded and rubbed red as he hastily grabs at the condensation-covered and crushed beer cans that were underneath the nearest table. Blindly reaching backward to rest the bag of items against the doorknob, you quickly maneuver yourself onto your knees, uncaring of the unpleasant feeling of spilled liquor bleeding into the denim of your jeans.

"What the hell happened in here?" You ask as you gently push his dampened hands away and start to finish the job for him. Reaching over to grasp onto the paper towel that rested against his thigh, your eyes widen as you watch tears build in his.

"Rock brought some Edna's and booze over after we listened to the final cut of the album. Chicks got too sloppy, and the boys were too out of it to care enough to stay back and help clean up." Twisting your lips in worry at the uneven tone in his voice, you shift to cup his chin and delicately guide his gaze to yours.

"And what's got you so upset, huh?" Jason's watery eyes follow your movement of tearing off a piece of paper towel, and then slowly close as you lightly dab at the tears collecting themselves on his bottom eyelashes.

"I'm barely present in the album. And if I am, I'm toned down and background noise." Shaking your head in confusion, you trail your gaze over to Jason's station, a frown making permanent residence as you take in the foam walls surrounding his instruments and other miscellaneous equipment.

"But I don't understand. You guys have been recording for months and you've been working your ass off. You spend more time here than you do at home, of course you're going to be on the album."

Shaking his head as he stands up with the now filled trash bag, Jason rests it against the sofa before lending you a hand. Grabbing onto his large palm with your smaller one, you partially relax as he absentmindedly rubs his calloused thumbs against the bare skin of your waist as he stabilizes you.

"Rock said they had to make the executive decision last minute. That my sound was too aggressive and that I'll get more spotlight on the next one."

You clamp your lips together in barely contained contempt as you watch your husband make his way over to the soundboard and line up the tape cartridges in order. Even after being left behind to clean up and being disappointed and hurt at the outcome of the album, he still put his feelings aside and stayed back to help. Disbelief and fondness floods through you as you follow after him. Peering over his wide shoulder on the tips of your toes and wrapping an arm around his lithe waist, your lips begin to reform into a mischievous grin as an idea comes to mind as you watch him reset the dials and preamps.

"Hey, sweetheart. Do you guys happen to have any extenders?" You ask out in a soft tone, although the warmth building and spurring in your gut was anything but.

Nodding and twisting his neck to rest his head on top of yours, he tiredly murmurs out, "Yeah. We just got some in, in case we went past the duration of the original tapes. Why?"

Jason's eyes flutter shut as your hand slides up into his oversized t-shirt, the coldness of your wedding band brushing against his navel shocking him and causing his spine to arch.

"If they want you to sound less aggressive, how about we just give them what they want? Let me make you sound just as sweet as you sound at home."

Grin widening as you watch the redness of his flush bleed down to his neck and onto his alluring collarbones, you hum out a sound of contentment as the middle of his back brushes against the mound of your breasts.

"What do you have in mind?" Jason asks out shyly, his task of finishing up cleaning long forgotten as your index finger makes contact with one of his sensitive nubs. Tongue peeking out from under your front teeth in excitement at the prospect of being able to take care of your partner in a moment of duress, you tilt your chin up and place a wet kiss on the shell of his ear.

"Don't worry about that, baby. Just follow me."

📼

A soft sigh of pleasure transcends into your mouth as you slowly release Jason's bottom lip from in between yours, his hands gripping onto your thighs as you make your way onto his lap. Reclining back and allowing his slightly shaking hands to ascend their way up your now fully naked waist, your husband's eyes catch the red blinking light that indicates a recording is being made.

A thin lining of spit connects from both of your swollen bottom lips, before breaking off and falling into a droplet of saliva on your breastbone.

Dipping your fingertip into the clear liquid and teasingly bringing it closer to Jason's now opening mouth, your clit pulsates to life and your legs clench around his boxer-clad thighs as he obediently wraps his tongue around your digit.

"Someone's being such a good boy for me tonight. Must really want me to take care of you, hm?" You ask him in a teasing tone, although nothing brought you more pleasure than making him feel satisfied.

Taking your finger into his mouth and down to the last knuckle, he bites back a dopey grin as he watches your eyes blow open wide at the sensation. "No one else can make me feel as good as you do." He responds once he makes his way back up to your fingernail, his voice coming out in a wet rasp as he wraps his hand around your wrist.

Blushing wildly at the sentiment and playfully hitting his shoulder as he lets out a soft and amused chuckle, you let a small smile rest upon your bruising lips as he whines as you raise yourself off of him.

"Relax, baby. I'm not going anywhere." You coo out, before depositing one of the cushions you brought into the recording room onto the floor. Brushing your hair behind your shoulders and purchasing one of the elastics you always have on you for Jason and his unruly hair, a laugh escapes you as you watch his cock jump earnestly as your neck becomes exposed to the cool air and his line of sight.

"Supposed to be submissive for me, but you're already picturing me choking on your cock with your hand around my throat, huh?" You grin out, breath hitching as you watch Jason squeeze his eyes shut and hold on tightly to his own thighs.

"Please don't tease me." He pleads out, a damp spot of precum already beading through the cotton and you haven't even touched or tasted him yet.

"Of course, I won't, puppy. I'll give you anything you want." Bending forward and lightly tapping on his waist, you let out a slew of praises as he raises his waist without question.

"Doing so well for me, baby. You know how much mommy appreciates you, always so good for me. So good for everybody." Jason sends you a wobbly smile at your words, his eyes beginning to sting once again with unshed tears. Placing a gentle kiss on his toned thigh for comfort, you quickly readjust your ponytail before wrapping a hand around his thick girth. Gasping out at the slight pressure around his aching and leaking cock, Jason throws his head back on the worn recliner's head cushion.

Unable to no longer resist, you lean forward and swipe your tongue against his swollen cockhead, greedily collecting the taste of his spunk. Moaning out as the bitter tang sweeps against your tastebuds and your mouth begins to salivate, you begin to relax your throat and slowly make your way down his shaft. Twisting your hand in an upward motion around the rest his cock you couldn't immediately take, you gasp around him as his socked foot nudges against your swollen clit.

"Want to make you feel good too, mommy." Jason grunts out, his hair wild around his head and his facial expression screaming fucked out. Gagging against him as his foot arches against your sopping wet patch of jean material and right onto your clit, your nose brushes against his trimmed patch of pubes and your hands firmly massage his ballsack in a repetitive motion.

Grinding down on his foot as he nudges it against you roughly, you stick your tongue out as you finally deepthroat him; his guttural groan reverberating around the recording room as your tongue massages the pulsating and jutting vein protruding from his dick.

Reaching down and gripping onto the ponytail you made for him, Jason lets out a short and whimpered apology, before he raises his hips and begins to fuck your throat. White blinding heat builds in your core as your throat's walls flutter fanatically against your husband's swelling shaft and his foot begins to rub against you incessantly.

Wailing out as your orgasm forces its way out of you as the cotton of his sock relentlessly meets with the soaking wet fabric of your now ruined jeans, your eyes roll back as your throat continues to be used.

Jason whines out above you as his own orgasm approaches, his eyes watching as your own nearly cross in pleasure. Twisting his fingers into your hair, he creates a makeshift bun as he holds you down and spurts his semen into the warmth of your canal. Bowing over as his release hits him, he stretches out and caresses a sweaty palm down the ridges of your soft back as you gag weakly against him.

His chest punches out an exhale as he relaxes back into the chair and slowly guides you off of his softening cock, before it twitches back to life in reaction to the disheveled and satisfied look on your face.

Tears stream down your face and spit bubbles its way down to your exposed chest, your nipples enlarged and pebbling with arousal. And although you may look a mess, you're still the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"God, you're such a fucking dream." Jason moans out, his hands encircling their way around your biceps and yanking you up onto his lap. Gasping out as his knee rubs against your jean-covered sex, you quickly raise yourself off of his lap, and whine out in overstimulation as he presses you right back down.

"Uh-uh, princess," Jason tuts out, his eyes gleaming with a newfound light. "You made me feel better, now it's about time I do the same." Glancing over, his lips split into a wide grin as the red light catches his attention in his peripheral vision.

"Looks like we've got plenty of time, too."

#metallica #jason newsted #jason newsted smut #jason newsted x reader #metallica smut #metallica x reader

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osonic-blog · 1 year ago

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Whisper-Quiet Walls - the Sound Dampening Panels for Walls at Osonic!

Enhance your space with Osonic's sound-dampening panels for walls, expertly designed to reduce reverberation and echoes. These panels mitigate noise, creating acoustically balanced environments ideal for homes, offices, or entertainment areas. Elevate your ambiance with optimal sound control and clarity!

#custom acoustic panels #personalized acoustic solutions #acoustic ceiling panels #sound dampening foam #sound panels for walls #sound-absorbing wall panels #acoustically transparent fabric panels #soundproof wall panels for bedroom #osonic #sound absorbing ceiling clouds

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strawberrystepmom · 1 year ago

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grimmjow x f!reader - roommates to lovers, established boundary stomping, suggestive flirting. repost from my old blog. wc 974

“Stop using my mug!”

Your voice reverberates down the hallway to where your housemate showers with the door wide open, steam filling the hallway. Grimmjow pretends he can’t hear you as he happily squeezes your shampoo into his palm, fingers massaging it though his blue hair. The smell is comforting, subtly floral, and it reminds him of you. Not that he’d ever tell you that.

“Did you hear me?” You shout through the open door, voice making him jump slightly. You can only tell his reaction by the slight rustle of the curtain and a surprised gasp just loud enough to hear over the steady pounding of water coming from the showerhead.

Grimmjow takes a breath, continuing to scrub at his strands using his fingertips and watching the foam fall down his chest. A deep sniff is the next thing he hears, a sigh accompanying the sound. “Stop using my shampoo!”

Standing in the hallway you can hear him grumble to himself but you cannot make out the words and you groan, stomping off to the kitchen to rinse out your mug that is still half full of whatever concoction Grimmjow decided to make out of various creamers, sugars, and coffee he found in your kitchen this morning. Sticky and syrupy mess plops into the kitchen sink and you gag, perplexed how the roughest man you’ve ever met can drink something so full of sugar it’s barely identifiable.

“Listen,” you hear from behind you and you roll your eyes involuntarily knowing exactly who the voice belongs to. You can also hear the telltale drips of water cascading down to the floor knowing you’ll have big wet footprints to mop up later.

As you turn to face Grimmjow, you’re caged in against the sink between his arms and he leans slightly against your back. The intimacy should make you bristle but it’s part of whatever exists between the four walls of this apartment while the two of you are in it. It’s more than friendship, that’s all you know.

Casting a glance over your shoulder, you see his wet hair dripping down his bare chest and face, your favorite towel draped around his waist snugly just as you showed him. You scoff, your chin shifting just enough to put him in your line of sight and your eyes flicking up to meet his

“Really?”

He smirks and you try to keep your defenses sound, unwilling to give into him. You feel him place his damp chin against your shoulder and you fight the urge to shrug him off as you see either of his hands brace themselves on the edge of the sink. The closeness is alarming but familiar and you glance down into the sink where his sugary sludge sits, preparing to open your mouth and ask him what the fuck was in that cup, before you hear his voice so close to your ear it makes you shiver.

“Remember what you told me when I first started staying here?”

You recall all too well what you told him with a bright smile when he was still crashing on your couch and not in your bed coiled around you every night.

“What’s mine is yours,” the two of you say in unison. His arms move closer to your body, his weight pressing you against the lip of the sink. You reach around his hands and back into the basin, water running and splashing against the ceramic bottom of your mug.

“I kind of assumed the stuff with my name or initials on it wouldn’t apply to that, though.”

Grimmjow chuckles, plucking the mug out of your hands and putting it down. You feel him nuzzle against the side of your neck and your already thin resistance snaps. Pressing your back into him, his arms naturally come up to rest around your waist. You try to ignore the sick feeling you get at your now dampened clothing.

“You’ve never told me what’s off limits,” he reminds and you nod. He’s right and arguing is futile with the most stubborn man you’ve ever met. Finally, you shrug him off and wrinkle your nose at the wet patch on the shoulder of your t-shirt and you turn to face him. He brushes his still wet hair off of his face and you avert your gaze, trying not to be caught staring at his near perfect form.

“So until then,” he grins and shrugs and you can only imagine what’s coming out of his mouth next. “It’s all for me.”

You giggle and shrug, balling the bottom of your t-shirt between your fists as he readjusts the towel (the one with your name embroidered on it, a gift from your friend) around his hips. Feeling your face grow hot, you look away and turn the water back on, preparing to finish the dishes.

“Go dry off before you get more water on the floor.”

He shrugs and you cringe at the sound of his wet feet slapping against the floor but some things simply aren’t worth the argument you reason. As you turn back toward your task, you hear the footsteps stop near the hallway and you look up, almost suspicious at how fondly the feral man turned flower scented shampoo user looks at you.

“Hey,” he says and you raise your brows in response. “Thanks.”

You nod and smile, gnawing on your lower lip as he turns to head down the hallway, giving you a near perfect view of his back. Ogling silently, you laugh at yourself and the ludicrous situation you’ve found.

You then make a mental note to get him a mug with his initial to match yours.

#grimmdy #grimmjow x reader #grimmjow jaegerjaquez x reader #kendall writes

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myfavouritelunatic · 2 years ago

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The Blacksmith

This is it. The final chapter. I cannot believe we're here. I hope you all enjoy it! ❤️

Pairing: Halbrand/Sauron x Female Reader; Galadriel x Female Reader; light Haladriel/Saurondriel.

Word Count: 2.2k

Warnings: None

Links to Chapter One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight, Nine, Ten, Eleven, Twelve, Thirteen, Fourteen, Fifteen, Sixteen, Seventeen, Eighteen, Nineteen, Twenty, Twenty-One, Twenty-Two, Twenty-Three, Twenty-Four, Twenty-Five, Twenty-Six, Twenty-Seven, Twenty-Eight, Twenty-Nine, Thirty, Thirty-One, Thirty-Two, Thirty-Three, Thirty-Four, Thirty-Five, Thirty-Six, and Thirty-Seven!

Chapter Thirty-Eight/Epilogue

Your eyes stung as they flung open, searing white light consuming the entirety of your vision. Gasping for air as if you had never breathed it in before, you begged your eyes to adjust to your new surroundings, your fear of the unknown taking hold. You commanded your body to rise, and stand upright, and it obeyed, but not in a fashion you were familiar with. It felt as if you were floating, levitating now over the surface upon which you had been laid. Casting your vision downward, your body was clothed in stars. It was a fabric of unknown origin, clinging to your form like a mist over mountains, with twinkles of light scattered through it. Curious, you moved your hand slowly down to feel it, and gasped when it passed right through you. A strange tingling buzzed from your fingertips up to the top of your head. This made you giggle.

Looking up ahead, the white light was still blinding, but had begun to subside, or at least become easier on the eyes to take in. For the entire environment was colourless, no dimensions of any kind to be made out, no horizon, no earth, no sky, just white space, empty and endless. But then, there was music. A faint sound you weren't sure at first if you were hearing it or imagining it. Though as it's volume increased, it entered your ears and spread within your luminescent figure. The beauty and power of it was overwhelming, and you smiled, crying tears of joy. Invisible instruments and voices made up a great symphony that was unlike any music you had ever heard. It was almost tangible, the only thing in this boundless space besides yourself that could take on form.

It excited you greatly, filling you with a sense of purpose like you had never felt. Suddenly you were spinning, twirling, watching as the stars and mists of you danced about in unison as you floated in time to the heavenly harmonies and melodies. It was bliss. Though something unexpected happened to slow your movements. Without any doubt, you had heard your name called out to you, weaved into the song, yet separate enough to be distinguished. But it was the voice that called it out that took you aback.

It was your mother.

She arrived steadily, emerging into dazzling colour from the all encompassing whiteness. Her form was covered in a gown made of the sea itself, peaceful and tranquil at her shoulders, though it's waves raged against each other at the bottom as she swept towards you, a hem of sea foam moving as if on sand. She smiled at you with her diamond eyes, embracing you completely, and it felt as if your spirits were merging. The water of her did not dampen you though, nor did the colour of her ocean become affected by your starry mist, yet you were as one. Mother and daughter, reunited at last. "My child… I have long been waiting for this time to come." Her voice was almost the same as you remembered it, with an added ethereal quality that made you smile even wider. "I knew I would see you again. You were watching over me, guiding me. You never left me." "It was my purpose, my destiny, to keep you in the light. Just as it was your destiny to leave Arda before the darkness would consume you fully."

"The… darkness…" A flash of fire engulfed you, as the images of your life appeared before you, reminding you of the only existence you had known. You had been so caught up in this otherworldly euphoria that you had somehow left all thought of it behind with your earthly body. Halbrand came back to you, your love, your king, your destiny… or so you had thought. Now your tears became droplets of sorrow, of grief for what you had lost. "Mother… this… this can't be my destiny! I… I'm meant to stay with Halbrand… to ensure that goodness endures in Middle-earth…" A powerful sense of dread invaded you as a realisation struck you. "If I'm gone… then… then…" You couldn't bring yourself to say it, so instead, the words came out of you in a different way, manifesting before you the aftermath of your demise.

You and your mother watched on in silence as Halbrand succumbed to his grief, and succumbed to Sauron. The tears were streaming out of you now, a river that flowed down and into the sea that surrounded your mother. This was Sauron like you had never witnessed. It was pure unadulterated power. The display of which you had heard mention of, but never truly believed that the man you loved was capable of exhibiting such force. Yet it was occurring right before you as if you were standing still in the town square having never left. He had dominion over the elements, conjuring fire, summoning lightning, needing no sword to strike his enemies.

Though it seemed he still took pleasure in the elegance of a sharp blade. Your blade. Sauron murdered Olwenna and Padrig, and your pain was immense. But you were not hateful towards your love, even still, even after seeing this horrid sight… you understood him. Fighting because he must, and because all meaning had been lost, taken away from him. The light had fled with you, nowhere to be found within him. As if the sun itself had been extinguished. Only darkness would remain.

You could feel your grief turn to anger, your sorrow to rage, building quickly within your spirit. The mist that covered you began to darken and your stars dwindled as they fell victim to your change. A new voice entered your ear then, as you drifted back the vision to the moments before your lifeless body became no more. You closed your eyes, imagining your spirit back within your flesh, wanting to hear the words spoken as if your dead body was actually listening. The language was black speech, and although you had never heard it, you understood exactly what it meant.

"And now the fire that burns so blindingly… is our love immortal, burning for eternity."

Sauron's lament, once lines of a loving stanza he had sung to you by the fire. Now they took on a different meaning. Your spirit could not take anymore. The demented screams that escaped you now were carried on a black smoke that billowed quickly from your mouth. The sound clashed almost violently with the serene orchestra that had brought you such joy only moments earlier. It was twisted, deformed, inhuman. It was all you were now.

"Hold onto me, daughter…" You could hear your mother's peaceful voice on the edge of your shriek, your dark music. You turned to see her waves reaching for you, the hand of her spirit outstretched. The screaming endured, and she was enveloped by your charcoal plumes. "SEND… ME… BACK…" you cried, demanding to leave this place, to be apart of it's blissful music no longer. "You want me to remain in the light… I cannot do so here! For parted… Sauron and I will only bring darkness to whatever realm we occupy. I will infect this place, mother… I will be a plague upon it! Is that what you want?"

The smoke from you was fast filling the white space, the music drowned out and replaced by your haunting. Now your mother's tears flowed down and into her ocean. "The time at which your life ended… was a point of no return. There was only shadow ahead. It was the last chance to ensure you left Arda with light in you. I had to protect you." "Why?" you shouted at her, monstrously. "Because a mother loves her daughter… and would sacrifice anything to keep her." "What have you done!?" The weight of your mother's actions hit you with blunt force. "All of your interference only led to our darkness being unleashed! Halbrand is lost!" "My child… I am afraid his dark descent was inevitable… I had to spare you of it… save you." "SEND ME BACK!" you demanded hopelessly, not even questioning if your mother had to power to do so or not. She seemed to be responsible for ripping you out of the arms of your love, why would she not be able to return you to him? "That is something that I cannot do. Your spirit belongs with me now. Until we are called upon to serve our greater purpose."

The opaque fumes that had emanated from you had now completely covered the realm in which you both resided. The music could be heard no longer, and now peace, bliss, was something you would perhaps never find. Existing now in eternal heartache, parted forever from your love, only able to look upon him from a great distance, and watch as he continued on in his world, without his queen by his side…

*****

The lands of Mordor trembled under the power of the fiery mountain, its eruptions sending the blood of Middle-earth up into the sky and down upon the ground, scorching it. New vibrations suddenly began to clash with those of nature, for a great army was marching in, invading the ash covered plains, bracing to war with their enemy. The dark lord stood atop his dark tower, Barad-dûr, a looming symbol of his power within his domain, threatening and evil. Lightning in the distance provided a striking backdrop for the Nazgûl as they flew across the impending battlefield, the screeches of their fell beasts echoing across the landscape. Sauron watched, amused by the attempts of men and elves to conquer him.

His charcoal armour sounded in the air with every step he took, pacing on the precipice of his tower, gazing downward as his orcs howled and readied themselves to fight in his name, banners of The Eye blowing fiercely in the wind. His muted brown hair flowed out long behind him, underneath the six spired crown he wore, signifying his rule. He had grown rather fond of the idea of wearing one ever since his first kingship. Indeed it was the very same crown, only transformed by his own forging, crafted to represent his presence now as the dark lord. Sauron's thoughts of his brief time in Pelargir were never far from his mind. In fact, the city still stood all these years later, untouched by his shadow since the day he left.

Since the day you left.

He grinned, closing his slitted eyes, taking in a deep breath, feeling as if your spirit was passing into him. Sauron always felt you near, for though you had died, it was as he had said, your spirit would always linger, stoking the fire of his beating heart. "Oh my love…" he whispered to you, "Look who comes for slaughter…" he snickered devilishly, the fast drumming of his heart your response as his excitement took hold. It was then he turned to face you, the one ring on his armoured finger, glistening in the flames of Mount Doom, it's power unmatched, transcendent, making the dark lord almost a being of pure omniscience. Feeling it's pull, he glanced at it proudly, for his achievement was great. Though it was not what he considered to be his best work. That, was what he gazed upon now.

For in the very centre of the summit of Barad-dûr, there stood a statue. A monument, an effigy… of you. Wrought in blackened iron, your love had crafted an image of you, capturing your beauty, your love, and your reign as queen. For on your form was shaped your diadem atop your head, and your wedding gown which Sauron had captured expertly, down to the detail within the billowing sleeves of pearl. He had recreated the way the dress had moved, even with this statue as still as the night, it looked as if it were fluttering elegantly in the wind.

This sculpture was also your tomb, and the last touch added to the dark tower upon its completion. Inside the great forge of the mountain, your love had fused your ashes within the iron, giving you new life, a new vessel from which to rule. Sauron stepped towards your ethereal figure, gazing up at the soft smile he had carved on your face, and he took off the sharp metal glove from his left hand, revealing his wedding ring. He had never removed it. Placing that same hand upon your own ringed finger, connecting the two bands of your love he had made for you both in Pelargir, Sauron beamed up at you as a single tear shed from him. The wind blew around him then in a circular motion, just as it did that day when your ashes had spiralled around him in farewell. He couldn't help but let out a loving laugh, and just for a moment, he was a humble blacksmith again, working a forge on Númenor, greeting a beautiful woman who had stumbled upon his workshop. And now, he beheld his greatest creation. The meaning of his life.

Sauron kissed your hand gently, grateful to have his queen by his side. As it was destined. Though together, but very much apart, the darkness was victorious over the light, and the shadow of Sauron, of Barad-dûr, of you swept across the lands, and the lady of light was ever out of reach.

Tagging: @denzit @heronamedhawks @pursuitseternal @coraleethroughthelookingglass @hikarielizabethbloom @restless-tides @vaguelyvibin @imjustsuperweird @gil-galadhwen @somebirdortheother @lady-of-imladris @princessfantaghiro @starlady66

Thank you so much to ALL OF YOU who have taken the time to read my story. I really cannot put into words how it makes me feel. To those of you who have been on this journey since I posted the first chapter, to those who jumped on during the ride, and to those who have found this right at the end... you all have a place in my heart. I truly hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I did writing it. It's changed my life. And that's mostly thanks to all of you. I am eternally grateful. Now... onto the next! ❤️❤️❤️

#halbrand x reader #sauron x reader #halbrand/sauron x reader #galadriel x reader #haladriel #saurondriel #halbrand #sauron #galadriel #the rings of power #trop #trop fanfic #lord of the rings #lotr

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enigmaticexplorer · 4 months ago

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I Yearn, and so I Fear - Chapter XXXI

Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

General Summary. Nearly a year since the Galactic Empire’s rise to power, Kazi Ennari is trying to survive. But her routine is interrupted—and life upended—when she’s forced to cohabitate with former Imperial soldiers. Clone soldiers.

Pairing. Commander Wolffe x female!OC

General Warnings. Canon-typical violence and assault, familial struggles, terminal disease, bigotry, explicit sexual content, death. This story deals with heavy content. If you’re easily triggered, please do not read. For a more comprehensive list of tags, click here.

Fic Rating. E (explicit)/18+/Minors DNI.

Chapter Word Count. 7.3K

19 Kelona

A wave crashed against the rocks, a fracas of white froth leaping for the cliff before collapsing back into the ocean below.

From where Kazi sat—her feet dangling over the rocky outcrop, the sheer cliff a ten-meter drop—the ocean pressed against the horizon, an inimitable expanse of power. Foam and water droplets soddened her boots; the thundering waves dampened her socks. But she didn’t feel the cold water. She didn’t feel the mushiness of her socks and the chill settling in her toes.

Running a finger along the dragon carving’s wings, Kazi stared at the sea-glass creature. It was reared back, wings splayed wide, its maw open in a mighty roar.

Sea. The dragon who had embraced a helpless people, shielded them from an oceanic storm, sacrificed his life for humans. So they could live another day.

All these years and Kazi never made the connection. Never wondered which myth determined Daria’s carving. Never asked about her little sister’s experience with the Carver.

Now, it would forever remain a story untold.

An intentional crunch sounded behind her. Her shoulders stiffened; her hands flexed around the dragon carving. She continued to watch the horizon as her companion neared. A military haircut past its monthly cut; cheeks and jaw bearing a shadow of bristles. Cody took a seat beside her. His legs hung over the edge. He didn’t seem to mind the water splashing his black boots, either.

They sat in silence. For a long time.

They hadn’t spoken since Kazi and Neyti met the men at the Naboo spaceport.

The flight from Eluca to Naboo took 23 hours. Kazi didn’t sleep; she hardly ate. At one point, she was convinced it was all a nightmare. She would awake to Wolffe kissing her, Daria and Cody cooking breakfast in the kitchen, Neyti sparring with Fox and Nova outside while Fluffy prowled the perimeter of the yard. They would eat, they would laugh, they would leave for Ceaia. She and Daria would return home, together, and they would go sailing in two months.

But the nightmare persisted until she was forced to reckon with reality: Daria was gone.

Kazi and Neyti arrived to a bustling spaceport crowded with numerous species and a cacophony of unrecognizable languages. Kazi clutched Neyti’s hand as they deboarded. They didn’t wander long before an imposing figure found them, a mask belonging to an unfamiliar species hiding his face. Wolffe scooped Neyti into his arms; the little girl laughed her glee, clinging to his neck, but she quickly sobered.

“We have to go back,” Neyti said to Wolffe. A serious look unbefitting a youngling her age solemnized her countenance. “We left Daria. She’s waiting for us.”

Kazi grew rigid, wilting; the bustling spaceport faded beyond her unseeing stare. Grief, a shadow haunting, threatened to drag her into its dark, bottomless pit. Distantly, she was aware of Wolffe’s hand on her arm, his quiet “What happened?”

There was an incessant ticking in the back of her skull. Each human that walked past reminded her of the magistrate; they were here to kill her, like they killed her sister—

She forced herself to blink, to breathe. She balled her fists so tightly the skin of her palms broke beneath her fingernails.

“Daria’s not coming back,” Kazi said thickly. Neyti frowned her confusion. “We’re not…” Her voice turned brittle. “We’re not going to see her again.”

“Oh.” Neyti dropped her gaze to the floor. “Okay.”

The fingers around Kazi’s arm flexed. Wolffe lowered his masked face. “Ennari…”

“We need to go,” she said. “Please.”

Wolffe gave a short nod, adjusted Neyti in his arm, and then shifted his hand to her spine. They were boarding the men’s ship a few minutes later.

All of it—the reunion, the eight-hour flight to Ceaia—passed in a tenebrific haze. Easy smiles turned grave; an inflectionless, objective recount of last night; a little girl sleeping soundly; a tail-wagging anooba nudging her hand when she dug her fingernails into her palms; Wolffe applying bacta spray to her twinging ankle, cleaning her hands of caked blood; an arm fortressing her as he guided her head to his shoulder. She managed to sleep the remaining two hours of the flight.

When they landed on Ceaia, Kazi resolved herself to their work: transferring boxes to the sylvan house, removing protectant sheets from furniture, establishing rooms. She even took Neyti grocery shopping. They wandered for some time.

Outlook Harbor looked the same. Colorful buildings lining the docks, fishermen unloading their hauls, dragon statues guarding the shops. And yet Kazi hardly recognized it—the people, the ocean, the western mountains in the distance.

It took her far too long to realize the difference: her sister. Without Daria, the colorful exteriors were pedestrian; the docks’ mazelike routes underwhelmed; the dragon statues were bereft of prowess, the snow dusting them in a doleful repose.

Kazi could feel her control slipping, a ball of yarn unspooling too fast. Too much.

The urge to cry constricted her throat. Her eyes burned from the combination of sleep deprivation and grief. She wanted to hide from the damning glares of the dragons. She wanted to flee these familiar streets and the memories they brought forth. She wanted to go back in time and convince Daria to take Neyti. To leave her behind, instead.

Her breaths grew loud and shallow; her hands shook at her sides. The grief swarmed within, thick and suffocating. It started in her chest, a swollen mass pressing against her ribcage and lungs, spreading throughout, numbing fingers and toes, pounding in her mind—

“Who’s that?”

The question yanked Kazi into the physical: the chilly street, the bright yellow storefront, the ocean’s waves churning. She frowned at Neyti. The youngling was observing a dragon statue outside the closest shop—a dragon sitting primly, its head raised alertly, its spine curved with regal disposition.

“That’s”—Kazi cleared her throat—“Erud. She guarded the Library of Xand where all of our historical accounts are preserved.” She managed a faint smile. “Some of the oldest scrolls in the galaxy are stored there.”

Neyti considered Erud for several seconds and then blinked at Kazi. “Can we get shaved ice?”

A laugh broke free. The noise was a little sore, a little rusty, but it was a laugh, nonetheless.

“Of course,” Kazi said. Taking Neyti’s hand in her own, she started down the snow-covered path. Muscle memory—developed over the years exploring these streets with Daria—guided her forward. “I know the perfect place.”

Another wave slammed against the rocky outcrop where Kazi and Cody sat. Seaweed-scented spray doused their boots and the cuffs of their trousers. The water was cold, bone-wearying.

“Daria would have loved today,” Kazi said. Her thumb plucked the spires of Sea’s spine, as a musician would the strings of her instrument. “She always preferred these quieter storms.”

“I know.” Cody scanned the horizon. “She…was excited to show me this view.”

“There’s nothing like it,” Kazi murmured. Breaths as white as unblemished snow condensed the air; the skin of her legs wept at the chill burrowing deep. She swallowed and whispered, “I’m sorry.”

A low sigh fell from the man beside her. He rubbed a hand across his bristled jaw. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“I’m the one who killed him—”

“Stop,” Cody ordered. The sharp command made her wince. Sorrow dulled the usual warmth of his gaze. “Reliving that moment won’t bring her back.”

Kazi pressed her lips together; her eyes roved across his face. He looked older, somehow. A deep line was scored between his brows, and his creased mouth was downturned. Exhaustion cricked his posture. “Did you love her?” she asked.

Cody mustered a thin smile. “We didn’t have what you and Wolffe have. I wasn’t ready to commit to a relationship. After the War…after the things I did…” He rolled his shoulders back. “I had my objectives. And she wasn’t one of them. But…”

“She wasn’t someone you could ignore,” Kazi suggested.

His nod was pensive. “We got along well. I tried to hold back but I liked spending time with her. We agreed we could help each other. Give one another…comfort. We knew it wouldn’t go far—not with her disease and my focus elsewhere. But I did care for her. I know she cared for me, too.”

She studied his side profile. “You still haven’t answered my question.”

He angled his head back, breathing in the salty air. “In a different lifetime…different circumstances…I would have.”

“For what it’s worth,” Kazi said, “she loved you.”

“Daria only loved one person,” Cody said with a small chuckle. He pushed himself to his feet; he nudged her with the toe of his boot. “That person wasn’t me.”

The morning sun peeked through the opaque clouds, a curious pup nosing its way out of the safety of its birthing den. Snow flurries pearled her loose hair; the wind nipped at her cheeks and nose. Far away, storm clouds brewed. They escaped her notice, however, her attention drawn to the shoreline, to the rocks in the distance where a single lighthouse stood.

Since Kazi had last seen the lighthouse, its permanently dimmed light and weathered appearance hadn’t changed. But it still beckoned to her, as it had when she was a girl. Luring, a siren’s song of formative memories, ancient myths, blessings bestowed by a long-extinct species.

The booted crunch of fresh snow interrupted her reverie, and Kazi peered over her shoulder. The woods beyond—white-barked sequoia trees interspersed among dark evergreens—created a contrasting backdrop to the black of Wolffe’s appearance: black overcoat, black boots, black hair, one eye nearly black beneath the feeble sunlight. He surveyed their surroundings, rubbed his gloved hands together, and then settled beside her.

“Here.” He passed her a citrus-star from the bunch she and Neyti purchased yesterday. “Breakfast is waiting but I thought you’d like this for now.”

Kazi hummed her thanks, setting aside Daria’s dragon. The fuzz of the citrus-star tickled her thumb. “Neyti?”

“We made breakfast,” Wolffe said with a small smile. “She spilled the eggs so we concentrated our efforts on fruit carving. She wanted to make butterflies out of the melon.”

She lifted a brow. “How did they turn out?”

“Fucking awful.”

Wolffe broke into a grin at her laugh, his shoulder knocking against hers.

But their rapport soon faded beneath his assessment. His blatant search of her face: a disgruntled frown at the citrus-star she refused to peel; a flexed jaw at the snow she hadn’t bothered to brush away. He considered her for several seconds; she knew what he saw, for she had seen it in the mirror, too—the haunted gauntness she couldn’t entirely hide. Not from him at least. But she didn’t shy from his calculated silence, expecting this conversation—

“That the lighthouse Neyti painted?”

The question caught Kazi off guard but she hastily recovered.

“That was so long ago,” she said, surprised. “I can’t believe you remember it.”

Wolffe shrugged. “It was one of the first paintings Neyti showed us. She was proud of it.”

“She was.” Kazi breathed a chuckle, studying the lighthouse’s gashed paint. “Daria and I…that was our favorite place.”

Wolffe pressed his thigh against hers. “You wanna visit it?”

“No.” Her fingernails pierced the citrus-star’s peel; orange juice stickied her palm. “I can’t. Not…”

With a blasé shrug, Kazi pushed herself to her feet. The citrus-star and dragon carving found temporary homes within her gray coat’s pockets, her citrus-bloodied hands forced to brave the cold temperature for a few more minutes.

Slowly, Wolffe followed. He brushed snow from his thighs—a casual gesture that belied his tension—and then, in a serious, calm tone, he said, “How are you?”

The gentle probing of his question, the slight hunch in his posture as he regarded her—Wolffe’s care splintered the last thread of her control. The spool of yarn unraveled completely.

“I’m trying—” Her face crumpled. Her voice cracked, broke, shattered as she whispered, “I’m—I’m trying to keep it together. But it’s hard. It’s so hard, Wolffe.”

“Hey.” He gripped her shoulders. “Ennari—”

“I left her. I fucking left her.” Dizzily, she stared at the top button of his coat. Her eyes were burning; her chest was clenched tightly. “It was supposed to be me. It should’ve been me—”

“Kazi.” Large hands held her face, forcing her head back to stare Wolffe in the eye. “Don’t fucking say that.”

She met his gaze with a vacant look. “Daria gave herself up because of what I did. And now she’s dead, and I miss her—” She pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to steady her breath. “Fuck, I miss her so much. I thought we had more time—I should’ve given her more time—”

“Don’t fucking say that.” Wolffe shook her slightly. “Daria made her decision. And you owe it to her to live your life. Do you understand?”

He stared at her, harsh breaths angry, desperate eyes wide. She stared back, a tear heating her skin, wetting her lips.

Exhaustion sunk into the very marrow of her bones; she hardly noticed the pale sunlight embracing her body or the snowflakes twinkling like stars. She could only stare at Wolffe. The flurries curling his hair. The glint of his scar against the snow-laden landscape. The strain in his expression at her emptiness.

It was his concern—the slight fear he was trying so hard to hide—that convinced her to close her eyes. To lean into him.

Then, he was holding her, running his hand down her spine, guiding her face to his chest.

“I’m trying,” she whispered. “I’m trying.”

“I know.” Wolffe pressed his cheek to the top of her head. “I know.”

22 Kelona

“It’s a sand dollar,” Kazi explained.

The sand, wet with a bone-gnawing chill, squished beneath her burrowing as she carefully uncovered the sea urchin. Bristly spines protruded from the purple exoskeleton; the five pores undulated. She shared a grin with Neyti.

“You know, sand dollars are rare.” She paused. “Daria and I used to spend hours out here trying to find one.”

Neyti studied the creature with her usual shrewdness and then whispered, “I miss her.” Dejectedly, she curled inwards on herself, her eyes misty with unshed tears. “I wish she was here.”

“I…” Kazi stared at Neyti, motionless. Anguish flared behind her ribcage. A cruel, burning fist constricting her heart and lungs; its roaring flames dulled the mellow waves—

“I miss her, too,” she whispered. “But she did something brave.” She smoothed a stray strand of hair from Neyti’s face; the little girl closed her eyes and turned her cheek into Kazi’s palm. “Just like your mom.”

While the waves splashed and the thud of paws against wet sand surrounded them, Kazi squeezed Neyti’s hand. The little girl squeezed back. A poked nose, a shy grin in response, and Kazi motioned to their small friend.

“Long ago, sand dollars were once used as Ceaian currency,” she said. “Their rarity made them equivalent to thousands of modern-day credits.”

Gingerly, Neyti poked the creature’s rounded exterior. “But they’re living things.”

“They are.” Kazi leaned back on her haunches. Ocean water soaked her trousers; her knees shifted with the sand. “That’s why the currency was outlawed. The sand dollars were going extinct, and we Ceaians believe in protecting the earth and its inhabitants. Today, you’re not allowed to collect sand dollars.”

Neyti approved this news with a satisfied nod and straightening, she scanned the dark brown shore with its receding waves. Bunches of seaweed—as dark as the evergreens secluding their house—sparsely forested the beach. An abundance of seashells embellished the sand, as a jeweler would adorn a necklace with diamonds, rare yet eye-catching. Neyti skipped toward the next creature that caught her attention—a crab’s shell.

With a small smile, Kazi started to push herself to her feet when a gloved hand entered her periphery. She accepted its assistance.

“Don’t understand how you’re not cold,” Wolffe said gruffly. The flaps of his long coat’s collar were raised, shielding his neck and jaw from the wind. He cast her damp trousers a reproving scowl. “You’re gonna get pneumonia, Ennari.”

Kazi scoffed, interlacing their arms. “I used to swim in this every morning. I’m immune.”

“I’m immune to most human diseases.” Wolffe hunched his shoulders against a biting breeze. “Not you.”

“Then it’s a good thing you like to take care of me.”

His wry scoff confirmed her remark.

“Should she be that close to the water?”

Kazi glanced over her shoulder to see Fox approaching, hands tucked into his coat’s pockets. Behind him, the impluvious sand bore the scars of his presence: booted prints leading from the cliff’s path. Similar to Wolffe, he wore a heavy coat, though he’d opted to don the hood.

“Neyti’s fine,” Kazi said.

An eager yip from Fluffy preceded the delighted squeal of the little girl. The three adults watched as Neyti crouched low, dusted sand from a bubbling hole, and then lifted an opulently blushing seashell. Fluffy nosed the shell with self-importance; the flick of his ears displayed his approval. Together, youngling and anooba continued their wandering.

Fox cracked his neck. “A rogue wave can—”

“Do you see any rogue waves?” A disdainful sniff was his only response, and Kazi threw him a pointed look. “Let her have her fun. She’s been through enough.”

He winced but fell into step beside her and Wolffe. After an awkward moment of silence, he said, “I have news.”

Wolffe tensed. “What?”

“I looked into Neyti’s family.”

Kazi froze mid-step and cast her gaze toward Neyti. “What did you learn?”

“Neyti’s grandmother was a senator in your capital,” Fox said. He spoke with a grim tone neatly folded into his otherwise characteristic apathy. “She was one of the proponents of the Security Bill.”

Kazi’s fingers spasmed on Wolffe’s arm; he frowned at her reaction.

“That was the bill that provided funding to the National Bureau of Security and Intelligence,” she explained to him. “It gave us funding and legal approval to spy on the Empire. Obviously, the bill didn’t outright declare the government’s intent. The language was murky. But, if you know what you’re looking for…Ceaia’s declaration of rebellion was right there.”

“And Neyti’s grandmother advocated for it,” Wolffe muttered in understanding. “That’s why her family was targeted.”

“Both grandparents were killed in the Purge,” Fox said. “Along with Neyti’s mother. Official records claim that Neyti was also killed.”

Farther along the shore, Neyti experimentally toed a bunch of seaweed. She waited. The seaweed did not react. Still, a toothy grin brightened the girl’s face. She leapt over the bunch, tucked the pink seashell into a pocket, and continued along her way. Fluffy pranced after her.

“I should’ve realized it,” Kazi murmured. “Her accent is so similar to—"

A low growl cut her off. Teeth bared, hackles raised, Fluffy scrutinized the steep cliffs behind the gathered adults. At his warning bark, Kazi whirled around. Two figures were approaching.

Instinctively, she staggered backwards, reaching for Wolffe, fear pulsing through her. But Wolffe and Fox were already reacting. They closed ranks, armed with their blasters which they kept lowered and hidden, and ordered Fluffy to take point.

“Neyti,” Kazi said urgently, gesturing to the little girl. “Come here.”

Neyti hurried over. Her cheeks were flushed; her eyes were wide with alarm. The alarm quickly subsided, however, replaced with shock and then elation.

“Steiner!”

Glee sang in the shout as Neyti pushed herself between Wolffe and Fox and darted forward. Kazi lunged for the back of her coat but the youngling escaped.

“Neyti!” Kazi reprimanded.

Intrepid, the little girl kept running. Wet sand splattered beneath her shoes. Her twin braids streamed through the wind. She was laughing and smiling and pumping her arms harder, and only then did Kazi see what she’d previously overlooked: a third, smaller figure. This small figure was sprinting, too, and met Neyti halfway.

Both girls skidded to a halt. They regarded one another for a pent breath and then they were hugging, beaming, regaling. Their hands danced with zealous gesticulations. Their grins shone with dimpled merriness.

“That’s Heracli,” Kazi informed Wolffe and Fox, her attention focused on the girl’s reunion. A smile tugged on her mouth at their jubilance; her amusement didn’t last long, though, interrupted by the nearing adults. “And the man is her husband, Quin.”

Heracli and Quin Obisany halted several meters away. Kazi hardly blamed them for their wariness. The minacious demeanor displayed by Wolffe and Fox—expressed in harsh calculation and apathetic belligerence—created an unfriendly atmosphere. Their palmed blasters did little to defuse the situation, either.

“Fehr told me that you left Eluca,” Heracli said. Shivering in her long coat, she offered a half-hearted smile. “Steiner has been pestering us to see Neyti.”

Kazi eyed the dark-haired couple. “What are you doing here?”

“We didn’t have much of a choice.” Heracli shifted between her feet, weariness dimming her usually perceptive gaze. “We were tracking the doonium shipments from Quin’s mine but the Empire learned of this and, to protect Steiner, we had to flee.”

“But why here?” Kazi motioned to the tumbling ocean and the rain-sodden cliffs. “Why Ceaia?”

Heracli pursed her lips. “The Empire abandoned this planet two months ago, and the network, too. We’re safe from possible repercussions from both sides.”

Kazi exchanged a glance with Wolffe and Fox. “Why would the network go after you?”

“We know too much,” Heracli said simply. Her eyes wandered from Kazi to the two little girls and, hoarsely, she said, “We all know too much.”

A stilted silence settled across the beach; only the lapping waves disrupted it. Neyti and Steiner set off along the shore, heads bent together, breaths puffed, coats bundled. Fluffy followed at a cautious pace.

“Do you know”— Kazi scrutinized Heracli and Quin—“what the network was planning to do on Ceaia?”

“They wanted to build a base,” Quin answered. Black eyes, as dark as his skin, pierced her with astute cunning. “To fight the Empire, the Rebellion needs a base to host troops and ships. Command thought that Ceaia could be a potential host once the Empire left.”

A swift, silent look passed between Wolffe and Fox. The look of two commanders assessing military information.

“They decided against it,” Kazi said.

The report she’d read so long ago replayed in her mind: complaints of Ceaia’s unideal location and its underdeveloped technology. Like the Imps, the rebel network had abandoned Ceaia. They were…gone.

Dazedly, she surveyed her environment—the gray mountains spired among the thick clouds, the indomitable expanse of the dark blue ocean, the lightless lighthouse still standing after decades of neglect. She was home, and she was safe.

After everything they had endured, it didn’t seem possible. Real.

“Neyti’s missed Steiner,” Kazi said.

The statement—a tentative gesture of reconciliation—earned her acknowledging nods from Heracli and Quin. She didn’t trust them. Based on Wolffe and Fox’s persistent silences, they retained their mistrust, too. But, for Neyti, she would try.

So Kazi reached for Wolffe; he holstered his blaster, bringing her hand to his mouth as they observed the scene before them. Neyti was showing Steiner the pink seashell; both girls regarded it with awe.

Quietly, Kazi added, “She’ll be happy to have her friend back.”

26 Kelona

The warm light of the crescent moon fractured among bare skin and tangled sheets. It shadowed strained muscles; highlighted scars, tattoos, bruises.

Kazi stared at the pool of stars above as she fisted the sheets. Her moans were breathy; her eyelashes fluttered at another slow lick to her labia.

Between her legs, dappled in streams of amber, Wolffe was a sculpture carved by a god: the breadth of his shoulders distinct; the curls of his hair defined; the long fingers on the flesh of her thighs firm, possessive.

Tonight, he took his time. He’d undressed her with patient kisses to her neck and breasts. He’d skimmed a hand along her back, tracing each knob of her spine, sucking on her breasts; she’d clung to his shoulders to steady herself, wetness pooling between her legs. Only the trembling of his hands betrayed his anticipation.

Soon, he was kneeling before her and removing her underwear. Warm lips scattered kisses along her calves, her inner thighs. Large hands palmed her ass, pressed her into their bed.

Wolffe pleasured her with an experience developed from months of learning her body. From months of eager practice and single-minded determination to know her. All of her.

Each swipe of his tongue was unhurried, teasing enough to have her cunt throbbing with need, but casual enough to prevent her orgasm. Each pause was intentional; he watched her through hooded eyes, dipping two fingers inside of her, grinning lazily at the arch of her hips and the shudders in her legs. Each rasped praise renewed the flush in her cheeks; he smiled against her cunt, sucking on her clit as he stretched his fingers inside of her.

Eventually he lost himself to her pleasure, the restraints on his patience snapped.

The teasing licks turned into relentless sucking, and the smug grins gave way to guttural moans as he massaged the inside of her cunt harder, deeper. She was writhing, her head thrown back and sweaty hands clutching the sheets. Then, her legs were stiffening, her cunt clamping down hard, and she was coming.

Aftershocks of pleasure shivered through her body, and while her erratic breaths evened, she was reaching for the lube.

From where he knelt on the bed, Wolffe trembled as she smoothed lube onto his cock, as she stroked his inner thighs, skimmed a knuckle along his balls, traced the tip of his cock with her finger.

“Kazi.”

The strain in his voice brought a lazy smile to her mouth. A smile he sought with his lips, kissing her while he flattened her back into the mattress.

Forearms bracketing her head, he ground himself against her, lifted one of her legs as he pushed the tip of his cock into her. She squeezed her eyes shut at the stretch of him; she exhaled a shallow breath as he sank into her deeper; she bit his shoulder, gasping, once he was settled fully inside of her.

As always, he waited. Low breaths panted against her neck, and once she brought his mouth to hers, he started to thrust. Deep, slow thrusts that made her feel each centimeter of him.

“I’m gonna take care of you,” he said roughly. He nuzzled his nose to her throat, murmured, “You’re mine to take care of.”

She was kissing him, and he was hitting a spot deep inside of her—a spot that had her clinging to his shoulders, her fingernails digging into his skin. She gasped. Everything grew tight. Her cunt clenched around his cock, and with a strangled cry, she came. He lasted only a few more thrusts and then he was coming, biting her shoulder, shuddering through his pleasure.

Afterwards, they laid together, his body atop hers, his face buried in the crook of her neck. Gentle fingers circled the lines of her ribcage, the muscles of her inner arms, the planes of her hips. Her own fingers smoothed the scars on his back and painted the tattoos of his left arm.

Half-asleep, she heard him whispering, hushed words breathed against her skin, barely audible. For a moment, she listened intently—

“I love you,” he whispered thickly. Something small and warm tickled her shoulder; it sank into her skin. “I love you.”

Gingerly, she lifted his face to hers. He didn’t resist, though he did angle his face into the nightly shadows; the moonlight caressed his wet eyelashes.

“I knew there was something more that day you checked on me at the lake,” she said with a sad smile.

Silently, he regarded her with an intensity unwavering: intrigued, hungry.

“You made me feel seen, and that terrified me. The thought of trusting you—relying on you…” She let out a self-deprecating chuckle. “I don’t know when it truly started, maybe it was that day, or maybe it was when you stood up for Neyti and me at the Marketplace, I don’t know but”—she cupped his jaw—“I’ve been in love with you for a long time.”

He swallowed. The fingers brushing her jawline, her ear, were trembling.

“Thank you,” she said. “For waiting for me.”

A tear splashed onto her chest. Hoarsely, he said, “Thank you. For loving me.”

3 Selona

A ragged blanket, its dark blue wan and edges frayed, beckoned to Kazi. Similar to how an elderly dog would wag its tail upon seeing its owner after years apart.

Neatly folded atop a wood carton—the handiwork of Daria, she assumed—the blanket seemed to deflate with each cautious step she took toward it. As if it knew its time was nearing and, after so long protecting its charges, it could finally rest. She knelt before it. The soggy floor of the lighthouse’s lantern room drooped beneath her weight. With trembling fingers, she removed the blanket, its threadbare material exhaling its final breath.

Old, faded drawings greeted her: fragile, and with a somber disposition born from years of neglect.

Carefully, Kazi lifted the flimsisheets from the carton. The drawings—expressions of dragons, once adoring parents, dancing sisters—were distorted and water-stained. Still, she could distinguish the difference between hers and Daria’s.

Her sister’s drawings displayed the practiced elegance and focused approach Daria had exuded even as a young girl. Kazi, on the other hand, had lacked artistic inclinations. Her drawings were crude, blobby rather than refined, disarrayed blending rather than composed shading.

Kazi held up two pieces. A mutual attempt by both sisters—when they were seven and five, if she were to hazard a guess—to draw Goch, the first dragon to befriend the Ceaian people. The comparison was unfair. Even at such a young age, Daria outmatched her in every artistic distinction. She couldn’t help but laugh.

She laughed at the ridiculous state of her drawing, and she laughed as she remembered how jealous she used to be of Daria’s talents, and she laughed as she shuffled through more mediocre drawings.

She laughed until she started to cry.

And she cried until her cheeks were caked with tears, and her eyes were puffy, and her chest hurt from the hollowness carving it open.

The dead blanket wiped her tears; the faded drawings held her hands.

Smiling wetly, Kazi brushed a finger along Daria’s imagination of their family, caressed the pale-skinned depiction of her sister, and then tucked the flimsisheets back into their carton. She folded the blanket; she nestled it atop its former charges. As she pushed herself to her feet, her knees aching from however long she had cried, she looked outside the broken window.

It shouldn’t have surprised her. The man below. Most likely, he’d returned from his run, noticed her absence, and then tracked her footsteps through last night’s downy snow. She braced her forearms on the windowsill and poked her head out.

Leaning against the lighthouse sat Wolffe. The early morning breeze ruffled his curls; his gaze was drawn to the clear, gray horizon.

“You can come up,” Kazi called to him. Wolffe tipped his chin back. He arched a brow in question. She grinned. “I think the stairs will hold your weight.”

His huff of exasperation preceded the amused shake of his head. Regaining his feet, he started for the door, and moments later, they stood together in the lantern room. He appraised their surroundings with his usual calculation: a finger skimming the wobbly railing, a bent study of the floor’s gaping holes, a boot nudging broken glass.

With its decayed walls, haphazard stairs, and smashed windows, the lighthouse didn’t seem like much. A relic of a bygone era.

But there was something in the air. It lingered. A strange mixture of rotting wood, old seawater, and crisp snowfall mixed and homogenized into the unmistakable scent of childhood. Of birdsong early on a summer morn, of frolicking among fields of waving wildflowers, of roasted nuts over a winter’s fire.

“I want to rebuild it,” Kazi said. Wolffe turned toward her, and she tucked her hands into her coat’s pockets. “No one owns it. The locals don’t bother to visit. And thanks to modern technology, lighthouses aren’t even necessary. But…” She thought about the dream she and Daria once shared. A dream to rebuild the lighthouse and open the most lauded inn across all of Ceaia. She offered Wolffe a hesitant shrug. “I want to rebuild it.”

His eyes narrowed as he assessed the room. “The foundation is solid. So is the structure. I checked them. But we’ll have to gut—”

“Wait.” Kazi frowned. “Why did you check the foundation?”

“I knew this was coming,” Wolffe said bluntly. He searched her face with characteristic patience. “Daria…told me a lot of things the last few months.”

Her frown deepened. “Like what?”

“That you don’t belong anywhere but Ceaia.” Wolffe took a step toward her. “That you would return. One day. And that I’d have to decide if I wanted to follow you.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “She told me about this place”—he motioned toward the stairs—“and she asked me to help you rebuild it. Hell, she made me promise, Ennari.” He tapped the underside of her chin, murmured, “And I did.”

Kazi swallowed. “She told you?”

A small nod was Wolffe’s sole response. He extended his hand, his half-smile affectionate; her palm slid into his. A callused, scarred warmth embraced her. At his gentle squeeze, she traced the rounded edge of his jawline, wrapped her fingers around the back of his neck, brought his forehead to hers.

They remained like that for a long time.

As winter reached the culmination of its peregrination, softened soil welcomed citrus-star seedlings, and faint pink blossoms graced the white-barked sequoia trees of their haven, they whiled away long hours at the lighthouse.

It started with gutting the interior.

Early mornings Kazi spent with Cody. Other than the radio sharing news updates from across the galaxy, they worked in silence. Sweat dampening their shirts, faces flushed, equally dedicated to their task.

After their conversation on the cliff, they never talked about Daria again. Kazi suspected they never would. The relationship they developed the last year—hours spent in the kitchen teaching and learning unique recipes, borrowed books about painting techniques and subsequent conversations—had cracked. It was irreparable. They both knew it. And they both knew his days on Ceaia were numbered.

So those moments in the lighthouse, when it was just them, the morning tide, and the chilly breeze, provided them a reprieve. A reprieve from the grief, the longing, the blame.

Small smiles, hoarse chuckles, reassuring pats ensued. Kazi made her request for a painting and, during their breaks, Cody questioned her on descriptions, encouraged critique of his most recent sketches, explained the techniques he thought worked best.

The day Cody finished the portrait of Neyti’s mother was the last day he and Kazi spent time alone.

Gutting the lighthouse and rebuilding its interior took more than a month. Floor plans, sanctioned by the local construction company, provided clear instructions for the reconstruction of the staircase and the four floors; weekly site checks by a project manager approved the lighthouse’s structural additions and confirmed its compliance with safety measures.

Soon, the reconstruction concluded and the interior design process began. Neyti’s favorite part: painting.

An abundance of paint brushes, rollers, cans, and trays littered the various floors of the lighthouse. Throughout the painting weeks, the newly replaced windows remained open, the scent of springtime blossoms and salty ocean purifying the air of malodorous fumes. The floors’ ceilings and the lantern room’s domed roof required ladders; sore arms and shoulder muscles persisted.

One afternoon, wiping sweat from her forehead, Kazi stepped away from her section of the third floor’s wall. The warm sunlight dappled the light blue paint—a blue as pale as a melting glacier.

Downstairs, Fox, Nova, and Neyti were snacking on a basket of freshly baked bread, slices of cheese, and clusters of grapes. Kazi joined them. A grape popped into her mouth, a swig of the cool water. She took the time to stretch her aching fingers.

When they finished the reconstruction two weeks ago, she returned to her nightly quilting sessions with Nova. Last night, with a yellow thread reminiscent of autumnal leaves, he tied the last stitch. They unfolded the completed quilt, admired its threaded story, and then carried it downstairs to his bedroom, hanging it on a rod. A plethora of yellow and gray panels softened by stitches of greens and purples cascaded to the floor; the white border spanned the entirety of the wall.

Kazi smoothed a wrinkle. “Why didn’t you hang the other quilt in here?”

The first quilt Nova had completed—the quilt displaying the war memorial on Coruscant—blanketed the couch on the main level. Neyti used it often when she watched a holofilm.

“The memorial’s for my brothers. Not just me,” Nova said. He studied the quilt with a small smile. “This…is a reminder. That my vode are still with me. And that I can still do some good.”

“I like that,” she murmured.

For some time, while she perused the quilt’s intricate stitching, Nova studied her.

“Daria’s dragon,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You should consider moving it to your bedroom. It could be a good thing.”

She thought about Sea currently guarding the blue-stemmed, purple-blossomed plant in a window of the kitchen. “You might be right,” she said hoarsely.

A giggle interrupted last night’s memory and Kazi watched as Neyti tossed Nova another grape. He caught it midair, swallowed, and delivered a humble bow. Chuckling at their theatrics, Kazi grabbed a slice of bread and made the trek back to the quiet third floor.

Fingers dusted free of crumbs, a paint roller dunked into the tray of blue paint, she eyed her progress—

“I think you should hit me.”

Kazi stiffened, and she shot an unimpressed look over her shoulder. “I’m not hitting you.”

“You’re still angry with me,” Fox said with a casual taunt. He strolled into the room. A streak of blue paint bruised his cheek. “Releasing your anger can be a good thing. I know it. Wolffe knows it. Let’s get it over with and then we can move on.”

She rolled her eyes. “I’m not angry—”

“I was an asshole, Kazi.” He took the paint roller from her hand and tossed it onto the plastic-sheeted floor. A cocky grin failed to hide the guilt rounding his eyes. “It would make me feel better if you hit me.

“Hitting you doesn’t bring Daria back,” she said quietly.

“No.” His face slackened in resignation. “It doesn’t.”

The spring breeze rustled the canvas on the floor; its airy warmth fluttered through Fox’s curls and caressed Kazi’s face.

“You were an asshole, Fox,” she said, sighing. A muscle clenched in his jaw. “I hated you in that moment. I still hate what you said. But…” She hugged her arms around her stomach. “I’ve already lost Daria. I’m not interested in losing someone else.”

“I cared for a lot of men,” Fox said after a moment of contemplative silence. “And they all ended up dead. Pushing others away…it was easier than dealing with their deaths.” He swallowed. “But…I don’t want to live the rest of my life like that.”

Kazi retrieved her paint roller and placed it in his hand. A clean roller dipped into the paint tray greeted her own. They worked in silence.

An hour later, returned from the harbor with groceries, Wolffe joined their painting endeavors. The questioning tilt of his head earned a reassuring pat from her in response. He hefted his roller with a contented smirk.

Renovations to the lighthouse concluded on the 33rd of Telona—what would have been Daria’s 25th life day—with the hanging of a painting in the lantern room.

Perched on Wolffe’s shoulders, her tiny arms trembling beneath the weight of the frame, Neyti hung her artwork. At Wolffe’s suggestion, she repositioned it. Humming her satisfaction, she shimmied down his back and retreated. An admiration of her work commenced.

The charcoal sketch from so long ago had developed into a colorful painting. Two little girls, hands clasped together, stomped through rain puddles. The pinks of their dresses contrasted the blues of the puddles and the grays of the ocean. Behind them, the lighthouse blazed brightly. The sole detail unique to the painting.

(The reference photo—one of the many taken from Kazi’s adventure book—now decorated a wall in her and Wolffe’s bedroom. It was his request: to personalize their room with photos and artwork. Often, she caught him staring at the wall, his observation silently pensive. Once, she saw him touching a photo of his men, a tear sliding down his cheek.)

“Mum?” Neyti bounced on her tiptoes. “Do you like it?”

Kazi studied the painting, its meticulous strokes, its sedulous color choices.

“It’s beautiful,” she said. A genuine smile bolstered the sincerity of her words, and Neyti ducked her head with a bashful grin. “But”—she frowned at the frame—“it’s crooked.”

Wolffe scoffed. “It’s not crooked.”

“The right side is higher than the left.”

He scrutinized the painting through narrowed eyes. Another scoff, equally arrogant as his first, succeeded. “It’s not.”

Neyti looked from one adult to the next. Her perceptive gaze returned to the frame, a critique elapsed, and then, clapping her hands, she declared, “That’s okay. I like it as it is.”

“It’s perfect,” Kazi agreed. She took in the entire room: vines of green ivy vivified the railing, the windows provided a clear view of the stelliferous night, a low couch offered comfort for visitors. “All of it—it’s perfect.”

Eventually, Neyti returned to the house with Fox, and Kazi and Wolffe found themselves alone.

Staring out a window with his arms wrapped around her front, Wolffe rested his chin atop her head and asked about an unfamiliar constellation. Kazi told him the story of the dragon Pandora and the medicinal practices she taught the Ceaians; as she spoke, she mapped the constellation in the sky. He followed her finger’s path. Curious, studious.

A contented silence fell between them once she finished the story. The cool temperature of early night bathed them in fresh air; the high-pitched whistle of an unseen whale pierced the quiet. With an amused chuckle, Wolffe brought a finger to her chin and tilted her face back.

“You think Daria would like it?” he asked quietly. His eyes were bright with mirth yet also hesitant. “What we did here?”

“Yes,” Kazi said with a wistful laugh. “I think she’d love it.”

“Good.” He brushed a finger along her cheekbone. His smile was soft. “She’d be proud of you, Ennari. For returning. For building this. For living. She’d be real fucking proud of you.”

Kazi twisted her face into his palm. “And she would be so grateful for you. For everything you’ve done for us. For me.”

Wolffe swallowed. The starlight glowed within the darkness of his regular eye; it twinkled among his cybernetic. Both were watery with affection. She smiled softly.

“I’ll wait for you,” he murmured roughly. Warm lips sought her forehead. “Take your time.”

Kazi waited for his footsteps to retreat before she reached into her trousers’ pocket. Seating herself on the couch, she placed the locket with her family’s photo on the window’s sill and then unfolded her letter to Daria.

The black ink twinkled beneath the light of the Dancing Dragons, the brightest star in their embrace gleaming. Beneath her perch, waves rolled against the cliffs. Calm and encouraging, like they were listening. A cool breeze tickled her face. Scents of sea salt and honeysuckle invigorated the lantern room.

With a deep breath, Kazi started to read: “Hi, Dee.”

Masterlist | A Muse | Epilogue

A/N: Kazi would never again visit the lighthouse with her sister. – Line I, Chapter I

#I Yearn and so I Fear #commander wolffe x oc: kazi ennari

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ofthecaravel · 1 year ago

Text

You Get Everything You Want

A 'You Don't Go To Parties' AND 'You Know How To Haunt' Halloween Special/ Mini Fic/ Oneshot SEQUEL

Summary: One year after the events of You Know How To Haunt and six months after You Don't Go To Parties, Sam sets the stage for a very happy and healing Halloween

Tags: POST confession YDGTP Sanny, reference to YKHTH, SMUT PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS IF YOURE A BABYCHILD PLEASE, M/M oral and handjob, dirty talk, hair pulling, teasing, idk the works, happy ending

Words: 5.7k

A/N: Don't look at me bro I don't even know. A treat for all my wonderful citizens of Caravel Nation who have been so so so so sweet to me about everything I make so BOOM here's some porn

~~~

“Is it…the astronaut?”

“Danny, we were 7 the last time I wore that costume.”

“I don’t know, I’m running out of options!”

“Well, keep guessing then!”

Danny sighed dramatically and flopped back onto the bed. Their bed, which was something he’d been really enjoying dwelling on. Danny had stayed true to his promise and followed Sam after graduation, which had led them two towns over and into a sizable apartment and jobs that they both actually enjoyed. A summer spent moving and acclimating had eventually cooled down into a nice, comfortable autumn, and now that Halloween was around the corner, Danny was watching in complete confusion as Sam took a spontaneous interest in it. Since the very first day of October, Sam had been teasing Danny about how great his costume was going to be, despite Danny’s repeated reminders that they a) had absolutely no friends in the area to show it to, b) Sam promised that they wouldn’t go to parties anymore and c) Danny wasn’t really planning on dressing up at all.

“I am reminding you once again that our current Halloween plans are to get drunk on the couch and watch The Exorcist,” Danny laughed, lolling his head on the pillow as he desperately tried to guess Sam’s costume.

“And I am reminding you once again that I also want to watch Young Frankenstein,” Sam shot back, finally peeking his head out from the bathroom. “Also, I don’t care. I’m dressing up and you’re going to lose your mind.”

“Just tell me,” Danny whined, putting on his best pleading face. Sam met it with a smile and a roll of his eyes, completely unaffected by Danny’s begging in a way that Danny wished he could be when it came to Sam.

“No,” Sam said with a click of his tongue. “If you haven’t guessed it by now, that’s on you, buddy. You have to wait until the 31st.”

“I despise you,” Danny replied dramatically, flopping a hand over his forehead and sighing deeply.

“Yeah?” Sam laughed, peeking his head out from the bathroom again and tossing a crumpled up foam wedge at Danny. “If you hate me so much, then why am I covering up a hickey before work?”

“I know nothing about that,” Danny hummed, sitting up a little bit and giving Sam his best, most innocent smile.

“Well, someone got a little carried away,” Sam groaned, smacking his neck with another little, white sponge and sighing. “You’ll pay for this.”

And pay for it he did. Just not in the way Danny expected.

Danny didn’t see Sam on Halloween morning, knowing that he had an important project in his lab that had been keeping him for more mornings than Danny preferred, so Danny enjoyed the luxury of sleeping in a little bit and doing some general tidying around the apartment. In the afternoon, he decided to run out and grab some last minute Halloween candy and other tacky goodies to appease Sam’s sudden lust for Halloween spirit, enjoying raiding the aisles of their Twix and plastic spider bounties.

When Danny got home, he announced his presence and saw Sam’s satchel on the kitchen island accompanied by the sound of the shower running.

“Hey!” Danny called down the hallway, dropping the paper grocery bag on the counter and starting to pull out its contents.

“Hey!” Sam echoed in a higher pitch, his voice dampened by the rush of the shower. “How was your day?”

“Boring!” Danny yelled back, loudly crinkling the bag of candy in his hand. “Got you some treats for our spooky evening!”

“Ooh! Thank you!” Sam replied. “You don’t have a costume, right?”

“Fuck no!”

“Good!”

“Why?”

“I have one for you!”

“Aw, man, Sam!” Danny groaned. “I hate costumes!”

There was a single beat of silence before Sam replied.

“Yeah, I know!” Sam answered, a weird tone in his voice that made Danny knit his eyebrows in analysis. “I’m remedying that! You’re welcome!”

Danny groaned again and Sam made a loud kissy noise, carrying on with his shower while Danny dumped candy in one of their only big bowls and read the instructions on a pumpkin shaped frozen pizza.

Now, Sam was always one to take a really long time in the shower, but he was usually pretty ready to go once he was out of it. However, this time, Danny was sitting around for much longer than he anticipated. When the blow dryer turned on, he started getting suspicious.

“What the hell are you doing in there, Kiszka?” Danny yelled down the hall again.

“I don’t want wet hair for my costume!”

“You and that damn costume,” Danny muttered to himself, shaking his head and grinning fondly. As much as it bugged him, Danny absolutely loved it when Sam dedicated himself to a cause, especially when it was ridiculous.

“What’d you say?”

“Nothing, dear!” Danny replied innocently.

“Yeah, right!”

10 more minutes passed and Danny let out an exasperated sigh and hauled himself off the couch, making his way down the hallway towards their bedroom.

“Hello?” Danny sang, rapping his knuckles on the closed door. “Is my boyfriend there? He promised he’d do shots with me.”

“He’s busy!” Sam sang back, his voice accompanied by the slight sounds of clothes rustling. “Can you come back later?”

“It is later,” Danny complained, leaning his forehead on the door. “Come on, Sammy, I miss you. I bet your costume is amazing how it is, now come on out and eat all this stupid candy with me.”

“I need to finish my hair,” Sam answered plainly.

“You started doing your hair half an hour ago!”

“Well, it’s not done!”

“Oh, my god,” Danny responded, a genuine irritation starting to pull at his muscles as he gently banged his head against the door again. “Seriously, Sam, come on. Halloween is wasting away!”

“5 minutes, baby, I promise,” Sam obliged, his voice taking on a gentle quality that always brought Danny to his knees. Danny sighed and murmured an “okay, love you” before trudging back to the couch. He knew that any sort of relationship with Sam meant working on Sam’s time schedule and nobody else’s, so he decided to just wait it out like he always did. Until, of course, curiosity began to overtake his annoyance. He’d spent this whole time being frustrated over Sam’s mystery costume instead of wondering what about it was so damn important, and suddenly Danny felt the minutes passing even slower as his mind started to race with images of Sam in a myriad of skimpy costumes.

So when Sam finally called out “Okay, come here!”, Danny’s knees banged into the couch’s table and he jerkily sprinted down the hallway, bursting into the bedroom to see…that Sam wasn’t there.

“Sam?” Danny asked the empty room.

“Go sit on the bed!”

Sam’s arm peeked out of the bathroom door and waved Danny in the direction of the bed, and Danny obeyed with a confused and wild grin on his face. He smoothed his pumpkin orange sweater and spread his legs casually, his knees swinging back and forth in anticipation.

“Okay, close your eyes,” Sam’s voice piped up again, this time with an unusual nervous tinge. Danny laughed and Sam made a noise of frustration. “Just do it!”

“Fine, fine,” Danny giggled, closing his eyes and smiling.

Without his eyesight, Danny relied on his hearing to guide him through the next few minutes. He heard the bathroom door open again, and after what he guessed was a moment of Sam checking to see that Danny had in fact closed his eyes, he heard Sam’s soft approach. Danny felt the pressure of Sam’s legs between his as he stood in front of him, and he relaxed when Sam’s hand softly came up and smoothed Danny’s hair lovingly.

“Thanks for being patient with me,” Sam said quietly, and Danny’s smile split into a grin when he felt the welcome warmth of Sam’s lips giving him a quick kiss on the crown of his head. “I just thought this could be a fun little surprise for you.”

“Can I open my eyes yet?” Danny asked.

“Mm, not yet,” Sam answered, and Danny could hear the smile in his voice when Danny let out a dramatic sigh. “You only have to be patient for another minute. I want to see if you can remember without looking.”

“Remember?”

“Yeah,” Sam muttered shyly. Danny felt Sam’s hand grab Danny’s and move it to the smooth skin of Sam’s thigh, and Danny immediately flushed at the contact. He’d thoroughly enjoyed having a whole summer of Sam in the little shorts he exclusively wore, and Danny was happy to get a taste of it back after the past month of jeans and joggers. Danny grinned further as he gave Sam’s thigh a squeeze, wringing a chuckle from Sam before he went quiet again and slowly moved Danny’s hand further up. Danny wrinkled his nose in thought as he finally felt a brush of fabric on his wrist, his hand venturing upwards of his own accord now and grasping the soft fabric of what he assumed was Sam’s boxers as something else blanketed his hand and wrist.

“Is this…” Danny finally said. “A skirt?”

“Ding, ding,” Sam answered cheerfully, continuing to play with Danny’s hair with his free hand, his other still firmly gripping Danny’s wrist as his thumb swiped over Sam’s hipbone.

“Freaky,” Danny smiled, wiggling his eyebrows. “I don’t think I’ve ever-”

With a jarring rush, a memory long buried came crashing down on Danny and stunned him into silence. He was about to say he’d never seen Sam in a skirt, but he had. On one, horrible Halloween night that he’d desperately tried to forget back when trying to forget interactions with Sam was a daily activity. Danny first and foremost remembered the fight that neither of them could pinpoint an origin to, as well as the miserable, slow ride he had driven alongside Sam on the sidewalk, refusing to get into Danny’s car and hurling obscenities while Danny pleaded with him to get in. But what Danny also remembered was the costume that Sam had worn and nearly driven him insane with: a simple cheerleader outfit. Still keeping his eyes shut, he tilted his head up at Sam.

“No way,” Danny breathed, his hands now roaming freely over the skirt and crop top as Sam hummed at his touch. “You kept it?”

“Of course I did,” Sam chirped, giving Danny another kiss on the head. “I had this sick determination that it’d get some proper use one day and, you know, lo and behold.”

“Did you wear it just to rile me up?” Danny asked hurriedly. “Can I look now?”

“Yes, and yes,” Sam giggled.

Danny’s eyes shot open and sure enough, there was Sam, standing cocky and gorgeous in that same cheer outfit from a year ago. It seemed like forever and no time at all at the same time. Sam had let his hair grow out over the spring and summer, and it swung gloriously in a ponytail with the same tacky blue scrunchie. A few stray pieces framed his face as he smiled triumphantly down at Danny and Danny thought for a moment (and deep down he really believed) that Sam might be the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. And here, standing barely clothed in a cheap costume he’d been hyping for a month straight just to turn Danny on, Danny thought he might also be the hottest person he’d ever seen.

“You just gonna sit there with your hands under my skirt?” Sam teased, shimmying his hips slightly to make the pleats of his skirt flip and brush against Danny’s hands.

“Isn’t that what you wanted?” Danny countered, moving backwards a little bit and using his grip on Sam’s hips to pull him forward and down onto Danny’s lap, which was already sporting a considerable tent in his jeans. Sam’s cheeks started to glow pink and his grin grew even more sly as he settled in Danny’s lap as Danny’s semblance of restraint started to slip from his grasp as his palms slid over Sam’s soft sides and up and down Sam’s thighs. Danny let out a rattling sigh as his lips finally met Sam’s neck, eliciting a quick whine from Sam as Danny breathed in his sweet scent and began to leave long, lingering kisses, which were really more of an excuse to lap at Sam’s skin and keep him as close as possible. He babied the sensitive spot under Sam’s jaw that always drew the most noises from Sam, who he could feel was quickly hardening as he clung to Danny and giggled faintly.

“No more hickeys, thank you, so keep those teeth away,” Sam hummed as Danny’s pace started to pick up, his fingernails now digging into Sam’s skin and his teeth grazing Sam’s throat as his mind melted into blank bliss. Danny just laughed against Sam’s neck and nudged Sam down to meet him, finally giving him a heated kiss that made Sam exhale loudly through his nose and grasp Danny’s jaw as they sank into a familiar rhythm.

“Can I ask you something?” Danny rasped, pulling back and yanking the scrunchie from Sam’s hair, causing it to fall all around them in a silken curtain.

“Sure,” Sam answered, his eyes still greedily glued to Danny’s lips as he squirmed in Danny’s grasp to chase any kind of friction he could get.

“What did you want to happen at that Halloween party?” Danny asked, arching a questioning brow at Sam while beginning to push his skirt further up. “Did you think I was gonna lock the door and have my way with you away from listening ears?”

“Maybe a little,” Sam mumbled shyly, his voice barely audible as he watched Danny’s hands grip and dig into his thighs, revealing his thin underwear with the skirt out of the way.

“You probably wanted them to hear, though,” Danny murmured, giving Sam a kiss on his neck while his thumbs slowly hooked Sam’s underwear, the pad of his right thumb just barely kissing the very tip of Sam’s member. “Right?”

Sam answered with silence, still watching Danny’s infuriatingly slow movements. Danny smiled and kissed the apple of Sam’s cheek before removing a hand from Sam’s groin and sweetly sliding it into Sam’s hair before firmly tugging. Sam’s head jerked up to meet Danny’s eyes and Danny gave him a look.

“Right?” Danny repeated, brushing his nose against Sam’s so their lips were just barely touching. “Tell me.”

“Right,” Sam echoed obediently, his eyes glazing slightly as he swallowed and Danny knew he had him right where he wanted him. “I always wanted you to just do something. Anything, really.”

“Aw, you’ve always liked being my pretty little thing to fawn over, haven’t you, baby?” Danny cooed, nipping at Sam’s bottom lip and pulling away before Sam could return the favor. “Although I admit I’m a little surprised that you’re into the whole slutty cheerleader thing. Kind of basic.”

“I am not basic,” Sam scoffed, and Danny laughed appreciatively at his disgust.

“Fine, fine, maybe you’re just into the whole slut thing in general,” Danny hummed, shifting Sam off of his lap and tossing him onto his side on the bed, where he landed with a laugh as Danny rolled next to him and started attacking his neck with kisses again.

Eventually, they ended up with Danny straddling Sam’s lap as he pinned him to the bed, his affection growing increasingly aggressive as all of Sam’s perfect little noises urged him on. Danny finally reached down to tear off Sam’s dizzying little skirt, but in the process of yanking it down his legs, he felt the cheap material rip in his ironclad grip. Immediately, they both froze and looked at the chunk of fabric in Danny’s palm, the both of them breathing heavily before Sam looked up with round, pleading eyes.

“You like that?” Danny asked, a little bit of cockiness lacing his voice. Sam instantly began nodding and scooted his hips further against Danny, pressing into him.

“The rest, rip the rest,” Sam begged unabashedly, tossing his hair off his shoulders and staring him down. Danny smiled haughtily and obliged him, reaching up under Sam’s top and grabbing the collar before yanking down, keeping firm eye contact as the thin garment ripped loudly in his fist. Sam’s chest started heaving even more as Danny lazily tossed it aside and settled over Sam’s reclined figure again, letting Sam reach up under his own sweater and grab desperately at him while he kissed and sucked on Danny’s jaw and neck.

“Not gonna let you rip this one,” Danny joked softly, working the sweater over his head and dropping it on the carpet. “Not that I think you could.”

“How rude,” Sam muttered, not stopping even as he spoke.

“Someone’s greedy tonight,” Danny pressed on, allowing himself a moment to start to unbutton his pants and slide them down while Sam was lost in his haze. “I’m starting to think you never wanted to watch a movie.”

“My plan was if you forced me to start the movie, I’d just start sucking you off,” Sam chuckled, the warmth of his breath in Danny’s ear setting every nerve in Danny’s body alight as he began to picture it. Sam was obsessed with keeping his eyes on Danny while he did it, blinking and batting his lashes like it was nothing at all while Danny gripped his hair and writhed at Sam’s touch. The more Danny focused in on the feel of Sam’s lips on his neck and face, the more he began to crave the soft, spit slicked pressure somewhere else.

“You should show me how you would’ve done it,” Danny purred, grinning when Sam pulled away with his eyes lit up and his hands already beginning to brace on Danny’s hips. Danny moved off of Sam and shifted to the side of the bed again, letting out a small laugh when Sam scurried off the bed and immediately sank to his knees in front of Danny, looking up at him in patient awe. Danny’s stomach fluttered at Sam’s unfettering devotion, and he cupped Sam’s cheek lovingly, pressing his thumb against the soft indent in Sam’s bottom lip to give him something to suckle on while he eagerly pulled off Danny’s boxers. Without even a moment of hesitation, Sam was on him, drawing a rare shocked whine out of Danny when Sam immediately sank his mouth over Danny’s dick and hollowed his cheeks, his tongue pressed firmly and his eyes fluttered shut. Danny tried to say something, anything, but the overwhelming and unrelenting sensation of Sam’s perfect, expertly trained mouth rendered Danny speechless and reduced him to loud, shuddering breaths and hums.

“Sam, come on, slow down,” Danny finally choked out, lacing his fingers into Sam’s hair and pulling him off of him. Sam’s eyes met his, looking frenzied and nearly crazed as spit rolled down his chin and his flushed lips stretched into a lazy smile while he caught his breath. He went limp in Danny’s grip as he always did when Danny touched his hair in any capacity, giving Danny a moment to think when he remembered the glittering scrunchie on his wrist. With shaking hands, he pulled it off and smoothed Sam’s hair back, tying it up with a snap of the elastic and tightening it just rough enough for Sam to wince and flush. Firmly, Danny kept his grip on the scrunchie and guided Sam back down, unable to help his own smile when Sam kept his eyes on him when his sweet smile closed over his cock again and welcomed it readily. Danny set the pace this time around, keeping Sam slow and steady as he sucked and lapped while Danny’s breathing picked up and he felt his release approaching far sooner than he wanted. In moments of pure pleasure and connection like that, Danny wished time could stop and they could stay in frozen ecstasy forever, only restarting and stopping again to give Sam his own turn. With Sam on his knees with the remnants of the cheerleader costume, Danny thought for a moment about Halloween night the year previous. He had erased and rewritten the ending of that night a thousand times in his head, and this felt like the ultimate redemption and the perfect ending he had dreamed of. God, the only thing he’d wanted to do was lock the door and make Sam pay for all the tension and frustration with his hands and cock, and the memory of those emotions made Danny’s grip tighten and pick up the pace. Sam seemed to notice this, his eyes going soft and dopey as his neck bobbed faster and faster and he started to choke out spit slick whimpers and gags in response. The pleasure was overwhelming and it wasn’t long before Danny realized he was a goner.

“It’s all yours, baby, all yours,” Danny breathed, his mouth dry and his hips now bucking into Sam’s mouth as he felt his muscles contract and his adrenaline buzz. “Take it, take it, take it, take it-”

Sam let out an unexpected, needy whine and Danny’s hips bucked one more time before he was pushed over the edge, letting out a relieved, stuttering groan as he came hard and painted Sam’s throat. Sam, ever the obedient angel, only waited until Danny was finished to bring his hands out from behind his back to give Danny a few last pumps that made Danny cry out and fall flat on his back, his spent cock leaking one last time. Sam cleaned him up dutifully as Danny heaved and stared at the ceiling, his breath rattling in his throat as he swallowed and came down from his high.

Danny was only shook from his delirium by the warm, gentle presence of Sam kissing the still shivering insides of his thighs, which made Danny smile as he wiped sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. But Danny only sat up when Sam’s usual kisses turned into gentle nips and suppressions of stilted breaths and moans, looking down curiously at Sam as he realized that Sam was grinding down on the ground with his eyes closed and his mouth pressed feverishly to Danny’s skin.

“Hey, bunny,” Danny said quietly, as if not to disturb Sam from his haze. When Sam was in this state of mind, it was hard to shake him from it until he came. “How are you?”

Danny softly put his hand on Sam’s cheek and Sam nuzzled into it, kissing his palm and trying to suck at his fingers as Sam’s hips rolled and pressed down into the carpet, his movements practiced and shuddering. Danny got a chill watching Sam try to relieve himself in such a desperate, mindless way, and he suddenly felt a loving mercy. Sam’s pleasure was really Danny’s, and he always wanted to help.

“Come here,” Danny urged softly, shifting back on the bed to give Sam enough room to sit on his lap again, which Sam did quickly despite his wobbling legs. He straddled Danny’s wide, toned thigh and let out a content sigh, his cock still restricted by his underwear as he started grinding again. Danny let his hands settle on Sam’s hips and he applied just enough pressure to give Sam a lot less freedom to rock, keeping him flush and anchored as Sam frowned petulantly and his hips struggled to jerk.

“Not gonna be that easy, honey,” Danny smiled, kissing Sam on the cheek and looking down at the visibly dampened fabric of Sam’s tented underwear. “But you like that, don’t you?”

“It hurts,” Sam mumbled, his words soft and whining as he fought for friction. “I’m close.”

“I know, I know,” Danny whispered soothingly. “But you haven’t earned it, have you? Kept me waiting all month for a costume that got ripped in 20 minutes, and now you’re almost ready to cum without me doing a damn thing. That’s no fun.”

“Sorry,” Sam whispered back, his motion slowing as he shrank in shame. But his cheeks were still rosy and his arms lifted to circle Danny’s neck and Danny knew that he was still more than happy to be where he was.

“You better be,” Danny replied darkly, his nails digging into Sam’s skin as he pushed him down even harder on to his thigh. “Did you like having the control for a little bit? Stringing me along like you used to, you little fuck?”

“Yeah,” Sam answered honestly, his voice soft and hoarse as he kept his head down, his eyes glued to where his knee was pressed to Danny’s flushed cock.

“Fuck you for that,” Danny hissed in Sam’s ear, biting hard on Sam’s earlobe and releasing his grip ever so slightly to allow for Sam’s jerk reaction. He jumped a little before grinding down again, his movements incessant as his throat leaked a pathetic whine, swallowing a little like he was about to cry. When Danny grabbed his jaw and forced him to look up, he could see the tears glossing Sam’s sleepy doll eyes as he stared pleadingly at Danny.

“Isn’t it so much easier to just let me do everything for you?” Danny pressed further, falling into his old habit of talking Sam through it with a barrage of questions that scrambled him into a babbling, empty headed little toy with a thousand buttons for him to press. Sam nodded immediately and Danny grinned victoriously.

“See what happens when you try to take over?” Danny purred condescendingly, fully removing his hands from Sam’s hips and smoothing them down Sam’s legs and then up over the curve of his ass, pulling Sam closer and causing him to cry out from the sudden friction.

“Danny,” Sam whimpered, his voice cracking as he wordlessly began to reach his peak. “Come on, you’re being so mean to me.”

“But that’s what you wanted,” Danny assured confidently. “It’s always you being my sweet thing to love on. But there’s a reason you picked that costume to remind me of that night…that fucking night. You don’t want to feel like you’re my perfect angel.”

Danny paused for a moment, and Sam watched him as he let the tension stretch and thicken. It was delicious, and infuriating, and Sam was dizzy and tearful and horrifically in love.

“You want me to feel like how I did that night,” Danny continued, his words like a revelation as he shook his head slightly at Sam, his lip curling a little. “And you want to feel like I fucking hate you.”

Sam didn’t answer, his back arching inwards as he buried his head against Danny’s neck and gave a pathetic little buck, his body communicating what he couldn’t with words. Danny chuckled lightly, taking in this new information and letting it sink in. He expected to be uncomfortable with the thought of talking to Sam like he had always wanted to when they had been in that frustrating space where Danny was never sure whether he wanted to fuck or fight him more, but he wasn’t.

This night wasn’t just a fun tease.

It was a catharsis.

Maybe Sam hadn’t been entirely aware of the ground he had laid with this plan, but Danny was a little impressed. Honestly, it made him love Sam all the more. But those warm feelings were not what either of them needed at that moment, and Danny was going to take advantage of this while he could.

“I did hate you,” Danny whispered, hooking his fingers over the waistband of Sam’s underwear and finally pulling it down, drinking in Sam’s immediate gasp as his stiff dick met the cool air. “You hated me too, probably. Unwarranted, but I get it.”

Danny pulled on Sam’s ponytail to free his face from Danny’s neck, holding his palm under Sam’s mouth and suppressing a loving smile as Sam immediately spit, still unable to look Danny in the eye. Danny finally put his hand to Sam’s dick, pumping slow and hard and Sam fell into the warmth of Danny’s shoulder again as he let out a long, low groan. Danny loved all of Sam’s high pitched squeals and cries, but there was something about the sounds from deep in Sam’s chest that gave him a different thrill. He kissed Sam’s neck and leaned his head against his, his ear in the perfect spot to hear every tiny sound.

“You were such a fucking bitch,” Danny growled, his speed picking up ever so slightly as he let his mind wallow in the dark places he hadn’t touched on in over six months. “I used to think about you bending over those randoms like you gave a fuck and just fume. That’s not what you needed, that’s never what you needed. You needed this. To shut the fuck up for once in your life and just take it.”

Mirroring Sam’s frenzy from early, Danny took his grasp on Sam from zero to 100 in a moment’s time, his wrist aching as he stroked and pulled despite Sam’s sharp cry in his ear to slow down.

“You wanted me to fuck you, so here I am, fucking you,” Danny smiled, cupping the back of Sam’s head and pushing him back against his skin, muffling his whines and gasps. “Fuck, fuck you, baby. Fuck. You.”

With a cresting sob, Sam arched and came in Danny’s hand, his chest heaving as Danny’s frustration melted in an instant and he immediately began a stream of whispered praises into Sam’s wild hair. Danny began to panic slightly when Sam’s small sobs into Danny’s neck continued. When he leaned back to assess Sam, he worried that he went too far when he saw Sam’s face flushed and streaked with large tears that still pooled in his pale waterline. Sam sniffed and gave him a little smile, chuckling scratchily while Danny kissed his face and held him flush to his chest, fervently asking if he was okay and apologizing profusely.

“No, no, I’m fine, Dan,” Sam insisted, his voice very fond as he pushed Danny’s hair back and pressed his cheek against Danny’s as he leaned into him. “Great, actually. Just got overwhelmed. s’good, baby, it was really, really good, I’m okay.”

“My poor baby,” Danny cooed, twisting to keep kissing Sam’s cheek and then migrating to his lips, still whispering sweet nothings between hot, wet kisses.

“Stop, I’m gonna cum again,” Sam giggled as Danny kissed his neck. “Where are my boxers? Lemme off.”

“No, stay here,” Danny complained, locking his arms tight around Sam’s torso and falling backwards again, sending Sam sprawling on top of him and making his ponytail smack Danny in the eyes. They laughed as they struggled against each other, with Sam finally rolling off of Danny and the both of them laying in the silence following their laughter for a moment before Danny spoke up.

“Happy Halloween,” Danny grinned, turning to look at Sam. Sam smiled back at him and Danny felt his heart flutter. At the end of it all, it was all just Sam, wasn’t it? He was everything. It washed over him in the wake of the tired old anger he’d tapped into that he realized was really, truly gone from his heart. He accepted it with a sigh and it seemed like Sam had heard each and every one of those thoughts, knitting his brow sympathetically for a moment before smiling wider and scrunching his nose at Danny.

“Happy Halloween indeed,” Sam said with a teasing flair. “We need to throw this blanket in the laundry immediately. And I might need to be thrown back in the shower.”

“Roger that,” Danny sighed. “Are we really not gonna watch a scary movie?”

“We can!” Sam assured, looking over the edge of the bed for any stray shirts or sweatpants. “I just want to be clean first.”

“No blow drying this time,” Danny instructed, rolling onto his stomach and grabbing his sweater from off the floor and tossing it onto Sam’s head. “Here.”

“Yes,” Sam said excitedly, finally standing up and then swaying slightly when his knees threatened to buckle. “Woah, shit.”

“Yeah, man, you had quite a ride,” Danny teased, which Sam received with a disgusted scoff and a kiss on Danny’s forehead before he set off towards the bathroom. “Wait, bring me a washcloth!”

“Yes, sir,” Sam replied in a mocking, breathy tone, and Danny rolled his eyes fondly at Sam’s immediate return to attitude. “Wait, oh my god!”

“What?”

Sam let out a little laugh and walked out of the bathroom as soon as he’d ducked through the doorway, holding his hands behind his back with a barely contained laugh.

“Hold out your hands,” Sam said with a grin. “I forgot to give you your costume.”

“Oh, right,” Danny replied with a curious lift of his eyebrow, cupping his palms and closing his eyes again. “Forgotten in the heat of the moment, I guess.”

“You’re gonna love it,” Sam giggled, letting something cold and something fabricky settle in Danny’s palm. “Surprise!”

Danny opened his eyes and immediately scoffed with a laugh when he saw the glasses and bowtie in his hand, giving Sam a “Really?” look.

“Dang, this was going to be a full blown roleplay, huh?” Danny teased, making a grab for Sam, causing him to try and snake his way out of Danny’s grasp while he blushed.

“Maybe I think you’re cute in glasses,” Sam flirted, playfully swatting Danny’s shoulder before turning towards the bathroom door again. “Plus, you are a nerd.”

“What are you, 9?” Danny joked. “You’re literally a scientist, I’m pretty sure that makes you the king of nerds.”

“Bow down, then, biatch,” Sam said with grandiose. Danny immediately started booing him and Sam slammed the door behind him, his laughs muffled by the wood. Danny stared at the door, the smile still heavy on his face as he listened to the shower turn on and the curtain rustle, finding it almost unreal that it was Sam in there. In this apartment, even. With Danny. And on top of that, with him in the way that he’d always dreamed. Whatever nightmare they’d endured had melted into what Danny was convinced was a dream, and as he sat stripped and sore, he prayed for the first time in a long time that he’d never wake up.

~~~

#PLEASE NOBODY LOOK AT ME I AM ALREADY BLUSHING UP A STORM #THIS IS FILTHY IM SORRY #gvf #greta van fleet #danny wagner #sam kiszka #karoufiction #greta van fleet fanfiction #myart #greta van art

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