#to the point that he DIES for you and you lean on him when you lose your quirk

[loucifersbitch]

when the levee breaks bucktommy | G | 1.5k | warnings: MCD

It hits him out of nowhere on a random Wednesday in June.

Bobby is gone. He's really gone forever. Buck is never going to see him again. Never talk to him, never share another meal, never hug him. Nothing ever again.

Buck is walking home from the grocery store on a random Wednesday in June when his knees buckle and he nearly goes down. He braces his forearm on the facade of the nearest store, eventually pulling himself into an alley before any of the pedestrians near him feel the urge to call 9-1-1. It's not an ideal place to have a breakdown, but it's what he's got right now.

Setting down his bags of groceries - carefully because he bought eggs - he leans his full bodyweight against the sturdy wall, trying to hold back the tears prickling behind his eyes. This couldn't happen when he was home by himself? Breaking down in public is not exactly what he had in mind for his day off.

He clutches at his chest, grasping his shirt with one hand while his other goes for his phone. Who's he even supposed to call though? Maddie and Chim are busy surviving the newborn stage, Hen and Karen have taken their kids on a roadtrip through California, Eddie is at the beach with Chris. He's not calling Athena, that's for damn sure. He gasps as a sob tries to work its way out. He needs to get out of here. He has to get home somehow and quickly. He needs -

"Evan?"

At the gentle tone, Buck takes a shuddery breath, looking toward the entrance of the alley to see Tommy. He's clearly trying to make himself smaller and unassuming. Buck knows the breadth and width of him intimately.

"Are you okay?"

He's not. Not even a little. But that's not Tommy's problem. Buck is always too much, too loud, too impulsive, too clingy, too…Buck. Tommy shouldn't have to deal with that.

"I -" his voice cracks.

A sob breaks through. Then another and another, and soon he's fully crying, breaking down like he hasn't since the night Bobby died. The night Bobby told him he loved him, that he'd be okay, that the team were going to need him.

Except they didn't. They didn't need him. They don't need him. And he's not okay. Nothing is okay, and it never will be again because Bobby fucking died. Bobby left him here to just…what? Go on with life? Keep going every day like there's not a giant Bobby-shaped hole everywhere he looks? Somehow keep living even when everything feels like it's falling apart, like he's failing everyone he loves?

"I know. I know," Tommy is saying. Had Buck said some of that out loud? "I'm so sorry, Evan. I know. It's not fair. None of it is fair. I'm sorry."

At some point, they had sunk to the ground, Tommy holding him tightly. Buck's breathing starts to even out as Tommy keeps talking, keeps holding him, holds him together at all the places he feels like he's about to break apart.

When Buck is able to breathe mostly normally again, he lifts his head from Tommy's shoulder, sniffling as he wipes at the tears left on Tommy's henley.

"Sorry about that," Buck says, embarrassed for many reasons. "I don't know why -"

"Hey," Tommy cuts in, kind but firm, "you have nothing to apologize for. I miss him, too, and I didn't think of him as a father."

"I know, I just feel silly breaking down like that on you. I should be over this by now. Not feeling so many things."

"Evan, you have the right to feel everything. Losing a parent - even someone who was a father figure - is a big deal. Especially when you're as close as you were with Bobby. Okay? You never have to be sorry for missing someone you loved."

Tommy starts to move his arms like he's going to let go, but Buck catches his hands, placing them back where they were.

"Not yet," Buck says, half joking, half serious. "Need you to hold me together a little longer."

"I can do that," Tommy smiles softly. They sit for a moment holding each other quietly before Tommy says, "You know, grief isn't linear. You don't go from one stage to the next boom, boom, boom. It's not simple or easy, and you'll probably repeat stages a few times. And that emptiness you feel? It never really goes away. That person was a part of you, and that will never change. But all the other people you love who also loved him can fill in the gaps. You'll see bits and pieces of him in other people, and sometimes that helps, sometimes it makes it worse. But the people we lose are never really gone as long as we keep them right here," Tommy finishes, pointing at Buck's chest where his heart is thumping quickly.

"Wow," Buck says after a moment, sniffling again as he tries to hold back a fresh wave of emotion, "when did you get so smart about grief?"

Tommy barks a laugh and says, "It comes free when you lose your mom as a kid and then sign up for active duty as soon as you're of legal age."

"Ah," Buck nods. "Makes sense." This is not the right time, and he knows that, but he can't help asking, "Will you come over?"

He realizes too late how that sounds when Tommy raises an eyebrow and smirks at him.

"Not like that," Buck amends. "I just want your company. And maybe we can talk?"

Tommy's face softens.

"Okay. That sounds nice actually."

They finally get up, releasing their hold on each other long enough to dust themselves off and collect Buck's groceries. Tommy grabs his hand before they exit the alley. When Buck looks down, Tommy shrugs.

"In case you still need the support," he says.

As they walk the last few blocks to Buck's house, he asks, "What are you doing on this side of town anyway?"

Tommy's shoulders tense almost imperceptibly, but Buck notices before he can come up with an excuse.

"Tommy, were you hoping to run into me?"

"No, I just - um - I like the kombucha at that froofy health store you always go to. Running into you is just a bonus."

"Uh-huh, and how often do you buy kombucha?"

Buck knows he's got him when Tommy winces.

"Two, maybe three times a week. Sometimes four."

"Tommy," Buck laughs, "you could've just called."

"It wasn't the right time," he says, squeezing Buck's hand. "It didn't feel right to ask about us when you were going through something life-changing."

"Mm, you have a point." Buck squints in the afternoon sunlight, but looks at Tommy seriously when he says, "But I had already decided I want to be with you before Bobby died. That hasn't changed."

He isn't expecting Tommy to stop in his tracks, or to turn toward him and kiss him, surprising him like he did the first time they kissed. It's just as soft and sweet as that first time, but now it's familiar too.

"What was that for?" he asks when they pull apart.

Tommy starts walking again, dragging Buck along.

"I love you," Tommy says, nonchalant, like he didn't just empty Buck's brain and then make him trip over his own feet.

"I - I'm sorry. What?"

"I said, 'I love you,'" he repeats, eyes sparkling mischievously when he looks back. "I figure there's no point in not saying it. You should know. Even though I think you already do." He looks at Buck pointedly, and Buck nods because he does. He does know. "So I thought I should say it."

They continue walking, and Buck's house comes into view.

"I love you, too," he says. "You should know I love you, too."

"I do," he squeezes Buck's hand again.

"Is there anything you don't know?" Buck laughs.

"Hm," Tommy hums, thinking. They reach the front door, and while Buck grabs for his keys, Tommy says, "I guess there's one thing I don't know yet."

"Oh? What's that?" Buck asks as he opens the door, stepping through.

The house is a little messy. Buck knows he needs to pull himself out of his funk and do some laundry and sweep soon, but that can wait for a moment.

Tommy hangs back, not crossing the threshold.

"Tommy?" Buck prompts. "What don't you know?"

Seeming to steel himself, Tommy huffs.

"What I don't know is, do you want me to stay just for some company? Or do you want me to stay…longer?"

He looks nervous, and it's understandable. Buck doesn't let him stew for long. He reaches out a hand, hoping Tommy will take it and step through the doorway. There's a moment when Buck feels a pit open in his stomach.

Then Tommy takes his hand and steps inside, steps into the mess with Buck.

"I want you to stay forever."

[rafesangelita]

♡ when rafe finally let’s his friend have a taste..

warnings: dealer!rafe, heavy teasing, both rafe and barry are bullies in this, threesome, oral (f. receiving), praise, groping

a/n: i know the celebration req says topper and barry, but i want to slowly start introducing barry to this blog so i excluded topper in this one.. don’t worry though, topper will be in another fic this week ໒꒰ྀི´ ˘ ` ꒱ྀིა

“we won’t be here for long, alright? i don’t wanna hear you whining while i’m doing business, got it?” you hummed, rafe’s words going in through one ear and right out the other as you followed him up the steps to barry’s trailer. despite having been here plenty of times already, you couldn’t help but get shy and hold onto rafe’s arm whenever barry opened the door and flashed you a wink while giving you a full view of that gold-glinted smile of his as you brushed past him to get inside the cluttered living room. “lookin’ pretty as always..” he drawled, motioning for you to take a seat on the dingy sofa.

glancing at rafe, he gave you a nod before him and barry walked into the kitchen and started discussing their profits. you already knew the drill at this point; sit pretty and watch whatever old movie barry’s shitbox of a tv currently played until you grew bored and bothered rafe to take you home. losing count of the minutes you had been in the same spot, you sighed out loud in hopes of rafe hearing you. barry caught it first, his eyes flickering up to where you rested your cheek on the armrest of the couch. you looked heavenly just lying there, your babydoll dress fanning out around your thighs.

“i think someone’s ready to go home.” he laughed, drawing rafe’s attention away from the scale in front of him. “ignore her, she’s only going to keep on with her shit—” rafe didn’t even get to finish his sentence before he felt the sheer material of your dress brush against his arm. “can i sit here, please?” he hated how sweet you sounded asking him, an annoyed huff leaving his lips as he hastily brought you down onto his lap. “don’t go touching nothing.” he scolded just as you had reached for the journal they were doing their math and inventory in.

barry snorted, shaking his head as you retracted your hand, pursing your lips together before leaning back against rafe’s chest. sitting on the couch wasn’t any different, considering rafe still acted like you weren’t in the same room with him while you fiddled with a loose thread on the collar of his shirt. you only took five minutes of his negligence before wrapping your arms around his neck, whispering a small ‘please touch me, ray..’ as barry’s heated gaze raked down your figure. “what did i tell you?” rafe said through gritted teeth, shrugging you off of him.

“you see what i have to deal with all fucking day? she could never keep her hands to herself.” rafe cursed. barry laughed, both of them finding amusement in your needy tendencies. you shrunk in on yourself, feeling your cheeks heat as they continued teasing you, each insult topping the other until you couldn’t take it anymore, your eyes brimming with tears as you got up and ran away to barry’s room in the back. “aww, where are you going?!” rafe called out, rolling his eyes as you shouted back at him. “leave me alone!” you plopped down on the mattress, bringing your knees up to your chest.

barry cleared his throat as their laughter eventually died down, both of them sitting in silence with nothing but your sniffling sounding from the other room. rafe sighed, now feeling a little bit bad for making you cry. “what do you say we give her all the attention we could spare right now?” at this, barry’s head shot up in his direction. “we?” he repeated, his eyebrows pinching together in confusion. with a curt nod, rafe leaned forward. “you’re always saying how bad you wanna know how she tastes like, right?” barry waited for the man in front of him to say he was kidding but it never came.

“let’s go make her feel better.”

the last thing you expected was barry and rafe to walk into the room, both of them circling you as if you were caught prey. within minutes, rafe had you seated between his legs, your back resting against his chest as barry looked up at you from your inner thighs. “look at him, baby, he’s wanted to do this to you for so long..” rafe whispered, hiking your dress up around your hips so barry could get a clear view of your bare cunt. you swallowed nervously, having never been touched by anyone else except rafe. “don’t be scared, sweetheart, i’ll take such good care of you.” barry pressed a soft kiss to your folds before locking your thighs in over his shoulders.

rafe watched his business partner carefully, his cock growing hard at the sight. finally running his tongue up and down your slit, you gasped when you felt barry flick the muscle over your sensitive bud. “shit—” he laughed, his stubble tickling your skin, “you taste so fucking sweet, doll, me and your boyfriend here might have to fight over you.” rafe smiled before cupping your tits through your lacey bra, a small sting of pain making you whine as he roughly groped the flesh. “nah, we won’t have to fight. she can take us both.” you moaned, your hips instinctively moving away from barry’s mouth.

“don’t try to run from this, sheep, i’m gonna have you screaming for more in no time.” you squirmed, hiding your face in rafe’s shirt as barry worked skillful circles around your clit. squeezing your cheeks together, rafe forced you to look down as barry continued making you whimper. you felt yourself wanting to reach down and pull barry’s hair, the pure unadulterated pleasure making you dig your nails into your skin. barry saw you making crescents in your flesh from how hard you were clawing at yourself, his hands coming up to place yours on his head. “you could pull, ‘pretty, you won’t hurt me.”

threading your fingers through his hair, you let out a cry once he slipped his tongue inside your entrance, the tip of his nose nudging against your clit. rafe rolled your nipples between his fingers, his jaw falling slack as you trembled from barry’s ministrations. “i want you to cum and think about us sharing you,” rafe groaned, “..think about us both filling you up.” you breathed in, feeling yourself fall over the edge as rafe praised you for being so good for them. you nearly shrieked when the band in your tummy snapped and barry did nothing to slow down on your poor cunt.

“bear!” you squealed, pulling his head away before overstimulation can set in. looking down at him did nothing but turn you on even more, the sight of the pussy drunk expression on his face making you whine. barry couldn’t get enough, and now that he had a taste of you, there was no going back. rafe shifted his weight behind you, his cock poking your back as you leaned against him in defeat. “why don’t you return the favor, baby? you suck him off while i pound you in for whining when i told you not to.”

thank you nonnie for celebrating with me ૮꒰ ˶• ༝ •˶꒱ა ♡

[haikyu-mp4]

Damning evidence – Daichi x reader wc 846 – f!reader requested by @cottonlemonade for A blast from the past, parenting edition<3

Your lips were pursed when your husband got home from work in the late afternoon, and you gestured for him not to take his uniform off. He had been working overtime to earn a bit extra for your son’s upcoming school trip, but he would have to do a little work at home, too. “Our neighbour was just here.”

“The one with all the cats or the one with the annoying tree,” Daichi asked, leaning in to peck your forehead in greeting before toeing off his shoes.

“The one with the cats,” you confirmed, nodding slowly.

Daichi squinted at you. “And?”

“One of those cats was missing when she came home from work. She had reasons to believe it was a catnapping.” Doing your best not to chuckle, you gave Daichi the information you had gotten from the lady before pointing over your shoulder and lowering your voice. “I think our son stole the cat.”

Daichi’s eyes widened. “What? Why?”

“There was a very clear meow from his room when I knocked on the door asking if he wanted dinner before or after you got home. He said that he needed to do some homework. In other words, he asked me not to come in.”

You finally cracked, letting out a little snort of laughter at the same time as Daichi did, and you both spent a minute leaning on each other and snickering at your son’s ridiculous crime. Daichi was quite hungry, so you also stopped by the kitchen for an apple and had a briefing on his day before you made your way to the stairs. “Good cop, bad cop?” you asked.

“I’m thinking cop,” Daichi pointed to himself, then to you. “Mother.”

You snorted, waving him off. “You’re an idiot.”

Daichi scoffed in insult, gesturing to his well-worn uniform and looking somewhat cocky in his next words. “I’m literally a cop.”

You knocked on your son’s door, opening it despite his urgency in telling you to keep out. “We have a warrant!”

Walking inside calmly, you just managed to see your son using his foot to push something under his bed before he turned to you like the young gentleman he was. “Dad! ‘Sup, how was work?”

“You can address me as Officer Sawamura.” You did a double-take and looked at your husband with surprise, before following his lead.

“The police came, they’re investigating a catnapping. A kidnapping. Of a cat.”

“Oh, that’s a shame for real,” your son empathised. You nodded in agreement.

“A meow was reportedly heard from this room about an hour ago,” Daichi told him, pretending to read from the little notebook he had pulled from his uniform pocket. “We have reason to believe you were involved in the kidnapping.”

Your son scratched the back of his head and used the tip of his slipper to draw patterns on the floor. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Maybe the cat distribution system found a new home for it.”

“Evidence number two.” By now, you were watching Daichi just as curiously as your son was watching nervously. “The wrapper from a cat food packet. Found in the trash can downstairs.”

Your son chuckled awkwardly and looked at you. “Damn, mom. Didn’t know you ate those.”

Holding a hand over your mouth, you pretended to be coughing to hide any hint of a snicker. “I don’t.”

“Son, please be honest with us,” Daichi requested, finally done with the script he had made up while going up the stairs.

“That’s pretty damning evidence, honey,” you added, walking over to your son and patting him on the back. “Is there a cat under your bed?”

Just as you said that, a grey cat made its way out from under the bed, licking its lips before meowing again. The boy sighed. “There was.”

Daichi picked up the cat, scratching it around the neck. “Why did you steal it?”

“I wanted to show this girl in my class. Her cat died, and she’s been so sad about it,” he muttered.

You looked at Daichi with a pout, and he seemed equally moved by the purpose. “That’s valiant of you, but you could have just asked to go pet the cats.”

Groaning, he rubbed his face with both hands. “I didn’t even think of that.”

“Return the cat before dinner. Tell her about the girl, she’ll forgive you right away,” Daichi instructed, a caring smile on his face. “And you’re grounded for the rest of the week, no computer except for doing homework.”

“Fine.” He took the cat from his dad, huffing in annoyance before stomping down the stairs.

Daichi looked at you and wiggled his eyebrows. “Want me to make that two weeks?” he yelled.

Shaking your head affectionately, you gave your husband a big smooch on the lips before following your son down the stairs to get dinner started. Meanwhile, you wondered if Daichi remembered that time he cut his neighbour’s flowers with scissors to bring you a nice bouquet for your first date, back when you were teenagers. Like father, like son.

masterlist

[justzutara]

Prompt: Zuko and Hakoda have a heart to heart about fatherhood.

Zuko stroked Katara's sweat-soaked hair as she slept. Two days after going into labor, their baby still refused to leave the safety of its mother's womb. "He's stubborn just like you," Katara had said after the first sixteen hours had passed.

Everything since then had been a blur as Katara's comment replayed in his mind again and again. "He's stubborn just like you. He's stubborn."

He.

They hadn't talked about the sex of the baby during her pregnancy, but that simple joke had confirmed exactly what Zuko feared: he did not think he could raise a son.

"Fire Lord Zuko," the head midwife whispered, "would you step out for a moment? We need to make preparations for when Master Katara wakes." He nodded and promptly got out of the midwives' way.

The frigid air was still outside the birthing hut. Snow sparkled in the torchlight under his feet, and stars glittered in the dark blue sky above. Any other night Zuko would have marveled at the beauty of night in the south pole, but with his wife's labor stalled and his mind in overdrive, every point of light felt like a needle in his eye.

A firm hand on his shoulder snapped Zuko back to his senses. "How is she doing?" A nigh imperceptible tremor punctured Chief Hakoda's confident voice.

"The midwives gave her something to speed up her labor. It should kick in soon. Besides that, they said everything is fine," Zuko parrotted what he remembered from the update they'd given before Katara fell asleep.

"That's a relief," Hakoda smiled. Zuko nodded, his eyes fixed on the snow.

Hakoda squeezed Zuko's shoulder. "How are you doing?"

"I...I don't..." his stomach turned as he fumbled over his words.

"Nervous?" Hakoda asked.

"Terrified," Zuko admitted. They walked around to the side of the hut so their voices wouldn't disturb the midwives. "Katara thinks it's a boy."

"Does she? Most men would be thrilled about that."

"Most men also didn't have fathers who burned off half their faces," Zuko snapped. Hakoda looked away and tension settled between the two men.

"You're right. I apologize," Hakoda murmured. Zuko hugged his crossed arms tight to his body. "At least you know what not to do," the chief offered with a strained smirk.

To both their surprise, Zuko laughed. It was a rough, choked sound that brought tears to his eyes--which he quickly wiped away lest they freeze--but it felt good. His father and brother-in-law's sense of humor wasn't for everyone, but Zuko was glad for it now. "You're right about that. I could use some advice about what to do, though."

Hakoda leaned against the hut. "I'm afraid there's not much I can tell you," he sighed. "I did my best with Sokka and Katara after their mother died, but to be honest, I don't remember much about those years. I left to fight in the war when they were still young, and by the time we were reunited, they'd grown up." The older man drew circles in the snow with his boot. "My children turned out wonderfully, but I can't take credit."

This was not the pep talk Zuko was hoping for. "Sokka would have tried to break you out of prison by himself if I hadn't caught him. I threw my dad in prison when the war ended. I'm sure you did better than you think," he offered.

Hakoda smiled wryly. "Well, when you put it that way..." They shared a brief chuckle. "If you really want my advice, don't try to decide who your child is; they'll tell you. Just be there to help them grow and keep them safe. You're good at that," the chief grinned. That assurance was just enough to calm Zuko's frayed nerves. He had a boatload more questions, but they would have to wait.

"Fire Lord Zuko! It's time!"

"Thank you," Zuko whispered hastily as he headed back toward the front of the hut.

"Wake me when I'm a grandpa!" Hakoda called after him.

Katara's tired face lit up when Zuko returned. He dropped to her side and held her hand. "Ready?" He asked.

His wife squeezed his hand and groaned as a contraction seized her. "Whether I am or not, he's coming!"

Zuko squeezed her hand back and kissed her forehead. "I can't wait to meet him."

--------

Thank you so much for the prompt! Personally, I love the headcanon that Katara and Zuko's (first) child is a girl and Zuko is an iconic girl dad, but I thought this would be a great opportunity to explore his anxiety around the possibility of a son due to his relationship with Ozai.

[fkinkindagauche]

Some Unrighteous Intention

Also on AO3.

A/N: I needed to write something fun and silly because I was getting a little stuck with the long fic I'm working on. @dame-zoom-a-lot came through with a delightful prompt for the "Fruit" square on my @steddiebingo card - "5 times when Eddie gets distracted by Steve's mouth around fruit (or vice versa) and 1 time when Steve finally forces Eddie to do something about it". If you're looking for something else to read that's fun and tongue-in-cheek, try Zooms' fic May He Reign.

The title is from "Nature Boy" by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.

Rating: Explicit Word Count: 5,679 Relationship: Steve Harrington/Eddie Munson Tags: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Post-Season/Series 04, Gay Disaster Eddie Munson, Bisexual Steve Harrington, Masturbation, Hand Jobs, Getting Together, First Kiss, Heavily Sexualized Fruit, but no fruit actually involved in the sex

Summary:

Eddie regretted every choice he’d made that had brought him to this point. He wasn’t a man prone to regret. Not even the prolonged hospitalization and recurrent nightmares following Vecna had been enough to make him regret meeting and becoming enmeshed with the Party. But this. This was too far. He regretted it now. Because Steve Harrington was eating a strawberry. A wanton, juicy strawberry. His nimble fingers gripped the leaves and held the plump, red fruit against his parted lips. Lips stained red with the juice of the lucky fruits before this one. Lips Eddie had never particularly noticed before this very moment. Lips he now needed to feel against his own. Lips he knew he’d never be able to feel against his own. ================= OR, Steve terrorizes Eddie all summer by eating very sexy fruit very sexily.

Eddie regretted every choice he’d made that had brought him to this point. He wasn’t a man prone to regret. Not even the prolonged hospitalization and recurrent nightmares following Vecna had been enough to make him regret meeting and becoming enmeshed with the Party. But this. This was too far. He regretted it now.

Because Steve Harrington was eating a strawberry.

A wanton, juicy strawberry. His nimble fingers gripped the leaves and held the plump, red fruit against his parted lips. Lips stained red with the juice of the lucky fruits before this one. Lips Eddie had never particularly noticed before this very moment. Lips he now needed to feel against his own. Lips he knew he’d never be able to feel against his own.

Steve made an obscene slurping noise as he attempted to keep some rogue juice in his mouth. He failed, and it escaped, trickling down the perfect line of his throat.

A strangled wheezing noise emerged from Eddie’s throat.

“Dude, are you okay?” Steve asked, speaking around a mouthful of strawberry.

Eddie nodded, unable to form words.

Steve swallowed the bite and threw the stem to the side. “Is there something on my face? You’re staring.”

Eddie stood up suddenly from the ground and fled.

“Where are you going?” Robin grumbled as he nearly tripped over her foot.

“Gotta piss!” he managed to spit out through his extreme mortification.

“Robin, is there something on my face?” he heard Steve demand as he hurried away.

Eddie didn’t hear Robin’s response. He hurried off into the woods and leaned against a tree, attempting to calm down a very unruly portion of his anatomy. One that had, in fact, never reacted to Steve Harrington before.

He should never have come on this picnic. He hated the sun and the outdoors. Why had he let Robin talk him into it? This was a disaster. A catastrophe of epic proportions. He had a boner for Steve Harrington because of strawberries.

Steve probably didn’t even swing that way. (Well, Eddie’d had his suspicions during the Hargrove days, there had been some serious homoerotic tension there, but Steve had only ever dated women.) But even if he did, he was Steve! Muscular jock golden retriever boy! He wasn’t for the likes of Eddie Munson, freak of nature, deranged pitbull mutt boy.

Eddie took a few deep, cleansing breaths. He thought about his Aunt Muriel. That took his boner right out.

When he returned to the group, the strawberries were finished, and he could look at Steve again without carnal thoughts. Just a strange blip. Maybe he was attracted to the strawberries. He could handle that.

Eddie tried to forget about it, he really did. But he couldn’t look at Steve the same after that day. Every time Steve talked, Eddie’s eyes drifted to his lips and remembered the strawberry. He routinely got so distracted that he had to ask Steve to repeat himself. Steve was starting to get annoyed.

He noticed other things about Steve, too. The way he laughed when Robin or Eddie said something really funny, throwing back his head and cackling. The way he let Henderson and the other brats walk all over him, and always looked out for them, no matter how much he complained. The way he filled out his jeans so nicely, front and back.

Eddie couldn’t keep denying it – he had a crush on Steve Harrington.

The others had definitely noticed that something was up. He caught Robin squinting at him like she was trying to solve a puzzle. Nancy had smirked at him when she caught him staring at Steve at their last game night. Even Steve was giving him questioning looks.

“What are those?” Eddie demanded, pointing at a bowl full of what looked like large orange grapes. He was at Steve’s house, raiding his well-stocked kitchen before he picked up the kids for a D&D session.

Steve glanced over from where he was cooking something that smelled delicious (the man was a fucking cook, how was Eddie supposed to resist this?). “Oh. Those are kumquats.”

Eddie spat out the mouthful of Mountain Dew he’d just gulped down. “Excuse me?” Surely he hadn’t heard that right. Who would name a fruit so obscenely?

Steve gave him a weird look. “They’re little citrus fruits. You can just pop the whole thing in your mouth. Like this, see.” He grabbed one of them and shoved it into his mouth. His beautiful, pink mouth. With its moist lips. Just stuffing them full of jizz fruits.

“What?” Steve asked, mouth full of quats of the cum. His forehead was wrinkled in an unfairly adorable squint.

“That is a ridiculous name for a fruit,” Eddie managed to stammer.

“Oooh, I get it.” Steve’s face cleared. “Because of cum. Like, semen.”

“Yeah, Steve. Because of that.”

“I don’t think it’s named after that, though. They don’t taste anything like jizz. Here.” He pushed one into Eddie’s mouth, which had been stunned into opening by the idea that Steve Harrington knew what jizz tasted like.

Eddie chewed automatically. The taste was sweet at first, followed by a tartness once he bit through the skin. It was nice. And, yes, nothing like jizz.

“Like it?” Steve asked with a quizzical look. His thumb still rested on the edge of Eddie’s lips. Eddie wanted to bite it. He wanted to suck it into his mouth and taste the kumquat juices and Steve’s skin.

He stepped back instead, breaking the contact. “I need to be gone,” Eddie said with a slightly hysterical lilt to his voice.

“Dude, your bag!” Steve called after him. Eddie didn’t care. He ran.

“Jeff. I am telling you this in the strictest confidence. You must take it to your grave. No one can ever know.”

Eddie lay on his bed with an arm thrown melodramatically across his face as Jeff idly plucked at his guitar.

“Alright,” Jeff replied. He didn’t even sound interested. Rude. Although Eddie was pretty sure he’d used those exact words on Jeff at least ten times before, often about pretty trivial things, so he couldn’t totally be blamed for his lack of interest.

“I think I have a crush on Steve Harrington,” Eddie admitted with a moan.

“Oh. Well, yeah.”

Eddie moved his arm and sat up to glare at Jeff. “What do you mean, ‘well, yeah’? That’s all you have to say about this earth-shattering admission?”

“Eddie, it’s kind of obvious. You stare at him with heart eyes every time he comes to watch us practice. Even Gareth figured it out.”

Eddie threw a pillow at him. “You knew?” His outrage immediately turned to horror. “Do you think Steve knows?” Eddie collapsed onto the bed, arm back across his face. “Oh my god, what if Steve knows?”

Jeff patted him consolingly on the knee. “He probably doesn’t.”  That wasn’t very convincing.

“Why is this happening to me?” Eddie groaned. “I think I’m just gonna have to avoid him forever.”

“That’s going to be a little difficult. Considering we’re all going to Henderson’s birthday cookout at his pool in half an hour.”

“I’m not going,” Eddie announced.

“You have to. Dustin will be devastated if you don’t go. You wanna make that kid cry? You feel like explaining that to Mrs. Henderson?”

Eddie shuddered. The only thing scarier than seeing Steve Harrington right now was the thought of triggering Claudia Henderson’s protective maternal instincts.

“Okay, fine.” Eddie pushed himself up off the bed with a groan. “I can do this. I can be normal. As long as he doesn’t pull out any more cum nuggets.”

“Excuse me, what?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Eddie said with a dismissive wave of his hand.

The party was in full swing by the time Jeff and Eddie arrived. He scanned the raucous group in the pool, definitely not looking for Steve. He found Steve at the grill, cooking burgers without a shirt on. All that beautiful chest hair. All those delightful moles. On full display. It was upsetting.

Eddie collapsed in a chair next to Robin with a disgruntled huff.

“What’s got your goat today, Munson?” Robin asked.

Eddie sighed dejectedly. “Nothing. I’m fine.”

“Uh huh. Sure.” Robin didn’t sound convinced.

Eddie did his best to ignore Steve’s manly physique and enjoy himself. It worked, sort of. At first. But then Steve made it incredibly difficult when he came to join the vigorous rough-housing going on in the pool. He kept touching Eddie. Like he had no idea what he was doing to him. He tickled him, he put him in a headlock, he grabbed him around the waist and dunked him underwater. Eddie had to put off getting out of the pool to pee for nearly fifteen minutes to avoid showing everyone the raging boner in his wet swim trunks.

Just when he thought things surely could not get any worse, the watermelon came out. Nancy had sliced a watermelon into wedges, and Steve dove right the fuck in. Eddie sat across the table from him and watched as Steve opened his mouth inhumanly wide to take a gigantic bite. Juice spilled out of his mouth and over his cheeks, running down his chin. He looked up and locked eyes with Eddie as he licked his lips, then took another bite. He held Eddie’s gaze as he spat the seeds out into a strategically placed bowl. One after another. His lips forming a perfect pucker with each spit.

Eddie wanted to lick the sticky juice off his face and neck and chest. He wanted Steve to spit at him. He’d never had a spit kink before. Where was this coming from?

Eddie stood up from the table abruptly, upending his chair, and ran into the house.

He locked himself into the bathroom and immediately plunged a hand into his swim trunks to wrap around his aching cock. He felt guilty for beating off in his friend’s bathroom, for beating off to thoughts of that same friend. But he’d been hard for the entire afternoon. He needed some relief or he was truly going to expire.

He used the precum leaking from his tip to smooth the glide as he stroked himself. He thought of Steve’s lips, covered in watermelon, covered in strawberry juice. He thought of the shape of them as he spit. As he bit down on a kumquat. He came with a groan, inhumanly fast, as he remembered that Steve knew what jizz tasted like.

Just as he finished washing his hands, a knock sounded at the door.

“Eddie, you alright?” Steve asked through the door.

Oh, this was too much. Surely Eddie could not be expected to just go out there and act normal around Steve right now.

“No, not alright at all. I’m having explosive diarrhea and vomiting and also bleeding out my ears, you should probably stay away.”

“Um. Shouldn’t you go to the hospital or something, if all that’s going on?”

“No. It’ll pass if you leave me alone. Go away.”

“Alright.” Steve sounded like he was holding back a laugh. The blackguard. A laugh, at Eddie’s made-up intense illness.

But thankfully he left Eddie alone, to slink out of the house in embarrassed confusion, leaving behind a very pissed off Jeff without a ride home.

The summer wore on, and Eddie’s crush unfortunately didn’t let up. He kept telling himself he was going to avoid Steve, but he never held himself to it. He spent a lot of time at Family Video bothering Steve and Robin during their shifts, enjoying the air conditioning.

That’s where he was one night in late July when Claudia Henderson dropped off a whole bag of fresh-picked peaches. Eddie stared in horror as Steve made a pleased noise and reached into the bag.

“I love peaches!” Steve crooned. “You like them, Eddie?” Steve held a peach out to Eddie, who took it on instinct. The fuzz felt soft against his hand. He squeezed lightly, enjoying the slight give indicating ripeness.

Eddie looked up into Steve’s glorious, shining face. Robin was somewhere deep among the aisles sorting tapes, so Eddie was alone with Steve. And peaches. Arguably the sexiest fruit. He was in deep shit. Eddie didn’t know if he was going to survive this. It might be what finally did him in.

Steve grinned at Eddie. If Eddie didn’t know any better, he would say Steve looked downright devious. But no. Steve was just pleased to have some peaches.

Steve raised a peach to his mouth. He stuck his tongue out and licked delicately at the fuzz. (Who licked the outside of a peach?) The depression in the side of the peach was facing Eddie.

Suddenly, all Eddie could think of were butts. Well, one butt in particular. A singular butt. Steve’s butt. How much he’d like to grab handfuls of that butt and squeeze, just like he squeezed the peach. He would lick the fuzz on Steve’s butt. Bite into those ripe globes.

Eddie was well aware that he was already breathing heavily. Steve opened his mouth, looking at Eddie the whole time, and bit into the peach. His eyes fluttered shut as the juices flooded his mouth, some trickling out the sides and down his chin. He made an obscene noise that could only be described as a moan. He opened his eyes again and stared at Eddie as his tongue darted out to lick the juice off his chin. Then he closed his mouth around the flesh of the peach again and sucked.

Eddie’s breath came rushing out with a sound like a deflating balloon. Steve ignored the noise. He took several more bites of his peach, just as wantonly as the first. There was juice all over his face, running down his chin onto his neck, pooling in the divot between his collar bones. Eddie twitched, using every muscle in his body to avoid throwing himself forward and licking up that pool.

Steve finished the peach in several more large bites. Eddie watched the whole thing, unable or unwilling to look away. Steve stuck the pit in his mouth and sucked on it hard.

“What the fuck is going on right now?” Robin asked from directly behind Eddie.

Eddie startled, letting out a little scream and falling off of the stool he’d been sitting on.

“Just eating a peach,” Steve said, all innocence. “Eddie, you didn’t even try yours.”

Eddie lay prostrate on the ground. He thought maybe he would never get up. Maybe he’d just die here, all the blood sucked from his brain by the raging hard-on he’d gotten from watching his friend eat a peach.

Robin poked him with her shoe. “Are you alright, Eddie?”

“No,” Eddie breathed. Robin stared at him. Steve poked his head over the side of the counter, face still covered in peach juice. Eddie closed his eyes against the sight. “I think I’m allergic to peaches,” he continued, pushing himself up off the floor. “I need to leave. Just the smell is making my airways close up.”

“You ate peaches last week.”

“Delayed hypersensitivity reaction. Gotta go. Bye.” He hustled for the door.

“Steve, that was disgusting. You’re ridiculous,” he heard Robin say as he let the door closed behind him.

August was fucking hot. The hottest on record. Though he’d vowed to avoid Steve at all costs after the peach incident, that had only lasted until the temperatures veered into the 90’s. After that, Eddie spent most of his free time at the Harrington house, availing himself of the air conditioning and pool.

It was too hot to even lay in the pool today. Even the air conditioning was barely cutting it. They lay on the floor in front of a fan in only their boxers. He had been too weak with heatstroke to even protest the disrobing, though not too weak to appreciate Steve’s chest hair. He flipped idly through a copy of Rolling Stone, trying to keep his eyes off of Steve’s tits, while Steve threw a baseball into the air over and over.  Thwack. Thwack.

Eddie shifted uncomfortably. “Do you have any, like, ice cream or anything? Popsicles? Something cold?”

Steve hummed to himself. “I don’t think so.”

Thwack. Thwack. Thwack.

Steve sat upright, stilling the baseball. “Wait! I have something.”

He stood and walked much too fast to the kitchen. It made Eddie sweat just to watch him move.

Eddie’s stomach dropped in sheer terror as he saw what Steve held in his hands as he returned – a banana. No. Not that. Anything but the banana. Eddie could survive all the other fruits, but not the banana.

Steve had a wicked grin on his face. Like he knew. He couldn’t know. Right? Absolutely not.

“They’re a bitch to peel when they’re frozen, but it’s basically like a popsicle.”

Eddie watched as Steve’s deft fingers grasped the base of the banana. He slid his hand up and down.

“Feels kind of nice,” Steve said. “Cold.” He twisted his hand in an absolutely obscene motion and hummed to himself. Eddie dropped the magazine down to his lap, hiding a situation that was becoming more embarrassing by the second.

Steve poked at the tip of the banana until it started to peel. He drew the ice-hardened peel away from the fruit, leaving a solid pale yellow rod directly in front of his mouth. He looked Eddie dead in the eye as he opened his lips and slowly slid the banana in.

He hollowed out his cheeks, sucking on it in a way Eddie had never seen someone do to a banana. He moved it in and out, bobbing his head on the banana.

“It’s cold,” he mumbled around the shaft – no, the banana! Bananas didn’t have shafts. “Feels good on my lips.” He pulled the banana all the way out and licked gently at the tip. “You ever sucked on a frozen banana?” he asked. Okay, Eddie was almost positive now that Steve wasn’t still talking about bananas. Eddie must have passed out from heatstroke. That was the only logical conclusion.

“Eddie?” Steve prompted. “You like bananas, right?”

Again, there was a whole fucking undercurrent to that question.

“Bananas are… good,” Eddie whispered.

Steve’s grin lit up the whole room. “Good. Glad we agree about bananas.” He sat on the floor beside Eddie and slid the banana back in his mouth. Eddie didn’t know where to look – at the sweat beading gloriously on Steve’s perfect hairy pecs, at his lips sealed around the frozen banana, at his intense brown eyes boring holes straight into Eddie’s soul.

Steve pulled the banana out of his mouth, a string of spit connecting it to his lips for a few moments before it broke. He held out the banana to Eddie.

“You wanna try?” he whispered. He was so close Eddie could feel the gust of his breath with each word.

The door banged open. Eddie screamed and scrambled away from Steve.

“Dingus!” Robin yelled from the foyer.

Eddie took the cowardly out. He stood up and ran to the door, leaving his shirt and pants in Steve’s living room. He paused only to slip on his flip-flops and grab his keys.

“Munson, what the hell!” Robin yelled as he shoved his way past her.

As he started up his van, he heard Robin scream, “A banana, Steve?! Jesus Christ.”

Eddie avoided Steve for a few weeks after the banana. He was a little disappointed that Steve let himself be avoided, but he tried not to dwell on it.

The heat finally broke in the last week of August. Eddie tentatively started hanging out with Steve again. No fruits were bandied about.

Eddie should have been relieved. He wasn’t sure his heart could handle another fruit-related incident with Steve. It might just burst like an overwrought rabbit’s heart. But he thought Steve had been trying to tell him something with that banana. Maybe? As the weeks ticked by with no more hints, he decided he was probably just reading too much into it.

So when the offer to go apple picking with the whole group came in early September, he didn’t automatically excuse himself like he would have in the days following the banana incident. Apples weren’t even sexy. They were a thoroughly unsexy fruit. And they’d be outside, with loads of other people around. It would be fine.

It wasn’t fine.

Every time Steve reached for an apple, his adorable sweater rode up, revealing a patch of tummy with a glorious little happy trail disappearing beneath his jeans. Jeans that were tight enough to remind Eddie, once again, that Steve was very well-endowed.

And Steve kept picking the highest apples in the trees. Like he was doing it on purpose. After grabbing a particularly juicy-looking specimen from on high, Steve brought it to his mouth and bit into it. Eddie realized he’d been dead wrong. Apples were sexy, when they were in the hands of Steve.

Steve sucked at the apple where he’d bit as juice spilled out. The way he pursed his lips was obscene. He licked the skin around his bite, cleaning up the errant juice, then licked his lips. Eddie wondered, if he covered himself in apple juice, would Steve lick him like that?

To preserve his poor rabbit-like heart, Eddie fled to another row of trees.

He successfully avoided Steve and his tummy and his apple-licking for the rest of the picking excursion. He was ready to jump into his van and flee after Nancy dropped them all off at Steve’s, but Steve pinned him with a pleading stare and asked, “Eddie, will you help me bring all the apples in?”

It was like being asked to play fetch by an adorable golden retriever. Eddie couldn’t say no. He wasn’t heartless. (Though he might be, soon, if Steve made his heart explode.)

“Alright,” Eddie said, his voice cracking. He grabbed one of the bags and walked straight to Steve’s kitchen, setting it down.

“There you go!” Eddie said. “See ya later.” He turned to leave. Steve stopped him with a hand on his arm.

“I’m making pies. I could really use some help peeling and coring.” There was that pleading look again. Eddie was hopeless. He was lost. He was done for.

“Okay.”

He sat at the table like a man sitting down to his last meal before the electric chair. Steve handed him a paring knife. Eddie set to work peeling apples, doing his best to pretend Steve wasn’t even there – an almost impossible task, given Steve’s constant fidgeting. He wasn’t usually a fidgeter, that was more Eddie’s deal, but today he was wiggling in his chair like he had an itchy hemorrhoid.

“Dude, are you okay?” Eddie asked after Steve accidentally elbowed him in the arm for the fourth time. This time, Eddie had narrowly avoided gouging himself in the opposite hand with his knife.

“What? Yeah. ‘m fine.”

Eddie shifted his chair to move a few feet away from Steve. “Alright. Just gonna get out of the elbow zone then.”

Steve looked up from his apple and pouted. There was no other word for what happened to his face. It was a full-on pout. His lips turned down in a frown and his lower lip wobbled as his eyes got comically large and sad.

Guilt flooded Eddie’s system. “I can’t stay there! You’re going to make me knife myself!”

Steve schooled his features into a look of determination, picked up a slice of apple, and slowly and deliberately brought it to his mouth. He opened his lips wide, giving Eddie a thorough view of the soft pink inside of his mouth. He licked the apple slice, running his tongue along one surface, then along the opposite side. He closed his lips around it then slid it inside. All while maintaining direct eye contact with Eddie.

This was it. This was the moment Eddie was going to die. Slumped on the floor of the Harrington kitchen with a burst heart and a hard dick.

“I- I should go,” Eddie stammered, wanting to put off his inevitable demise just a little longer.

“No.”

The word was a command. Eddie froze halfway through pushing himself up out of his chair.

“Are you just not into me?” Steve demanded. “I know you’re gay, and I got the impression you maybe had a crush on me, so I thought I had a chance. But now I’m not so sure.”

Eddie thought he may have had a stroke. The words coming out of Steve’s mouth were English, and they theoretically made sense together, but Eddie couldn’t parse them.

“I’ve been trying to get your attention all summer,” Steve continued. “I’ve been so obvious that even Dustin caught on. I gave up after the banana thing because Robin told me I was being ridiculous and scaring you away. But I don’t know how else to do it.”

“What?” Eddie croaked.

Steve tilted his head to the side. He popped another apple slice into his mouth and chewed. Eddie watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed, and thought more devious thoughts. “Wait, have you really not noticed?” Steve asked. “That I’ve been coming onto you this whole time?”

“You’ve been what?” Eddie replayed the various fruit-related incidents in his mind. He’d thought Steve was just like that – unknowingly sultry and flirtatious, an unaware wet dream of a man.

“Ever since I saw the way you looked at me with the strawberries. And, okay, I can understand how you might not have seen through the kumquats or the watermelon. But the peach? The banana? Come on, Eddie.”

“You were… hitting on me?” Eddie felt he needed to clarify. This needed to be explicitly stated for him.

“Think of it more as a temptation. But, yeah, with the eventual end goal of fucking you. Or being fucked by you. I’d go either way, long as it was with you.”

Eddie swayed to the side. He looked around the room to see if the others were all there, waiting to see how Eddie took the prank. He swayed so far to the side that he fell out of his chair.

“Fuck!” he yelped as his elbow and hip connected with the hard tile floor.

“Whoa, shit.” Steve knelt down beside him, a hand coming to his head to keep it from hitting the floor. “You okay?”

Steve’s hand was warm against his cheek. He moved it back, threading fingers into Eddie’s hair, then tilted Eddie’s head back so he could look into his face.

“You hurt?” Steve prompted again when Eddie stayed silent.

Eddie shook his head. His heart beat rapidly against his sternum. Could a rabbit’s heart burst from pure horniness? He hadn’t ever heard of that, just the fear thing, but it seemed theoretically possible.

“Can you tell me?” Steve whispered. “Did you really not know?”

Eddie shook his head again. “I didn’t,” he whispered back.

“And now that you do?”

Eddie gathered up all the courage in his little rabbity heart and surged forward. He grabbed two handfuls of Steve’s adorable sweater and yanked him close, pressing their lips together. A startled noise emerged from Steve’s lips as he froze for a moment, and Eddie wondered if he’d just imagined the whole conversation leading up to this point, but then Steve relaxed against him, and joined in the kiss as an active participant.

Steve’s lips tasted of apples. Eddie licked against them, savoring the taste. Steve opened his mouth and wound an arm around Eddie’s waist. Eddie pressed his tongue in as the apple flavor flooded his senses. He could smell it, and taste it, a tart sweetness exploding on his tongue.

Steve moaned and pressed Eddie back until he was laying on the floor with Steve draped half on top of him. It should have been uncomfortable, but Eddie just wanted more. Steve slid a leg between Eddie’s own. Eddie instinctively ground down against it, rutting his hard and aching cock against Steve’s muscular thigh.

Steve’s mouth moved from Eddie’s lips to his jawline and kissed the soft skin below his earlobe. He pulled Eddie’s earlobe into his mouth like a piece of fruit and bit down gently. Eddie moaned and ground his cock down harder on Steve’s thigh.

“Been waiting for this for so long,” Steve whispered, his breath tickling Eddie’s ear. Eddie laughed, an incredulous, shaky thing.

“You’ve been waiting for this? I’ve been dealing with inappropriate boners all summer.”

Steve sighed. “Should have said something sooner.”

“Yeah, you should’ve,” Eddie agreed vehemently.

Eddie shifted so he could also get a thigh between Steve’s legs. He’d been thoroughly convinced of Steve’s attraction by now, but it was still shocking to feel Steve’s hard cock against his thigh. Eddie pressed his thigh up, drawing a shocked groan out of Steve. He swiveled his hips to rub his own cock harder against Steve.

Steve moved his mouth to the pulse point in Eddie’s neck. He licked over it, just like he’d licked the apple, and the banana, and the peach. He scraped his teeth against the delicate skin. He bit down lightly and sucked. It hurt in the best possible way.

Eddie’s hips began to move in a rhythm, rutting against Steve’s leg and letting his own thigh be used. Steve panted against his neck and reached a hand between them and thumbed at the button of Eddie’s jeans. “Want to feel you,” he muttered, his face hidden in Eddie’s neck. “Can I?”

“Yes,” Eddie whispered, barely more than an exhalation.

Steve deftly opened his jeans, with a dexterity that only a sexually experienced jock could manage. He slid his hand into Eddie’s boxers and wrapped it around his dick.

It was truly a miracle that Eddie didn’t come right then and there. More miraculous then his recovery after being eaten alive by monstrous bat creatures. His body was a wonder. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself down.

“This okay?” Steve asked, finally removing his face from Eddie’s neck and looking at him. His cheeks were colored with a pretty blush, and his lips were red and kiss-swollen. Eddie wanted to see this look on Steve every day for the rest of his life.

Eddie nodded. He touched two fingers to Steve’s jeans with a question in his eyes. Steve nodded.

Eddie opened his jeans with a lot less savoir faire than Steve had displayed, but he hadn’t had nearly as much practice. When his palm made contact with the warm, velvety skin of Steve’s cock, he thought he may have actually died from the horniness heart burst. Maybe this was heaven.

The head of Steve’s cock was wet, much wetter than Eddie ever got. Eddie used the precum to smooth the glide of his hand, squeezing and twisting as he pumped Steve’s shaft. Steve’s own hand caught on Eddie’s cock, friction getting in the way. Steve let out a frustrated huff.

“Here, let’s try something,” Eddie mumbled. He removed his hand from Steve’s pants, earning himself a pathetic whimper that sent a thrill through his whole body. They’d definitely have to revisit that at a later time. He pushed his jeans and boxers down, freeing his cock, then shoved at Steve’s. Steve got the message, pulling his own down.

Eddie lined their cocks up side-by-side. His hand didn’t fit all the way around both of them, but Steve brought his hand down to join him. Together, they could envelop both cocks. Eddie began to move his hand, spreading Steve’s ample precum down both of their shafts. Steve moved with him.

The feeling of Steve’s cock pressed against his own was unlike anything Eddie had ever experienced. He’d seen people do this in gay porn he’d found in a sex shop in Indy, but had never tried it himself. The skin of Steve’s cock was so smooth and warm against his own.

Steve leaned his head back down to kiss Eddie. It was filthy and wet, Steve’s spit still laced with the taste of apples. Eddie was going to have a Pavlovian response to apples from here on out. Apples would be a danger to him.

The movement of their hands in tandem was awkward at first, but eventually they got into a rhythm. Steve’s mouth against his, Steve’s cock against his, Steve’s chest against his. Steve everywhere. Warmth pooled in Eddie’s pelvis. He didn’t even have time to warn Steve before an orgasm rushed over him. Wave after wave of pleasure crested through his body as he spilled into their joined hands.

Steve bit down on Eddie’s lower lip hard enough to hurt, as his hips stuttered and he joined Eddie in his release. They both kept moving, slowly and out of sync, as they came down from their orgasms.

Their foreheads pressed together. Steve panted into Eddie’s mouth, his eyes still closed. Eddie watched the movement of his eyes beneath the lids, darting back and forth. There was a mole on the bridge of his nose, just to the side of the corner of his eye. Eddie wanted to learn all of Steve’s moles. Wanted to have them memorized. Wanted to kiss each one.

Finally, Steve’s eyes fluttered open. He smiled at Eddie, shyly. Like he hadn’t spent the last four months terrorizing Eddie with sexualized fruit.

“So. That was nice,” Steve mumbled. He looked unsure of himself.

Eddie let out a high-pitched, deranged laugh. “Nice? Nice, he says. Stevie, that blew my fucking mind.”

Steve’s shy look turned into a wide grin as his blush deepened. “Yeah? You don’t regret it?”

Eddie grabbed Steve’s chin with his hand and held his face still while he looked him in the eyes. “I have never regretted anything less.”

“Good,” Steve said with a sigh and a nod. “Great. You wanna go on a date sometime?”

“I’d love to. I hear there’s a really nice pumpkin patch in Fernville. We could broaden our horizons, switch to vegetables.”

Also on AO3.

All dividers by @/saradika-graphics, except the banana divider, which is by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more.

[starkeymeow]

❛ we make each other alive . .

does it matter if it hurts? ❜

I’M COMING, WAIT FOR ME.

PLOT you enter the hunger games a proud weapon of your district, only to find your sharpest blade is the boy beside you, and you’re not sure which one of you the capitol wants to break first.

CONTENT chapter eleven, best read in dark mode, rafe cameron x reader au, feast, im TIRED I WANNA BE DONE WITH THESE GAMES HELP, lowkey jj dies here ok warning, me not knowing how to make this non cringe LMFAO im sorry ok its also fast paced bc idk realistically it would be too bc who tf drags out a death idk ok sorry goodbye

main masterlist | series ml | tag list | previous

you pull your knees up tighter to your chest the second that fanfare cuts through.

you lift your head slightly, your eyes sore from crying. it’s not just for kie, but for everything. the stress, the cameras, the deaths surely, the mutts that could come back at any moment if they wanted. it’s all still clinging to you like sweat.

the death recap of the night begins.

the first face that flickers is that boy, the one who tackled you. turns out he was from district three. he’s got a scratch on his chin in his photo and his hair’s slicked back like someone took time to style him. he looks tired, even in that still image. he clearly didn’t want to be there in the first place.

a few seconds later, it flicks again. kie.

you feel your heart sink all over again.

her photo is clean. there’s no bruises, no blood. not the way you last saw her. not the way she looked when you heard her scream jj’s name through a mouthful of blood. in her picture, she’s confident. her chin’s lifted, her hair’s beautiful. she was ready. ready to win.

you frown, shifting your position, letting your chin drop onto your arm, then slowly leaning to the side until your cheek presses there instead. you don’t want to look anymore. you don’t want to imagine your face up there. or jj’s. or rafe’s. but you do anyway.

you think about the photos they made you take, the tribute profile shots they said. it’s necessary for your page, that photo is attached to your name everywhere. and you remember thinking, what’s the point of this? but now you know. the point is this. to see your face up there like some kind of announcement.

you press your lips to your arm and stare at the ground.

somewhere beside you, the leaves shift. an arm moves across your shoulders. it’s rafe.

he’s not awake, just leaning back against the tree behind you, his eyes closed, adjusting in his sleep. he must’ve thought it’d be more comfortable this way, slinging an arm around your neck rather than letting it get crushed between your sides. the weight of it is warm and grounding, and for a second, you don’t move.

you glance over at him quietly, careful, like you’re afraid even just looking will wake him. his face is calm, more relaxed than it’s been all night. maybe even the last few days. you don’t know if it makes you feel better or worse.

you shift your gaze again.

jj’s a few trees away, still as anything, his spear beside him in the dirt. he hasn’t laid down. he hasn’t even closed his eyes. he’s just been leaning against the trunk, his head tilted up slightly.

he didn’t eat earlier. not a bite. you don’t think he even could.

you chew the inside of your lip, watching him.

“good morning, tributes.”

light’s peeking in just barely. you stir awake with a tight ache in your neck and your knees still pulled up like your body forgot it could stretch.

you recognize the voice though. it’s a gamemaker. has to be. you rub your hands over your face and keep listening.

“we hope you’re well-rested, because today brings you an opportunity.”

you squint upward.

“as a reminder, the games are not only a matter of strength, but strategy. survival. will. resourcefulness. and today, we’re giving you a chance to show us all of that and more.”

you frown, your brows drawing together. something’s coming. you can feel it.

“there will be a feast at the cornucopia.”

your stomach knots and you shift upright more fully, palms against the dirt as you sit on your heels now, alert.

“each of you needs something desperately. you will find that something in a backpack marked with your district number, at the cornucopia, at dawn.”

you freeze, eyes widening slightly. it’s a trap. it has to be. at least that’s what your instincts tell you. but you’ve seen the games before, this feast is real. the remaining tributes make it a trap for others.

“think hard about refusing to show up.”

the voice is colder now, like they’re trying to root out your fear.

“for some of you, this will be your last chance.”

then silence. you stare straight ahead for a few seconds, the last words of the announcement ringing inside your skull.

you exhale and glance over your shoulder. rafe’s awake. he’s watching you already, one arm propped up on his knee. when your eyes meet, he gives you a faint little smile. one of those yep, we’re doing this expressions.

you blink back a tired laugh and sigh through your nose, shaking your head.

“of course we’re going,” you mutter, mostly to yourself.

you sit in silence for a long time after, curled up beside rafe while jj stays off on his own. the three of you don’t speak at first. it’s just quiet nods, silent understanding, sharpened weapons. there’s no need for words when the stakes are this high. the bags will be there at dawn, and each one holds something vital. something the capitol knows you can’t live without.

you can’t risk not going.

but that doesn’t mean it isn’t dangerous. there’s still two more tributes out there. they could be separated, could be together. either way, they’re a threat. they’re just as desperate.

you consider every angle. maybe they’ll try to take you out before you even reach the field. maybe they’ll be hiding in the cornucopia already. maybe they won’t show at all, just too afraid to try. it’s a gamble no matter how you look at it.

you move fast anyway. it’s nearly twenty minutes before the trees thin enough for you to glimpse the field. your body stills before your mind does , and there it is. the cornucopia.

four backpacks sit out in the open, perfectly aligned on a steel table placed right at the mouth of the horn. your district number practically glows against the fabric. it’s to the very left.

you expected a drop before you even got there, like hovercraft lights or a countdown. something. but no, they were ready for you. like the gamemakers knew you’d come early. they knew you’d want to stake it out first. they’re always a step ahead.

you drop to a crouch. no movement, no other tributes, not yet.

you feel rafe beside you. jj crouches on the opposite end of the brush, his spear steady in one hand. this is it. the plan’s simple. you just wait for the first sign of movement. whoever dares to step out first, they become your target. you’ll be faster, quieter. you’ll get there before they can blink, or at least that’s what you tell yourself.

you dig your boots into the ground, press your back to the trunk of a tree, and breathe slow. the field is empty. it won’t stay that way for long.

. . . until it actually does.

and what the fuck? is no one coming for their bag?

you shift your weight again, your leg cramping a little from being crouched for so long. rafe’s still posted in place beside you, silent and still like he’s carved out of stone. and jj, well, jj’s lost his patience already. you can tell by the way he keeps standing up and sitting back down, like he’s daring himself to just go for it.

after thirty minutes, he was already pacing. now, he’s dragging a rock across the ground like he’s trying to carve out a new distraction. your stomach grumbles for what feels like the tenth time, but you ignore it. you focus on the treeline.

did the other tributes not hear the announcement? or are they just that scared?

it’s weird. you thought someone would be desperate enough to try. but now it just feels like the gamemakers are waiting, watching you all from their fancy screens in the capitol. watching to see who’ll make a move first.

you glance over at rafe sometimes to see if maybe he’ll finally say it's time to stop waiting. maybe decide that it's not worth it. just grab the bags and go. you’d listen. you’d follow. but he doesn’t move. he just stays still with that same quiet kind of confidence that’s started to gnaw at your nerves. you hate how calm he looks. like he trusts something about this.

you rub your eyes, your hand dragging slow across your face. the exhaustion clings to your skin.

jj mutters something under his breath and you hear the clink of something metallic as he digs around in his backpack. he’s clearly over it, the silence and the waiting. he looks like a kid stuck in a time-out who’s bored and ready to punch something.

you sigh and crawl over, sitting down beside him. you bump your shoulder into his gently, just enough to let him know you’re there. he doesn’t say anything, just shifts a little to the side, still focused on whatever he’s digging out.

you rest your head against his shoulder and watch his hands. he finally pulls something out. it’s small, sharp-looking, half-wrapped in cloth but clearly mechanical. your eyes flicker over the details, the way the wires wind tightly around a tiny trigger. it takes you a second before you recognize it.

“is that kie’s?” you ask. he doesn’t speak. just nods. you look at it for another second before looking away. it makes your chest feel too tight.

“there’s a few,” jj mutters, fingers adjusting one of the small pins in the trap. “gonna set them up at the table so if the others grab their bags, they get caught.”

he stands before you can say anything else, slinging his spear back over his shoulder and holding the traps carefully in one hand.

“do you guys want me to get yours too?”

rafe answers before you do, “we’ll get it.”

you look back once to see rafe watching jj with that same unreadable calm. but jj doesn’t argue. he just nods, turns, and heads off, jogging into the open like he’s daring the arena to try something.

you watch him move across the field. it feels like something should happen, like a cannon should fire, or someone should run out screaming. but nothing does.

you just track jj’s every move. your eyes flick back and forth between him and the trees. your fingers grip the hilts of your daggers, slow and steady as you pull them from their sheath. no sudden movements. not yet. not unless something gives you a reason. you just know you’re there to back him if he gets jumped.

jj makes it to the cornucopia easy, all smooth confidence in the way he drops his spear onto the table. it clatters against the metal, you can even hear it from where you are.

he’s focused, flipping the traps over in his hands, turning them this way and that, trying to find the right angles. he’s careful, faster than he should be for something that delicate. he tucks each one just behind the bags at the base where they’ll be out of sight. it’s smart. if someone tries to grab one without noticing . . . maybe they’ll lose a hand. or worse. you don’t know. they’re kie’s contraptions. you’re not even sure if jj knows what they do.

after the last trap clicks into place, he snatches the district four bag and grabs his spear again, then starts running.

and that’s when you see it.

movement. it’s not big or fast or anything. but something, someone, is at the treeline, across the way. your body locks up for a second. there’s a girl. she’s peeking out just barely, her head low, eyes squinting toward jj like she’s trying to calculate something. and you can tell by the way she flinches that she didn’t expect him to be there.

you don’t hesitate. you whistle. loud.

jj jerks his head up instantly, eyes locking on yours mid-stride. you point. your arm slices through the air, finger held out firm toward the girl.

jj skids a little as he slows, turning just in time to catch sight of her. and then he’s gone again, bolting, fast as hell, feet kicking up dirt behind him.

the girl panics. you can see it. she ducks back into the green like she wasn’t ever there at all.

but you know better. you and rafe move at the exact same time. you grab your pack, your fingers curling tight around the straps as you shove your daggers back into place and sprint after them both. you’ll get your feast bag later.

the field stretches too long, too wide, but you don’t stop. your backpack shifts against your shoulders with every stride, jostling uncomfortably, but you keep moving.

then—rafe. he veers to the left of you, yelling over his shoulder, “i’ll get it, just stay with jj!”

your head snaps toward him, eyes wide, but he’s already gone, racing straight for the cornucopia table like it’s the only thing keeping you both alive. you almost call his name, but you trust him. you turn your focus back forward and push harder, legs burning now.

jj’s just barely ahead, fast and reckless, tearing across the field. and you, you chase him. every time you think you’re catching up, he’s already ducking through the trees again, vanishing like a shadow just ahead of you. you keep your eyes locked on him.

you’re in the woods now, leaping over exposed roots. ducking under low-hanging limbs. things graze your arms and catch your clothes, but you barely feel them. you know where he’s going. you’ve been this way before. there’s water up ahead. he’s chasing her there. it’s the only reason to head this deep, this fast.

the girl, she’s gone from view. she’s been too far away from you for you to see her anyway.

you move faster, your feet hit the ground harder. your legs ache like they might give out, but you grit your teeth and tear through the forest like something wild, something hunting. you feel like a predator closing in, tracking every sound and movement, heart pounding loud in your ears.

then, jj disappears. he just slips through a patch of trees and just like that, he’s gone. your chest tightens immediately. you swerve between trunks, leap over a moss-covered rock, barely avoiding slamming into a branch.

then you hear it. there’s a scream. it must be hers, but it’s short and panicked.

there’s a struggle. you can hear it, rustling, splashing, the sound of someone grunting, fighting back. and you know you’re close. you know this is the water. they’re here.

you shove through the last of the brush, branches snapping around you. your hand grips the hilt of your dagger just in case. the leaves claw at your skin as you force your way past, and then you see them.

jj’s with the girl, thrashing, tangled up in each other by the edge of the water. your breath catches.

is that diamonte?

jj’s eventually waist-deep, soaking wet, his arms locked around someone who doesn’t want to be touched. diamonte is twisting in his grip like a feral thing, her fingers clawing for anything, her feet pushing off the muddy floor of the lake, trying to lunge deeper, like submerging herself is going to somehow make her invisible or safer.

it’s pathetic, the way she thrashes. stupid, even. and for a second, you think: how the hell did she make it this far?

but you already know. she probably ran, laid low, waited. but it was only a matter of time before someone got to her.

jj tries to drag her back toward shore, but the moment his grip slips, she turns on him, faster than you expect. her elbow jams into his ribs and before he can recover, she’s on his back, wrapping around him like a snake. her hand goes to his throat, the other to the knife at her hip.

you run forward but stop at the edge, frozen.

she’s got the blade pressed just under his chin, not enough to bleed yet, but it wouldn’t take much. jj’s hands go up immediately, his chest rising fast, not struggling. he’s watching you. his eyes are locked on yours like a signal.

you swear that if she does it, if she really does it, you’ll kill her.

you take a step forward, heart pounding. “diamonte.”

she doesn’t look at you. her breathing’s ragged. her face is sunken, her skin pale. she’s still probably gone days without food, maybe more. her cheekbones look sharper than they should. her eyes are sunken.

jj winces slightly under her arm, but doesn’t move.

finally, she speaks. “this is what they want.” her voice is hoarse like she hasn’t used it in days. “they want me to slit his throat, and then you’ll come at me, and then someone else will come at you. and it’ll go on. until we’re all fucking dead.”

you don’t say anything. not yet.

she tilts her head slightly, like she’s listening for something only she can hear. her jaw flexes. her eyes finally cut to you. she’s literally unstable.

“you still don’t get it,” she says, laughing once, breathless. it’s not funny. “you still think this is about districts. about bags. about who kills who.”

she presses the knife a little deeper. jj holds perfectly still. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something.

“they’ve taught you so well,” she hisses. “you really think dying out here means something. you, topper, jj, what were you trying to prove? that you’re strong? that you’re worthy?”

she notices when your eyebrows furrow at their names. she smiles. “topper thought he was brave. that if he just fought hard enough, they’d let him go home. and now he’s, what? dust in a cannon? a body that the capitol has to do whatever they please with it? i thought he’d win, if anything, but look at us. we’re still here.”

your hand clenches around your dagger.

“my brother thought the same thing last year,” she mutters. “district one’s golden boy. volunteered like it was his birthright. the kind of kid they throw a parade for before the blood even dries. said he wanted to die for something.”

her lips curl, but it’s not a smile. it’s something bitter.

“you know what they sent back to my mom? a pin. a fucking pin.”

jj’s breathing harder now. the knife hasn’t moved. you can tell he’s trying to stay calm, but his hands twitch slightly, like he’s getting ready. or like he’s asking you again to do something.

“you’re just like them,” diamonte says, her gaze pinned to yours. “just better fed.”

“i’m not here to give them what they want,” she whispers. “i’m not dying for their cameras. and neither is he.”

her grip tightens, the knife shifts. you know that if you so much as try to move, she’ll kill him just to prove a point.

you’re watching her come undone in real time. and still, jj doesn’t fight. he just looks at you like he’s already decided what’s going to happen. like he’s already accepted it.

no. no, no, no.

if she does it, she better be ready to die. you’ll drag her down into that water yourself.

you barely hear her as she’s still talking. it all blurs together. something about how they’re watching, something about how they’re not showing this part, how panem doesn’t get to see the truth. “they’re probably cutting to a fucking squirrel climbing a tree while i tell the truth,” she spits, mouth foaming. “they won’t show this. they never do.”

you tune it out.

your eyes are on jj, only him. he’s trying to stay still, but you see the tension in his arms, the way his fingers are inching upward, like he’s thinking of grabbing the blade or twisting out of her grip. idiot. don’t be a fucking idiot.

he’s looking down at the knife like he’s studying it, calculating, plotting.

he will. you can feel it in your gut. he’ll try something, he’ll take the risk. maybe he doesn’t care if he dies here, not after kie. not with that guilt still carved into the back of his skull. maybe he thinks this would be justice, or redemption, or an escape.

you shake your head once. don’t move.

he sees it. his jaw tightens. his lips purse and his hands stop rising, but his eyes stay on yours, and it’s like he’s saying, she’s not gonna let me walk away. you know that.

you do. but there’s something else. you glance at the water. you try to come up with something, anything. work under pressure, under a minute, you need to analyze everything.

this isn’t just some random lake. this is the lake. the first one that helped you washed the bloodbath off of your body. it’s the one kie was sitting on the edge of with you. the one with the trap. the snare.

it’s still there, probably sunken under the surface, tangled at the bottom. she doesn’t know it’s there. neither does jj unless he remembers kie setting it there too. but you do.

if they shift just right . . .

“you think this is a game?” diamonte yells suddenly, head snapping toward the sky like she’s screaming at the gamemakers. “you think this is entertainment? say something!” she bellows. “show me the red light. show me you’re watching. come on, i know you’re watching!”

jj’s eyes flick down to the water, then back up to you. did he figure it out too?

don’t, you think again.

there’s a crunch behind you. a single bootstep. it must be rafe. you hear him before you see him, but it’s too late. she reacts.

diamonte’s head jerks, body twisting, and she shouts something incoherent as she yanks jj’s head back. the knife jerks forward—

but jj’s faster.

your hand reaches back instinctively, finding rafe’s arm like it’s the only solid thing left to hold onto as it all unravels too quickly. your other arm stretches out in front of you, as if somehow, reaching far enough could stop it.

jj’s elbow slams into diamonte’s stomach, the knife dropping with a soft splash, her scream piercing the air as her body jerks backward.

her leg snaps back like it’s caught in something, and you already know what it is before she even stumbles. kie’s trap is still there. she’s too distracted to notice, too out of it to realize she’s already marked.

and jj doesn’t wait. he’s spinning, grabbing, his hands snapping around her throat. diamonte freezes. and just for a second, uou can see the fear in her eyes. she looks at jj like she sees something final in him. and maybe she does. maybe they both do.

he drives them both under with one brutal movement, his arms locked around her as they vanish into the water. it all blurs after that, with the splashing, bubbles, flailing, but you can’t see who’s winning, who’s still breathing, who’s drowning who. the water’s too clouded and the light is too bright. your eyes even burn from staring too hard.

you step forward, already bracing to run in after them, heart jackhammering against your ribs as you call out, barely louder than a whisper, “jj—” but you don’t get any further.

rafe’s hand closes around your upper arm and hauls you back. you stumble for a second, caught between fight and freeze, and then you look at him.

he doesn’t speak. he just meets your eyes like he knows the concern inside you, like he’s asking you not to give in to it. you can’t, you shouldn’t. these are the games.

you want to believe jj’s okay. you want to believe he knows what he’s doing, that he’s strong enough to win this and come back up. but the longer you stare at the surface, the longer it stays undisturbed, no gasp for breath, no victorious shout. he’s doing this on purpose.

rafe gives your arm a pull. and somehow, your body starts to follow. you run.

the trees blur past in streaks, your backpack bouncing heavily against your shoulders, and rafe’s footfalls thudding just in front of you. your breath comes fast and uneven, not from the sprint but from the weight in your chest that keeps pressing down.

and then it happens.

one cannon. one of them is dead.

it echoes through the entire arena. your feet falter mid-step. not enough to fall, but enough to make rafe glance at you.

you flinch, visibly, and something inside you folds in half. the tears prick your eyes instantly, but you don’t let them fall. you swipe them away with the back of your hand, jaw clenching as you force your legs to keep moving. another cannon just a minute later.

you don’t speak, and neither does rafe, because what would you even say?

you just keep running, back toward the field, toward the cornucopia. jj’s gone, so is diamonte. it’s just you, rafe, and the last tribute. only three left.

two more people and the victor gets to go home.

but even after all of this, for the first time you start wondering, do you even want it to be you?

a/n: i keep forgetting that as a district two kid y/n is supposed to be a little brainwashed so oops ! idk how to properly show that thru the behavior but ermm

sry smtimes idgaf because im so excited to get to the 75th games timeskip. this is a huge moment bc jj dies but i wrote it so poorly in my opinion (like i couldve done better) but atp its like a filler chapter in my head LMAO

ALSO idk if anyone noticed that itty bitty detail but since jj comes from four itll be canon that he can swim, even hold his breath for longer than someone in another district. his death cannon comes later than diamontes which shows he was purposely drowning himself for a whole minute after he killed her, putting himself thru that struggle n killing himself omg ok im done

@nicholaschavezslut69 @iissza @snowtargaryen @yootvi @ariiwritess @spideysimpossiblegirl @skyslowalking @adribarbie @obsessionsarenotfortheweak @0-tatiana-0 @beebeerockknot @rafestar @drewstarkeyzwhore @drewsephrry @annaconscience @writtenbyhollywood @yourtypicalteenagegirl @daisydark @v4mpscrms @issahruiz @ilovefictionallmenn @derpjungkook @vanessa-rafesgirl @sunny1616 @alphabetically-deranged @nrmlgirl @supercxnt @xoxosblogsblog @rafegetinmybed @siyahmoonlight @livie4lifestarkeyblyth @d-daxx @tsumudoll @ogcrashout @jjasmiineee @loverliner @ailimedae @belle101200 @hiimbrina @nomup @ayy1234567 @girxwrp @k4yr14 @amterasuu @theteenagementality @maggscr @hey-you22w @delilah22pbp @hayleynott @silkenthusiasts ++

[multific]

In the Shadow of the Hunt

Yautja x Reader

Warning: Smut

Summary: Trained to outlast any Predator, you never expected to earn the respect and heart of one.

You were doing fine until something far worse than the Yautja entered the territory.

The creatures were not natural.

Mutations, maybe. Bloodthirsty beasts designed for something else's war.

You heard the Yautja before you saw him, you heard clicks low in the trees, that faint hum of cloaking tech.

At first, he was your death sentence.

Now he was your only chance.

It started with a standoff.

You had your knife drawn, back to the river, as he de-cloaked in a shimmer of light and metal.

Eight feet tall, heavy with muscle, body scarred and worn from a hundred battles. His mandibles clicked as he studied you with a curious expression.

You should have attacked.

Instead, you lowered the knife.

"Common enemy," you said slowly, keeping your voice low, hands spread open. "You can kill me later. But right now we both have bigger problems."

He tilted his head sharply, as if weighing your words. His wrist-blade retracted.

It was the beginning.

You learned to communicate through simple gestures at first.

Pointing. Nodding. Grunts of acknowledgement.

He didn’t speak human languages, but he understood survival, a universal tongue.

You nicknamed him R'thok in your mind, it sounded close to the snarling sound he made when introducing himself.

In turn, he began to call you a series of low clicks that almost sounded affectionate.

When you saved him, dragging his heavy body out of a pit trap, using your last medical kit to seal his bleeding side, everything changed.

He touched your wrist afterwards.

A careful touch. Not demanding and not threatening.

Grateful.

Respected.

At night, you camped near each other.

Not too close but close enough that you could hear his breathing.

He carved strange symbols into the dirt. You answered by sketching your own.

A new language bloomed between you, drawn in sand and mud.

Safe.

Danger.

Hunt.

Stay.

And sometimes he would leave you little offerings, cleaned bones from his kills, scavenged tech scraps, a strange fruit you had never seen before.

His way of caring.

You started smiling more around him.

He noticed.

His mandibles twitched into what you thought might be a grin.

The first time you touched him was after another ambush.

One of the mutated beasts had cornered you.

Its claws had ripped through your shoulder, blood hot down your arm.

R'thok tore it apart with a roar that shook the trees.

You stumbled. He caught you.

Huge clawed hands, shockingly gentle, cupped your body and kept you from falling.

You pressed your forehead against his chest without thinking, panting.

"You… you’re warm," you whispered weakly.

He made a rumbling sound, almost like a purr.

Without words, he hoisted you up, carrying you like you weighed nothing, and set you down in the shelter of a hollowed tree.

When you woke later, the wound was stitched neatly, and R'thok was there. Watching. Guarding.

Yours.

The final fight was brutal.

The leader of the beasts pinned R'thok first.

You had a split-second decision: save yourself, or save him.

You didn’t hesitate.

You drove your knife into the creature’s eye, grabbing a discarded plasma caster and blasting it at point-blank range.

The thing screeched and died.

You turned to R'thok, chest heaving.

He was staring at you in a way he had never before.

Not as prey.

Not as an equal.

As something more.

He leaned down, his clawed hand brushing your cheek. You shivered, not in fear, but at the intensity in his gaze.

When he pressed his forehead gently to yours, you understood: it was a vow.

Among his kind, that meant something deeper than any words.

A bond. A claiming.

Love.

You closed your eyes and pressed back.

Yes.

Months later, after the rescue teams came and went, after you chose to disappear from your old life, you lived among the stars.

In a hidden place where Yautja and humans met in secret.

Where no hunt ruled your days anymore.

Only him.

Your mate.

Your hunter.

Your heart.

The ship thrummed around you, metal walls glowing faintly blue with low light.

You sat on the narrow sleeping platform in R'thok's quarters — if they could even be called that. Everything was raw, functional: weapon racks, a table of trophies, pelts spread across the floor. The air smelled like steel, blood, and something warmer... him.

He stood before you, massive and still. His armour stripped away, leaving only thick, scarred skin that shimmered faintly in the low light.

His golden eyes softened as he looked at you.

You got up slowly, your pulse a wild drumbeat. You barely came up to his chest, but he bowed his head to you, patient, waiting.

Waiting for you to make the move.

You reached up, fingertips brushing the hard line of his jaw. His skin was warm, surprisingly soft over the brutal strength beneath. His mandibles twitched, a low, almost uncertain rumble rising from his chest.

"R'thok," you whispered.

You didn’t need to say more.

The bond between you crackled like a live wire.

With a low groan, he caught your hand and drew it to his mouth. His tusks brushed your knuckles as he breathed you in.

And then, so slowly it made your head spin, he pulled closer.

You felt the heat of him.

His massive hands slid down your sides, claws grazing lightly over your hips, your thighs, as if memorising every inch.

You reached for the woven cords across his chest and tugged.

He growled low, a sound of approval and need, and helped you, stripping the cords away.

He was all muscle and old scars.

A living weapon who had chosen you, knelt for you.

He bent, pressing his forehead against yours again, the sacred gesture of his people, and you swore you could feel his heart hammering as wildly as your own.

Your fingers traced the thick cords of muscle over his shoulders, his chest, sliding lower.

His body shuddered under your touch.

When your hands grazed the hard line of his abdomen, he snarled low, catching you at the waist and lifting you as easily as if you weighed nothing.

You gasped, but he was already carrying you to the furs on the floor, laying you down with impossible tenderness.

Hovering above you, he hesitated.

He brushed your cheek, your throat, your racing pulse.

Are you sure? - his eyes asked.

You answered by grabbing the back of his neck and pulling him down.

The kiss was clumsy at first, Yautja mouths weren’t made for it, but he learned quickly.

Pressing his mandibles against your skin, nipping lightly, tasting you.

His scent wrapped around you, wild, electric, addictive.

Your clothes came off in pieces, discarded into the dark.

When you were finally bare under him, his gaze raked over you with a hunger that was almost reverent.

He touched you like a treasure, each brush of his massive hands making you ache.

He was careful as he explored you.

Mapping every sound you made, every shiver, every sharp intake of breath.

You gasped when his hand slid lower, between your thighs, and he paused, snarling softly in warning, in need. 

Telling you he would go slow.

You wrapped your arms around his thick neck, anchoring yourself to him, and whispered against his ear:

"I'm yours."

He froze.

Then he roared and surged against you.

The first push of his made you cry out, he was so big, you could feel every inch.

But he was gentle, trembling with the effort to hold back. Giving you time to adjust and grow used to him.

You clutched at his shoulders, at the ridges of his back, moaning into his skin.

He rocked into you slowly at first, every movement careful, deliberate. Worshipful.

But soon restraint gave way to need.

His pace quickened, driving deeper, and you met him eagerly, rising to meet each thrust.

It was overwhelming. Consuming.

You felt the bond between you ignite — something ancient, primal — not just physical, but something deeper.

As you shattered beneath him, you felt him follow, his body locking tight against yours with a desperate, broken snarl.

He didn't let go.

Not even after.

He curled himself around you, protective and fierce, his breath hot against your neck.

One massive hand covered your belly. His way of marking you.

You lay there, panting, stroking the side of his face with trembling fingers.

"Yours," you whispered again, kissing the corner of his mandible.

A deep, vibrating purr answered you, the sound of utter devotion.

You closed your eyes, safe for the first time in what felt like a lifetime.

Not hunted.

Not alone.

Chosen.

Loved.

Forever.

~Masterlist~

ˇAO3ˇ

Wattpad

/DO NOT TRANSLATE, STEAL OR REPOST ANY OF MY WORKS TO THIS OR OTHER PLATFORMS/

[juletheghoul]

father figure III

a/n: So I've watched the movie like 6 times at this point and I just really love Clint lol. I have some things planned out and I cannot wait to write them, hopefully you all love what I come up with. Shout-out to @just-here-for-the-moment for encouraging me and for putting up with my endless questions and voice notes! 💕xoxo

Warnings; 18+ no minors, vague but big-legal age gap, POV sex (wrap it up) Clint not pulling out, oral sex (male receiving)*swallowing*, dirty talk, nipple play, shitty dad (neglect), absent mother (abandonment issues), allusions to illegal activity, domestic violence, daddy kink, secret relationship, **DRAMA** Hurt/comfort, period piece - takes place in 1987, let me know if I missed any!

Pairing: Clint Flood x F!Reader

Ko-fi link 🥲💕

word count: 5.4k

reblogs are appreciated

Masterlist series Masterlist

---

Thursday morning finds you in a very different mood than the previous week.

You huff about it on your way to the bathroom, pout through the daily rituals with unwanted thoughts of Jen’s words. You mentally shove them away for the hundredth time, lock and bar the doors but they slither in regardless, like smoke. 

You take a deep breath and sigh a deep sigh, drying your face off before continuing with your routine. His smile is there too, along with the blood and the violence, the soft slide of his fingertips across your neck, the plush press of his lips against your mouth, the toe-curling stroke of his tongue, his cock. Surely a man who pleasures you like that would never hurt you?

Your fathers voice is raised, argumentative over the phone hanging on the kitchen wall, enough so that he doesn’t register your presence until he slams the handset onto the receiver. 

“Everything okay?” You ask him despite yourself, it’s not as though he tells you anything. He grunts in response. 

“You working today?” He shoves different papers into his pockets, grabbing his keys from the counter. 

“No, it’s Thursday–”

“Okay, I’ll be back later, probably late.” He huffs, shaking his head in annoyance, at what—you don’t know, don’t entirely care. He leaves, thankfully taking that annoyance with him. 

Clint shows up a couple of hours later with a tape in his hand, and a mischievous look on his face. For a split second, Jens words echo, they project blood onto his clothes and splatter it onto his face. He smiles bigger though, leans in and kisses you soft and sweet, the vision dies and it seems almost absurd to even dwell on what may or may not have happened so long ago. 

“Hi baby.” Cigarette smoke and his cologne mingle and flood your nose as well as your panties when he pulls you in close, when his mouth captures yours. You don’t respond, only pull him closer, wrap your arms around him tighter; enjoy the comforting strength. 

“I’m not dressed–” Your eyes fall to your ratty old sweatpants, the holey t-shirt. 

“I think you look very cute, very comfortable.” He steps inside and shuts the door. “I thought it might be fun to watch a movie, stay in, order a pizza. How does that sound?” The idea is perfect, after standing on your feet for hours on end at the store, a quiet night in is just what you need. The tape clutched at his side draws your eye but he slips it behind his back. He smiles, one eyebrow raised. 

“What did you rent?” You try to peek again but he tsks, angling himself to keep it hidden. 

“You’ll know when you know.” You huff, pouting and it only makes his smile grow. 

“You’re such a little brat huh? I said you’ll know, when you know.” He taps the tip of your nose, laughing at the way you narrow your eyes, at the way you scrunch up your nose. 

“Fine, so bossy–wait, are we watching here?” 

“I think it’s best we go back to my place, and why don’t you go ahead and pack a bag.” Your heart skips a beat, your stomach drops down to your socked feet. He must see the shock on your face.

“Or, I could bring you back if you don’t feel comfortable staying over—“

“No! No I’d love to, give me a few minutes!” You surge forward, pulling a smiley oomph out of him before running up to get yourself together.

Your hands shake. 

The soft, comfy pyjamas you usually wear don’t seem right. They sit in one hand, while a silkier, newer pair sits in the other. You toss the silky set into the open duffel bag. Clean, cute underwear join the bag, along with your basic toiletries, a clean pair of jeans–and your video store t-shirt, just in case he ends up driving you directly to your shift tomorrow. 

He’s leaning against the counter when you jog back down the stairs, tapping the mystery tape against his leg. Wordlessly, he grabs the duffel from your hand and leads you out of the house.

-

A fluffy, grey thing winds through your legs, almost tripping you. 

“Louis, manners.” Louis meows back, and you laugh. 

“Hi buddy.” He butts his head into your hands when you crouch down. He’s so soft, so sweet, purring and chirping at you. “You’re just a little softie aren’t you?” 

“Just shamelessly flirting with my girl huh? You little monster.” The casual way he claims you makes your face hot. It's not overt, or aggressive and when he smiles and makes his way inside you’re sure he’s unaware of what it’s done to you. The feeling is so foreign. No one has ever called you theirs before, not in this way, not with such a quiet certainty.

The smile lingers, aches in your cheeks when you pick up the big cat and carry him with you towards his cozy living room. 

“So, can I know what we’re watching now?” He grunts on one knee, says nothing as he slips the tape into the VCR. There’s a gleam in his eye when he turns towards you. 

“I think it’s best if we put Louis into my room, I don’t want him interrupting us.” It’s hard to work out what he means by that, but you make yourself comfortable on his couch regardless. My girl, you think, snuggling into the well-worn leather of his couch. Dustmotes dance in the shafts of light coming in through his window, a vision of slow afternoons with him float through your mind–what would it be like to live here? To have a life with him?

“Okay—“ there’s an energy about him, something electric, excited, eager, “I can guarantee it’s not a movie you’re expecting, but it’s something I really wanna watch with you.” He settles into the sofa, pulling you from your corner, and from your thoughts. 

The smell of his cologne pulls your face into his neck, the warmth of it melds with the cigarettes he smokes, makes him completely irresistible. He hums to himself when you kiss just below his ear.

“I think you’re gonna like it.” There’s that undercurrent again, a knowing, a plan—

The tv screen flashes blue before the movie starts. Music you don’t recognize plays, FBI warnings flash across the screen and you watch, confused as to what it might be until you see her. 

“Clint… is this…?”

“It’s porn.” His nose skims up your neck, his hands tighten around your thighs, your eyes remain glued to the screen though. It’s a little jarring how much she looks like you. Your heart races, your stomach drops and despite how confused you are over what you actually think about this whole thing, arousal pools in your belly; a deep pull, like something tugging behind your bellybutton.

The image of her, bubbly and laughing, flirting shamelessly with the single dad, the much older man holds almost all of your attention.

“She’s pretty…” he whispers in your ear, his smile is sharp when your head whips around to face him. “Nowhere near as pretty as you baby, but it could be you. You see it right?” His eyes turn to the girl on the screen, the scene has shifted dramatically, from flirting, to kissing and groping, you cannot help but watch.

“Same eye shape, same cute little smile, and look at him—could be my brother.” And it could, the man on the screen is nowhere near as hot as Clint, but he’s the same type, greying, handsome and broad as hell.

“And doesn’t she just love it when he touches her…look how wet she is…” the scene has shifted again, both of them are naked now and she really does seem to like the way the older man touches her, you can’t really blame her—

“Just like you huh? Your pussy gets so fucking wet when I touch you doesn’t it baby, I bet it’s wet right now.” A moan slips out and he laughs low. His voice, the images on his tv, his hand slipping between your legs to cup your cunt, it all drives you mad. Jealousy burns hot within at the thought that he’d want to watch this at all, but it’s tempered by the resemblance, it’s spiced with the possessive way he holds you to him. It’s the most erotic thing you’ve ever experienced.

“Talk to me, pretty baby, what are you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” he pauses the movie, “I—it’s a lot, my heart is racing right now.” You let out a nervous laugh, his fingers press softly to your chin and turn your face to look him in the eye.

“Do you want me to turn it off? I won’t make you watch it if it’s not turning you on. We can stop this whole thing and do something else.” The smile curls your lips up. 

He would turn it off if you told him to, he’d probably take you right back to the video store and let you pick out another movie if you expressed any discomfort at his plan. Embers burn in your chest at the thought, a sticky heat that feels like genuine care, genuine feelings for this man fill you to the brim. 

The paused image of this alternate version of you shines on the screen, frozen in absolute pleasure, a hand on her breast, a tongue on her clit. 

“I wanna keep watching, but I want us wearing less.” It’s hard to get the words out without trembling, or feeling awkward but you do it anyway. 

He smiles, presses play, and pulls you closer.

Clothes come off, your shirt and your jeans pile up alongside his shirt and slacks around you. The older man is feeding his cock into her mouth by the time you’re both naked. He was right about the state you’d be in, your panties shine with the clear, slippery evidence, his cock stands at attention. 

“No, I want you facing the tv. We’re gonna watch.” You’re halfway to straddling him when he stops you and turns you around. A sharp bite to the meat of your ass makes you squeal, and then he sits you in his lap, and not on his cock.

“Look at that. She’s good at sucking dick… I bet you are too, aren't you baby?” His chin rests over your shoulder, “I bet you would look so fucking pretty with daddy’s cock in your mouth.” 

The thought makes you squirm, makes you rub your thighs together in his lap. His hands slide across your belly, slide up to hold the weight of your breasts and then focus on your nipples. It’s a torture the way he touches you, soft flicks at the sensitive peaks, slow circles that end with them pinched gently, and then not so gently between his big fingers.

“Does that feel good?” His lips press against your shoulder while his fingers continue to pluck at your nipples.

“Yes.” It really fucking does, he knows it does. Your arms rise to thread through his slicked back waves, gripping while he continues to tease your breasts.

“He’s going to give it to her, you want me to give it to you? You want me to fuck this pretty little cunt?” One hand slips down, he lets out a laugh when your legs fall open. “Oh honey, just as eager as her huh? Answer me.”

“Yes daddy, I want it so bad—“ your voice shakes with anticipation, the words barely coming out as his hand hovers at your mound, those deft fingers slipping through the soft curls there. 

“What do you want baby, tell daddy what you want—keep watching the movie. I want you to watch her get fucked while I have my way with you.” You let out a shaky breath, swallow thickly. She’s on her back now, legs spread while he plows into her. You moan at the sight. Clint’s cock is so fucking hard under you. 

“Is that how you want daddy to fuck you? Hard like that—?” His fingers slip inside you, two, thick and long. A moan escapes, your head tilts back with the pleasure of it but he tuts.

“Eyes on the movie sweetheart.” With a whine you focus, or try to. His fingers start to thrust in sync with the man on the screen, your brain blanks. The girl moans on the tv, just as you do, both of you being filled. For a moment, that flash of violence fills your mind's eye again, that the solid, gorgeous man underneath you could inflict such pain on someone makes your heart race. 

Shamefully, it makes you wetter. 

“Oh baby, listen to that.” Heat floods the whole of you, your pussy sounds soaked–every thrust of his fingers rings out louder, messier. A breathy daddy comes out of your mouth, and he laughs, an earthy, low tone that only adds to your considerable arousal. 

“You want my cock don’t you baby, just like her huh? You want me to fuck you just like that?” God you do, you want him to hold you down, you want him to bruise you, claim you roughly, make you take his dick until he says you’ve had enough. “I need words, sweetheart, those pretty moans won’t get you what you want.” He pulls his fingers out and you whine, desperate, feral. 

“Open.” His word is law, and your mouth falls open while you writhe in his lap. His fingers rub your own arousal onto your tongue, a vulgar blessing, an anointing. Sweat beads on your skin and in your hairline, on your lower back. 

“How do you want it?” He pinches your nipple again, already so sensitive from his earlier teasing. 

“Hard.” You mumble around his fingers. 

“Put your hands on the coffee table.” He taps your leg and for a moment you don’t really understand what he means, your brain is too full of the girl getting fucked on the tv, on how you aren’t getting fucked, too full and not full enough of his dick pressing into your back. 

“Don’t make daddy tell you again. Bend over, and put your hands on the coffee table. Now.” He’s such a good man, the best man who ever fucking lived and there’s no way you aren’t going to obey the best man who ever lived. 

Smooth, solid wood under your hands holds most of your weight, it’s a little awkward for a moment to stand bent over, until you finally feel the blunt head of his cock slipping through the mess between your legs. Those deft fingers ghosting over your skin.

“Watch her.” It’s the only warning he gives you before he bottoms out in one, deep thrust. That bruising grip you were fantasizing about finally rears its head, that firm feel of his fingers gripping your hips while he gives it to you exactly how you want it. 

Your head drops with the force of his thrusts—

“Eyes up baby, don’t make me tell you again.” He pants, voice clipped with authority, exertion and passion. 

“Yes daddy, yes, god yes.” Your whole body is on fire, the pleasure is so sharp, laser focused in that spot he’s hitting with every push in, but spreading like a wildfire through your veins, inching you closer and closer to that peak. Your head drops again.

“What did I say?” Your hands come off the table, one hand holds your throat and for a moment your heart races with something close to fear. 

“Daddy told you to keep—“ he thrusts harder, shoving the air out of your lungs and making your pussy weep rivers of arousal, “watching, the screen—“ two fingers hook into your mouth, pulling at your cheek. He holds you to him, caught, subdued. Dominated.

You come all over him, hard and sudden.

Your body tenses with the force of it, arching sharply, ass pressed against his groin, breasts jutting out, half standing, half bent over. Half moaning, half sobbing. 

“Oh I know, I know baby, so good huh? You gonna be my good girl and take this fucking cock until I come? You gonna take all of daddy’s come in that ruined little cunt?” He sounds frantic, animalistic. His fingers slip out of your mouth, dragging your spit across your chin, across your breast when he holds it. The girl on the screen laughs as she bounces on the man’s dick, flirting and teasing while your brain melts out through your ears, leaks out around Clint’s dick.

“Fuck, here it comes—“ you wince, feeling the way he grinds deeper, the warmth of his come, the humid pants against your neck. 

You try to catch your breath for a minute, he does too. Your whole body aches when he pulls out and lets you straighten your spine. There’s a dark thrill that lights you up from the inside at the feel of his load dripping out. 

“Give me a second and I’ll grab something to clean you up with.” Tender, soft, relaxed. He tilts your head back to press a soft kiss to your forehead before shutting off the tape, and walking over to his bathroom. There are scars on his back too, you can’t help but notice.

He's wearing a soft t shirt, and an old pair of sweats when he comes back. Gently, he wipes away the mess he made between your legs before slipping another one of his shirts over your head. It smells like his skin, like that tender spot behind his ear that smells like him and soap. Emotions swell within, an intensity, a vulnerability you can’t quite explain. You almost want to cry. 

Methodically, he opens your duffel and roots around for a clean pair of panties, slips them over your trembling legs as you silently fall apart. 

“Get cozy, I’m going to let Louis out, and then grab you some water.” He places another tender kiss on your forehead before walking away and again, the threat of tears lingers. 

By the time he comes back, by the time he presses the glass to your mouth they fall silently. He frowns, but you shake your head. 

“I’m sorry It’s not you, I don’t even know why I’m crying, it’s so stupid–” He tsks, puts the glass down and then settles back, pulling you half into his lap in the process. 

“It’s not stupid, and you have nothing to be sorry about. Happens sometimes.” He pulls you in, reassuring you with his tone, with his hands and his warmth.

You snuggle closer, bury your face into his neck. He’s so fucking solid, so warm. His big hand does a soothing sweep on your back, it melds the line between boyfriend and daddy, your face shoots up. 

“What’s wrong?” His other hand cups your cheek, “Oh god, you must be hungry, let me order a pizza–” he groans, his whole body tensing up to rise but your fingers grip onto him. “What is it baby?”

“Um. I just had a thought, maybe it’s dumb, or the wrong time to ask but, are you my boyfriend?” His eyebrows rise up into his hairline and immediately you want to backtrack. Leave it up to you to have the most amazing, mind-blowing sex of your life and top it off with crying and interrogating him. 

“Well–” He starts, but you don’t let him finish.

“Oh my god no, I’m sorry, forget I asked.” You bury your face into his shoulder again, clench your eyes together and let the embarrassment overflow like a broken levee.

“Enough with that, hey–no more saying sorry for asking questions or telling me how you feel. I’m not trying to dodge the question, or avoid the topic. You just caught me off guard is all.” He tilts your head up, presses a kiss to your lips. “I want to be with you, I want you in my life, preferably not secretly but I understand you not wanting to deal with your dad. I am happy to be your boyfriend, or partner, whatever you want to label it.” 

Your face heats, the whole of your body floods with warmth at the sound of those words. 

“I’ll tell him, I don’t want you to be a secret.” Your nose connects with the warm skin of his neck again, he smells so good you sigh. 

“We can do it together.” The sweep of his hand continues to work its magic as your heartbeat slows, comfortable, safe. Is this what it feels like to be loved? Is that too strong a word? Too fast?

“I think I should do it on my own, but thank you for wanting to be there with me.” He says nothing, only nods, presses his lips to your forehead.

-

The rest of the night was just as perfect as you’d hoped it’d be. He ordered pizza. You cuddled on the couch and watched other movies he’d rented, not that you’d actually paid attention to anything. Laughs and cuddles morphed into a soft makeout session, which then morphed again into a heavy makeout session. Soft sex on the couch. Longer, more intense sex in his bed. He laughed about needing to hydrate, teased you for being insatiable, made self-deprecating jokes about his age and keeping up with you. Your birth control was going to have to put in work. 

The morning finds you awake before he is. Louis meows softly at the door, no doubt hungry for breakfast. You knew where he kept the food, and so quietly and quickly, you crept out and fed him. 

Clint is still asleep when you slip back inside the room. He’s always the most relaxed right after he comes, but even that doesn’t hold a candle to how he looks while asleep. He looks a little younger, the lines in his face are a little less defined, that constant furrow in his brow is gone.

He shifts onto his back with a deep breath, settles, eyes still closed. Completely at ease. You study the freckles littered across his neck and shoulders. Your finger absentmindedly follows each little silvery scar you come across. Theories, or more accurate still–your own imagination fills in a little story for each one. A scratch from Louis, a cut from the sharp chef's knife in his kitchen, a fight. The scar on his nose is the hardest to rationalize, so you don’t even try. 

His chest rises and falls with each even breath, a sparse little patch of hair, soft under your fingers when you trace them down from between his pecs. The sheet covers his belly, you move it out of the way to continue your soft exploration. A darker happy trail leads down from his bellybutton, towards his groin, ending in the darkest patch at the base of his cock. 

You let out a sigh at the sight of it. It’s half hard, resting against the junction between his torso and his thigh. There’s an intimidation that grips your chest in regards to this part of him. He easily has the biggest dick amongst all of the guys you’ve been with. Thick and slightly curved, a prominent vein that makes your head buzz. In the short time you’ve been together you’ve slept with him a handful of times, he’s gone down on you, seen every inch of you but this is the first time you’ve come face to face with it, so to speak. 

Despite being naked, despite having wiped the trickle of his come away every time you’ve used the bathroom, you somehow feel almost shy. His eyes are still closed when you shimmy closer. Your stomach jumps when you get really close. Slowly, tentatively, you run your tongue across the head. The nervous flutter in your belly is still there, but it’s tempered with how his cock twitches, you take a hold of it loosely and continue. 

He lets out a soft sigh, half asleep, half dreaming while you let your saliva pool and drip onto the head. It’s an unhurried exploration, a slippery kiss of the shaft, a tentative lick from root to tip until it’s swollen and hard within the soft grip of your palm. The intimidation swells along with his cock in your hand, your heart races at the size of it, your cunt leaks.

He wakes up while you’re licking at his balls. 

“What are you doing down there, Princess?” He smiles, his voice deep and morning-raspy. 

You smile, responding with another kiss at the tip. It’s slick with your saliva, slipping through your grip with ease. His hand finds your throat, long, thick fingers curling around your neck when you take him deeper. There’s no pressure in his grip, only a gentle encouragement, a reminder of his strength. You moan onto him, take him deep until he hits the back of your throat, until your nose presses against his groin. He smells like himself only deeper, earthier. Clean. Masculine.

“Good Christ, baby–” The fucked out tone of his voice only motivates you to swallow around the tip, pull out all the stops, make him moan just how he makes you do. His thumb presses only slightly into the base of your throat–how can those hands ever hurt anyone? How can the thought of that strength turn you on so much?

“Fuck, that’s it Princess, swallow daddy’s cock.” He breathes, his other hand caresses your cheek. Up and down you bob, stroking his shaft while you suck, twisting your wrist on the down stroke. 

“You’re gonna make daddy come, you want that pretty baby? You want daddy to come in that pretty mouth?” You pull away to let more saliva drip out onto your fist, moan a yes daddy, smile at the way he looks at you before dipping down to lick at his balls again. 

“That’s my good girl, go on then.” He guides himself back into your mouth, the hand at your neck tightens a fraction, enough to make your cunt clench although deep down you know it really shouldn’t. 

You focus, suck the head and stroke, twist your wrist and let him touch your throat with every bob. Steady rhythm, firm, wet grip, an aching jaw and determination pay off, and within a few minutes he’s panting; hips moving, balls tightening. 

“Fuck, yes baby, yes baby, oh fuck, I’m coming–” He floods your mouth with a deep groan, hissing when you squeeze his balls softly and swallow every salty drop. 

He drops onto his back, pulling you up with him. Your jaw aches, and another sort of shyness creeps in while he takes deep breaths. There’s a need for approval that threads like a network of veins that connects with your nervous system. The longer he stays quiet, the longer he lays there, the more the need grows. A wholly independent hunger that claws at you, separate from the overwhelming desire for him to love you with his body. 

“Was I good?” Your head settles onto his shoulder lightly, muscles tightly wound, barely letting yourself fully rest onto him.

“Pretty baby, you were more than good.” He pulls you closer, sighing into the kiss he presses to your mouth. Your neck relaxes, all of you does, his reassurance is the relaxant, the special sauce that lets you loosen up.

“That’s one hell of a way to wake up.” He laughs, hugging you tighter, he’s just as loose as you feel. His heavy arms are comforting, his mouth at your neck feels like a light somewhere deep inside has been turned back on. When had it been shut off? Was it even there at all before him?

“My turn.” His voice carries the smile, fills your heart to bursting with it.

-

Anxiety creeps in, just as his car creeps down your street. It’s a heavy weight that keeps your mouth shut, clenches your jaw tightly at the thought of just how differently the light shines through your windows, as opposed to his. 

“You okay?” He presses the back of your hand to his mouth. 

“Yes.” You give him a tight smile, he raises his eyebrows. 

“You sure?” His big hand squeezes yours hard enough to warm you up from the inside. 

“No.” You huff out a breath, sinking further into your seat. 

“I don’t want to go home, I don’t want to see my dad, I don’t want to go to work, I just want to hang out with you and Louis all day.” Heat floods your face at the confession. It's unrealistic, obviously. You know he…well, you know he’s out making money. 

“I would love that. Can you take a few days off in a couple weeks? I’ll rework some stuff, give you my undivided attention, or at least as much as Louis will let me.” He laughs, and suddenly you feel lighter. The thought of being sequestered up in his apartment, a Princess in her tower, only she’s already been rescued.

“That sounds amazing, I’ll talk to my boss.” You scoot over, burying your face into his neck before pulling his face towards you. He lets you kiss him for a few seconds before facing the road again. 

Your house dims some of the light he’s lit inside, but the thought of a tiny vacation with him keeps it on. 

He carries your bag in one hand, holds onto your shoulder with the other as you step through the doors of your house. 

“Where the hell have you been?” Your dad speaks, his tone cuts through the quiet–your stomach drops to see his expression change, his eyes flit between Clint and you, realization dawns. Clint takes a deep breath. 

“Dad–”

“So this is where you’ve been? This is why you’ve been distracted, not taking extra shifts at the store, head in the fucking clouds. You acting out like a teenager? Trying to get my attention by fucking around with my business?” 

You scoff at him, this was not how you wanted him to find out. 

“Acting out? I’m an adult. I haven’t been taking extra shifts because I don’t want to, it has nothing to do with your business.” You shake your head, part of you always knew it would be difficult for him to accept this. 

“Don’t give me that, I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing? Living my life? Dating someone who treats me well?” It’s not fair how he can strip you of your good mood so easily, how quickly he can corrupt your happiness without even trying. The cruel judgement in his eyes shouldn’t hurt this much, but it does. It almost makes you want to laugh, how unsupportive, how selfish he’s always been.

“Just like your fucking mother–” It’s a smack across the face without ever having to lift a finger.

“Hey!” Clint’s voice shocks him for a moment, the warning tone of it, “Cool it. Don’t speak to her that way.” His shoulders are square, part of you preens, revels in his protection. 

“Do me a favour and stay the fuck out of it, she’s my daughter and I’ll speak to her however I want. If she wants to go around acting like a fucking slut then I’ll call her a–” He doesn’t finish his sentence. The sting of his words, of his insults don’t feel like anything compared to the shock of seeing Clint’s fist connect with your fathers face. 

Time slows down, a slow motion shot of your dad falling back, of Clint rushing him. Wordlessly, calmly, animalistically, Clint’s fist pommels. Blood splatters, bones crunch, watery gurgles shake you from your frozen state. Your heart races, your stomach drops to the floor, time moves at its normal speed and your feet bring you to them.

“Stop! Please!” You pull at his shoulder, yank him away from where he beats your father into the ground. With shaking hands, you shove him towards the door. “Go! You need to leave!” 

He seems almost drunk while he stumbles back, confused and disoriented. You cannot help the tears, you cannot help the fear of what might happen and so you push him, get him away from your father before he kills him. He cannot be here, he needs to go, he needs to get away before the police are called, before he’s taken away from you. That image of him in his bed with you this morning flashes, something in his eyes, something you have to shut away for now.

“Go!” You sob at him again, closing the door in his face to deal with the damage.

---

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[venusfe-art]

Okay so I have a THEORY, I have already talked a bit about it in the discord but Tumblr needs to know too.

Silverborn spoilers ahead!!

At the end of Hollowpox we find out there’s someone, or something, more dangerous than Squall. I feel it’s very hinted at/obvious this thing is either President Maud Wintersea or just the Wintersea Party and Republic in general. I’m leaning more towards the party BECAUSE what if the other Wundersmiths aren’t dead, but kept captive?

There has been multiple fake deaths in the entire series to this point, from Jupiter faking Morrigan’s death with Mesmerism dust or whatever he calls it, to Bertram Crow basically doing the exact same thing as Morrigan, running off with/being kidnapped by some Wundrous Society dude to join the entrance trials and live in Nevermoor. We also don’t know if Mildmay is dead or not, although Squall’s “I took care of him” absolutely makes it sound like he murdered him.

There is still SO much we don’t know about the Courage Square Massacre. Why it happened, how it happened (the buildup), and what happened after. Squall does not talk about it despite Morrigan’s constant reminders that he’s a murderer, but she has never actually asked for his side of the story. Squall has never actually gotten to explain himself, and we know he doesn’t tell Morrigan more than he deems necessary. There are no records of the Massacre in history books because it has all been abridged, removed, forgotten, and Morrigan isn’t allowed by Jupiter to return to the Gobleian Library to check out the other Wundrous Art volumes (although, if she really wanted to go she would. She had her mind elsewhere during Silverborn, poor thing).

We know some things about Wundersmiths and specifically how Squall views *being* a Wundersmith though. We know there are supposed to be nine, and when one dies, within everywhere from a few days to a few years the power will transfer and a new Wundersmith will be born. The fact that no new Wundersmiths have been born for a hundred years is WEIRD if you ask me. Maybe Wunder was shocked, tapped out, in mourning over its lost Smiths, Wunder’s interperator for the citizens of the world. Maybe it didn’t want to risk the same happening again. Wunder has an amazing memory, Jupiter says.

We also know about Squall’s frustration with being a servant to the public. “Wundersmiths take none of the credit and all of the blame”, talking about how Wundersmiths are made to do rich people’s bidding just because they have the power. I think he wanted to regain control over his own abilities and Wundrous Acts, so when the Wintersea Party offered him exactly that, control, he took the opportunity. But! Just killing all of the other Wundersmiths would be a stupid idea, because then they would all just be reincarnated and, even though they wouldn’t have any teachers to teach them the Wundrous Arts, cause trouble for Squall if he wasn’t able to track them down. He kills all Cursed children, but we know that most of the Cursed children, if not all of them except Morrigan, are not Wundersmiths. I think he, or his collaborators, made up the rumour about Cursed children to have someone to blame when things didn’t go their way. Humans love to have someone else to blame instead of putting the shame on themselves, it’s just manipulation.

It would also just generally be weird that 1. ALL Wundersmiths are born on eveningtide when it’s said to be random (it’s not specified all Wundersmiths are Eveningtide children, at least), and 2. that NO Wundersmiths are born in the Free State. It doesn’t add up, which means that Morrigan has to be the first Wundersmith after the Massacre.

But why was Morrigan born? What triggered it? Why did she become a Wundersmith, and how is she the first in 100 years?

Because a different Wundersmith died.

What if the reason for why Squall is so terrified of Maud Wintersea is because she or the Wintersea Party was the one to order the kidnapping of the eight other Wundersmiths of Squall’s generation?

I keep saying Maud specifically because I find it very possible she is either some kind of long-living species of human or she has a knack related to it, or, more likely, she gets Squall to use Tempus to stretch out her lifespan. We know very little about her, other than she’s sketchy as fuuuck.

Kidnapping the other Wundersmiths, maybe putting them in some kind of stasis, paralyzed, unable to do anything-state, would give Squall total control over Wunder. What he didn’t anticipate was falling into an even deeper trap by joining Wintersea.

I just generally find it so weird with how he acts in the Ghostly Hours, and Morrigan also points it out herself, his relationship with his friends seemed so “normal”. No maliciousness, no deep-rooted hidden hate, just a normal kid with friends at school. There was no hint to him turning on his friends and murdering them, so in my mind there HAS to be someone who influenced him or commanded him to do it. To me he almost seems regretful when snapping and ranting about Wundersmiths being servants and used by the elite. He didn’t want to hurt his friends.

[rainforestakiie]

short au~

With a hiss and a grumble, the helmet clamped to Adam’s head let out a low mechanical sigh, steam curling from the horned edges like smoke from a dragon’s nose. The front of the mask slowly lifted, revealing Adam’s blinking eyes as they adjusted to the rich, sultry glow of Hell, those familiar shades of crimson, violet, and shadows that always seemed to breathe around their bedroom.

He scowled and leaned back against the velvet pillows, arms folding grumpily across his soft belly. He didn’t speak, just stared up at the royal purple canopy above their bed like it had personally offended him.

“Addie?” came Lucifer’s low, velvety voice as he strolled into the room. “How’d it go?”

He was already tugging at his bowtie with one hand and undoing the buttons of his red-and-white striped vest with the other. His claws made soft clicks as they brushed over the fabric.

Adam’s frown deepened. “I died again.”

Lucifer paused, lips twitching as he tried, really tried, not to laugh. His tail flicked behind him before he flopped dramatically onto the bed beside Adam, kicking off his boots with a sigh of exaggerated weariness.

“Oh no,” he drawled, voice laced with faux sympathy. “And what tragic end met you this time, my brave soldier?”

Adam shot him a side-eyed glare. “Nifty killed me.”

“Again?” Lucifer raised a brow as he sat up, stretching. He placed his top hat carefully on the side table, where the tiny snake Basil unwound from its band and curled into the nearby cushion with a content hiss. “That’s number six, isn’t it?”

Adam just grunted. “If it’s not Nifty, it’s Vaggie.”

“Vaggie? Our ducky’s girlfriend?” Lucifer’s expression snapped into surprise.

“Yep.”

“She killed you?” Lucifer leaned over, eyes narrowing as he gently began to unclip the helmet from Adam’s head, being extra careful of the wires. He never liked this thing, too angelic, too sterile. Too much like her mask….

“She always seems to hate me if I take any other routine but the obvious one,” Adam muttered.

“The obvious one?” Lucifer paused, then a devilish grin slowly crept across his face. “And which one is the obvious routine? Which special routine is it that makes it so Vaggie doesn’t hate you?” he teased, eyes gleaming with gold mischief.

Adam groaned and rolled his eyes. “You already know that.”

“Yes,” Lucifer purred, leaning in closer. “But I like hearing it come from those pouty lips.”

He aimed a kiss, but Adam turned his face away just in time, leaving Lucifer’s lips to land on his cheek instead. Instantly, his horns prickled, growing with frustration.

“You know what else only happens if I pick the other routines?” Adam said, his voice pointed. “I can’t even say I pick Eve anymore; she leaves me nine out of ten times.”

He shoved Lucifer back gently with a palm against his chest. Lucifer blinked, his touch rejected, possessiveness flickering in his eyes like a storm behind glass.

“At least Lilith sticks around sometimes,” Adam continued with a thoughtful hum, “Five out of ten, maybe and that’s only if we stay platonic.”

Lucifer’s jaw tensed as Adam went on, ignoring the tension in the room like a cat knocking things off a shelf.

“Lil and I, we work fine when we’re not trying to be something we’re not. As friends, maybe siblings even, we’re golden.”

Lucifer let out a low rumble, deep in his chest. He'd always said they weren’t meant to be and he’d relished being right about it every single time.

“Well, obviously,” he murmured, voice dripping honey and pride, “You only really shine when you’re with me.”

He slid a clawed hand around Adam’s wrist and gently pulled his hand from his chest, then nuzzled his nose into Adam’s throat, breathing in the scent like it belonged to him. Because it did.

“Not entirely true,” Adam said, utterly unimpressed. “Sometimes do I well with Lilith, but never with Eve.”

Lucifer paused, confused. “Wait… you and Lilith?”

“It’s weird, I know,” Adam said casually, like they weren’t lying in a bed with Lucifer half on top of him. “She’s like my sister, but if I let her lead? If I step back? She thrives. Lilith loves taking charge, not just in battle, but everywhere. Sometimes I’d just hand her the reins and, boom, she becomes Queen Bee.”

Lucifer stiffened, the tips of his ears twitching.

“She really loved being the one the angels came to,” Adam added with a small smile, a twinkle of fondness lighting up his black-and-gold eyes. “She even became a bit of a kiss-up to Sera sometimes.”

Lucifer growled softly, pulling Adam a little closer like he might vanish.

“You're mine,” he muttered, possessiveness curling around each word like smoke.

Adam chuckled, finally allowing Lucifer to kiss his lips, just for a moment.

“Maybe,” he whispered against them, “But only in one routine.”

Lucifer sat up abruptly, tail lashing behind him like an offended cat. His arms crossed hard over his chest as he glared at nothing in particular.

“Fine,” he huffed. “Then what else happens if you pick the wrong routines?”

Adam snorted, amused by the drama. “The wrong routines?”

“Yes, the wrong routines,” Lucifer snapped, eyes glowing slightly with petulance. He looked like he was seconds from throwing a full-blown sulk.

“Well,” Adam drawled, eyes sparkling with mischief now. “Sera makes me the head of exterminations instead of Eve.”

Lucifer’s pout tightened.

“I tend to die in Hell, though,” Adam added thoughtfully, tapping his fingers against his belly. “Someone always kills me.”

Lucifer glanced at him, his tail flicking again. “Who dares kill you?”

Adam tilted his head. “You know, sometimes… even you kill me.”

“What?! Me? I’d never hurt you!” Lucifer’s eyes widened, scandalized.

“Well, you hate me in most routes.” Adam shrugged with exaggerated innocence. “You only really like-like me if I rebel against Heaven at the beginning. If I run from Lilith otherwise, it depends on her. Whether she still wants to be friends, if I apologize and all that heart-to-heart nonsense.”

Lucifer narrowed his eyes, bottom lip jutting out. “That’s not true, I’ve always liked you. Always, from the very beginning.” His voice lowered, tender and defensive. “Even if you didn’t want me, I would’ve still been your friend. You could’ve counted on me, even if I fell to Hell, I’d find a way to be there for you.”

“Mmm. I don’t know, from what I’ve seen, if I’m bossy and Lilith runs off, you go after her. You marry her and then… you both turn your backs on me.” Adam raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Unless I beg Lilith for forgiveness or do the emotional labour, neither of you want me around.”

Lucifer opened his mouth to argue, but Adam beat him to it with a teasing smile.

“Oh, but don’t worry. You always get Ducky with Lilith, so it’s fine.”

Lucifer’s entire expression twisted. “I… Adam…”

“Also,” Adam said casually, as if he wasn’t about to drop another emotional nuke, “If I pick Eve, she always leaves me, after you and Lilith sleep with her.”

Lucifer’s face went pale, then red, then back to pale again.

Adam kept going, like a man unbothered. “She always cheats on me, sometimes with you and Lilith, most of the time, just you. Isn’t that funny? The father of humanity, and my firstborn son, Cain, isn’t even mine. He’s yours..”

Lucifer stared at him, eyes wide and horror-stricken.

“No matter what I do, if I try to be better, try to be a good husband, Eve still cheats. She has Cain, then disappears, she goes down to Hell and… well, I don’t know what she becomes exactly.” Adam paused in thought, tapping his chin. “A sinner? Maybe but she always ends up as the Root of All Evil.”

Lucifer visibly shivered, his eyes slowly drifted to the helmet sitting beside the bed. He glared at it with pure, venomous spite. Oh, how he regretted making that cursed contraption now.

Adam, watching him squirm, continued as if recounting a mildly curious experiment. “At least with Lilith, she gives me a chance. If I apologize, she forgives me, she’s sweet like that. If I hurt her in Eden and tries to understand, promise to be better, she’s peachy. We can still be friends.”

Lucifer gave a short, bitter grunt. That did sound like Lilith.

“If I don’t try to apologises until I’m in Heaven, it is during meetings of Heaven and Hell, I can talk to her, apologize and eventually, we patch things up…With Eve?” Adam gave a sharp shake of his head. “No, it doesn’t matter. If I choose Eve, Lilith might sleep with her, but only if I never apologized to her in Eden. If I did? She actually thinks about me, thinks about how it would affect me, and don’t touch her.”

Lucifer blinked. That part stung more than he expected.

“You, on the other hand? You always do, no matter the route.” Adam chuckled humourlessly. “It even causes fights between you and Lilith sometimes, but it doesn’t stop you and if I never rebel against Heaven, you end up hating me. It’s all fake smiles, empty friendships, the works.”

Lucifer looked genuinely hurt now, his brows drawn low, face twisted in something between guilt and denial. “No… That can’t be. I’m not that terrible.”

Adam finally turned his head to look at him fully. “Luc,” he said softly, voice gentler now. “You’re not terrible. You’re complicated and when you're jealous, you're stupid.”

Lucifer blinked.

“But I love you anyway,” Adam added, stretching out a hand to gently touch Lucifer’s knee.

Lucifer lay still beside him, the earlier playfulness gone from his golden-red eyes. A shadow passed over his face, dimming the glow of his usual confidence. He blinked slowly; voice quiet, fragile.

“…Is all that true?” he asked. “Did I really do all those things?”

Adam’s smile faded. He sighed, brushing his fingers through Lucifer’s tangled hair. “Yeah. Sometimes, before I die in Hell... we fight. And you get mean.”

Lucifer winced like he’d been slapped. “Mean how?” he whispered, voice cracking. “What did I do? What did I say?”

Adam hesitated, then admitted quietly, “…You humiliated me. In front of everyone.”

“I’m so sorry, Addie,” he whispered, guilt thick in his voice, eyes wide with pain. Lucifer’s claws curled into the blankets, he looked like he couldn’t breathe.

Adam shook his head gently. “Nah, I deserved it… I…” He swallowed hard, flinching. “I tried to kill… Ducky.”

Lucifer's heart stopped, he reached out, cradling Adam’s face with both hands. “No,” he breathed. “You would never hurt our Ducky.”

“Sometimes… she’s not our Ducky but she’s always yours.” Adam gave him a crooked smile, eyes watery.

A sound rumbled from deep in Lucifer’s chest, like a wounded animal mourning something lost. “Charlie is always our Ducky,” he said firmly, forehead pressed to Adam’s. “She’s yours, she always has been.”

There was a pause, quiet and heavy, before Lucifer leaned in again, lips brushing over Adam’s softly, like a prayer. “I’m sorry, for all of it. Every version of me that hurt you. Every mistake I made in the other routines.”

Adam leaned up, pulling him into a kiss that deepened with unspoken forgiveness. Lucifer melted against him, as if that kiss unravelled every knot of shame and pain wound tight inside his heart. Adam could feel the relief pouring off him, the tension fading like mist in morning sun.

When they finally parted, breathless and tangled together under the velvet sheets, the air was different. Quieter, softer, more real.

“But you know,” Adam murmured, brushing his nose against Lucifer’s cheek. “You were right.”

Lucifer blinked, confused. “Right?”

“They were the wrong routines.” Adam smirked lazily, reaching to drag him closer.

A slow, curious hum left Lucifer’s lips as he nuzzled into Adam’s throat, one hand resting tenderly on Adam’s round belly, the other curled under his neck. His voice dropped to a purr. “I’d say this routine is the right one. Everything works out the best for me here.”

Adam smiled down at him, their legs tangled beneath the covers, the scent of sex and lavender still in the air.

“When I pick you, Luci… When I admit I’ve fallen for you, and stop fighting it… when I listen to you and Lilith, when I rebel against Heaven and told Sera to shove it…” He smiled wider, fingers combing gently through golden strands. “The best life choices always follow.”

Lucifer propped himself up on one elbow, his clawed fingers cupping Adam’s cheek tenderly. “How so?” he asked, eyes glowing softly in the dim candlelight.

Adam leaned up to kiss his cheek, laughing a little. He loved how messy Lucifer looked after they have sex, his golden hair tousled, his sharp features softened by contentment. “For one, you’ve never cheated on me and our Ducky, Charlie, she’s definitely mine.”

Lucifer purred, his gaze drifting down to Adam’s round stomach. He pressed his hand there gently. “And our second.”

“Well, duh. I’m carrying the brat.” Adam snorted. “I carried both of them.”

Lucifer chuckled, the sound muffled against Adam’s shoulder. “And the others ones to come.”

“When I pick you, Luci… things turn out perfect, Lilith is my best friend, even if she’s ruling Purgatory with that overly organized madness of hers.” Adam smiled shyly, resting his hand over Lucifer’s. “Eve might hate my guts, but only ‘cause she ended up with Steve instead of me or you, or even Lilith. Charlie’s in Hell, redeeming sinners left and right…”

He paused, glancing at the ceiling with a peaceful expression.

“There’s no war between Heaven and Hell. No blood, no pain. Just us. It’s… it’s pretty perfect.”

Lucifer kissed his shoulder, eyes closing as he murmured, “Then let’s stay here. In this routine. Forever.”

Adam smiled, sleep tugging at his eyes, one hand resting protectively over his belly.

“Yeah,” he whispered, voice fading into dreams. “Forever sounds perfect.”

Lucifer smiled and tilted his head, with a snap of his clawed fingers, the horned helmet burst into golden flames. Adam wasn’t even annoyed to see Lucifer destroy it, he’s seen enough…

[thisapplepielife]

Written for the @corrodedcoffinfest May Mayhem Bingo event.

we went down swingin' (yes we did)

Prompt: Too Many Beds | Word Count: 7117 | Rating: E | CW: Spouse Swapping, Some Cuckolding Kink, A Little Dash of Dom/Sub Vibes | POV: Eddie, Steve, Gareth | Relationship(s): Steddie, Gareth/Di (OC) + the Swinging Pairings | Tags: Future Fic, Everybody Lived Nobody Died, Middle Aged, Road Retired Corroded Coffin, Lifelong Friends, Bored Empty Nesters, Swinging, Key Party

Also on ao3.

Eddie

Nancy is holding a fish bowl, and she shakes it at them with a grin when they walk in the front door. Eddie and Steve both dig into their pockets, and toss in their car keys in, as demanded. 

It was weird to arrive separately, and since everybody else did the exact same thing, the cul-de-sac is filled with more cars tonight than this party is indicative of, with every half of each couple in their own car. 

She walks away, and Eddie looks at Steve, "You sure about this?"

Steve runs his hand along Eddie's shoulders, squeezing, "It's just sex. But if you've changed your mind, we can slip away."

"She just took our keys!" Eddie hisses, and Steve digs into another pocket, pulling out his spare set. Eddie laughs. Steve is never unprepared. Eddie should have been ready for that.

"You wanna bail?" Steve asks, those big eyes giving him an out, because Eddie knows Steve would leave with him. They could just escape right back out the front door, and their friends wouldn't ever say a word. Probably wouldn't even be all that surprised. 

"Nah," Eddie says, he honestly does kind of want to see this crazy idea through. He thinks it's gonna be an adrenaline rush he hasn't had in years, an unknown. Something he hasn't felt since they retired from touring.

He's just nervous. Not about Steve, never about Steve, they're on solid ground. He just always gets nervous about a performance, and this feels like a performance. 

Eddie turns into Steve's chest, getting Steve to wrap his arms around him, hugging him tight. Kissing him. Like it's his last chance to do so, even though he knows that's not true.

"Do we just need to give Eddie Steve's keys and get it over with?" Goodie hollers from the other room, and Eddie smiles against Steve's mouth while raising his hand to flip Goodie off.

Everybody's laughing, and it makes him feel far more at ease. They're his friends. He just can't believe they all decided to actually do this. They've been talking about it for months, maybe a year.

What started as a group joke, has turned into reality tonight. 

They ate like everything was a normal group dinner night, like they just might play a board game after, when it most definitely is not. Eddie's knee is bouncing under the table. Steve rests his hand on it, settling him. 

"Want to run?" Steve whispers. Another out.

Eddie shakes his head no.  

Nancy stands at the end of the table and is shaking the mixed up keys. She has really spearheaded this whole night. "Okay. We're all friends here, if you decide you're not into it, for any reason, just tap out. Right?"

Everybody nods. 

"Okay, then. Robin goes first, right? Everybody else is still down for anything?" she asks, confirming one more time.

"Way to single me out," Robin says, acting like she's all offended. 

Eddie knows better. So, he can't resist fanning the flames. 

"Yeah!" Eddie chimes in, "That's rude, Nancy!" 

Nancy rolls her eyes, looking perturbed, "Sure. We'll just let her pull Steve's keys and see how fast she wants to be singled out." 

"Good point," Eddie quickly says, "proceed." 

And Nancy holds up the bowl, trying to keep it out of Robin's line of sight. She pulls a set and wiggles them. 

"Those are mine," Nancy says, and Eddie can see the blush creeping up Robin's neck. He wants to catcall them, but he restrains himself. He can be good. Sometimes. In theory.

When Nancy turns to add all the men's keys into the mix, Eddie leans over Steve and taps Robin on the thigh and she brushes his hand off. He grins. She's so embarrassed. He loves it.

Gareth is sitting back, relaxed, his arm stretched across the back of Di's chair. Eddie doesn't understand how he looks so calm. He figured Gareth would be a simmering ball of jealousy. But he looks chilled out in a way Eddie could only dream of feeling.

Maybe he's medicated.

Maybe he'll share.

"Vickie?" Nancy says, offering her the bowl next. Vickie pulls out a set of bare bones keys.

"Uh, mine," Jonathan says, and the room all kind of laughs.

"You're just straight up doing a partner swap," Eddie says, waving his finger back and forth, poking at them.

"Luck of the draw. Vickie, get your own keys out," Nancy orders, and Vickie shuffles through them until she has own pulled from the bowl. "If you're so smart, you can just go next," Nancy says, holding the bowl out to Eddie.

He swallows, and sort of glances in the bowl. She raises it higher.

He reaches in and fumbles around with them, feeling them out, like maybe he could identify Steve's car keys that way, and escape with his husband.

"Eddie!" Nancy snaps, and he grabs the closest set and pulls them out of the bowl. They're Jeff's. He knows it. Recognizes them.

Jeff laughs, as easy-going as he always is, "Oh, this should be interesting."

Steve laughs with Jeff, and Eddie elbows him. But he settles back in his chair. Jeff works. He knows Jeff. He can do this. No problem.

Then, Eddie watches as the rest of the keys are drawn and divvied out.

Seeing the mass exodus across the lawn is fucking weird. He feels like the neighbors must know what they've all agreed to do tonight. That, or they think a cult meeting has just adjourned. Eddie gets in his own car, and his instinct tells him to follow Steve. Of course, that's not what's happening tonight.

The caravan starts splitting off as they pull out of the cul-de-sac. Eddie watches as blinkers go on, and wrong, wrong, wrong pairs disappear together down different streets. 

Jeff turns on his blinker, and Eddie follows suit, turning when Jeff does, losing sight of Steve's car in the process.

Eddie squeezes the steering wheel. This is gonna be an interesting night, that's for damn sure.

Steve

"Tell me what you want, what you don't," Steve says, because he isn't going to feel around in the dark. He knows Di, and well, so there's no reason they can't talk this through together. 

Steve didn't have a preference on who he ended up with. That's a lie, he supposes, but only because he was concerned it'd be Nancy and then Eddie would read into things that aren't there, and haven't been there in over thirty years.

It's just sex.

"I want you to fuck me," she says, grinning at him. She's not shy, and knows what she wants. Steve appreciates that. There's no need to dance around what they're doing tonight.

"I can definitely do that," he says, grinning back at her.

He puts his hands in her hair, and presses his mouth to hers. It's weird. And it's weird that it's weird. He's kissed her platonically before. Hellos, goodbyes. But this is just different. The first thing he thinks is that he hasn't kissed a woman in years, decades. It's only been Eddie. 

The second: Gareth's gonna kill him.

Steve was surprised when she led him to their master bedroom. For some reason that never crossed his mind. Nobody is at their house tonight, so he supposes he doesn't have to think about it too hard. If this is what she's comfortable with, then he's good, too.

He sheds his jeans, letting them drop to the bedroom floor. He's already getting hard, and he cups himself through his underwear, speeding up the process. 

She's on her knees, watching, and when he finally tugs the waistband down, stripping totally, she scoots closer across the bed on her knees.

"Goddamn, I knew it," she says, wrapping her hand around his cock.

"You knew it?" he asks with a laugh. 

"Steve. You know we can all see the outline of your cock all the time, right? It's not a secret. We've all talked about it. For years."

"We?" he asks, gripping her shoulders. 

"Me, Chris, Barb. The wives."

He tilts his head back and laughs. Alright, then. 

"You could have just asked Nancy. Or Eddie."

"Where's the fun in that?" Di teases, and he grins at her. "Lucky Eddie. That's the consensus."

He laughs. Alright. He supposes he doesn't have anything to be embarrassed about, he's not totally unaware.

"Maybe don't say a word to Gareth. For both our sakes."

She giggles, letting go of his cock, taking his hand instead. Inviting him into her bed. He climbs in, and she pushes on his shoulder, getting him to lay back, then straddles him. She lifts her hips, palming him, giving him one more stroke as she's guiding him. 

And then he's in her. 

Sliding right in, she's so goddamn wet and ready. He lets out a long, low groan as he squeezes her hip, trying to regain some sense of control. It's been a long fucking time since he's been inside a woman. It's not better, just different. 

He'd forgotten how different. 

He's being hugged all the way down. All that wet, warm pressure down the entire length of his cock. He'd kind of forgotten.

"Oh, that's good," he says, and she starts setting her own rhythm. 

Riding him, hips working herself on his cock. Her hands in his hair, holding on. He knew, has always known, how much her and Gareth fuck. Has seen more than he's ever wanted to on the road, but he never expected he'd be the one inside her, on the receiving end. 

This is going better, easier, than he anticipated. He hopes everybody else is having the same experience.

Gareth

"You're not fucking me," Goodie says, and Gareth glares at him from his spot where he's slumped on the couch, arms crossed. 

"When did you hear me ask to?" Gareth snaps. If he's gonna be an asshole, Gareth will be one right back. 

Seriously, though? What's the plan? What are they gonna do? Stare at each other all night?

"So, what? We're just gonna sit here and stare at each other until the sun comes up?" Gareth asks. 

"Well, we could talk about how your wife is definitely getting fucked by Steve right now, if you want," Goodie offers like an asshole, but Gareth won't take the bait. 

"Well, when your wife comes home from getting fingerbanged by Chrissy she may never want to fuck your annoying ass again," Gareth snarks. He doesn't believe it, but Goodie started this childishness. He always drags Gareth down to his level. It's a given.

Goodie grumbles under his breath, but doesn't say anything.

This is rotten fucking luck. He gets paired up with Goodie, and Eddie gets paired with Jeff? And they've all spouse swapped in some way. It's like the universe is trying to blow up their band after they made it through the other side of moderate fame and the stress of touring unscathed, still friends. 

"We could go into my studio and play. See if we can write something. Be productive at least," Goodie suggests, and that's not a terrible idea. Not at all. Sure, songs don't start with the rhythm section, but they can jam a little, at the very least. Something might sound good and stick.

Eddie

Eddie can't stop laughing, and really, he's not sure that's what this night was supposed to bring forth. 

Jeff is just laying on the bed, taking it all in stride.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Eddie says, and Jeff just shakes his head.

"We don't have to do this," Jeff suggests, and Eddie knows it's to let him off the hook. He doesn't want off the hook, he just needs a minute to pull his shit together.

Maybe two. 

"No, no. I want to. I just need to get this out of my system," he says, and then bends over at the waist, laughing again.

Steve

He pushes her up against the sink, his hand gripping her slick hip. She just got out of the shower, but he's ready to go again. And she made it clear if he was ready, she was ready.

Nudging his cock along her hip, it slips along her wet skin.

"Yes," she says, and he pulls back, lining up, pushing back inside her. She moans, and he watches her grasp for the edge of the countertop, looking for something to hold onto. 

He reaches around a grabs a handful of her boob, thumbing at her nipple, "These fucking tits," he says. And they are so fucking good. He had no idea. Small, but don't look like any boobs he's seen on women her age. All he needs is a handful, and that's what he's got. 

"Harder," she demands, and he fucks her harder. Solid, punishing thrusts, his hips digging into her ass. Shoving her into the vanity with every stroke. 

She comes. She comes so fucking easy, he's learned. And isn't Gareth goddamn lucky. Squeezing his cock, spasming around him, and he just fights to hang on. 

Fucking her, one of her feet up off the floor, because she's so fucking short. He's got a great view of her back, and the tattoo she has for Gareth along her ribs. He's got one for Eddie on his chest. Both of them committed to this dog and pony show, and have been, since forever. When Corroded Coffin was making the circuit, city after city, tour after tour, bus after bus, plane after plane.

It was a hard life, but they all made it.

Steve slams his hips into her ass one more time, and comes with a long groan, catching her eyes in the mirror. She's smiling, and he smiles back.

He pulls out, and she turns, hoisting herself up onto the vanity. Pulling one leg up. He moves closer between her spread thighs, and she runs her fingers through his chest hair. 

He'd ask her if she's good, but he can tell that she is, and she reaches her arms up, getting him to bend down, so she can wrap them around his neck. 

So, he stays pressed against her until she plants her foot to his hip and pushes him back a step, and he's not sure why at first, until he looks down. She's leaking his come, right onto the marble, and she wanted him to see it.

Goddamn.

Gareth

It's a tasty fucking groove, even if he feels slightly off on this kit that isn't his own. Well, it is his. It's not like Goodie has other drummers over to play. It's just not his. It's a set bought for Goodie's small studio, not his regular kit at home, or his damn near dupe at Eddie's. Or even his old road backup kit that lives at Jeff's. The places he plays the most.

He doesn't spend a lot of time in Goodie's studio, none of them do, it's too small, and really just exists for Goodie to noodle around in alone. Recording ideas they might want to use later.

Goodie's clearly feeling it, and while they definitely don't write songs starting with the rhythm section, maybe Eddie and Jeff can work some magic with this. They don't tour, not anymore. A group decision he's never regretted. But they still put out music from time to time. When Eddie and Jeff aren't writing songs for other artists.

Playing like they are, it's almost easy to forget why they're here, just the two of them without Eddie and Jeff.

The final notes dying off, Gareth watches as Goodie unstraps his bass. Reaching for his drink up on the railing. The ice is melting, watering it down. It's warm in the little studio, and Gareth lifts his shirttail, wiping the sweat off his face.

They haven't played that hard just for fun in years. 

Standing, Gareth pushes his hair up and out of his eyes. He studies Goodie, changed out of the wife-approved clothes he wore to Nancy and Jonathan's earlier, now in his own ratty Corroded Coffin shirt that's seen a lot of shit over the years. Miles of road, decades spent together.

"You can fuck me if you want," Gareth blurts out without thinking first, chest still heaving. 

Goodie stills. Lowball glass pressed to his lips.

And Gareth hates that he said that. Hates that he ruined this good time they were having. Hates that Goodie's surely gonna—

—push him onto the ratty studio couch. Okay, that's not what he expected. 

Goodie reaches over, and puts down his glass, then crowds him. And Gareth lets him. This is what they were here to do tonight, even if Goodie acted like he had no interest. Goodie's all bluster. Gareth knows that. A hard shell you've got to chip away at, piece by piece, if you want to see the real deal inside.

"Have you ever?" Goodie asks, heel of his hand pressing down on Gareth's cock, already half-hard and trapped in his jeans.

"Gotten fucked?" Gareth clarifies.

Goodie nods. 

"Uh," Gareth says, weighing his options. Deciding how much he can handle Goodie knowing about him and his sex life. 

Goodie raises an eyebrow, waiting. Rubbing Gareth's cock a little harder. Like he's trying to work an answer out of him.

"Yeah," he says, "yeah. I have. Fuck."

Goodie pulls back, staring down at him.

"When did you get fucked? We were all attached at the hip as kids. I'd have known. You'd have made sure we all knew."

Gareth just looks at him. 

"Earth to Gare," he says, snapping his fingers.

Gareth takes a deep breath. He'll probably live to regret this. 

"Di has pegged me," he admits. 

Goodie's eyes get comically wide. 

"Shut up!" Gareth snaps, whacking him in the side.

Goodie laughs, rubbing at the spot Gareth hit him, "I didn't say anything! I knew she was freaky though. I just knew it. You've never deserved her." 

Gareth laughs. He doesn't disagree.

Eddie

Eddie grips Jeff's shoulder with his free hand. Laying face-to-face, jerking each other off. This he can do. Definitely.

Jeff's hand is firm, and Eddie looks at his face. Jeff grins, and Eddie can't help returning it. It feels really good. Different from Steve's hand. Guitar calluses that he's only used to feeling on his own fingers.

Eddie looks down between them, at their cocks being stroked, knuckles brushing. 

"Fuck," Eddie says, letting his head fall closer to Jeff's. Breathing against his lips.

And when Jeff kisses him, Eddie kisses him back. It's not even weird. Jeff's seen him in all manner of ways over the years, and this is just another one. He doesn't know why he was so in his own head.

Steve was right. Steve's always right. It's just sex.

Jeff's got a good rhythm going, a grip that is really working for Eddie. A firm grasp as he moves up and down. Then his thumb teases under the head of Eddie's cock, and that's it. He's gonna come. His whole body tenses, and he feels the rolling pleasure of his orgasm hitting him. Coming all over Jeff's hand and stomach. Cock twitching, heart hammering against his chest.

Fuck. He groans. That was good.

Eddie has slowed his own hand, not on purpose, but when he realizes, he pushes Jeff over onto his back, and slides down the bed, nudging his thighs apart.

He loves sucking cock, is good at it, and he wants to show off. Just a little. For his friend.

"Oh, Jesus Christ," Jeff says as Eddie takes him deep right away, opening his throat, letting him slide in.

Eddie hums his contentment, and works him over real good. Cradling his balls, putting a little pressure on his taint, his whole bag of tricks.

Pulling back, allowing Jeff's cock to drag along his whole tongue, meeting Jeff's eyes as he does it. Eddie rubs the head of his cock along his bottom lip. Teasing him, before going deep again.

Jeff squeezes his shoulder, a warning, and Eddie just swallows around him. Feeling Jeff tense as he's coming down his throat.

Eddie eventually pulls back, giving the head one last lick that makes Jeff laugh.

Eddie wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning as he does it.

"You're quite the cocksucker," Jeff teases, and Eddie flops over onto his back, laughing. He really is. He's glad Jeff noticed. Flattery works on him. Always.

"Why, thank you, Jeffrey. I'm so glad you've acknowledged my area of expertise."

Gareth

Gareth's bent over the edge of the couch, and it's pretty fucking great. He's never been fucked by a real-life dude before, and Goodie is pounding into him. One hand resting on the small of his back, the other on his hip.

Gareth moans when he hits his prostate, head bowing toward the cushions. It's good. Warmer than getting pegged. Though, that has Di, and nothing will ever beat that.

But still. This is good. Really good.

"I'm gonna come," Goodie says, and Gareth reaches for his own cock, determined to get there, too. It's overstimulating in the best way.

"In you," Goodie pants, tapping Gareth's hip, "or out?"

"In," Gareth answers. It's Goodie. 

Goodie groans, slams his hips against Gareth's ass one more time, and comes with a long, loud moan.

Gareth's almost there, almost. He reaches his hand back, and finds Goodie's hip, "Stay in me, let me come," Gareth requests.

Goodie presses closer to Gareth's ass, keeping his softening cock snug inside Gareth. It feels so good, feeling full. He's always liked coming this way.

He strokes his own dick, forehead resting against the cushions.

When he comes his orgasm feels ripped from him. He tries not to make a mess all over the couch, but he feels too good to really think about anything else. He clenches down on Goodie's cock, and lets the last of the waves roll through him. Sighing as it slows to a stop.

"Can I pull out?" Goodie asks, thumb rubbing back and forth on the small of Gareth's back. 

"Yeah, yeah," Gareth answers, and when he does, Gareth feels empty. But really good, too.

He's glad he suggested it after all.

After they've gotten cleaned up, and he's wiped up his mess on the studio couch, he has a realization.

It's all on tape.

Audio only, thankfully. 

But still, there's proof of what they just did together.

Gareth just laughs. It's absurd. But they had fun. Which means hell must have frozen over. 

"We were still recording, weren't we?" Goodie asks, coming to the same conclusion Gareth had reached.

"Yeah. Be sure to cut that off the version we give Eddie." 

"No shit," Goodie says, but he's smiling. 

Eddie 

Eddie is resting the back of his head on Jeff's thigh, plucking at the guitar on his lap. Jeff's feet are up on the coffee table, and they've already written a song that Eddie kinda assumes they might be able to shop around. 

This isn't out of the ordinary. Not really. Whenever they're together this is usually what happens.

Maybe a little more touchy, but Eddie's handsy and always has been. Nobody would think twice if they saw them like this. It's only different because Eddie knows what they did earlier. 

"Do you have anything for the bridge?" Jeff asks, and Eddie keeps plucking his guitar, thinking. Not yet. But they'll come up with something. He knows they will. 

They always do. 

That's why they make the big bucks as a professional songwriting duo. If anything Eddie does could ever be considered professional, that is.

Steve

Steve is dressed, showered, and it's time to go. When he gets to the living room, she's on the couch, feet tucked under her, a cup of coffee resting on her knee. She's in a big fluffy robe. He leans down and kisses her on the cheek.

"See you for dinner?" Steve asks, because it's Sunday. And they always all get together on Sunday night for dinner. Just the four of them.

"Yep. I'm making pasta," she says, and it's business as usual. 

"I'll get stuff for a salad—" he says, but is interrupted by her phone ringing, making them both jump. Steve laughs. It's Gracie. And it's eight in the morning, so Steve waits.

Di's listening, and finally Steve asks, "Is she okay?"

"Yeah, she's good," Di says to Steve with a smile, then covers the receiver, "Sorority house drama."

Steve laughs, nodding. He can only imagine.

And then Di says into the receiver, "No, it's not Dad. It's Uncle Steve." 

She listens some more. 

"Gracie says hi."

"Hi, girlie!" Steve shouts. The girls are off at college, which seems impossible. But they are all empty nesters. That's how this whole idea started, he's pretty sure. Trying to recapture some wild youth they all experienced on the road, back when Corroded Coffin was touring hard. Before they retired from the road to let those who had decided to have kids, raise them. Now, those kids are all grown.

"No. Dad's on band business. Uncle Steve came and worked on the plumbing."

She says it with such deadpan boredom. Like he may have actually came over bright and early to snake the drain. He's sure Gracie would actually not even question that. Steve swats Di's arm, making her grin. She's evil, but he loves her. She's family.

If she's good, he can go. 

"You have fun with your little yappy lap dog when he gets home," he whispers, giving her a wink. He can't imagine how insufferable Gareth's gonna be. Not that expects Eddie to be any less high strung. He knows them both too well.

Di laughs, swatting his arm back in retaliation.

"Nothing, Uncle Steve's just being funny. He's leaving. Continue."

And he slips out the front door, walking down the driveway towards his car.

Eddie

He hears tapping. Somewhere. Faintly.

He pulls his headphones off, and glances around Jeff's studio. Chrissy is tapping on the glass, holding up his ringing phone, shaking it at him. 

It's Steve, she mouths.

Eddie hurries into the booth, snatching it from her, and she kicks him in the shin as he goes. He cackles as he runs back into the studio where they're paused for him, and swipes to accept.

"Are you ever coming home again, or have you left me for Jeff?" Steve asks, as soon as the call connects.

Eddie laughs, glancing at his watch. Shit. It's almost noon. 

"Yeah, sorry about that. Guess you'll just have to keep Di."

Gareth hops up from behind the kit, "The fuck if he will!!" 

Steve must have heard him, because he laughs in Eddie's ear. 

"Seriously, though. We wrote a song. It's good," Eddie explains. "And Gareth and Goodie wrote, too, and they somehow happen to fit together pretty damn nicely. It's like we were in sync from afar."

"Through your cocks," Steve teases. 

Eddie laughs. Yeah, maybe. 

"Can't wait to hear it," Steve adds.

"I'll be home in twenty minutes," Eddie says.

"So, you mean an hour," Steve banters back.

"Or two," Eddie teases. Steve knows him all too well.

Steve

Eddie flops on the bed, hair wet from his shower, and dripping onto his t-shirt, wetting his collar. It jostles Steve, who struggles to keep a hold of the book in his hand. He took a short nap, but he knew if he slept all day, he'd be fucked.

So, he's compromised by just lounging in bed, reading.

"Easy tiger," Steve says, but Eddie just presses his face into Steve's neck, sending cold droplets of water down his skin, and around the back of his neck.

Steve flinches, rolling his shoulder upwards, trying to combat the steady trickle that's escaping Eddie's hair to try and freeze him to death.

"Tell me everything," Eddie demands, and Steve lowers his book, resting it on his chest.

He looks at Eddie over the edge of his reading glasses, knowingly.

"What? Tell me!" Eddie demands, and Steve just grins. 

"Tell me about the new song."

"No! You won't distract me," Eddie argues. "Tell me the truth."

"You can't handle the truth!" Steve banters, and Eddie flops over onto his own pillow, laughing. 

Steve grins at him.

"It was good. It was just sex," Steve says, and Eddie turns his head, giving him a look. 

"It was just sex," Eddie repeats like he doesn't quite believe it.

"What? Was your roll in the hay with Jeff not just sex?" Steve asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Mine was a comedy of errors. Jeff thought I was crazy."

"Jeff's always thought you were crazy, so nothing new there."

"I couldn't quit laughing," Eddie admits.

Steve grins, "Sounds about right."

Eddie scrubs his hands over his face, and makes a dramatic noise that Steve's all too familiar with. 

"You good?" Steve asks. 

Eddie looks at Steve as he pulls down his cheeks, stretching his lower eyelids downwards, like a weirdo. He's over fifty, but nothing ever changes. 

Steve puts his book on the end table, and rolls over, settling on top of Eddie, pressing his lips to Eddie's neck. 

"I'm good," Eddie answers. 

"You sure?" 

"Pretty sure."

"Want me to give you a — hard reset — just to make sure?" 

Eddie laughs, sliding his hands over Steve's shoulders, "You just want to get all the mileage you can out of your recreational boner pill. Which was cheating, by the way."

"It wasn't cheating!" 

"You don't have ED."

Steve laughs, he doesn't. No more than anyone else does at their age. He just wanted to make extra certain he could go all night, no matter what, no matter who. 

"Don't be jealous you didn't get to experience it. Di says hi by the way."

Eddie growls, and it's not menacing in the slightest.

"If you can't go again so soon, I get it," Steve taunts.

"Pants off, Harrington," Eddie demands, and well, Steve does what he says. 

Once stripped down and naked, Eddie straddles his thighs and squeezes. Then lifts his ass, like he's gonna slide right down on Steve's cock.

"Whoa, how about we don't try that," Steve laughs. They don't need an embarrassing trip to the emergency room.

Eddie doesn't listen, never does, and just grips Steve cock, guiding him as he sinks down. Easy, already loose. Of course he is. 

"I got ready in the shower. How do I compare?" 

Steve laughs, reaching up to push Eddie's wet hair out of his face, "You're crazy. You know there's nobody that compares to you."

"Good answer," Eddie says, working himself on Steve's cock. Steve's the one in him, but somehow he's just along for the ride, like always. Catering to Eddie's every whim. 

He wouldn't change a thing.

"Is your cock harder or has it just been a minute?" 

Steve laughs. Both. The answer is both. His dick is getting a little pharmaceutical boost, and it's been a while since Eddie's bottomed. Mainly because Steve just prefers to get fucked by him, but he gets that Eddie needs to plant his flag. Or, needs Steve to plant his, as it were. 

"Don't know what you're talking about," Steve lies, "it's always been this magnificent. All the women are saying so."

Eddie sighs, and wraps his arms around Steve's neck, "I don't care what the women are saying. It is. And you should only fuck me with it."

He sounds like he's teasing, but Steve knows him too well. If Eddie is one and done, Steve's one and done, too. 

That's more than okay with Steve, and he cups the side of Eddie's head, "Only you."

Gareth

"I already told you," she says, stirring the pot of sauce simmering on the stove, "we did it with the lights off. Under the sheets. He was a perfect gentleman."

Gareth tilts his head, "Diana Jones, I wasn't born yesterday."

She turns and grins, biting at her bottom lip, and he knows he's in trouble now. The next thing that comes out of her mouth may ruin him. He needs to hear it immediately. 

"He fucked me up against the bathroom sink. You wanna see the bruises on my hips?"

His cock throbs, hardening, trapped in his jeans. He palms at himself as she goes back to stirring.

Then she hits him with more. 

"I didn't change the sheets. You wanna smell him in our bed?"

And that's it. He can't be expected to just stand by idly. He grabs her around the waist, pulling her away from the stove as she squeals, tucking her feet up, letting him lift her off the ground. Then, he thinks better of it, pausing just long enough to reach over to turn off the burner on the stove. Putting the lid on the pot.

They might be a while. 

Only then does he jostle her in his arms, tossing her over his shoulder, swatting her on the ass. Hauling her towards their bedroom, like they're still kids. She's laughing, and he can't wait.

He puts her down on their bed, getting underdressed, and when he finally yanks down her underwear, she wasn't lying. There are faint bruises forming where her hip bones made contact with the marble sink. 

"I'll kill him," he says, sealing his mouth over one of the bruises, sucking. If she wants bruises, they'll be his. Not Steve's.

She whines, grabbing a fistful of his hair, letting him get it out of his system before guiding him downwards. He buries his face in her pussy, and breathes deep. Then, presses his tongue into her. There's nowhere else on earth he'd rather be than between her thighs.

"Do you still taste him?" she asks, and he pulls back just long enough to rub his stubble against her sensitive inner thigh. Eyes meeting hers.

She giggles, and he goes back to eating her out in earnest. But she just keeps talking. 

"He came inside me so many times, Gare. He fucks just like you think he would. Eddie's so lucky." 

She's taunting him, he knows what she's playing at. And maybe it's his fucking imagination, but he thinks he can taste him, but he'll mark his own territory soon enough. Right this wrong.

She's just gotta come first, and he's the expert on making that happen. Not Steve. Not anyone else. Just him. He's had years to perfect his craft. 

"Right there," she says, and he shoves two fingers inside her, tip of his tongue running circles over her clit, knowing that'll help nudge her over the edge.

It does. She has barely finished jerking from her orgasm, when she turns the tables, grabbing his shoulders. He lets her manhandle him, turning him onto his stomach. Then her hand is pressing the back of his head, forcing his face into the sheets, both of his hands in hers as she pulls them backwards, securing them behind him.

"Breathe deep," she says, "I got so wet for him. Before, after, feeling his come leaking out of me all over our sheets."

"Di," he says, but he presses his face into the soft cotton that does smell like sex, and not just their sex.

He grinds his hips into the bed. 

"If I let your hands go, are you gonna be good?" she asks, and he nods. He will. He leaves them clasped behind his back, right where she put them.

She nudges his knees apart.

"Feel it?" she asks, and then her slick fingers, wetted from her own pussy, are pressing against his asshole, "Did you get fucked without me, too?" 

He nods. He did. And she pushes her fingers into him, one then two. He's loose enough, but he still whines. This is the hottest, dirtiest thing they've ever done and they've done some raunchy shit together over the years.

"I wanted him to fuck my ass so bad," she says, "but he wouldn't fit."

Gareth's whole body tenses, his cock jumping, throbbing, trapped against the dirty sheets.

"He's that big, Gare. Maybe you'd like him to fuck you," she says, twisting her fingers inside him, finally making contact with that bundle of nerves that lights his whole body on fire. He wants to ask for the whole thing, the strap, all of it.

But he just lets her run the show. 

He isn't surprised when she lets him up, and shifts their positions until he's back over her.

Gareth knows what she wants, and he slides into her, as he imagines Steve doing the same thing. He wonders how he did it. What speed, what rhythm, as he starts hammering into her. Hard. Fast. 

Just like she likes it when she's this worked up.

She's moaning, thumb brushing her own nipple. He knocks her hand away and does it himself.

"I'm so fucking jealous," he says, and she covers his hand with her own, pressing his hand into her chest, right over her heart.

"Gare," she says, far softer now. "It was just sex."

He slows his pace, just grinding into her. Rolling his hips, just like she likes, pressing his pubic bone against her clit. 

"No, no, I know. And it was Steve. I trust Steve, like, if I could have handpicked anyone there? I'd have picked him. Because I'd have no doubt you'd be taken care of," he admits, and that's the fucking truth. He only trusts Eddie more, and he cannot imagine Eddie having sex with a woman, even if Gareth knows he has before. It's still a foreign concept.

Steve, though.

"Then why are you jealous?" she asks, wrapping her legs around his waist. 

He's not sure. But it's bubbling inside him.

"I didn't get to watch," he finally says, and she grabs at his side, squeezing his love handle as she comes, pulsing all around him, hugging his cock while involuntarily trying to push him out at the same time. 

He loves that feeling, has always loved it.

"You…you wanted to watch?" she asks on an exhale, a whine, as he keeps rocking into her. 

And, yeah. He thinks he would have enjoyed that quite a bit. Which is kind of a new revelation. He's definitely never thought of sharing her before the key party talks started. 

But now. At least pondering the idea of what happened last night. Yeah, maybe.

He nods, "My imagination can't possibly do it justice."

"If we ever decide to play again, you can watch," she promises. "Fuck, please. But right now? I just want you."

And that's all he wants, too.

Steve

"Hey, darlin'," Eddie says, taking the covered dish from Diana's hands when they walk into the kitchen. She was in charge of the main dish this week, and he's pretty excited. He's never had anything she's made that he hasn't liked.

And Eddie isn't destroying their kitchen with dirty dishes. So, win-win.

Gareth walks by Steve, and reaches out, tapping the back of his hand against Steve's dick. A little harder than necessary, Steve thinks.

"Ow," Steve giggles, cupping his junk, and Gareth laughs. 

"You fucked my wife," Gareth says, like that wasn't the whole idea. 

"You can fuck my husband if you want to," Steve suggests, teasing.

"No, he definitely cannot!" Eddie declares, and they all laugh. 

Gareth leans up in Steve's face, and smacks a kiss against Steve's lips, "I don't know what you did to my wife, you goddamn animal, but we fucked about it all afternoon. Thanks, man." 

Then he winks, and Steve shakes his head, laughing. 

"I could always give you a demo if you want. Teach you a thing or two," Steve says, taunting him. 

Gareth shakes his fist at Steve, and Di slides in front of Steve, getting between them. Steve wraps both arms around her shoulders, hugging her from behind, resting his chin on the top of her head. 

It's nothing he hasn't done a million times before, but watching Gareth's blood pressure rise in real time is sorta fun. They're close, have always been close, all of them. Now, they're just a little bit closer in an unexpected way.

"Yeah, Gare. You want a demo?" she asks, teasing, but Steve feels like there's more to it the way color spreads across Gareth's cheeks. It's interesting. Gareth might actually like that.

He's a horny little freak, though, always has been, so Steve's not too surprised. Not really.

Gareth crowds in close, pressing up against Di, wrapping his arms around the both of them, squeezing, pressing his fingers into Steve's back, probably a little harder than he really needs to.

"Stop that, all of you. We're not having an orgy," Eddie says from where he's putting a salad together. It's their Sunday tradition. "We're having dinner. That's it."

They all laugh, and Steve feels relieved it's all so normal. Di takes a step away from him, and he lets her go. She sits at the table next to Gareth, and Steve walks over and wraps his arms around Eddie's middle, hugging him from behind, "No orgies. Got it. Who knew Eddie Munson would be the prude among us?"

Eddie spins, salad tongs in hand, putting them right in Steve's face, "You take that back! I'm a freak!"

Steve laughs, and holds up his hands in concession, "My bad. You're a freak."

"He's not a freak, he's an imposter," Gareth says.

Eddie growls at him, and it's far less scary than he thinks it is. But they all just humor him, like they always do.

Steve carries the salad to the table, and Di takes the lid off the pasta. It's all so normal, and they easily fall into regular conversation. Like they didn't do something new last night.

"We've got a good one," Eddie says, "the song. We're keeping it for us. It's a Corroded Coffin song. Could be a single. Hell, maybe we'll do an EP."

Gareth is nodding, "He's not wrong. Songs don't usually come together that quick."

"That's what she said," Eddie jokes.

"She definitely didn't," Steve banters, and Gareth kicks him under the table.

So, nothing's changed. That's good.

Eddie

Steve's bending over in the fridge, looking for pie he bought for dessert. Eddie bangs his groin into Steve's ass, sending him off balance, making him laugh. Eddie squats beside Steve, looking lower, finding it on the bottom shelf. He presents it to Steve on both hands, making him laugh.

Steve takes it from his hands, and places it on the counter to be cut, as Eddie starts a pot of coffee. Eddie can hear Gareth and Di talking in the living room, and he knows he was worried for nothing. 

It was only sex.

And what's a little sex between friends?

And if you want to write your own, or see more entries in this pop-up, check out @corrodedcoffinfest to see other entries for the May Mayhem Bingo Event!

Notes: Title from Swingin' by Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers, which has nothing to do with a key party. (But everything to do with Di, lol.) However, Brief Encounters by Franz Ferdinand is much more likely about that, and it definitely got some listening time while writing this.

May Mayhem has been so much fun, writing borderline unhinged things I'd never probably considered before. 🤣

[idillycrose]

"the glass shattered, the heart broke, piecing it together will work, but it'll never be the same, that's how human hearts are"

Genre and info: Angst || You find out your lover died, your beloved died, and your heart gets ripped apart as soon as you hear the news || Mydei will be addressed as Mydeimos here || Mydeimos x GN!reader

Little letter from writer : I cried finding out that he died, and I watched Hyacine's trailer for it, two nights straight worth of tears into my pillow. MY SHAYLA </3

Your heart dropped, just like how the scroll fell from your hands, horror etched on your face, mind reeling with doubts and incoherent murmurs. Your husband, Mydeimos, went to conquer the renowned Flame reaver with the other Chrysos heirs, with a promise to stay alive, to come back to you, to lie in your arms with a victorious stain on him...but that promise faded, that promise died out—but it was the least of your concerns now. You were waiting at your doorstep worriedly, maids behind you, preparing for his arrival, which took long, worrying you even more. You wanted to faint when you got the scroll, holding the news of his death, you felt dizzy, as if someone took the air from you and left you all vulnerable. Your husband, your lover, your dearest, he left, he died, the person you swore to protect in every way, even going to the point of learning swordsmanship yourself. Your heart leaped out from your chest to your throat, tears welling up in your eyes as you dropped on your knees, a choked sob escaping your lips, bitter and solemn. The maids saw your breakdown and came to your side, trying to calm you down, but their voices and faces were like a blur to you, your focus on the scroll that held the news of his sacrifice

"Mydeimos.. Mydeimos...my dear.." you'd mumble, trying to ground yourself, but it only led to you breaking down into a crying mess, hands on your ears as you cried, leaning against your doorframe in absolute pain, unable to bear the report

Humans are delicate, like feathers, their hearts like glass. While they may tolerate things, they have a breaking point, and humans are like this, they can bear the hardest of challenges, but there will come a time they'll succumb to their pain, to just let it all out, to cry till they can't anymore. That can be fixed, yes, but that person will not be the same, they'll change, even if the thing is fixed with perfection, it'll not be the same, it'll be different from what they were. Humans bear and bear till they can't lift anymore, arms will get weak and things will fall. A million pieces will be around, and one or two will be missed, because no one can ever collect the smallest shards and put them back in their place

You wished to die right then and there, you wanted to be with him, you wanted to hug him like he promised to let you do, to see that triumphant yet tired smile, to kiss him, even if for the last time, you wanted to see those golden eyes look at you with affection, as they always have, with that shine, and that smile decorating the gaze. You wanted him back. Not a person can understand your pain. You lost everyone, you stayed like that, till he came into your life, he gave you hope, love, he gave life a new meaning, changed your history of life and death..now you lost him too, you lost the one who held your heart and healed it, you lost the one who kept you alive...

You loved him

You loved him

You loved him

You love him

© idillycrose.writes // Do not steal or copy, if inspired, credit me with @idillycrose

"love is a fragile thing. Once one feels it, it shall be taken care of, if broken, then one dies inside"

-Rubies and gentleness- •idillycrose leaves•

[antsday]

okay i will admit it: i don't like 431 from a narrative standpoint (or really any standpoint) but if you view it exclusively as the true epilogue in an alternate universe of mha in which 5 year old katsuki is right about deku looking down on him and doing everything to spite him and wanting to bring about his downfall then the whole thing becomes kind of absurdly funny

[collegeoflore]

i don’t think leaving the crows entirely is in the cards for magpie and lucanis but i can see a post game future where lucanis gives up the first talon seat, probably after caterina dies and he’s been forced to actually Do His Job as first talon for a couple of months and has a breakdown about it lol. i think after that he and magpie just like, operate more or less independently but are still technically crows. because magpie simply will not leave while viago is there. that isn’t an option. but if lucanis giving up on being first talon is what keeps them both sane and allows them to spend more time with neve she could do that. so probably they just live out their days killing blood mages and cultists across tevinter for insane sums of money and in between help neve solve her cases and still host family dinners with viago and teia occasionally :)

[loveanddeepdick]

ᯓ★ babydaddy!toji would never admit that he got jealous when you were around guys your age. he’d never get insecure, no, but he felt a deep pang of jealously in his chest. like he prayed that he had been born later so he could be more similar to you. your relationship with him was complicated. you were dating on and off but finally just settled as friends with benefits (who took care of a ridiculously cute baby together).

your parents often asked you why you dated a guy who was less than a decade away from being your father. your friends did the same too, not seeing the appeal in being with a “broke old man”. you never understood why toji just scoffed and looked away. it was out of character since he’d usually just cuss people out.

babydaddy!toji who let his jealousy show a little too much when you ran into an old high school friend of yours while you were out shopping. toji had to piss and you were waiting outside when he came up to you. shit, you didn’t even recognize him at first and the conversation was merely small talk but when toji came out, he had his arm around your waist, his hands coming down a little too low.

“this is your uh.. boyfriend, yeah?”, you friend asked, his eyes immediately going to the hand on your waist. most people just assumed you were single again.

“you could say that..”, you sheepishly replied, trying to swat toji’s hand away.

“tsk why’re you acting like i didn’t just dick you down and you didn’t carry my baby, ma? course you’re mine”, toji scoffed, looking away.

your eyes dart from your friend’s to his and it finally clicked. he was jealous. with a small smile, you excused yourself and tugged on the hem of toji’s shirt, signaling him to walk out to his car. the walk there was filled with short protests from him and silence from you. of course, he didn’t mean it, he loved this kind of attention from you. as you got to his car you rummaged through his pants pocket to grab his keys—not being shy to graze his dick—and unlocked the car.

babydaddy!toji who’d never admit he was jealous, even when you two were making out in the middle of a mall parking lot with your hand on his crotch.

“admit it, you still—ah, you still love me and you were jealous”

“course i fuckin love you—fuck yeah,keep your hand there—we’re long over, ma. didn’t you say we were just friends with benefits?”

“you’re avoiding the question, toji”

he had his hands all over you at this point, tugging at your shirt but you pulled away and furrowed your eyebrows.

“admit that you were jealous, old perv”

“fuck—fine. i was jealous. i hate seeing you with men younger than me. makes me feel old. happy now, doll?”, he leaned in again, grabbing your face as you kissed back with a smirk.

“yeah, i’m elated”, you grinned, trailing your hand up to play with his dark happy trail and dipping it in his sweatpants.

“don’t be a fuckin brat, ma. m’gonna give you a second snotty little shit if you keep this up”, toji growled, trailing open-mouthed kisses down your neck and onto your collarbone

“yeah?“, you smirked, tangling your fingers in his hair as you guided him down, “keep that promise and maybe we’ll get married”

babydaddy!toji who was definitely going to take you in the backseat for hours. fuck driving home.

babydaddy!toji who nearly died at the spot from the news of you being pregnant not with just one baby, but twins. you ended the year with a ring and a freshly painted nursery.

[bitterrfruit]

kerosene

ghost x f!reader. 17k words. cw: noncon. kidnapping. gun violence. free use. smut. mentions of involuntary groinal responses lol. simon is a smug asshole and reader is into it you get robbed at gun point while working the lone register at a nowhere petrol station. the money in the till is not the only thing he takes with him. or [read on ao3]

Idle hands are the devil’s workshop, so they say. 

The devil should have been busy with you, then. Malignant boredom had taken root in you, rankled in every crevice and swell, metastasized like knobbly tumours that parasitised on your will to live until only the gritty alluvium was left. 

You began your shift behind the till at the Gulf station in the late afternoon, shy of four p.m., as you had done yesterday and as you would tomorrow. You took over from Mitchell, who worked the morning shift, the old man with a wiry grey beard and eyebrow hairs like corkscrews sticking haywire out of his forehead. You’d work until midnight, when you would be replaced by Charlie, a pinguid twenty-something with legs like beanpoles and eyes so sunken they were hollow as caves in his skull. 

They had been your co-workers for the better part of three years, yet they might as well have been strangers to you. The scant exchanges you would share with them were a few words at shift change, if that. Mitch would prattle on about some rude geezer and tell the same story about his ex-wife that he had every other week. Charlie, bedecked in his cheap headphones and carrying an egg sandwich cling-wrapped by his grandmother, would only give you a nod and ask been busy? with little attention paid to your answer. 

You had been offered the morning shift when you first started. 

The owner of the franchise station, Dave, was uneasy about the prospect of a ripe (his word) young woman working alone behind the register after dark, at a nowhere white-pole station in the sticks, where the only customers were long-haulers and on-the-way-home farmers. A just concern, you supposed, and a part of you had considered taking him up on his offer. 

You refused, in the end. 

Told him that someone like Mitch (frail, near-blind, on the cusp of Alzheimer’s) would far more likely be victimised by the ilk of patrons that trudged through the station. In your experience, anyway, most of the late-night customers that came through the push-door understood the implication of a burly old man being served by a young woman on her own. They’d tread more carefully, offer you kind smiles, sometimes mention their wives to make sure you understood they were not a threat to you. 

There was always the odd lecher, though. Goes without saying. 

The kinds of yellow-toothed men that would lean too far over the counter, talk to you like they knew you, overly familiar. The type to ask you to smile for them, or for a discount, or for your number. Ones that would joke about coming back, just to visit you. That would say you’re too pretty to be working in a dump like this, you should be in a bar instead. Maybe on a pole. Maybe in the passenger seat of their truck, to keep them company. 

It never frightened you, really, because nothing ever happened. You stuck with the late shift because it offered the fanciful possibility that something interesting might come to pass. Maybe, if you were lucky, there would be a car wreck outside the station, or a patron threatening enough to justify hitting the panic button, or a fire set off by the fuel pump and you’d finally be able to put the ten-year-old extinguisher to use. 

But you were confident that every shift would be the same, as always. 

Nothing would happen, you would drive home to your shoddy seventies cottage in the pit-stop hamlet of Dunhill, eat a frozen pastry, sleep alone, and do it all over again. Days came and went like empty boxes on a trundling conveyor belt, your life a deserted factory, only still whirring because the last attendant forgot to switch off the machinery when they left. 

Today was no different. 

You perused the grocery shelves with cheap earbuds stuffed in your ears, the kind with squishy mushroom plugs that made it sound like you were underwater. Shuffling through the same playlist you had been slowly adding to over the last year — you liked the songs you already knew every word to, creature of habit that you were. Busied yourself by twisting the canned foods so that their labels all faced outwards, then backwards, just for a laugh. 

It got to half-nine, the sun had long since set, and you had served one customer since your shift started. A middle-aged man with a muddy van, who bought three RedBulls and a pack of Chesterfields, and half a tank of diesel. He scarcely acknowledged you, a hi when he walked in and a cheers when he left. 

Your meal for the evening was a pack of Walkers salt and vinegar crisps and a bottle of chocolate milk, plucked from the shelves and not logged. Leaned back in the plastic chair behind the till with your Chucks propped up on the counter, some Sally Rooney book with its spine broken folded in half in your hand. 

You had milk in your mouth when you heard the characteristic thud of a closing car door, a harsher slam than you were used to. Attuned to the noise even while your ears were plugged. You swallowed it hard when you heard the chime of the bell, the swing of the door, the thuds of boots. New customer. 

Sat upright, you peered over the register to see who had entered the station, and you were flummoxed when there was nobody there. 

You grabbed your earbuds by the flimsy cord and tugged them from your ears with a pop — there were footsteps, someone was there, you weren’t crazy. You could hear the sound of provisions being swept from shelves and shoved into a bag, the bonking of cans and the crinkling of plastic. 

Only once you stood did you see the head above the shelves. 

Black hood up, you only saw the side of him as he wandered down the aisle, towering beast shuffling along and torpidly picking things up just to put them down again. A foot taller than the racks he meandered between. Wore a black leather bomber over his hooded sweater, well-worn hide, turned tawny brown in the creases and at the edges. All bulky, padded up. His shoulders swayed with the bravado of a gladiator who spent his life unchallenged.

Had you any remaining hospitality in your system you’d have greeted him, but you circumspectly held your tongue. 

There was something in his presence that did not augur well. Something crooked, something bent. Turned the tired air inside the station dyspneic, too dense and thick to comfortably breathe. 

Call it a woman’s intuition, if you believed in such a thing. 

Simon hadn’t accounted for a bird at the till. 

He’d have expected some ruddy-cheeked man with buck teeth and brown-bordered sweat stains on his shirt. The typical clerk at a shithole backroads petrol station, in his experience. They’d shoot him a grimy look, eye him up-and-down with a curl in their lip, all ruffian until he brandished the Sig Sauer he had tucked in the waistband of his jeans. 

That was what he had prepared for. He came to stick the gunmetal barrel in the face of the old bloke behind the register, demand every stack of cash from the till drawer and anything valuable he had on his person, maybe fire at the ceiling if he moved too slowly. Piece of cake. In and out. 

Instead, it was you. 

Sneakers propped up by the register, sucking the crisp dust off your fingers with pink lips. Reading a book as disinterestedly as you might watching paint dry. 

Unlucky for you, it didn’t make a difference that you had a pair of tits. He wanted that money. 

Your chary little head poked up from behind the counter once he was done collecting his supplies. A few cans of Baked Beans, couple bags of crisps, some vacuum-sealed biersticks. A roll of gauze and a bottle of Dettol for the flesh wound in his thigh. Pack of tissues. Bic lighter. KitKat for a treat. All shoved in the duffle bag he held in his fist, heavy with the wads of cash he had already collected from the last pit-stop on his trip north — an offy in a piss-stained back alley in Cheltenham. Grabbed a few pilsners for the road from there, too. 

He forsook his urgency as he approached the register, measured pace, duffle in hand. Eyeing you up with each step as if you were a candybar on a display rack. 

Pretty wee thing. 

He hadn’t even shown you his gun yet, and your eyes were already peeled wide, glistening in the bright fluorescent lights hanging overhead. 

None of the goods he intended to pay for. He didn’t need to make that any clearer to you, the assumption was already plastered on your face as he loomed towards you. Had his mask on, after all; thick black ski mask pulled over his head, jagged holes cut out for his eyes. No doubt that made quite plain his intentions. 

You stood pin straight, curling the purple cord of your earbuds between your fingers as if some attempt to ground yourself. Not a drop of makeup on, he could see the satin sheen of sweat on your forehead, the plum rings unconcealed under your eyes. Nobody to impress out here. Still pretty. 

“Um, which pump?” You asked flatly, tone meek, in denial of the obvious. 

Your stupefied stare followed his hand as it ventured to the base of his sweatshirt, a frown fluttering in your brows as you all but tilted your head in anxious confusion. He reeled up the heavy fleece, white t-shirt underneath — but that wasn’t what your eyes clung to. 

His hand curled around the grip of his handgun, plucking it out from the waistband and holding it insouciantly at his side. No need to point it at you, not yet. 

Your skin turned cadaver grey as your blood flooded to your feet, eyes bulging with the instantaneous panic that wracked you as though you had been smacked in the face with it. 

“Oh my god — ohm — oh my god,” you squeaked, tongue knotting in your mouth, tears quick to fill your kittenish eyes. “Oh my god — y-you—”

It was this, the histrionics, that he hoped to avoid. The tears, Christ, the fucking tears. There wasn’t anything to cry about, not yet, but your eyes glowed sanguine, and the tears that oozed from them were clear and glittery. Rolled dramatically from their wells and dripped from your chin, seeped into the corners of your trembling mouth. All flushed and glossy and he hadn’t even spoken yet. 

There was no blood-curdling outburst, though. You didn’t scream, didn’t wail, didn't scurry around hysterically like a decollated hen. You were stiff as a board, arms pinned flat to your sides. Merely whispered the Lord’s name in vain over and over as if he might answer your call. 

“Please — ohmygod — please don’t hurt me,” you cried, lungs seizing with every word, hiccuping and spluttering like you had just been pulled ashore. “What do you want, you can — you can take anything. P-please—”

“Shut up,” he barked, and you flinched at his aggression. “Just open the fuckin’ till.”

You nodded so vehemently he thought your head might roll off your shoulders, and your pallid hands began raking over your body in desperate search of the pocket you kept your keys in. His glare followed keenly as they ran over your hips, waist, unabashedly caressing your arse in the search. After finding them in a back pocket you tried to orient the keys in your grip, but your fingers trembled so vigorously that you immediately dropped them to the linoleum floor. 

“Fuck — I’m sorry,” you bleated as you bent down to pick them up, eyes still riveted to him, “I’m sorry, let me just — please, I’m sorry—”

He let out a grunt of exasperation as he marched around to the other side of the counter, your feet remained planted still as though you were bolted to the floor, leery eyes following him while your head kept rigid. 

A deer in headlights. Fawn, more like. Small and doe-eyed and too stupid to get out of his way. 

You only whimpered when he jostled you away from the till, physically driving you to the wall with his hands under your arms, clearing his path. He took your shaky little hand in a fist and peeled it open, plucking the keys from your sweaty palm. 

The register was old, something from the nineties, yellow-faded plastic with cube-clacky buttons. He shoved the tiny key into its slot on the drawer, gave it a good shimmy to loosen it up, and it popped open with a ding. 

Pretty much empty. 

“The fuck is this?” He growled, fingering through the notes in the drawer — all twenty-two of them. “There’s fuckin’ nothing in ‘ere!” 

Your face screwed up like a wrung cloth when his glare shot to you. Great gulping sobs, your eyes squeezed into fleshy little crescents and spewed tears from either corner, terror rilling from your nose and making your lips all wet. 

“I’m sorry — it’s not my — I think Mitch m-must have done the cash drop this morning,” you wailed, “Please — it’s not my f-f-fault!” 

“Shut up,” he snapped, jutting the mouth of his Sig Sauer at you, callously reminding you of the fate he held in his grip. 

He snarled to himself as he plucked out all of the notes, flipped through them to count it up. Nine fivers, six tenners, five twenties, two fifties. A few quid worth of coins floating around unorganised between the compartments. A prodigious spoil of three-hundred-and-five pounds. 

Fucking joke. 

He rancorously shoved all the paper in the bag — left the coins, ego too tall to fish out the petty change. 

“Piss take,” he grumbled as he slammed shut the till drawer. “What else y’got.” 

You blinked up at him timorously as he tucked his gun into his jeans and marched towards you, almost buckling over as though you could curl up into a shell to protect yourself from him. 

Only cried as he spread your arms, shamelessly smearing his hands over your body to feel for something in a pocket. Down your waist, stomach, hips; all pillowy under the pressure of his hands, soft even through your t-shirt. Prodded the undersides of your breasts with shameless fingers, checking for anything tucked in your bra, and your lips curled in disgust as you looked away from him. 

He almost cracked a smile at your diffidence. Maybe another time, pretty thing. 

He flipped you around, manhandling you until your nose pressed into the wall. Hands smoothed down your back, before finding something rectangular tucked into the tight pocket of your skinny jeans. You squeaked in dispute as he stuck his fingers in the pocket, flush with your arse, but he had no time to enjoy it. 

Little red wallet. 

He flicked through it — a visa debit card, expired Primark gift card, two quid in the zipped pocket and a tenner note folded in a card sleeve. Eyed your license for longer than necessary — cute little photo of you, a tiny smirk in your lips as you gazed at the camera. 

“Pretty name,” he said wryly, and you only huffed with your forehead pressed against the wall. 

He didn’t bother taking any of the change. Looked like you needed it as much as he did. You winced when he pushed a finger in your back pocket, tugging it open so he could shove your wallet back in. 

He instead returned his attention to the checkout, scouring the counters for anything else that could be deemed at all valuable. Nothing, obviously. Merely cardboard display racks of chewing gum and cheap candies. There was a cigarette cabinet behind the till, at least — after some fiddling he found the key on the chain that fit the lock, broke open the steel door, and swept an entire rack of cartons into the duffle bag. 

As a last resort, he dropped the bag and crouched down, wiped underneath the countertops with gloved hands, hoping for a vault, a hidden compartment, or—

His fingers brushed plastic, creasing and soft; something wrapped in film, taped to the underside of the counter. He tore it off with a zip, held it in a tight hand; a stack of notes, more than a centimetre thick, wrapped with a hair tie and shoved in a zip-seal sandwich bag. 

You let out a remorseful sob as you sunk to the floor with your back against the wall; thighs tucked to your chest, head dropped to your knees. 

A grin peeled his lips from his teeth as the realisation settled. “This yours?” 

“No,” you chirped, a pitiful attempt at a lie — he was unsure why you wouldn’t admit to it, it wasn’t as though he’d have informed your boss. 

“Skimming, eh?” He snorted, peeling open the yellow seam of the plastic pouch and fishing out the stack. Flipped through them — mostly tens and twenties — easily a couple grand, at the very least. 

“I just—” you sobbed, shoulders hunched, “I was just saving up. It doesn’t matter. Just t-take it.” 

“Saving?” He asked incredulously, voice thick with amused derision. “Little thief. No better than me, are ya?” 

“Whatever,” you bellyached, arms wrapped around your knees, snivelling on the floor. 

He sucked his teeth as he dumped the stack in his bag. Too bad. His now. 

As he went to stand, though, he went dead still — eyes hooked on a flashing blue light under the counter. Squinting, he leaned closer, to substantiate his hunch—

A fucking panic button. 

His rage burst like a purulent blister, apoplectic with it, he ripped his handgun from his jeans and steamed towards you. 

“You fuckin’ hit the alarm?” He roared, and you shrieked in terror as he took the collar of your t-shirt in a fist and heaved you up from the ground. 

“I — I’m — I didn’t—”

Your spluttering only enkindled his fury. You cried out in despairing dread when he shoved the mouth of his pistol into the soft flesh under your chin, and he held his teeth to your cheek. 

“Why the fuck would you go and do that, eh?” He growled, inexplicably disappointed. Thought you were smarter than that. 

“I’m sorry,” you bawled, shaking your head, wet eyes bolted to the ceiling. “I didn’t know what to do, I just — I thought I was s’posed to, I’m s-sorry. Please — god, please, don’t kill me.”

He huffed, jaw rigid. 

He wouldn’t put a bullet in you, pretty thing. Too lovely to mire with lead, that butter-soft skin. 

It was a shame you were such a thorn in his side, fractious girl, because otherwise he would have just left you be. Would have taken his cash and been done with it, left you in your piss-wet jeans to cry to your boss about the ordeal and rightfully request some weeks off to escape to somewhere more therapeutic for the soul than fucking Dunhill. 

“Would be a damn waste,” he grunted, finally pulling his gun from under your chin, sticking the barrel into his jeans. A moan of relief leaked from your throat once the instrument of your imminent death was no longer kissing your jaw. 

Premature relief, love. He grappled you away from the wall, and with a shove, had you in front of him. You yelped when he collared you with a tight hand around the back of your neck, stumbled over your feet as he began driving you forward.

“What are you—”

“Use those legs, girl,” he barked, as he reached to hoist up his duffle bag from where he left it on the floor. 

You blubbered like a toddler, sobbing and sobbing and sobbing, as if your tears might engender pity from him. “Are you t-taking me?” 

“Not gonna leave you to blab to the cops, am I?” 

Another sob. “No — I wouldn’t — I won’t say anything, I don’t even know what you look like. Please—”

“Christ, you’re a whinger, aren’t you?” He rumbled, barrelling through the swinging door and hauling you across the asphalt of the forecourt.

The air was thick with the greasy smell of petrol seeping from lousy fuel pumps, amalgamated with the distant fumes of factory farms and cow manure that hung in a blanketing smog from there to Birmingham. Only the corrugated metal infrastructure of beef and dairy industries for miles in any direction out there. 

He couldn’t fathom what a bird like you was doing with her feet in the mud, stagnating in such a miserable shithole. Maybe he was doing you a favour. 

He tore open the passenger door of his twenty-year-old Mitsubishi L200 — a rusty black pickup he bought with cash from a shrivelled old man on Gumtree, with hopefully just enough life in it to last the drive north. 

You stuck your hand out and planted it on the edge of the door as he pushed you towards it, vigorously shaking your head. “No, n-no — I’m not going with you, I’m not—”

He snorted, and when you didn’t capitulate with a shove, he swept an arm under your knees and hoisted you upward before dumping you into the passenger seat whether you liked it or not. You landed with a squeak, and before you could spew out any more vacant refusals he slammed shut the door. 

He stormed around to the drivers side and hopped in beside you, tossing his duffle bag back between the seats, hastily igniting the engine as he shut his own door. Hit the central lock button and the entire truck locked shut with a clunk — you whimpered when you heard it, and turned your knees away from him.

“Where are you taking me?” You cried, as he revved the truck and rapidly accelerated, tearing out of the forecourt and over the curb, landing on the road with a sharp bounce and a tire screech. 

He paid little attention to your whimpering as he sped off down the dilapidated country road, eyes flicking to the rearview every odd second to make sure he saw no flashing lights in pursuit. The vehicle dipped and recoiled over every pothole on the crumbling old road — motorway would be preferable, but he decided heading in the opposite direction to loop back around would be the safest bet. 

You only sobbed quietly to yourself in his silence, no doubt his lack of response was a threat in itself. 

He had no issue frightening you. Served you right. 

Took some morbid glee in considering what you imagined he planned on doing with you. Whether you considered weighing up your chances. Might you survive if you were to attack him? Would he go easy on you? Might he enjoy the struggle? 

Perhaps you were girding yourself for what he might do next. 

Truth was, he hadn’t decided yet. 

His decision to take you was as impulsive as it was inexorable. 

You weeped until your tear troughs were droughted and nothing more could bleed from their ducts. Cheeks had gone sticky with it, salt dried gritty on your flushed skin, lips shrivelled and thirsty. 

Transient thoughts of rebellion had been ignited and snuffed out in the ten minutes since he had abducted you from the station — you could have reached over and pulled the gun from his waistband, could have tried to kick through the passenger window, could have thrown a nuclear tantrum and bucked and screamed until he was forced to pull over. 

All would have been futile. You weren’t stupid. 

He had that gun in his immediate reach; in fact he kept a heavy hand resting high up on his thigh, prepared to yank it out of its nest above his crotch at any given opportunity. He had made abundantly clear the shortness of his fuse, and that his reflexive reaction to annoyance was to threaten your life. 

Best you settle down, you thought — wait until his guard was down, until he pulled over somewhere, then consider something more drastic. While you were trapped in a car with him such an opportunity was unlikely to present itself. 

There were no streetlights out this way; your abductor had bypassed Dunhill entirely, sticking to unmaintained back roads that had you bouncing up and down in your seat. Not the motion alone that made you queasy, but the fact he was driving even deeper into nowhere, where the only sources of light were the headlights of his truck, illuminating the dark road ahead like something out of a found-footage horror film. 

“You didn’t answer my question,” you croaked, voice abraded to the point of gurgling stones. 

You felt his head turn to look at you, but you kept your stare pointed out your window. Knees turned so far away from him that they burrowed into the door. 

“Eh?” He huffed dryly. 

Sipped a cautious breath before repeating yourself. “Where are you taking me?” 

“I’m ‘eaded north,” he said, no elaboration. 

“Where north,” you asked more firmly, warily frustrated. 

He let out a breathy chortle, as though surprised you’d interrogate him. “Scotland.” 

You cocked your head back in bewilderment and turned to glower at him. “Scotland?” 

“S’what I said.” 

“I don’t want to go to Scotland,” you whined, realising quickly the length of the drive — easily six hours to Glasgow if he stuck to the motorways, but you got the sense he was avoiding them. 

“That’s a shame,” he said. 

“I don’t understand,” you pleaded, terror thick in your throat. “What do you — what do you want from me?”

You regretted the question as soon as you uttered it, because there was some comfort to be found in uncertainty — that is, the possibility that he wasn’t going to throw you into the bed of his truck and rape you in the pitch dark of the backcountry night. 

He looked at you again, eyes tar-black in the shadows of his balaclava, and you held shut your thighs on instinct. 

“Dunno yet,” he said. 

You might have cried if you had any tears left to give. Instead you blinked at him uneasily, petrified into a surreal state of milky numbness — maybe you were in shock, you had heard of that before. 

“So you — you just took me because you felt like it?” 

He shrugged with a single shoulder. “‘Spose so.” 

A minute of stodgy silence settled in the cab as you stared blankly ahead down the spotlighted country road. You weren’t sure what you should do with yourself, and it made you itch all over. From the pits of you echoed screams to put up a fucking fight, to do something — instead you sat quietly, vacantly, erosively indecisive. Waiting for something to happen. For the other shoe to drop. 

“Are you going to shoot me?” You timidly asked, words eking out like dripping water from a tight faucet. 

“Hopefully not.” 

“Then — then why did you take me?”

His head rocked back and bounced off the headrest as he let out an exasperated puff of air. “Y’make a lot o’ noise, don’t you?” 

“Well there would be no noise if you hadn’t.” 

He laughed at that, you could see the fine lines creasing in the corner of his puckering eyes through his mask. “Got me there.” 

“So then why don’t you just let me out?” You pestered, only emboldened by his droning indifference. Apathy exuded from him like serum from an open wound, oily yet salutary, and you found it grotesquely reassuring. 

“Don’t want to,” he bluntly replied. 

“Why not?” 

He was twitchy. On a razor edge. He lasered a glare at you and it stung, and you shrunk into yourself under the heat of it. 

“Because I don’t want to.” He repeated, jaw tight. 

You should have heeded the venom in his throat as a warning to shut up, but despite effort to wire your jaw shut, your compulsion to fill the silence was pathological. 

“Are you — are you going to—” Couldn’t bring yourself to finish the sentence. The tail of it sat heavy and sour on your tongue. 

“Goin’ to what.” 

A quivering breath leaked through your teeth. “Rape me.” 

He sighed heavily, languidly rocking his head to the side, and you felt his hard eyes on you. Excoriating you from legs to lips. 

“Thought about it,” he said. 

Ribs closed like dog jaws around your lungs. 

Said with such torpor that it didn’t cut you like a threat. Instead it made your heart tight and hot, shuddering rather than beating, pumping out needly adrenaline that made your hairs spike up and your stomach drop heavy. 

“And?” You creaked, voice scratching in your trachea. 

“Wouldn’t mind a fuck,” he grunted indifferently. “But I don’t like crying.” 

A mortifying heat feathered over your cheeks. Something pre-programmed, an evolutionary reaction to the suggestion of sex at all, consensual or otherwise — that’s what you told yourself, when you felt a reflexive shiver between your legs, and your ears turned hot. 

“So that’s why you took me,” you mumbled anxiously. 

“To fuck?”

You shot him a pointed lour in place of a response. 

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

Fucking weird girl. 

Your curiosity was potently unsettling, riveting in the same breath. Didn’t make sense to him, that you’d ask him so unabashedly whether or not he intended on defiling you. What answer were you hoping for? Did you simply want to make sure he said no? 

You blinked at him vacantly after his candid response. No use in lying to you. 

It wasn’t his style to brutalise himself into a bird, to bulldoze through wails and shrieks of refusal, physical capability to do so notwithstanding. He simply didn’t like tears. Felt beneath him, really, the impotent sadism needed to enjoy milking them. The only wetness he liked in a girl was a wet mouth and a wet cunt. 

He was partial to a hisser, though. Liked his spitters and scratchers. The kinds of girls that would gripe and grouse about his brutishness but turned treacly sweet when he inevitably overpowered them. 

Perhaps you’d be a hisser. 

He would have liked to find out. What noises you might have made. What the skin of your thighs might have felt like when free of their denim sheaths. How your nipples might spike up in the invasive cool of the September evening, or under the unwelcome brush of his fingers. 

There was a glimmer in the pools of your eyes, fretful yet inquisitive. He was probably only seeing what he wanted to see. 

You went quiet after that, at least. For the best. Kept your little knees nailed together as you glowered out your passenger window, pleasantly pacified for the time being. Sulking like a fucking child, but he supposed he couldn’t blame you. 

He wasn’t stupid enough to expect that you’d be cheerful after he kidnapped you. And he wasn’t in denial, either — he did kidnap you. There was no dancing around it. He threatened to kill you and then he abducted you, because he felt like it. Because he liked the look of you. 

Not remorseful, though. It would be a cold day in hell before he ever felt sorry for anything. His brain just didn’t function that way. If he wanted something, it was his. No use wasting time feeling guilt over something not even he could prevent. 

He spent his time in your silence considering how to make it worth his while. Whether he would, in fact, drag you all the way to Scotland with him. Whether he’d have you aid and abet his next robbery to make up for the piss-poor spoils he purloined from your petrol station. Whether he would find a way to fuck you on the way, or perhaps once he got to his destination. 

Maybe he’d let you keep some of your savings if you showed him your pussy. He looked at you briefly as he thought about it. Wondered how badly you needed the money. 

“What were you savin’ for, eh?” He asked suddenly, and you flinched at the sound of his voice. 

Soft little girl. He’d need to harden you up. 

“What do you mean,” you murmured, hardly a croak. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he gritted.

You sighed warily, eyeing him before you answered. “Doesn’t even matter,” you grumbled. “You took it, so now I haven’t saved anything.” 

He glowered at you, and something in his dissatisfied stare must have compelled you to elaborate. He had that effect on people. Birds, especially. Intimidation coursed through his blood and emanated out of his skin, it didn’t take much effort. 

“I wanted to leave Dunhill, obviously,” you groaned, reluctant to spill every word. 

“Yeah?” He asked, “where were y’off to?”

“Fucked if I know,” you muttered. “Literally anywhere else.” 

He snorted at that. “Couldn’t do that without skimming, eh?” 

“What, do you disapprove?” You hissed, scowling at him. “At least I don’t kidnap people when I need money.” 

“I’m not judging, sweetheart,” he crooned through a grin. “M’only impressed.” 

“Whatever,” you groused, crossing your arms and glaring out the window. “I only took it because I owe a bunch of money.” 

He quirked a brow at that. “To who?” 

“Why do you care.” 

He shrugged. “Boring drive.”

You let out a petulant huff before you inevitably decided to answer him. 

“I’m behind on rent,” you said, through gritted teeth. “Like, four months behind. And I’m still paying off my car, which I just needed to get repaired, so now I also owe money to the mechanic who did me the favour. Fucking owe money to the government, too, because they found out I was on the dole while I was working at the station.” 

A curl tugged in his lips, brows raised in intrigue. No surprise you had managed to find yourself burdened by so many favours — landlord giving you grace, mechanics fixing your cars without payment upfront. Pretty thing like you, though, he’d expect you’d get everything for free. Couldn’t imagine what kind of penny-pinching wankers would still demand money from you when you looked like that. 

Shame you didn’t cross his path sooner, he’d have fixed your car for you. No charge. Might have even let you squat at his place rent-free, assuming you made it worth his while. 

Started to imagine it, despite himself. Pictured having a pretty thing like you to come home to. Standing in the kitchen in his t-shirt, nothing under it. He’d bend you over the counter and fuck you right there while you stirred your tea. Wouldn’t have taken much to get your cunt nice and wet, he thought. You seemed like you’d be easy to please, bored little thing, hopelessly awaiting a man like him to show you what’s worth living for. 

Maybe he would take you all the way to Scotland, after all.  

“What about you,” you asked dully, snapping him from his reverie. “Why do you need the money.” 

He glanced at you, you picked your fingernails and glared at his hands on the wheel. 

“Must need it pretty bad,” you muttered, scorn bubbling in your throat. 

He tapped the steering wheel. “Long story.” 

“What, are you a fugitive, or something?” You asked, contemptuous eyes raking over him. 

“Is it that obvious?” He asked, through a chortle. 

You gulped, almost cartoonishly. So scared of him. He was sure the mask didn’t help, but he didn’t feel like taking it off yet. 

“What’d you do?” You questioned, that pang of anxiousness never quite leaving your voice, despite your attempts at feigning bravery. “Kill someone?” 

“Worse than that,” he said frankly. 

Your brows knitted together worriedly, fingers knotting. Nervous fidgeting. “Some kind of rapist, then?” 

“Not quite,” he replied facetiously, certain you must have found his amusement at the prospect ill-placed. 

“Then what?” 

“Got in trouble with people you shouldn’t get in trouble with,” he explained, purposefully vague. He enjoyed your inquisitiveness. 

“A gang?” 

“Could call it that,” he jeered. “Special air service.” 

Probably shouldn’t have told you that. Couldn’t help himself. 

“Special — wait, you’re in the army?” 

“Not anymore,” he said. 

You frowned uneasily. “What happened?” 

“That’s a tale for another day,” he grunted, and you turned to glare out the window again, spiteful now that he left your curiosity unsated. Little brat. 

Twenty uneventful minutes passed uninterrupted, then, and Simon focused on the route he had set out to follow. Had successfully avoided main roads for the better part of an hour, now electing it safe enough to return to the highway. Took a few dark turn offs, and every time the truck slowed, you visibly tensed up; so terrified that he’d pull over for a rest stop and drag you into the grass on the side of the road.

He didn’t like the streetlights. They were confrontational, accusatory, as though their beams of light were enough to alert every cop in the vicinity to his presence underneath them. 

The highway was largely empty, at least. Only one car passed in the opposite direction as he cruised along the smooth asphalt, decidedly more comfortable to drive on than the tattered backroads. Meant he could drive a lot faster, too. Might have been able to cut his trip by an hour, if he stuck to eighty-five miles an hour for the stretch between there and Birmingham. 

Your girlish little hands clutched the armrest of the door as he accelerated, the speed of the vehicle pushing you against the window as he followed a curve in the wide road. 

“You’re driving too fast,” you said quietly. 

He cracked a grin. How endearing that you thought to warn him. You were lucky he was trying to keep a low profile, in any other circumstance he’d be brushing a hundred. Then he’d really scare you, wouldn’t he? You could do with some toughening up, he thought. 

“Now you’re worried about the law, eh?” He sneered. 

“I just don’t want to die in a car wreck,” you bit. 

Seemed his docility was emboldening you. Perhaps you were a hisser, after all. Wondered if he needed to correct your behaviour. Maybe you’d spit on him if he reached over the centre console and fixed his hand to your thigh. 

“You’ll be fine,” he said. 

He avoided the arterial motorway that cut through Birmingham, choosing instead to stick to the A roads that bounced between exits and junctions in a zigzag. Hardly efficient, such a route would tack on an extra three hours of travel between there and Manchester, but at least far less monitored than the M5. 

He got cocky, he supposed. 

Saw the flashing red-and-blue lights before the sirens started blaring, and you jumped like a bunny — your head wracked around with a speed that made your neck crick, glaring at the cop car through the back windscreen. 

“Fuck,” he barked, through a clenched jaw, eyes jumping between the cruiser in his rearview and the highway ahead of him. 

He could have shoved his foot down, pressed the accelerator flat to the floor and fled the likely jaded cop patrolling the country highway at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday. There was a chance the fat old bastard wouldn’t give chase, but that chance was slim. Simon didn’t need the attention. 

He sunk his foot into the brake and slowed to sixty, veering into the shoulder. “Fuckin’ tosser.” 

And didn’t you perk up? Itching all over to bounce out of your seat, head swinging back to look at the police car twice a second. All twitchy and riled up. He could see what you were thinking, it was printed in your cheeks, bright in your eyes; now’s your chance. 

He hoped you weren’t that stupid. 

“You gonna be a good girl?” He asked rigidly. 

“What do you mean,” you squeaked, panicked, eyes peeled wide and skin glossy with sweat. 

“Means keep your fuckin’ mouth shut,” he snapped, lifting up his jersey, and you gawped at the gun against his stomach. “You make a scene, I’ll have to shoot him. And then I’ll have to shoot you. Y’understand?”

You nodded tightly, wiping under your eyes with your palms, some paltry attempt to collect yourself. He sincerely hoped you’d behave. He didn’t want to kill you. Would be a waste of a pretty bird. Not to mention a fucking pain in the arse to hide not one, but two bodies. 

“Good,” he muttered, as he tore off his mask and tossed it on the ground between his feet, slowing the car to a stop on the side of the highway. Rubbed his hand over his buzzed head on instinct, cropped hair velveteen under his palm. Hopeful the knit didn’t leave suspicious imprints in his skin. 

Your lips went a little slack when you looked up to see him unmasked, and a grin creased in his cheeks. Saw plain as day that glimmer in your little eyes, as they scoured over his face as if reading the pages of a book. 

Didn’t think he’d be pretty, did you? He was not ignorant of his looks, and wasn’t humble about them either. So blatant in your flustered expression that you liked what you saw, only too virtuous to admit it to yourself. 

He wound down his window before the policeman approached. He was adept at pretending to be a good boy. Spent decades licking boots in the military, and cops were even easier to please. 

The officer was middle-aged and saggy-eyed, just as jaded as Simon had predicted. The truck was taller than him, so his hatted head peered through the center of the open window, assessing the cab with his lips in a line. 

“Evenin’,” Simon said simply. 

“Heading home, are we?” The officer asked, eyeing up the bird next to the driver, lathering you in more attention than necessary. 

Could’ve clubbed him in the nose for so shamelessly drooling over you — as far as the cop was likely concerned, you were his bird, not some slapper along for the ride. He had king-hit men for less. 

“You bet,” was all he said. 

“Must be in a hurry,” the cop said derisively, glare finally returning to the driver. “Any clue how fast you were going, mate?” 

Mate made Simon twitch. Swallowed back the urge to spit not your fucking mate, instead offering a placating grin and a pat of the steering wheel. 

“We are in a bit of a hurry.” 

“Yeah? Enough of a hurry to be going twenty over the limit?” 

“Bird tells me to hurry home, I hurry home,” Simon jeered. “Y’know what I mean.” 

The officer almost tutted, until your voice cut across from the passenger seat, and Simon’s knuckles turned white on the wheel. 

“Don’t blame me,” you snapped. “It’s not my fault you can’t control yourself.” 

To Simon’s surprise, the cop chuckled at that. 

“Need to rein your fella in, love.” 

“I tried,” you lamented. “I told him he was going too fast and he was going to get pulled over. I told him so. Bastard doesn’t listen to me.”

Simon blinked in your direction, to see you sitting upright with your arms spitefully crossed over your chest, cheeks red-hot with panic and knee bouncing in frustration. If he didn’t know the root of your unease was the fact he had abducted you, he’d have believed you were a contemptuous bird itching to castigate her reckless partner for getting in trouble. 

Seemed the cop believed that, too. “Bird’s smarter than you, eh?” 

Simon snorted, deciding to play along. “That she is.” 

“Looks like you’re in plenty of trouble, then,” he taunted.

Simon looked at you, again, to see you scowling at him before you glowered out the windshield. “Mh. Think so.”  

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood to do the paperwork,” the policeman said sternly. “I’ve got your plate, though, so slow down, yeah? Way down. No excuse for eighty-five in a sixty.” 

“Understood.” 

“Don’t let me catch you again, eh?” 

Simon smiled politely, concealing the chortle that curdled in his throat. Cop wouldn’t be seeing him again at all, ever, because he was fucking off to a different country and intended to stay there for as long as he remained under the radar. 

He’d have to dump the car, though. With the plate on the record it was fated for the scrapyard. 

“Appreciate it,” Simon said through an artificial grin. “Have a good one.” 

The cop only nodded, patted the car door with a flat hand, before waddling back to his cruiser without another word. 

Simon was humiliated to admit the relief that doused him was sobering, letting out a ragged sigh as he rolled up the window and twisted the keys in the ignition. He was certain that the encounter would have been far uglier — felt his hand twitching towards the gun on his stomach more than once, imagined how quickly it could have been over if he simply tore it out and pointed it at the wanker’s forehead. 

You, strange girl, saved his arse. Whether or not you had intended to help him, you did. His eyes fixed to you as he pulled back onto the motorway, speedometer creeping back up to sixty and staying there, while the police car was still in sight. 

“‘Bastard doesn’t listen to me’?” He quoted with a brow raised, incredulous amusement rich in his tone.  

“What,” you muttered derisively, staring rigidly out of the passenger window, arms tightly interlocked. 

“Think of that on the spot, did ya?” 

Seemed you were avoiding eye contact with him now, glare fastened out into the moonlit countryside and head bolted still. Ashamed, perhaps, that you had thwarted your only real opportunity to escape him. Or, worried that if you looked at him for too long, your fear of him might have mutated into something far more difficult to justify. He smirked at the thought. 

“You should be grateful,” you grumbled. 

“Should I?” 

“You didn’t get arrested because of me.” 

He chortled at that. Maybe your tactic to ingratiate yourself was to help him, but he got the sense that wasn’t your intention.

“In that case, ‘course I’m grateful.”

“Then say thank you,” you spat, finally swivelling your head on your neck to pin your grouchy little lour to him. 

“Thank you,” he crooned, grin sharp. 

“Whatever,” you griped, slumping back into your seat with a huff. 

He wasn’t sure if he preferred you whining and crying to pouting like a teenager, either option tested his patience. He at least found the latter vaguely amusing, only slightly more endearing than a whimpering abductee in his passenger seat. 

“Thanks not good enough for you?” He asked mordantly, and you scoffed. “What, do I have to lick your cunt to prove it?” 

Your stare cut to him out of the corner of your eyes, head impudently bowed to avoid facing him head-on. 

“Don’t say things like that,” you murmured uneasily, eyes glittering under the streetlight that passed by.

“Like what?” He sneered, “don’t want me to talk about licking your cunt?” 

“Shut up,” you chirped, stiff-lipped, tipping your knees away from him and once again scowling out of your window. 

He snickered at you, couldn’t help it, watching you get all tight and restless when he said it again. Certain you were involuntarily picturing his head between your legs, whether you liked it or not. 

“Don’t like the word cunt?” He teased, winding you up for his own enjoyment. “Or don’t like thinking of me licking it?” 

“Stop it,” you whined, shrivelling up like a raisin. 

He grinned. “I can call it your pussy instead.”

“You’re disgusting.” 

“Uh-huh,” he laughed. 

You turned to tug at the door handle, yanking at it unrelentingly, and it only thumped as you failed to break through the lock. “Let me out.” 

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist.” 

“Open the fucking door,” you spat, spite simmering in the back of your throat. “Let me out.” 

He liked this better. Hissing derision, contemptuous attempts to escape, to demand your freedom. Much more enjoyable than your earlier weeping, all snotty and puffy-eyed. 

“Not gonna happen,” he said.

“You’re a pervert,” you growled.  

“So?” 

“Let me go,” you repeated, glaring daggers at him. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere,” he said candidly, tone as rigid as he intended it to be. He meant it. 

Again stymied, you slouched over and turned away from him, and went petulantly silent. Simon drove ahead unruffled, took another exit off the motorway — once again trundling over a poorly kept rural road, heading in the direction of the next highway junction half an hour north. 

It was evident being off the beaten track put you on edge, pellucid in the way you tightened your arms around yourself once the streetlights became fewer and further between. He couldn’t blame you, it was certainly slasher-esque to cart you around backroads, where the only buildings were abandoned barns and grain silos. Lucky for you, he wasn’t a murderer. Not anymore. Besides, all of his past killing was government sanctioned. Most of it, anyway. 

You kept your mouth shut for the next long while, huffing and puffing every now and again, making sure not to let him forget how unhappy you were with your circumstances. Strangely enough, he found it endearing.

“I need to pee,” you said suddenly, a squeak, shy to say so. 

He snorted. “Think I’m thick?” 

“I — I’m being serious,” you stammered. Unconvincing. 

“Hold it,” he said unsympathetically, turning a left corner, the momentum making you tip into the centre console, your shoulder nudging against his before you spitefully tugged yourself away.

“I can’t,” you grouched. 

“Piss yourself then,” he sneered. “I’m not keepin’ this car.” 

Your brows scrunched up in disappointment. “I don’t want to — to pee on myself. That’s just gross.” 

He smiled. Something cute about you. 

“You can piss when we stop for the night,” he said. “How’s that?” 

“We’re stopping?” You asked quietly, blinking at him charily, as if he’d change his mind if you spoke too loud.  

“Been a long fuckin’ day,” he grumbled. “I’m not driving for nine hours straight.” 

“Nine hours?” You pestered, “I thought we were going to Scotland?” 

He couldn’t help but grin at that. Perhaps it was a Freudian slip — we. Maybe you had come to terms with it already, the ineludible fact that you were stuck with him for however long he wanted to keep you. So far, that looked like a good while. 

“Taking the long way,” he answered. 

“What the hell, how many people are looking for you?” You asked, pouting in worry. 

He sucked his teeth. “Not enough to find me.” 

You didn’t need to pee at all. 

In fact, your nerves had sucked up every drop of water that remained in your body after your deluge of tears. They were glutted with it. All swollen and pinging with panic every odd moment, when you remembered you were supposed to be in fight-or-flight. 

You were seething, though, that you had failed to convince him. 

The plan was poorly conceived, in fairness — you only imagined getting as far as an unlocked door, girding your legs to bolt off into the endless fields on the side of the road in whichever direction they took you. Didn’t spend a moment considering whether you could outrun the goliath, or how rough he’d be when he predictably tackled you. Maybe he’d simply have shot you as you ran away, turned it into a game of target practice for his own amusement. 

There was shame brewing within you, now. 

Sweltering, emetic, frothy as it crawled up your throat — you were disgusted with yourself, at how pathetic you were being, at how little you had done in the interest of your own escape. How you had let all of it happen. 

You always imagined yourself a fighter, it was easy to imagine such a thing. In hypotheticals you would kick and scream, could easily overpower your assailants by sheer will, your resolve to survive so strong that capitulation was inconceivable. 

Reality stung. 

You weren’t a kicker or a screamer. You were a sit-and-waiter, and that realisation was sobering as it was disappointing. 

Humiliated that you had forsaken a real opportunity at rescue for no discernable reason. No reason you could truly justify. Perhaps you had done it to save the police officer; if you hadn’t intervened, your deranged captor would have shot the innocent man for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong, and it would have been your fault for making a fuss. 

Terror was the next excuse, but that didn’t quite justify it either. If you were so terrified that the man would shoot you, you would not have uttered a word. No, you would have been quiet, a good girl, just as he ordered you to be. 

It assuaged your fear, you thought, to see his face. 

You were surprised to see a face at all beneath the mask, forgetting he was a man and not some caricature of chaos and violence. He looked like a soldier, too. All scarred and cynical, disillusionment was inlaid in his features despite how caustically he grinned at you. 

His hair was freshly buzzed, sandy blond velvet coating his head, long pink cicatrices carved lines into his scalp as if someone had attempted to cut through it and peel it from his skull. He was tattooed, you could tell, by the teal-black engravings that crept up the side of his neck, the rest concealed by the thick hood of his sweatshirt. Nose a little swollen at the bridge, fractured once and poorly healed. 

The shame was even more potent when you caught yourself eyeing him for too long, flicking over to him every now and again just to get a glance, the shortest possible eye contact to ensure he didn’t catch you staring. 

Fucking mortifying that he was good-looking. 

That your mind even allowed you to think so, that your eolithic subconscious had considered your abductor’s appearance at all. The way he had rakishly smirked at you was arrogance manifest, you could see in his russet-brown eyes a patent awareness of your attraction. As if he could smell it on you, goading you to admit it, ego stroked every time you caught his eye. 

So you didn’t. 

You kept your body tilted away from him, gaze locked out of your passenger window, sweaty hands clamped together. Every now and then you felt his glare on the back of your neck, heard him breathing in your direction — it felt as though you were counting down the minutes until he felt compelled to reach over the console and touch you. 

It was only a matter of time, undoubtedly. That’s what he took you for, you were certain, despite his supposed ambivalence. The thought made your heart sit fat in your throat. Stopping for the night was a deadline.

“Where are we stopping?” You asked weakly, voice aimed at the passenger door. 

He let out an exasperated breath. “Not sure yet.”

“Are you going to sleep in the car?” 

He seemed to find that amusing. “I might not look it, love, but I’m a creature of comfort,” he said. “I’ll get us a bed.” 

Us. You shivered when he said it. 

A scornful refusal knocked at the back of your teeth, but you knew how he’d twist it, would mock your aversion. He’d make another foul little quip about your pussy, you thought. 

You didn’t want to give him the chance to say the word again. Not simply because it was revolting to listen to the degenerate joke about eating you out — licking your cunt, it echoed in the sauna of your skull — but because the mere mention of it turned your cheeks claret-red and the back of your neck all clammy. 

What was worse, is that you knew he could see it on you. Plainly emboldened by how much it ruffled you. Could decipher your unease as an effort to conceal some biomechanical reaction, one provoked by the mere suggestion of it, by the vibrations of his voice as he said it. 

“Do me a favour,” He suddenly demanded.

You refused to turn and look at him. “What.” 

“Grab me a fag, will ya?” 

Animosity congealed in your mouth. The fucking gall to request favours of you. “From where?” 

“Bag in the back there,” he said simply, “light’s in there too.” 

“Fine.” 

You peered behind the headrest, his unzipped duffle bag was dumped on the back seat; just out of reach if you were to extend an arm between the gap. Instead you had to twist your entire body and contort yourself through the middle, waist between the front seats as you climbed over the console.

You resented being in such a position, arse jutting out towards the windshield, unable to see the driver that sat so close to you — so you were quick about it, burrowing through the sack, stuffed to the brim with junk, and myriad different brands of cigarette cartons. 

“Which ones do you want,” you asked impatiently.

He huffed as he thought about it. “What’ve we got?” 

“Um,” you murmured, digging through the cardboard cartons. “Mayfairs, Richmonds… uh. Embassies, Davidoffs—”

“Mh. Gi’s a davidoff,” he interrupted. 

You followed his instruction and plucked out the trim red box, and an orange Bic lighter once you found it at the bottom of the bag, wedged between wads of cash. You peeled away the thin plastic covering and flipped open the card lid as you reeled your body back between the seats — immediately you caught him lavishing your rear in attention. He sniffed casually when he caught your eye, utterly shameless. 

Heart shuddered in your ears as you sat back down in your seat, gooseflesh prickling up in your skin as you held the carton out for him to pluck out a roll. 

He pinched the end of one and stuck it between lips curled over his teeth, before gesturing wordlessly for you to give him the lighter. 

“You’re a doll,” he said, muffled by the filter in his lips. Jaw jutted out to angle up the cigarette, he flicked the lighter in his fist with his thumb, little orange flame hovering under the end of the roll as he sucked it. 

“Whatever,” you grumbled, swiftly turning away from him to return your attention to the road out the window. 

Seemed he was approaching some area of population, little brick houses began popping up on the side of the street, lampposts peppering the road ahead. A surge of adrenaline made your hackles spike up — bystanders, you thought, people who might have heard you if you screamed loud enough. 

“Want a puff?” He asked indifferently. 

“I don’t smoke,” you snarked, distracted. 

He snorted. “Goodie girl, are ya?” 

“No,” you said curtly. 

“Mh, that’s right — you’re a little thief,” he taunted. “Not a good girl at all.” 

There was no response that would spare you his teasing, so you kept your mouth shut. Stayed silent for the remainder of the drive, in fact, a solid quarter-hour — until the car bounced over something and you jolted in your seat. Quickly realised he had pulled up into a parking lot as the truck began to slow. 

A two-star Travelodge, evidently, one planted directly on the side of the northbound highway. It looked barren, coral bricks all grimy with lichen and sludgy brown water stains, every window blocked by shut curtains. Not a single light glowed from within a hotel room, only the dim yellow lantern bolted to the wall above the sliding door at the entrance. 

You held your tongue in your teeth as he drove to a park at the very back of the lot, under a low-hanging tree branch, concealed by shadow. Your skin began to itch, crawling with bugs and alight with adrenaline — you could run, now, if he opened your door. Maybe you could sprint to the nearest building and hammer on the door, shriek that you’d been kidnapped, and to please please call the police. Or, maybe you could try to snatch his gun from him and shoot him in the fucking head. 

Instead you sat still in your seat. Felt your chest breaking out in a panic rash. 

“Righ’,” he said casually as he killed the engine, the suspension of the truck bouncing under the weight of him as he adjusted in his seat. “Look at me.” 

You shook your head in refusal. Entire body stiff as wood. Anticipation frayed your nerves and made your hairs stand on end. It was suddenly real. 

You kept your eyes pinned away from him, but it was futile, because he reached a massive arm across the gap and seized your jaw in a single hand. Fingers dimpled your cheeks as he twisted your head to face him, and you attempted to scowl at him, but your quivering lip made plain your alarm. 

“You gonna make a fuss?” He asked stiffly, pinching his cigarette with his free fingers, silvery smoke clouding out from behind his teeth. 

You just about said no on reflex, but bit down on it instead, because it likely would have been a lie. Only pouted at him scornfully and shivered in his grip. 

“What d’you think will happen if you do.” 

You swallowed. “You’ll shoot me.” 

He shook his head. “Would be an uncomfortable night for you, though, I can tell y’that.” 

A crease pulled between your brows. “Are you going to — to beat me up, or something?” 

He chuckled at that, a cocksure grin; you suddenly felt a weight in your chest, burning hot, made your ribs sink and your heart flutter. 

You hadn’t yet seen his face up close. His cheeks were stubbled, skin peppered with freckles and the creases of early aging. Teeth were sharp and unexpectedly white, raffishly crooked with pointed canines, a silver cap on a premolar. His lips were full, pale, a single scar running through the top one, white stripe in the ruddy pink. 

The shame returned with a kick to the stomach when you noticed yourself staring at his mouth, and you tried to look away from him, but he riveted your head in place. 

“Don’t plan on it,” he said, after a beat too long. 

Sweat pricked along your hairline. “Then what.”

“I’d like to have a nice long snooze,” he grumbled. “I don’t wanna be up all night wrangling you. So if you throw a tantrum you’ll be sleeping tied up with a sock in your throat. S’that what you want?” 

“No,” you chirped. 

He nodded approvingly. “I don’t want that either. I like the sound o’ your voice. Be a shame to snuff it out, wouldn’t it?” 

You attempted to nod, and though his hand kept you still he understood the intention. With a ragged sigh he finally released you, giving you a condescending pat on the cheek. 

With a grunt he suddenly twisted and leaned between the seats, gargantuan body taking up the entire cab as he reached behind you to grab his duffle bag, and you wedged yourself against the door to avoid touching him. 

Clambered about as he reeled the giant bag back to the front, before snatching the car keys out of the ignition and unlocking the driver side door. He kicked it open and hopped out with a huff, immediately slamming it shut behind him — only unlocked your door with his keys only once he was directly outside it, pre-empting any of your attempts to slip away. 

He opened the door for you with a clunk, and the biting air of the late autumn night made your entire body tighten up. 

“Get out,” he said.  

You nodded, swivelling yourself on your bottom and sliding out of the truck cab, landing directly in front of him. He flicked his cigarette to the ground and left the stub smoking on the concrete. 

“C’mon.” He fixed a hand to your bicep and yanked you away from the car, shutting the door with a slam. 

You were light on your feet as he ferried you towards the entrance to the cheap hotel, his other fist white-knuckled around the strap of his bag. 

“You don’t need—” you chirped, almost tripping over your feet, “—to hold me so tight.” 

“No?” He snorted. 

“I’m not gonna run,” you spat, hushed despite yourself. 

“Obviously.”

The sliding glass doors trundled open as you approached them, a tired ding echoing out to welcome you. The reception was quiet, poorly lit by vibrating fluorescent bars, stunk of fresh linen toilet spray and floor cleaner. 

Your abductor let go of your arm abruptly when he noticed the receptionist — a teenage boy with headphones on, who disinterestedly looked up from a Nintendo Switch to address the tall brute that sauntered in with you in tow. 

“Y’after a room?” The kid asks monotonously. 

“Standard double.”

The receptionist clicked around on the computer, smacking chewing gum between his teeth “How many nights.” 

“Just the one.” 

Click click. “It’s sixty-eight for the night.” 

“Y’take cash?” 

The kid frowned dubiously at that, jaw hanging open as he rolled the wad of white gum along his tongue. “Sure.” 

“Lovely,” your abductor grunted, unzipping the flap of his duffle bag and fishing out a thick wad of paper notes. 

Jaw gaped as you watched him unashamedly finger between the notes to pluck out three twenties and a tenner, slapping them on the counter of the reception before tucking the stack away again. As agog as the receptionist at his brazenness, all but showing off his spoils, plainly stolen. 

The kid pouted skeptically as he swiped the notes and counted them again, tucking them aside, and you wondered if he used the same technique as you. 

He dropped a keycard on the counter. “Room thirteen,” he said. 

“Cheers.” 

Your abductor scooped up his bag and planted his other hand on the small of your back, nudging you ahead of him towards the narrow hallway, never allowing more than two feet to grow between his body and yours. 

You glanced around feverishly as you wandered meekly down the corridor, identical doors mirroring each other for as far as you could see, until the hall turned a corner. Eyes clung to the glowing green emergency exit lights dotted along the ceiling, as if they might lead you to your salvation. 

“Can’t believe you actually paid for a room,” you murmured spitefully, when he nudged you forward by the arse as if guiding a ewe. 

“Wouldn’t want to break the law,” he chuffed. 

In any other circumstance you would’ve giggled. You might have found him funny if he weren’t the deranged fugitive who had kidnapped you. 

A yank of your shirt stopped you in your tracks, tugging you back — your abductor had flippantly taken your t-shirt in a fist, as he shoved the key card into its slot under the handle of a door behind you. 

“In,” he snipped, shoving you through the door once he had pushed it open. 

The room was small. Hardly enough room for the double bed in the middle of it, skinny end tables wedged on either side. The only amenities were a shin-height fridge and a kettle on a bench, tucked into a nook by the door. It was hot in there, too — radiator bubbling all day, you guessed, to counteract the cold weather. 

Immediately you fixed your stare on the window by the bed; a good metre across, brown aluminium trim, lumpy textured glass that distorted the view of whatever sat directly outside the hotel room. Ground floor, you thought, easy to slip out, if you could open it —

Noticed, then, that there was no indication it could be opened at all. No hinges, no frames, no handles. Simply a flat plane of glass stuck in the wall. 

Your stomach wrung itself, and you did your best not to keel over. The air was suddenly infinitely stuffier, sweltering, torrid in your lungs. 

He flipped shut the bolt on the door, and landed a pat on your shoulder. You could unlatch it, obviously, but the old thing was squeaky, clanking old brass, and undoing it would certainly alert him. 

He nudged you out of his way and dumped his duffle bag on the floor beside the bed, evidently claiming the side closest to the door, as if prepared to catch you should you try to slip around him. 

In truth, the notion of escape was scarcely a whisper. Supplanted by a nauseating docility — a survival instinct, you thought, to simply behave. To do as you were told. 

He began undressing himself, uninterested in whether you observed him; shucked off his old leather jacket and hung it over the back of his bag, unlaced and kicked off his muddy old boots. Your toes curled involuntarily into the soles of your shoes, watching him like a degenerate, as he tore off his hoodie and t-shirt and tossed them to the floor. 

Something out of a movie, you thought; gargantuan beast of a man, broad-shouldered and cladded in such a dizzying mass of muscle and adipose bulk that he looked encumbered by it all. The icteric light of the sconces by the bed carved out the divots in his back, the valley of his spine, the symmetrical dimples above the waistband of his jeans — you felt sick with yourself, that you even let your eyes venture there, but they cleaved fast to him despite your chagrin. 

He was slathered in tattoos as you had imagined, all flames and skulls and barbed wire, broken up by the occasional stamp of something more meaningful — a sacred heart, serif-font numbers, somebody’s name with a date beneath it. You could read it from where you stood; Johnny, 11/2023.

You were only thankful he hadn’t turned around — couldn’t see you leering at him, and spared you having to see him from the front. 

“Still need to piss?” He asked roughly, and your lips twisted. 

“No,” you said, still standing awkwardly by the door. 

He snickered. “Seemed pretty desperate before.” 

“I — yeah,” you stammered, “I don’t know. I’m fine.” 

Gave you a shrug as he lumbered into the ensuite bathroom, and you heard the unbuckling of a belt and zip of a fly, the clunk of metal on a counter, then the steady stream of his piss landing in the toilet water. 

You scoffed in revulsion. Fucking pig. Couldn’t even close the door. You heard him rinse off his hands at least, though you couldn’t be sure he had used any soap. 

He emerged from the bathroom rubbing his shaven head and with his belt undone, leather straps hanging loose from his hips, zipper of his jeans wide open. His gun was gone. Plaid boxers bunched up, distended by the mass within and protruding through his fly — you felt yourself turn berry pink, more repulsed by yourself than him. 

This time he caught you staring, and he was manifestly pleased about it. A smug grin pulled in his lips as he shuffled towards you, and you rested your weight on your back foot. 

“Y’want a Valium?” He asked you, and you frowned at him bewilderedly. 

“What?” 

In front of you, now, you panted like a cornered animal in the shadow he cast. “Might help you sleep.” 

You grimaced at him. “You just want to knock me out.” 

He snorted. “Why would I do that?” 

The daggers you stared at him served as your only reply, and he half-heartedly rolled his eyes at you. 

“You reckon I’d want to fuck a sleeping bird?” 

“Probably,” you muttered, averting his gaze when he uttered the word. 

“No fun in that,” he said simply. “No nice noises if you’re asleep.” 

You scoffed, perturbed by how he discussed it happening with you as if it were an inevitability. “What, like screaming?”

He cracked a grin. “Screamer, are ya?”

Your blood went runny. “Stop it.” 

He brushed a knuckle under your chin, and you flinched — but to your relief, he relented. Turned away from you and squeezed the back of his neck as if to release tension. 

“Get into bed,” he grumbled, plodding towards the bathroom, returning swiftly with his gun in hand. 

You went cold. “Why?” 

“The fuck do you think?” He replied curtly, shoving his pistol under his pillow, before he pulled his jeans down and your mouth went dry. 

“I don’t want to,” you squeaked. 

He chuffed at that. “Christ, fucking is the only thing on your mind, in’t it?” He taunted, “don’t get all worked up.” 

“I’m — I’m not worked up, you—”

“I’m too tired for this shit,” he grunted, “‘n I’m not havin’ you up and about while I’m sleeping. Get into bed or I’ll put you in bed.” 

There was no give in his expression, it was a final order. He did look tired — eyes were sunken and beset with aubergine rings, lids heavy with frustration and exhaustion. He stood with hands hooked on his hips as he impatiently awaited your acquiescence, and you sensed you were on a short timer.  

“Fine,” you murmured, shuffling around the end of the bed with your arms crossed tightly, eyes averting him.

He watched you, though. Scrutinised your every move as you bent over to untie your shoelaces, pulling off your converses and dumping them on the carpet. 

“Sleepin’ in your jeans?” He jeered, when you reached to pull back the blankets.

“I’m not taking my clothes off,” you retorted, sitting on the mattress and swiftly tucking yourself under the covers. The mattress was foamy, soft, sunk deep as though permanently impressed by all the bodies that have ever slept in it. 

“Hardly comfortable,” he said, smirking, decidedly amused. 

“Don’t care,” you groused, rolling onto your side away from him, blanket up to your ears. 

He chuckled. “Suit yourself.”

You bounced on the mattress as he fell into it, springs moaning as they sunk deep beneath him, and you felt your body tip back towards him — you curled up, as close to the edge of the bed as you could get without toppling over the side. 

He switched off the sconce above the bed, and the room was abruptly black as pitch. 

The mattress recoiled as he adjusted himself, settling into bed with a gruff sigh, and you felt his warm breathing on the back of your head. 

He seemed to find comfort quickly; exhales turning deep and languid, you sensed he had fallen asleep the moment his head hit the pillow. 

There was some relief in that. Temporarily escaping him while he was unconscious. 

With your heart thundering in your ears, though, sleep was impossibly out of reach for you. You could hardly keep your eyes shut, they fluttered and twitched as you tried to close them, and they’d bolt back open as though spring-loaded. 

Now’s your chance — it echoed ad nauseum in your skull like the chiming of a clock, over and over until your ears rang. 

You could have slithered out of bed and scurried to the door, unbolted it and ran down the hallway if you were quick enough. You could have used the steel-legged chair in the corner to shatter the window and sprint into the night. You could have slipped a hand under his pillow nice and slow, snatched his gun from under his head and shot him while he slept. 

Instead you lay dead still, save for the trembling that never quite subsided. 

You tried to vivisect your own mind while you stagnated in the bed. Attempted to determine why you failed to enact your own rescue, why you actively avoided pursuing your freedom. 

The answer eluded you, in concrete terms anyway. 

Truth was, you didn’t know where you’d go. 

Literally, of course — you had no idea where you were, no phone with you, no sense of direction. You could run to a bystander and ask, of course, but you didn’t want to do that either. 

It was as if you didn’t want to go back. 

The thought of it nauseated you almost as gruesomely as the uncertainty of the path ahead. Of being dragged back to Dunhill, of being back to square one, of having no money, no prospects, no future. 

It was the obscurity, you thought, that kept you there. Something new. Something different, albeit terrifying. The ambiguity of any future, however short, was somehow preferable than the certainty of not having one at all. 

Worse to admit was whatever churning you felt between your legs. What seed he had planted when he took you had taken root, tendrils burrowing into the recesses of you and tumescing with a reluctant anticipation. You all but throbbed with it, as if your body were preparing itself for the inevitable, manipulating your mind into assenting to it. 

It made you feel sick, and your skin was febrile, sticky with apprehension. 

You were baking — the air was thick with it, stifling heat, though in truth it was likely your thundering nerves that set your body alight. Too anxious to release yourself from under the covers, or to roll into a cooler position, or to flip over your pillow to the cooler side. 

You lay cocooned for as long as you could bear the heat, but your blood was molten and your head began to ache, and you resorted to uncovering yourself. 

You did it desperately slowly, peeling the cover away from you inch by inch, and even in the air you found no relief. Your last resort was to turn off the radiator — if you could — but you’d need to get out of bed for that. 

Slinked a leg over the edge of the mattress, whisper-slow, used your elbow to prop yourself up—

You felt a hand grab at your hip, and you were unceremoniously yanked back into the bed with a squeak. 

“Where d’you think you’re goin’,” he grunted, voice gratingly hoarse after a half-hour sleep. 

A ten-tonne arm was suddenly hooked over your waist, and you were flush with his back, his knees folded in behind yours. 

“I just wanted to turn the heater off,” you whispered, hoping he wouldn’t hear you. 

“Too hot, eh?” 

You exhaled shakily. “Yeah.” 

“Y’know why you’re too hot,” he murmured, and you felt him stick his fingers into the back of your skinny jeans, tugging the stretchy waistband and snapping it against your lower back.  

“I just can’t s-sleep when it’s warm,” you stuttered, tongue tangling in your mouth. 

“Bit restless, are ya?” 

You felt his hand glide over your belly, and your muscles turned to stone, entire body tensing up with the touch. 

“I’m not havin’ you tossing and turning all night,” he grumbled, thumbing at the button of your jeans, unfastening it with a pinch. 

“Don’t do that,” you breathed, heart plugging your trachea, unable to swallow a real breath. 

He persisted unimpeded as if he had not heard you, pushing down your zipper and stuffing his hand unhesitantly down the front of your underwear. 

You squeaked in fright the moment his fingers brushed your mons — every millilitre of blood in your body flooded out of your extremities and pooled between your legs, a reflexive reaction that fired off every nerve ending under your skin. 

“No, d-don’t—” your whimpers of refusal eked out between your teeth on instinct, but their root lay more in humiliation than fear. 

His hand was icy against your feverish skin, and goosebumps bristled out from his touch — your vision went foggy as a cold middle finger the size of two of yours slid along your seam, lips went slack as the tip burrowed deeper. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he grunted, his stony voice tickling the hairs on the nape of your neck, “you are warm, aren’t ya?”

“Stop it,” you whined, half-heartedly, defeat viscid on your tongue. 

His finger snaked deeper between your legs, the others flush with the puffy outer lips of your cunt, thumb burrowing into your groin as he wedged his hand in the tight gap between your pussy and your jeans. 

He chortled under breath when the tip of his finger broached your entrance, dipping into the mortifying abundance of your fluid that had pooled there. God, there was so much of it, you were humiliated — you had been in denial, ignoring it, even as you felt it slicken the gusset of your underwear, maybe even the inseam of your jeans. It was only instinctive, you told yourself, it wasn’t like that—

“Jesus Christ, girl,” he chuffed, breathless, and you could not for the life of you tell whether he was proud or disgusted. “Made you wait too long, did I?” 

You shivered, cunt pulsing around nothing, felt the nettle sting of adrenaline crawling down your spine. 

“N-no, I—”

Bit down on your tongue as his slippery finger dragged up between your folds, catching your clitoris with a swipe and making your legs clamp together in a vice. 

He only scoffed in awe. “Sensitive thing.” 

“Stop doing that,” you mewled, so embarrassed that your cheeks were aflame, ears burning red-hot, heart galloping in your chest. 

He didn’t believe your attempts at refusal, and you weren’t certain you did either — not when he stroked your clit with the palp of his finger, up and down, all of his movement honed in on the one spot that made you choke on air. 

“Not so bad, is it,” he sneered. 

You curled up like a cat, but he kept you fastened to him, immovable hand burrowed deep in your jeans. His finger slid between your folds effortlessly despite how hard you pressed your legs together — there was no escaping it, every brush of his fingertip against your slippery clit burned more than the last, igniting an inferno in the core of you that seemed inextinguishable. 

Fucking humiliating, degrading, shameful, that the brute who had abducted you could make you feel that good, do so little to have you so, so—

“You’re a fuckin’ furnace,” he jabbed, and he swiftly tugged his hand from between your legs and out of your jeans. 

Whatever remorseful noise spilled from your mouth was beyond you, high-pitched and so wanton it made you sick to hear it, but he only snickered. 

“Quit whingein’,” he chided, taking your waistband in a fist.

He hiked your jeans down with a violent tug, tearing them down to your thighs, underwear pulled down with them. What little abnegation you had left turned to sugar on your tongue, dissolving in your saliva and sliding down your throat. 

The blanket was gone, then, pulled off and pooled at the end of the bed — the slightly cooler air biting at your bare skin scarcely settled your tempers, even less so when he roughly shoved his hand between your legs again, now unobstructed. Three avid fingers prodded against your hole as if to collect the syrup that pooled there, slickening themselves before they dragged back up. 

You yelped like a kicked puppy when he kneaded your clit, pads of his fingers pressing and pulling in firm circles, bud swollen and shuddering and so sensitive it was sore. 

You could only whine about it, now unwilling to fight him off and likely incapable even if you wanted to. He had you riveted to him, chest solid against your back, heaving arm locking you in place. Your compunctions had melted, deliquescing into the stodgy recesses of your mind; usurped by the revoltingly animal, blood-thinning want that thundered in your temples and made your mouth all wet. 

“Don’t, p-please, you’re—”

“Tha’s it, girl,” he rumbled, directly into the back of your skull, and it made you dizzy. “Let it happen.” 

Your core tightened up, cunt constricting as tight as a vice, painfully empty — the surge was as sudden as a flash flood, just as violent, and you drowned in it as it swept you under. You came beneath his fingers with a winded whimper, so forcefully you bucked your legs to evade him, bullied clit ablaze and spasming in waves that made your heart stop with each contraction. 

“Fuckin’ hell,” he chortled, easing his infliction but not yet stopping. “Listen to you.” 

“Shut up,” you whined, unable to catch your breath. 

“That’ll help you sleep, eh?” He teased, fingers finally retreating, trailing your slick up your mons before he landed flat on his back with a huff.

You were molten, sweaty hair clinging to the nape of your neck, and you wanted nothing more than to take off all your clothes and have a cold shower. All you could muster was your jeans, though, already half-off — you used your feet to peel them down to your calves, kicking them off into nowhere. Your shame had dissolved, now, utterly irretrievable. 

The stale air was cool against the wetness of your inflamed cunt when you rolled onto your back; a potent relief, despite how unbecoming you felt it to leave yourself so exposed in the company of a bedlamite.

“Now stop fussing,” he grunted, settling into the mattress, hand resting on his stomach. “Don’t want you wakin’ me up again.” 

You couldn’t have fussed, even if you tried. Body utterly siphoned of all energy, mind as foggy and blank as smoke. 

It took you less than a minute to fall asleep. 

Morning came with rain. 

The glow of daylight through the embossed window was powdery white, you heard the gentle patter of raindrops landing on the pane, the loud dripping of a leaky gutter pipe somewhere outside. 

Your mouth was chalky, tongue swollen, vision too blurry to identify where you were at a glance. 

The realisation rinsed you like cold water when you heard the gruff breathing from beside you. Heavy and deep, the warmth of a body lying too close to you, you felt the hirsute skin of a leg against yours. 

You were nauseous as you remembered the night before, when your legs brushed together and you noticed they were bare — no underwear on either, the sheets tangled up between your feet and your hair greasy on your forehead. Your cunt was still sticky and it made you wince to move and feel it, remembering how he had touched you, that his fingers were likely still covered in the dried residue of the orgasm he had milked from you. 

The remorse was as pounding as a migraine. Brontide in your skull that made the room spin, and you wanted nothing more than a glass of icy water and some ibuprofen.  

You peered over your shoulder at your abductor; lying on his side with an arm folded under his pillow, shoulders rising and collapsing with each heavy breath, scarred face somehow peaceful in his slumber. It was surreal to witness him like that, observing him in his most vulnerable state — you knew his gun was under that pillow, but the thought of trying to steal it faltered as fast as it came. 

Instead you slipped out of the bed, pattering on the soft soles of bare feet to the tiny kitchenette, and filled up a brown glass mug with tap water. You drank it all in three hard gulps, then filled up another. 

He didn’t stir, not even slightly. In such a deep sleep that you likely could have put your jeans back on and unbolted the door without even waking him. 

Instead you went into the ensuite, shutting the door behind you. The bulbous knob had a push-button to lock it, but it was loose, and no matter how many times you pushed it, it failed. You gave up quickly, though — didn’t want to wake him up yet. 

The bathroom was arranged nonsensically — the toilet sat by the door, the vanity across from the shower that was tucked into the corner. Its glass walls were grimy with limescale, every amenity made of faded ivory acrylic and stained brown at the edges where the janitors had failed to clean it.  

You flushed the toilet when you saw that he hadn’t and swore under your breath in disgust. Fucking animal. You quickly peed, rinsed out your mouth with water from the sink, then turned on the shower. You only had a t-shirt to take off, revolted that it was all you had worn during the night. You hung it on the towel rail. 

You kept the water lukewarm, too sensitive for cold and too feverish for hot. An array of cheap mini soaps and shampoos lined the tiny in-built caddy, and you were not frugal in using them. Used almost the entire bottle of body wash to lather every crevice of your body, washing away the sweat of panic and ignominious lust that mired your skin. Shampooed and conditioned your hair with products that smelt like pine and citrus with an undercurrent of battery acid. 

The water was cleansing, a pleasant distraction, and you shut your eyes as you rinsed off your face, rubbing the grease off your skin. 

You rubbed your eyes before you opened them — immediately spotted a silhouette outside the shower, and a blood-curdling scream erupted from your chest as you sprung from the ground. Almost slipped over when you landed on the PVC floor, but you managed to catch yourself with your hands on the glass.

“What the fuck!” You shrieked, heart galloping so rapidly you worried it would break a rib. 

He was blurry through the spray of water landing on the shower walls, but you could see him lumber towards the shower door. You shrunk into the corner when he cracked it open, back firm against the square tiles as if you could slip through the fractures in the grout. 

He stepped into the shower as if he hadn’t noticed you there, leviathan that he was, his body took up two thirds of the space in the narrow glass box. Boxers were gone, his cock hung heavy and unashamedly, and your stare caught on it like a fish on a hook. Fucking bludgeon of a thing; it swung as though prideful, thick from root to head, roped with veins and sheathed in rosy foreskin. Half-hard, it jutted out from his bed of wheaten curls at a forty-five degree angle, and it bounced as he took a step. 

You looked at it for too long, breath caught in your gullet, and he noticed. 

“Settle down,” he taunted, hardly a croak, morning voice abraded and gurgling from his throat. He shut the shower door behind him. 

You had a plethora of disputes to mount — get the fuck out, how dare you, you didn’t even knock — but they all fizzled at the back of your throat, when he hauled you out of the corner by the hips, swivelling you around until your nose was flush with the shower wall. Kept you there with a hand cuffed around the back of your neck, wet hair knotting in his fingers. 

“You can’t—”

“Prettier than I thought,” he murmured to himself, a rough hand smoothing from your hip to your ass, brazenly taking a handful and squeezing hard enough to make you chirp.

“Get off—”

You choked on the rest of your dispute when he packed his hand between your legs, the gap tight where you held your thighs together — he gave no warning when he snaked his finger between your folds, nudging for an entrance. 

It happened so fast you couldn’t catch a breath — he found it quickly when your hole twitched at the intrusion, and you yelped in shock when he unhesitantly pushed it inside you to the knuckle, palm flush with the base of you. 

“Lovely little cunt.” 

And despite every effort to maintain some dignity, every bulwark you had attempted to erect against succumbing to your baser appetites, came toppling down in the quake of his words. Scruples sloughed off from you like the shed of a snake, and whatever slithered free was as shameless as she was hungry. 

“Mh, still nice and warm after last night, in’t she,” he crooned, flexing his finger to push it deeper before raking it out. 

He was priming you, evident in how he stretched you open around his thick finger, pumping it in and out of you as though assessing how deep he could go. You pressed your forehead against the cold tile, toes curling into the plastic shower floor, whimpering like a wounded animal.

You felt like one, when he tried to push a second finger in — he had to wriggle it to wedge it in, bully it deeper before your hole could stretch to fit it. It stung where the fragile skin pulled taut, but it was a delicious pain, like the burn of liquor or the sting of pulled hair. 

“Christ, that’s tight,” he grunted into the shell of your ear, and a chill prickled down the side of your neck. 

He ran out of patience, you supposed, because he slid his fingers out of you and your cunt spasmed in protest of its emptiness. He had spun you around then, handling your body like a ragdoll, moving you right where he wanted you — had his hands under your ass in a blink, and he deftly hoisted you upward, back grinding against the tile wall. 

You hooked your legs around his hips on instinct, arms slung over his shoulders when he put them there, his face level with yours. Water ran in rivulets down his face, dripping from his hairline and off his chin. Pupils distended and black as tar, beady as a shark, and glaring into the depths of them made your tongue even wetter. 

His titanic arms held you up without exertion, and one released your thigh to scoop underneath you — held his cock upright in a fist, and with no pause he lodged the clubbed head of his cock against your opening. He pushed in with his full weight, reaming you open on the girth of it, and your eyes glassed over. 

The noises you made were animal, mewling and gasping, coughing when he landed against the spongy plug of your womb, cock as hard as a gun barrel and just about as threatening. 

“Fu-hu-huck,” he chuffed into your cheek, voice oozing ardent satisfaction, vibrating directly into your skull. “Tha’s heaven.” 

It tracked that he was a talker, given how chatty he was for the duration of the drive — but you liked it. God, you liked it. Mortifying, yet liberating to admit to yourself, that you wanted to hear him talk; you wanted to hear him tell you how lovely, how pretty, how perfect you were. 

“All sweet now, aren’t ya?” He purred, bouncing you upward as he rutted hard. “Just what she needed, mh?”

You almost said it aloud — yes crept along your tongue and prickled at the tip, but you weren’t quite ready to let loose the confession. It escaped instead as a moan, head rocking back and knocking against the tile, and he let out a low chuckle, because you said it in all but words. 

“Yeah,” he grunted, panting, pelvis grinding against yours as he pistoned into you, somehow deeper every thrust. “Fuckin’ knew it. Barmy for it the second I walked in, weren’t ya?” 

He grabbed your face by the jaw, angling your head to look directly at him, the squeeze of his fingers forcing your lips to pucker. His cheeks were ruddy, blood fresh and hot under his skin, eyes rabid with hunger and pride. They scoured every feature on your face and you melted beneath their attention. 

“Gorgeous girl, aren’t you?” 

He rutted with purpose, chasing his own end with no mind paid to your squeaks of sore rapture, grunting as his cock reeled out and stuffed you full again in steady rhythm. You could only burrow your fingernails into the meat of his back, carving into his wet skin as if holding on for dear life. 

“Just fuckin’ perfect,” he grunted, a tirade that persisted through every thrust, 

“Sweetest thing I ever stole.” 

“Who needs fuckin’ money, eh?” 

“Hit the jackpot with you, din’t I?” 

“Might just keep you forever.” 

“You’d like that, wouldn’t ya, sweetheart?” 

Perhaps your brain had been knocked against your skull one too many times, turned soggy and stupid in the heat, because you whimpered; “Y-yeah.” 

His brows shot up at that, shocked — but that surprise quickly gave way to a lavish conceit, a vicious smile that oozed pride for having conquered your inhibitions without even having to try. You’d have been embarrassed if you had the capacity for it anymore, but all shame had been bled from you. 

“Yeah?” He goaded, grin wide and jaw loose, panting through his teeth. “Want me to steal you away, eh?” 

You nodded as much as he would allow you to, and his lips planted on your chin as though tempted to bite you. 

“I can do that, love,” he crooned, “I can take y’where no one will ever find ya. Keep you all for m’self.” 

You whined when he only fucked you harder, tender skin of your back chafing against the grout with every jolt. Seemed he was approaching the summit of his own pleasure — huffing like a bull, thrusting with anger, not nearly as chatty as he had been for the rest of it. 

“Agh, shit—” he groaned, mouth landing on your shoulder, teeth catching your skin. “Fuckin’ hell—”

He hastily reached underneath you to unsheathe his cock from your hole, leaving your cunt bitterly empty and convulsing in its sudden vacuity — his entire body jerked against you as he came, you felt his cock jolt beneath the cleft of you as it spurted ropes come against the tiled wall he held you to. 

His climactic groans were music, to you, little lecher that you were. Some foul part of you was remorseful he hadn’t come inside you instead, hadn’t carelessly pumped you full of it — not a drop of rationality left within you, evidently. 

You didn’t expect him to kiss you, but he did; planted a slovenly kiss on the side of your neck, pillowy lips wet with saliva and the water of the still-running shower. 

He released you, then — didn’t quite drop you, lowered you as gracefully as he could before letting you land on your feet with a thud. Gave you a pet on the head as though to praise you, a prideful kiss into your scalp. 

He shut off the water with a shove of the chipping lever, and the showerhead continued to leak fat drops of water despite it being shut off. He pushed opened the shower door for you, and you slipped out, sodden feet landing on the bathmat. 

There were scant words exchanged as you handed him one of the towels, using the other to dry yourself off. You couldn’t help but watch him as he rubbed himself down with the teal-blue cotton, polishing his head like a bowling ball, flossing under his arms, unabashedly rubbing the towel under his balls to dry between his legs. Something in his nonchalance, unapologetically going about it all as if it were normal, was endearing to you. Made your hackles soften, if they were still at all raised. 

You put your t-shirt back on, wishing you had a change of clothes, and ventured back into the bedroom — the air was still thick with the dusty warmth of the heater, and ripe with the musk of both of the worked up bodies that had spent the night in it. 

“Get dressed,” came a demand from behind you, followed by a coaxing pat on your bare arse. “Need to hit the road.” 

You looked over your shoulder at him, watching as he pulled on his boxers, tucking his cock away and snapping the elastic waistband around his hips. You picked up your knickers from where they had landed on the carpet the night before, shimmying up your legs. 

Couldn’t yet believe what you were girding yourself for. What you had already accepted as the next step you would take. 

You caught his eye, a pout in your lips; 

“Can we get breakfast first?” 

i've got a pinterest board for this one. the vibes have been stewing for a long while