#unedited so be forgiving

[captainfern]

boyfriend’s best friend simon

(18+ smut, fem!reader, infidelity but your boyfriends a cunt if that makes you feel better)

—•—

you don’t know how this happened. you don’t know when this happened. all you know is that it is happening, and you really don’t want it to stop.

simon’s everything that your boyfriend isn’t. has everything that he lacks. communication, understanding, selflessness; commonsense, emotional intelligence, a big cock,

the list goes on, frankly.

but here you are, your bedroom sweltering around you, swimming beneath distorted waves in your vision. convection currents radiating from your conjoined bodies.

simon’s hands were large and calloused on the soft fat of your hips, fingers toying with the taut lines of stretch marks passing onto the thick of your upper thighs. his hands gripped and pulled and moved you against him, slamming you up and down, grinding you against him.

he was leaned up against the headboard of your bed, head cocked back with dark, hungry eyes glued to your body and a coy smirk plastered across his face. the way he looked at you, gazed you, admired you as if you were some kind of prize, had your stomach in knots.

maybe you were a prize. after all, he was balls-deep in his best friend’s girl, and he didn’t have a care in the world. didn’t have a care in the world that his cock had chubbed instantly when she opened the door to let him in an hour ago.

you panted above him, thighs burning, shins pressed into the warm sheets of your bed. you were hesitant to be on top, to perch your body weight across his pelvis. your boyfriend never assured you it’d be okay, just agreed with you and fucked you flat on the mattress. simon was different.

“what? think i can’t handle myself a girl like you, eh?” simon had uttered, looking you up and down. a prize. he was also knuckle-deep in your pussy by this stage, two fingers scissoring you open. “oh, sweet girl, you have no idea.”

and now you were here. straddling simon riley, the formidable ghost that you’d seen only occasionally with your boyfriend. a recluse of a man, a mountain of a man. was always kind, always respectful.

an army dog, a government mutt. always so obedient, and so polite. well-trained and well-mannered. clearly, until he had a pretty bird like you stretched across his lap. a prize.

“yeah, ride this fuckin’ cock, baby,” simon grunted, helping you fuck yourself down onto his cock. his thick, fat cock— a cock that hit you so deep, stretched you so wide, that the joke of ‘is that a gun in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?’ had died on your tongue because, holy fuck,

he could use it. he knew what he was doing. you should have guessed it with the way he spat on your cunt ten minutes into you letting him into your flat; the way he licked the glob of spit from your wet folds and fucked it into you, tongue warm and searching. you also should have guessed when he rubbed at your clit with his thumb while stretching you open on his fingers; the way he moved them at just the right pace to make you come twice in a row. now:

“s’all yours, baby. s’all yours,” he uttered, pushing his hips upwards to meet your downwards movements.

your tits bounced with each of his thrusts, the mattress creaking beneath you. the sheets were bunching, the heat in the room thick and molten. liquid, drowning you.

you gasped, air in your lungs. you were not drowning, just fucking delirious with the way his cockhead knocked up towards the plug of your cervix.

panting, you clutched at his shoulders. broad and muscular. you could feel the difference in texture where skin ended and scar began. a few times, your fingers wandered upwards, and you drew the tips through his hair. once cropped, now grown out. scruffy, rugged,

handsome. sweat beaded on his forehead, turning the lighter strands dark, sticking to his skin. between the filth he spewed from his mouth, you could hear him grunting and moaning. you wished he’d moan louder. maybe once he stopped talking it’d be different. but you weren’t sure how soon that would be.

“fuckin’— look at the fuckin’ state of you. such a pretty girl. such a pretty— fuckin’— girl,” simon groaned, thrusting up into you. the force made you hiccup around a long moan. simon smiled, triumphant. “look like a dream takin’ all o’ my cock, sweetheart. perfect little pussy letting me stretch her open, huh?”

“simon,” you moaned, and that wasn’t the first time you’d said his name tonight. but he acted as though it was.

a dog with a bone, simon flashed a wicked grin, canines showing, and redoubled his efforts in pushing his cock in and out of you, rutting against your body.

“yeah, baby, i’m here. your simon’s righttttt here,” he said, grinning, as he took one of his large hands and placed it over the mound of your belly, pressing gently and squeezing you there. he couldn’t actually feel his cock inside you, but the added sensation knocked an airy moan from your chest, your eyes rolling. simon hummed, pleased as he fucked you. “‘m reaching so far, aren’t i? so deep. bet your lad couldn’t reach up here, could he?”

you whimpered, and you wanted to whimper a ‘noooo’ but it died in transit. instead, you whimpered, like a wounded dog, as his cock hit that perfect spot inside you. it made you want to scream.

you continued to bounce against him, his thighs pressed close to yours. he fondled you, squeezed your hips while you both worked each other towards release.

“simon,” you pleaded, breathless. “oh, fuck—”

simon wanted so badly to beam with pride. but he resisted, cocking his head and watching the way your greedy cunt sucked his cock in with wet squelches at each upward thrust.

“you feeling good, sweet girl?” he asked, tone warm and honey-sweet. well-trained. then, “this cock making you feel good? he followed with an obvious lilt. mutt.

you replied with a yes, that trailed off into a high-pitched moan when simon’s thumb found your swollen clit, rubbing against it and beginning to draw small, tight circles.

“thaaat’s it, baby. sing for me.”

“siiimon,” you mewled, body tiring but stomach growing tight. bubbling hot, molten like the atmosphere of your bedroom. the knot in the base pulling tighter and tighter with each nudge of his cock against your g-spot.

your cunt was soaked around him, dripping out onto his pelvis and onto your bedsheets. making a mess.

tight, velveteen walls clutched at his cock as your climax built. gripping tight, holding him against you, keeping him with you. wet and warm and the closest to heaven a non-religious man like simon’ll ever come close to.

“beautiful,” he suddenly whispered, eyes on your face now. “beautiful girl.”

well-trained. damn, your boyfriend wasn’t even close to being this well-trained. he was more used to chewing you up like a toy, and heading off to do god knows what once he’d finished. once he’d satisfied himself.

you weren’t a toy for simon. just a prize. much different than a toy, for your information.

a toy is something you play with. a prize is something treasure. savour. and with the way simon revelled at the silky feel of your pussy against his bare cock, he intended to savour you forever.

“you wanna come?” he asked softly, but you knew the soft tone wasn’t going to last. not with the way his eyes glinted, his soft abs flexed, and his mouth curved at the corners. “can feel this pussy startin’ to make a fuss. so desperate for it, isn’t she?”

personifying your pussy. a new one, but one you weren’t entirely afraid of.

so you answered. “yes. simon, please—“

simon quickened his pace, thrusting deeper. your flesh rippled, thighs and stomach and tits moving with the sheer force of his movements. he grunted and panted, eyes drooping, fingers tight in your hips, chasing his own high too. he still had a hard-working finger drawing sharp shapes across your puffy clit.

“go on then. come all over my cock, sweet girl. show me what i’ve been missing out on.”

the tension in your body grew and grew, sweat accumulating across your skin. shiny, dewy, completely ethereal, you hurtled towards release with wind in your sails. sweating, hot, on the brink of overstimulation, you let your mind go fuzzy. you had a heartbeat in your clit. you could feel the stickiness of your inner-thighs. you could hear simon,

“come for me, baby.”

the coil snapped as if on cue. maybe you were the well-trained dog in need of a new collar.

your release rocked you off balance, and you slumped forward, ready for simon to catch you. he did, of course, leaning you against his chest as your body shook, twitched, jerked with the force of your orgasm. it travelled through you like electric shocks. an electrical current that fizzled out after a few long seconds, and left you boneless against simon’s chest.

he was close behind you, his balls drawing tight, tip leaking inside you, flared head now ruddy and red.

he moaned. “god, baby. feel so good around me.” a speechless moment, filled only with pants and— moans. simon moaned loudly, eyes snapping shut as his orgasm quivered inside him. bees trapped in a glass jar.

“just needed a proper cock to split you open,” he said suddenly, voice deep and rich. “pretty girl like you needs a big cock to keep her happy.”

rutting, in and out. desperate mutt. canines flashing, grip tightening, moans increasing. military stamina you hoped wouldn’t last all night. a working dog, too, this man. god, what a man. not perfect (you wouldn’t want him to be), but pretty fuckin’ close right about now.

“simon,” you whined, desperate.

he groaned deeply. “oh yeah, fuck, that’s it, baby. say my name— yeah, say my name when i come inside you.”

“simon…”

“that’s it, baby. that’s it. fuck, m’so close. m’so close, baby, keep going.”

“simon, please—!”

“mhm, thaaat’s it, fuck,” simon moaned, then shoved his cock as far in as it’d go (making you gasp and choke on a loud moan) and then came inside you.

you felt the heat. more heat, more liquid fire. molten. lava. you were drowning again.

he filled you, cum painting your insides as he moaned out your name, whining as his head flopped backwards, his large hands keeping you firmly in place.

then, everything stilled. your heartbeat clanged loudly in your ears, heavy in your rib cage. your puffy clit beat in tandem with it, and your hole fluttered around his cock, now still and plugging his release inside you.

for the briefest moment, as you lay against simon’s chest in the warm, sex-laden air of your bedroom, you thought of your boyfriend. the man you should’ve been doing all of this with.

but the thought was merely a linger. it flitted away, brushed aside by simon’s lips, that came to rest against your tacky forehead. he peppered a few kisses there, rubbing your hips, arse and back soothingly as you fizzled down.

“pretty girl…” simon whispered softly, hugging you to him. “my pretty girl.”

his prize.

he always thought his mate was a bit of a prick, anyway.

[emry-stars-art]

The prince in public vs once he’s in the privacy of his room ⤴️

[sukunasdirtylaugh]

always a god never human II satoru gojo

tags: post shibuya au, alt au where satoru is cursed to be blind, fluff, argument, angst, regret

word count: 4.5k

note: I wanted to write something that could encapsulate what being human is for satoru in the best worst case scenario. some of you might love this as I do, and thank you for your support. also, I made a reference to odysseus and the cyclops so I think I got it right (I haven't read the odyssey in nearly 10 years). also forgive me and please correct me if I got the kikufuku part wrong. will make a part two if this comes out well (I already have it drafted).

satoru gojo had been exposed to curses for as long as he could remember. first, as a boy, then as a student in jujutsu tech, and finally as a friend and instructor to those around him; but he had never been directly cursed.

not until now.

"you may remain as the strongest, satoru gojo, but your strength will be the only thing to hold you. no one but yourself will disinter it, so don't waste your time searching for something already set as destined." he recalled.

"love will be your salvation yet damnation, for you will cry for your shortcomings and failures. no one but you will carry this burden. let it remind you of this day, of the battle in which you never, truly won."

he always wakes up in a cold sweat afterwards. with the erratic beating of his heart and the tears running down his cheeks, satoru clings to himself, pressing a hand to his heart so as to remind himself of his current position. the back of his throat feels rough like sandpaper, and he licks his lips before reaching for the glass of water he's reserved for nights like these.

he drinks nearly all of it, his heart heavy before his fingers fish for his phone by his bedside.

"hey siri," he speaks, voice hoarse, "what time is it?"

"it's 3:24am."

with an exhaled huff, he puts his phone to the side, making note to remember where it is in the morning. as he lays his head down and focuses on the feeling of blood rushing to his fingertips, arms laid out side by side and fists clenching and unclenching, he sighs.

tomorrow will be better, he tells himself, but it has to change, whispers the other.

"now listen, don't give me that look, it's serious!" your frown causes utahime, your longtime friend of 4 years to shake her hands out to grab your attention, causing you to stifle a smile from your face as you hide your lips behind your cup of tea. "I have a job proposal for you, from a friend. and I think you'd like the pay."

utahime had always been sensible on the topic of money. knowing your constant struggles as a college student and now graduate, seeking to find new sources of income to keep up with bills and student loans, the sorceress felt compassion for you, a friend of hers who has grounded and guided her through frustration after frustration; work and romance related. she's never had the luxury of normalcy to a life like yours, she knows, so doing this was in her best interest for your benefit.

she tells you she has a friend who has decided to take up reading. problem is, he's blind.

"he's not a child, though he acts like it sometimes, but he's not some prune old man either. he's around your age so I'm sure talking to him along with your patience won't be an issue."

besides the generous pay for your time, 6 hours a week for $500 as a starting salary, there was something about this arrangement that left you with a good feeling in your heart. and it wasn't because your client was blind, no. it was the sheer opportunity for growth, in doing something you loved and doing something someone wanted to partake in. so on the day of your arrival you dress your best, hair neatly combed with a pearl diadem and academia as your outfit inspiration for the occasion. "he lives in a secluded home," you recall utahime's words, "up on a hill, or cliff. I don't know. it's always cloudy over there," and you can make out the home on the hill. it's quaint, and you feel thankful for having picked the clothes adequate for the weather.

it surely looked like it was going to rain, so you quicken your pace until you're at the front door, standing still as you swallow the lump at the back of your throat. you were no psychic, but the way your heart churned and palpitated let you know something was about to change your life forever.

"you must be the girl utahime sent, I'm satoru. please step inside," you absentmindedly take in the smile he gives you, taking no answer from you before he opens the door to let you in. he wears a pair of black glasses, contrasting to his snowy hair and porcelain skin. wearing casual loungewear neither of you dare to touch one another in the sense of exchanging a handshake out of respect, or fear. it all feels formal, too formal as if this were a job interview or more.

"it's quite cold outside, isn't it?" after you step inside and change into a pair of slippers that are slightly too big for you, satoru shows you to where you would read to him.

he makes conversation rather well, you find, but there is slight awkwardness in the interactions but not in the way he moves around the house. as he moves up the stairs, he has a hand against the wall as he takes each step with precision, knowing when and where to step. you're fairly quiet, but polite in your conversation with him, until you reach the space he calls his 'study' which is just a room with a large window accompanied by books and belongings.

"you're probably wondering how on earth a blind guy has a clean place, right? well to answer your question, housekeeping."

"I wasn't thinking about that," you answer softly biting the inside of your cheek, "I was just admiring the window."

there's a momentary silence between the two of you. either satoru is surprised by your reply, unrelated to his blindness, or you have struck a sensitive chord, however, his nod makes you think otherwise.

"it is. before I was blind, I'd come here as a teen. house is mine, so even the doors are nice in here." and when he hears you agree, he smiles. "anyways, I'm sure utahime told you the basics about this, yeah?"

"yes."

"great. there's a book on that table to your right. you can start reading that one." as he walks, he takes a seat on a chair across from you. he patiently waits until you sit down again to ask, "before we start, would you like some water?"

"yeah," you breathe, "that'd be great actually."

"there's a few water bottles under the table next to you," he informs, making himself comfortable on the chair, limbs spreading comfortably as you take out a water bottle and glance at the book in your lap.

"this book is about malaysia," you read the title, "is that somewhere you'd like to visit one day?"

"maybe," he says, "it was from a friend of mine."

"did he go to malaysia?"

there's a long silence in between the innocence your question and his answer.

"he did," he answers slowly. "it was always a dream of his to go, so that's why I've kept the book." you don't press him further, instead nodding and suggesting on starting.

when you open the book, you don't miss the elegant cursive writing at the top right of the page.

n. kento

you frequent satoru's home every monday, wednesday, and friday for 3 hours every day. the pay is more than what you expect the first week, $750, but you wonder how this man can easily afford your services.

the bigger question, is how can he live alone in such a home like that? does he ever get hurt? what does he do then?

"yeah, I live here by myself." he answers your question on the third week of your employment. "it's pretty neat though. I don't have to worry about anyone misplacing anything I leave, you know?" his attempt at a joke makes you chuckle and walk up the steps behind him to his study. "are we reading something new today?"

"there's something different I want to try," he tells you, "last night, on the news, I heard there was a feud over some meso-american statue. something to do with jade material being one of the few in existence. I know this is beyond what we agreed, but do you think you can find an article on it?" you nod, affirming his request.

"great!" he smiles, relieved, "my laptop is on the desk. feel free to use it."

you wanted to say that was the last time he asked you for a favor like that, but it was you who fueled his interest. that day, you ended up finding 4 articles, and playing 2 videos about the subject. and as a result, both you and satoru engaged in related conversation until the end of your assigned time.

every few days, satoru would inform you on something (practically asking) and you'd reply by responding, researching the questions he ached to know. it went such way that you were reading him books less and less and more article, media coverage, and conversation.

"did you hear about the experiment trials being conducted by this company called oceangate?" satoru asks, interest laced in his voice, "they're thinking about sending people to view the titanic shipwreck."

and quickly enough, so were you.

"yeah, I also heard about it. I couldn't help but read an article about it. apparently, they've done a few trials, but the company is independent, so I don't know how safe it is or if they have government members involved..."

one of satoru's favorite moments consist of the following.

"did you hear about the crime case that just happened last week? the one with the girl who survived the car accident."

"I did!" you answer eagerly, "I heard her stepdad was the last person to talk to her boyfriend."

"do you think he murdered him?"

"it's tough to say," you bite your bottom lip in contemplation, "I knew he didn't approve of him because he was an aspiring musician, but these texts came out saying he wrote to his brother, 'that man better stay away from my daughter or else I don't know what I'll do',""

"no way."

"and that's not even the worst part," you adjust yourself on your seat, criss cross applesauce. "they found dna remains in his car before his death, hair. right before the car accident. there's speculation they argued before..."

"the accident." satoru nods.

as the weeks progressed, so did your conversations with satoru. the two of you had a knack for being adaptable in your interactions with one another. you could reach a book for an hour, then talk about some recent story or just spend a whole session talking, with the mention of an article or some source always being mentioned.

and satoru burned for that. with every interaction, he found himself looking forward to what else he could bring up, and so did you, even spending time of your own researching things he might be interested in learning about.

things the both of you turned out interested learning about.

"here," satoru could feel the warmth emanate from your body (or his) as you sat next to him, your body scooting closer to his, "hold your hands, yeah, like that," placing a small statue, no bigger than the size of a wine bottle, satoru freezes slightly as you guide his fingers to glide along the edges of the statue.

"my friend managed to get this one out of the archives," you explain, "of course, I just had to bring this to you too. can you sense the material?" the corner of satoru's lips tug upwards in acknowledgement of your excitement. it makes his heart squeeze and pulse in ways that felt familiarly unfamiliar. in a good way, of course. everything you brought in his life was good. whether he could see it or not, you were always so welcoming and sweet.

"is this... legal?" he out of everyone finds himself whispering. as if the authorities could be outside his door. you giggle.

"yes," you smile, "I asked my friend if she could let me borrow this for the day, to take 'pictures'." you chuckle, "obviously that's not what we're doing, is it?" a warmth follows satoru's cheeks as he shakes his head and you smile. "this mesoamerican statue is the same material as the one we read the other week, remember?"

we, satoru's words echo in his head as he nods. "y-yeah. thank you for doing this, you know."

"of course," you smile kindly, "I figured, out of everyone who could be here, I figured you deserve this."

deserve.

"open your hands for me, satoru." your soft voice speaks as you cup his hands, the ocean waves crash from afar. after much convincing, you managed to pull satoru out of his comfort zone. what's the point of going to the ocean if I can't see it? he asks.

well, what's the point of me reading to you and us interacting if you can't see me? you counter. and he realizes you've won.

he can smell the saltwater, can feel the wind blow through his hair and let his feet sink into the sand, but that's not what makes his heart skip a beat. your hands shouldn't feel this soft, he thinks. the way you allow grains of sand to fall in his hands feel otherworldly, holy. the way he senses you smile at him and place a shell on his palm, letting him trace the surface with his finger as you guide him makes him feel as the most enlightened man alive.

he can sense you're close, not by strands of your hair slapping his cheek as the wind blows, but by the warmth of your body. suddenly, he does not feel he is at the beach, but with the beach guiding her hands with his and feeling the warmth of what he feels is your smile.

he remains silent, you're looking at him, and he's looking at you underneath his shades. he's frozen. waiting for you to say something, to break this off as if this would never, by any of his wildest dreams, occur in any universe.

but you don't.

satoru feels his pulse quicken, breathing deepen as the point of your feet slot themselves to his, your nose barely brushes his own, causing the six eyed user to forget everything he once thought he knew of limits and boundaries. kiss me, he thinks, take me, he begs to the heavens. satoru thinks he could be captivated, deeper than any spell odysseus and his men were under at sea, but they were cursed by calypso's beauty, and he felt blessed by the touch of an angel. your touch enviable to the gods above.

when you kiss him, he feels like he just made the greatest discovery to mankind, like he's waited his whole life for this, a feeling that greatly surpasses galileo's lifelong accomplishments and napoleon's combined. no feeling, word, or sight could transcribe what it feels to have your lips slide through his, to have you softly gasp against his lips, and to have your body close to his. satoru is convinced that he has reborn, become whole by the touch of your lips which have sweetly imprinted themselves throughout everything he is.

he holds the back of your neck gently, so as to remind himself that you are here, not a dream but here with him. flesh against flesh, man and woman who share one breath.

when you both pull away, satoru feels himself begging to pull you closer, but the hands that push him from you let him know you need to breathe. and although his body cries otherwise, you speak breathlessly, a hint of a smile in your tone, "did you feel that shell? it was my favorite kind to collect growing up," and he smiles because he learns what it is to collect something as valuable as the shells, your lips.

with nearly 3 months of knowing you, there was a shift in satoru's chest one wednesday morning as you excused yourself for a call.

"...of course I don't! you think I want to live with him?" you ask, voice laced with disgust, "I won't be tied down like that again and you know it, Kiro. I'll be cursed if I have to be with someone like him again. you know I'd never stay for someone like that. It's dead weight on my shoulders, and I won't have anything but pity on him." your words, from the end of the hallway send daggers at satoru's heart.

"yes, I'm at work, what else do you want me to do? It's not like I can just fly my way to you in such a short amount of time. you should have told me..." a long pause, "yes... he's blind," another long pause, "I get paid on the 26th, but my boss won't let me work on the 25th, so you can sleep in my bed while I get home. and wear something under the covers, okay?" somewhere, somehow satoru wanted to tell himself he was not hearing things correctly, that you were still the same girl he knew to be around, but when you returned after your call, something was definitely wrong with you.

"so, how was you call?" he asks, feigning interest, "everything ok?"

"yeah, fine, thanks." you breathe, tired, opening the book in your hands, "chapter 21, the last spring."

one week later.

as much as he wanted to deny it, satoru was beginning to think you had changed. what was it? was it him? the kiss? the way he grabbed you? or have you finally had enough of these little visits that could have been masked as pity for a young man like him?

when the 26th passes, he does not ask what your plans are. as much as he wants to ask, he thinks it's not of his place to ask. is he doing the right thing? he doesn't know. it certainly doesn't ease the unpleasant feeling bubbling in his stomach.

"do you have a favorite treat?" you ask. caught off guard, he nods.

"kikufuku," he tells you, "when I was in high school, there was this elderly couple that had a kikufuku stand and they used to have the best ice cream fillings."

"I thought kikufuku was cream based?"

"It was, but not to them. their ice cream filling was one of a kind."

"when was the last time you had some?"

he laughs, "years ago. I'm pretty sure they ended up closing because the wife died, and she was the only living relative who knew how to make it."

"that's too bad."

"I know, but at least they were happy doing what they did." satoru then changes the subject, shifting the focus to a lighter topic.

on december 6th, satoru recieves a call.

"I told you, you don't have to call me sensei anymore," satoru groans, throwing a wooden sword towards yuuta, catching it flawlessly.

"why not? you've always been my sensei. or would you rather us call eachother cousins?"

"you're right," answered satoru adter a long moment, earning a laugh from his former student. "so what was it you wanted to talk about? clearly it was not to train, so what is it?"

"I just wanted to see how you're doing."

"well you could've just called..."

"you haven't trained with us in a while," yuuta sighs, "everyone. we don't really know what you're up to these days."

and he was right, but satoru would never admit it.

"what?" he asks, almost faking offense, "can't your sensei go on vacat-"

"-utahime sensei says you've been in your home a lot," he clarifies, "only few of us know. toge, panda, yuuji and I."

"what about megumi?"

"he's kind of in his own world," yuuta sighs, placing his weapon down before taking a seat next to gojo in the training room. "he knows things haven't been easy."

"you've kept an eye on him and yuuji like I asked, right?''

"to a degree," he admits, "I can't have them open up so freely because I'll always be their upperclassmen, but you... you're..."

"I get what you're trying to say." he answers flatly.

"you do?"

he nods.

"can I walk with you to your home?" yuuta asks, "there's another thing I'd like to ask, personally this time."

satoru finds himself agreeing with his younger student, what else could he do besides that? as the two walk, satoru finds himself giving advice he didn't think he could give, advising the student on what shall become of him now that he's already over age and in his own right to choose his destiny.

as he advises his pupil, satoru finds himself wondering the same for himself. he's turning a year older in 2 more days, what will become of him? what will he do? what does this mean in relation to kenjaku's damned curse? it aggravated him. upset him how everything felt so secure, almost ideal weeks ago, but now his life felt back in square one, returning to his home that he had grown used to be alo-

"surprise!"

not one, nor two, but several familiar voices called from the inside of his open, making satoru freeze in shock.

"surprise! we thought we'd surprise you sensei" panda's voice rang.

"he's right!" another voice, yuuji's appears, "we thought about making a little get together with our favorite sensei..."

"obviously someone had to plan this," satoru turned, stunned when shoko's voice came into play. "you?"

"no," she chuckles, turning to you but you quickly shake your head, reaching for utahime, "it was utahime!" you call, "she wanted to plan something nice for you."

"aww well aren't you sweet?" he grins tauntingly at utahime who can't help but send daggers your way as shoko muffles her laugh.

for the duration of the party, satoru is accompanied by his co-workers, friends, and students. he hears more about what they've done. what travels they have accomplished, and what romances some of them have experienced all while they share laughs. all while satoru searches for yours.

you stand a respectable distance away from him, deciding it would be best to let his friends and students take over since he hasn't seen them in so long. you weren't as special as they were, only having known satoru for the least amount of time, a part of you felt like a stranger. not that anyone made you feel left out, no. everyone was kind to you and even appreciative for your presence. however, you spent a whole majority of the party not talking to satoru, as if you weren't there.

when it came time to cut the cake, everyone who was an adult was nearly drunk. the students, all joyously supervised by ichiji laughed as they shared a group photo. yuuji, satoru's student mentioned something about adding the photo as his lockscreen, causing everyone to burst out laughing from ichiji's protests. everyone looked happy, with a twinkle in their eyes as the end to the party came to an end.

the students and ichiji were the first to leave, then shoko and utahime finding balance in one another, leaving you alone with satoru in his home.

"you didn't drink, huh."

"I don't really drink in social events." you shyly admit, scratching the back of your neck as satoru does not face you, looking towards the door where utahime and shoko left not long ago.

"you thought you were social?" his words take you by surprise.

"I, um.... I talked to your friends." you say, "they were very nice."

"I barely heard you."

"that's because you were probably occupied talking to the others-"

"-you didn't talk to me." he finds himself saying in annoyance.

"I didn't want to take your day away,"

"from who?"

"you."

"there's nothing to take from me."

"yes there is," you tell him. "your attention. you haven't seen your friends in-"

“they all pity me.”

“what? no they don-”

“-you’re not blind. people don’t… they don’t look at you like some pity animal, just waiting for you to fuck up.”

“you are not a pity....”

“oh yeah?” he breathes, ragged. “then why the fuck did you agree to read to a blind man?”

there was some silence, regret pooled at the back of your throat and then a shift in your weight as you stood. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. I like you, “I- I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry too,”

“I- are we…?”

“I don’t think we should be seeing each other,” he expresses. “not for a while,”

“a while?”

“yeah, a while.’’

“do you… want me to leave?”

“I think it’s for the best.”

“Do you want me to come back monday?”

“I don’t think so,”

when you left, satoru's jaw tightened, hands now fisted by his sides and a body so rigid one might think he were frozen in place. satoru stays like that for several moments, eyes nearing a burning sensation as he focuses on where he would imagine the door is, almost expectantly waiting for your return as if this were a dream.

but it wasn't.

and as the minutes pass, he paces his living room. hands running over his hair.

he had done wrong.

"ichiji," his voice almost broke, dry and borderline desperate. “I…” I think I fucked up, “I want you to pick up y/n. She just left my place, but she doesn’t have a car.”

"I already did," he says, "she said just that."

“Did she tell you anything?” he finds himself expecting.

“not really..."

“how did she look?”

normal? Ichiji wanted to say, didn't you just see her? but the tone in satoru’s voice confirmed that he did something to leave you so quiet after the party. 

“she was quiet,” he tells him, “...maybe she was tired from the party. you know, she organized it herself.”

“she... what?”

“yeah. utahime helped her bring the cake. she needed someone to drive while she carried the cake because she didn't trust anyone to hold it the 20 something minutes it took to get to your house. she told me she was trying to look for someone who knew how to make ice cream kikufuku and ended up finding the niece of the old owners of a shop she said you used to frequent. after long convincing, she was able to get the niece to help. I’m pretty sure she made the cake, with the help of the niece of course. she also made the dinner, and even had shoko bring in the drinks along with candles that your friend forgot to bring, — so I guess she was just tired, right?”

Satoru was speechless. unsure if it was the fact that you did so much for him or the fact that he had never heard, in his entire life, hear ichiji speak for so long with such conviction, it was everything he needed to hear.

right? the words in satoru's mind, head pounding with everything and anything relating you. and on the other side of the line stood a confused yet almost concerned ichiji.

"hello? are you still there?"

"yeah," he answered dryly, "is... is she home safe?"

"of course, I dropped her off." but it sounded like, why wouldn't she be? to which satoru felt like it wasn't a good enough answer. he needed to see, hear that you were okay. and he was afraid that he was regretting his words so easily.

"satoru," now serious, ichiji's words pulled him from his thoughts, "are you still there? what happen-"

"-I fucked up," he choked, "I... I said things I shouldn't have..."

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

Under Way

Thalassophile (Sea Lover) AU

Here have 3k i have more written but eh I'll save that for later

Thalassophile: noun. (plural thalasophiles) Someone who loves the sea

For as long as he could remember Jay had dreamt of the sea.

Laying back on the beach with the waves rushing past him and then receding again with the tide. Sand wet and clinging to him, stars bright above him.

The funny thing was that he’d never been to the sea.

His life was about as far away from it as you could get. In the middle of the city, dryer than the dust of the desert next to it. There were no pictures of the sea in their house. There were no books or movies about the ocean. He didn’t realize it until he was older how strange it was that the only water in the house came from the taps.

He remembered being ten and turning on the tap just to watch the water run until his mother had come in and switched it off, scolding him for something he didn’t understand. He remembered pausing on his way to school to watch the sprinklers that had gone off. He remembered sneaking outside the apartment during a rainstorm just to tilt his head up, letting the rain fall on his face and soak his clothes as the lightning reflected in his wide eyes until his father had pulled him back inside.

Jay didn’t consider himself a weird kid. No more than the regular kind of kid-weird at least. He did well in school, he was smart, he enjoyed being around people, he was well-spoken (or so his teachers told him,) and he made friends easily. Sure, life wasn’t perfect, there were bullies here and there, family drama, money issues, struggles finding a job, struggles picking what to study, a couple medical scares but he managed alright. He was normal.

Unless it was raining.

Or there was a fountain near the museum.

Or the tap was running.

He couldn’t stop staring.

He ended up studying Marine Biology in college.

“What made you pick that?” his mom asked, worrying at her thumb, chewing on the nail there.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“You’ve never shown interest in that before. You like building things don’t you?”

“I mean… yeah but…”

“...but?”

I want to be near the sea.

But she looked worried so he didn’t say that.

“If you’re going there you should at least be doing something you enjoy.”

He enjoyed building things. It wasn’t that he couldn’t do the marine biology courses, his parents just knew he preferred to work with his hands a little more than that. They sat him down and they talked about it and in the end he swapped to marine engineering. He packed his bags and gave his mom and dad a hug goodbye and moved near the sea.

And so, at 22 years old Jay set foot on a beach for the first time.

///

Well, first off… he wasn’t sure what to do with himself.

It was 4am. The sun was just beginning to rise. There was a chill in the air that lingered through his thin sweater. The smell of salt greeted him on his inhale, familiar despite never having met his lungs before.

His shoes were closed-toed. It was cold out. He wasn’t sure he should, but before he knew it he was plopping down on the sand and dropping his bags to wrestle his shoes off.

Once his feet hit the sand it felt right. Cold damp sand between his toes, yet to be warmed by the sun. He wanted to roll in it. More than that though--he turned his gaze to the horizon--he wanted to touch the ocean.

It was a feverish sort of speed that came over him. He stumbled over the beach, kicking up sand and leaving his things behind him.

He came to a halt just before the tide could touch him and stared down at the line where wet sand met dry for a long while.

He took one breath. Then another. And he stepped in.

It was shockingly cold. Cold enough to hurt. His teeth chattered just from the short contact alone, but he kept going. His ankles were engulfed quickly. His plan was to stop there. His pants were rolled up just above his ankles with that in mind, but he found himself taking another step. And then another one, faster, faster, faster still--

He was up to his chest and gasping for breath. The beach sand was harsh on his feet. The cold was even harsher. The waves leapt up to touch his face. He tasted salt.

“Hi,” he gasped out. And then, “I’m back” even though he’d never seen the sea before.

A wave hit him in the face.

///

He made it back, soaking wet and shivering hard enough to make his teeth chatter and rattle his skull.

“Whoah--dude? You’re soaking wet--”

“Thanks m-man, I didn’t n-n-notice.”

His roommate ran to get him a towel.

“You fall in or something?” he asked, snorting at the sight of him bundled up in as many towels as he could get his hands on.

“No,” Jay bit back. And then he decided against elaborating since he technically had walked in of his own free will and he had a feeling that would be the quickest way to get made fun of.

“Anyway,” his roommate continued, “I’m glad you could make it. A day later and I would’ve gotten kicked out.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Let's just say, both me and our landlord are glad that you’re here.”

“Well it’s n-nice to meet you in p-person finally.”

“Yeah, back at you dude.”

///

Kai was weird.

But it was like… Weird like Jay was weird. He’d wake up early some mornings to sit out on the porch and stare at the water before anyone else was at the beach.

“What are you doing out here?” Jay worked up the courage to ask one evening after a meal of ramen and slightly burnt eggs.

“I dunno,” Kai shrugged. “I like the beach.”

“Huh,” said Jay. “Me too.”

“Cool,” Kai grinned with all his teeth. “Race you out there.”

It was just as shockingly cold as the first time.

///

Jay spent most of his free time by the water.

Breathing in the smell, letting it wash over his feet, usually getting his pants wet.

“Look, I drew you.” He turned his notebook--one he was supposed to be using to work on blueprints--out to the sea. “Not my best work. But you’re hard to do justice, y’know?”

The waves lapped at his ankles.

He gave into the urge and tucked his notebook into his backpack so he could lay down on the shore staring up at the sky. It was still light out, too early for the sun to dip beyond the horizon, but it still felt familiar like his dreams. As if he’d done this a million times before.

“It’s weird, y’know? I could be doing anything else but I’m here.”

The sea had no reply.

///

Jay caught a ride out on the fishing boat Kai worked on.

“Watch your head!”

Jay ducked just as Kai flung rope over him to another man on the boat.

Honestly as long as he stayed out of the way it wasn’t so bad.

He was soaked to the bone less than two hours in. But land was out of sight and it was him and the sea so he didn’t mind.

The waves crashed against the side of the ship every now and again and he reached out so the splashes would be able to brush his fingertips.

“You’re not so bad,” he said.

The water moved slowly, almost like it was reaching up the side of the ship for him. He didn’t realize he was leaning over the rail until his hands slipped.

He went into the water headfirst.

It was weird. He couldn’t tell which way was up but he didn’t feel afraid of the drowning bit.

Kai’s hand on the back of his jacket yanked him out of the water.

“ARE YA INSANE LAD?” the captain roared at him.

“Sorry,” Jay spluttered. “Sorry, lost my balance.”

“Sorry, man,” Kai told him once they were back home. “I don’t think he’ll let you on the boat anymore.”

“It’s fine,” Jay muttered. “I get it.”

He got his own boat.

A little rowboat. Rickety. Odd. Chipped and peeling paint. His.

He took it for a spin.

It took some practice to get the rowing motion down. Less than he would have expected. Then it really was just him and open water.

He pulled the oars back in the boat and settled down, laying on the bottom of the boat. He listened to the sound of waves on the sides of it.

He woke up when the boat capsized.

He was trapped underneath it for a moment. He was scared then. Having something hard and wooden against his head shoving him further down and under, the water shoving him back up against the boat so he couldn’t push himself out from under.

He was lucky that he managed to get out. Even luckier that, when he coughed out water he didn’t inhale more. He clung to his capsized rowboat, his teeth chattering.

The nature of the sea.

Unforgiving. Special treatment to no one.

Jay couldn’t feel his fingers. He grinned.

“C-can’t get rid of me th-that easy.”

Another wave dragged him under.

///

He remembered chubby little hands touching seashells. Collecting them. He remembered stepping foot on a rock and slipping.

Little and confused there was no one to tell him to hold his breath.

Upside down underwater, or maybe rightside up. Dragged under, dragged against the jagged sea floor by an unseen force. Sand and seaweed rushing past his eyes. Water in his lungs.

Coming to on the beach with his mothers distressed face above him and his fathers tears. Coughing up water and being taken back to the house.

He remembered not being able to breathe but not dying.

///

He opened his eyes and he was on the beach.

The waves pushed up next to him, making his hair and clothes float before retreating back to where it had come. He could hear a voice--Kai--calling for him. It was dark. Stars above him.

He coughed up water.

///

“It’s cool,” he told the sea the next day. “I get it. It’d be stupid if I got mad about it, right? You’re just doing what you do. Not like you singled me out or anything. I was just being stupid. So I get it. Just wanted to let you know I’m not mad.” He shivered a bit and tugged his blanket around him a bit tighter. Loose sand tickled his ankles as the waves rose up and then back down.

“I’m Jay,” he said. “Just realized I didn’t introduce myself. My bad. It’s nice to meet you again.”

Again?

He huffed a laugh. “I keep saying stuff like that. Weird right?”

He spotted his boat covered in seaweed a few days later, broken and battered and all around unsalvageable.

“Thanks for bringing it back,” he called out to the sea. “I appreciate it. Would’ve been nice if it were in one piece, but I get it.”

He found another boat.

“You’re crazy, man,” Kai said.

“Yeah,” Jay admitted. “Maybe a little.”

“Don’t be stupid this time.”

“Who’s crazier, me for going out, or you for letting me?”

Kai threw back his head and laughed.

Never did answer.

Jay tucked his oars back after rowing out far enough. Still close enough to the shore to be seen if he capsized again.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s try this again.”

He lowered himself into the water this time. He kept a firm grip on the side of the boat. Cold. Cold cold cold cold. His teeth chattered.

He stayed like that for a little bit. Then when he started to lose feeling in his fingers he decided that was good enough.

He realized quickly that getting back into his boat was another matter. Every time he tried to pull himself up, he’d nearly end up pulling the boat over to capsize it.

In the end he had to swim back, halfway on the boat half off.

Kai was waiting at the shore for him.

“You’re stubborn.”

“I didn’t see you launching a rescue mission.”

“Eh, I think you were fine.”

Jay sneezed.

Kai grounded him to bed for the next three days while he recovered from his very aggressive cold.

“No more swimming,” he told him. “Just wait till summer, man.”

“Right,” Jay said, his teeth chattering. He sneezed.

///

Summer.

It was so long away.

“Don’t take it personally,” he said as the water washed around his feet. “I really would like to head out and spend time with you. I’m just very much a human person. I can’t do cold for very long. Besides, I’m pretty sure Kai would kill me if I tried that again.”

He lasted about a week. Which was pretty good for Jay, he thought.

He waited until Kai was asleep and then took the boat out on the still, calm, midnight waters.

“Wow,” he breathed.

Kai hit him with an oven mitt when he got back inside.

“You have a problem.”

Jay thought of dipping his fingers into the sea and touching the stars.

“Yeah.”

There was a strange sort of tightness in his chest.

Jay built his own boat. He hooked up a motor to it. Used scraps he collected from shipyards. It kept him busy and distracted him from the fact Kai had hid his boat.

///

“I’m just taking it out for a spin.”

“You’re an idiot,” Kai said. “You know the ocean like… doesn’t care if you like her right?”

“I know.”

“You’re gonna drown.”

“I’ll be fine.”

Kai stole his motor. Jay cursed himself for not bolting it down to the boat early enough.

“I don’t know what his problem is,” he vented to the poor unsuspecting cashier at the small convenience store. By now they were on a first name-basis. Stiix wasn’t a big town to begin with. Everyone at least knew of him by now. “There was nothing wrong with me testing out my ship.”

“...Haven’t you almost drowned like… eight times?”

“Four,” Jay corrected him. He sniffed. “Technically three. Kai pulled me out the one time before anything happened.”

What he got in return was a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t look at me like that.”

“I think you’re both crazy.”

“I’m going to ignore the insult and thank you for agreeing with me. What kind of person just steals a boat motor?”

“I wasn’t talking about that. You seem a lot like him.”

“Who?”

“Kai.”

“I don’t see it.”

“It’s there.”

“I’m choosing to ignore the comparison as I am currently upset with him. See you, Ben.”

“You should ask him how many times he’s almost drowned,” Ben called after him as he left the store.

///

“Twenty-six.”

Jay stared at him.

Kai chewed his sandwich. “Twenty-seven if you count the bathtub incident, but I don’t. I just fell asleep--”

“And you’re getting after me for three?”

“Four,” Kai corrected. “You’re stupid about it. And also I’ve lived here for six years. You’ve only been here for like two months. Comparatively, I’m doing better than you.”

Jay spluttered. “How many times has your boss almost drowned?”

Kai shrugged. “I dunno, three?”

“How long has he lived here?”

“Not sure. His whole life, I think.”

“You’re doing terribly actually,” Jay told him.

“Yeah well,” Kai said, tossing his knife in the sink, “I’m weird.”

Jay caught him outside one morning when he stumbled from the bathroom at 3am, sitting on the beach. Jay paused at the window and stared as Kai reached in a way that no one would be able to see unless they knew what they were looking for, letting the waves rush over his fingers as they reached up the shore.

Six years. Kai was only a year older than him. That meant he’d moved to Stiix when he was seventeen. He lived alone. He never mentioned any family. Jay wondered if he spoke to the sea too.

“You’re weird,” Jay said at lunch later when Kai had gotten back from fishing.

Kai nailed him in the face with a balled up towel.

///

Jay got out on open water about a week later. He finally had the new motor hooked up (and bolted down as anti-Kai-theft measures.) He waited until his roommate was asleep and then pushed it out onto the water. He rowed for a bit, until he was far enough out that his engine wouldn’t wake anyone, then he started it up and took off over the water at full speed.

He only almost fell off like twice while he was figuring out how to keep his balance.

He found a little cove as the sun started to rise and anchored his boat before slipping out onto the fine sand.

Looking back, going swimming alone in a secluded little cove at 4am was a bad idea.

It was fine for the first ten minutes. He had a wet suit so the cold was slightly more manageable. The water was nice. Small waves, mostly calm.

Then he went to investigate and an undertow got him.

Being dragged along the floor of the cove really was not ideal. It went from rocks to sand to coral surprisingly quickly as he was thrown out, tumbling head over heels, salt water stinging his eyes and nose. It was everything he could do to keep his mouth clamped shut. If he could just manage to push off something and figure out which way was up--

Then his foot got jammed into coral.

The good news was, he figured out which way was up. The bad news was that he couldn’t get there. He pried at the coral with his hands trying to yank his foot out without success. He scrabbled for something to smash it with and found nothing bigger than a lime. The need to breathe hit him all at once. Aggressively. His mind and body screaming at him.

He closed his eyes, his heart pounding in his ears.

He was actually going to die.

Stupid, he could almost hear Kai’s voice echoing in his head. He squeezed his eyes shut a little tighter for just a moment, and then let them crack open again, because, if he was going to die, he at least wanted to die looking at the sea.

There was a face two inches from his face.

He gave a startled yell that came out in a flood of bubbles and he slapped his hands over his mouth. Dark black dots were starting to creep in at the edges of his vision. But he stared with wide eyes and it stared with wide eyes back. It could be mistaken as shadows cast through the churning waters above him. It was there but not. It was blurred but it was there, Jay knew it was there. It was like looking at a storm, a mountain, a ten story wave curling above you preparing to crush you in your little rowboat. It was knowing on a gut level instinct that you were looking at what could only be described as a force of nature.

A current pulled him back, away from it, and he realized then it was a lot bigger than just a face. Light seemed to wobble, twist and reshape into something so much bigger and just as terrifying. It wrapped around him, engulfing him like wings. Its eyes were bigger than his head

He blacked out.

///

When he came to, he was back on his boat, drifting in the middle of nowhere.

He sat up, gripping his at his chest, that same anxiety and primal fear lingering from the hallucination that didn’t feel like a hallucination at all. It felt real. It felt so real.

He looked out ahead of him. There was no land in sight. He had no idea what time it was or what direction he’d come from or how he’d gotten back into his boat. He glanced down at his ankle, bloodied and bruised and swollen. Pieces of coral were still dug into it.

The sea was utterly still.

A drop of water landed on his nose.

He glanced up at the sky to find it cloudless, but obscured all the same, by water. Water stretching up over him at an unbelievable height and remaining still. Water that had a shape and a face of a creature, staring down at him. Something that very much resembled a dragon.

Jay’s breath stuttered to a halt in his chest.

He wheezed.

[youngpettyqueen]

cant stop thinking about Jadzia sending Worf to check on Julian after he gets hurt in Revenant so I decided to do a quick little scene of it for a writing cooldown

Difficult as it is for him to move away from Jadzia, Worf knows an order when he hears one. Forcing himself to comply, he draws himself up to stand, and turns and heads towards the fallen doctor at a jog.

Worf hasn't been acquainted with Julian for long. He's hardly spent any time with the doctor- this mission has been the most spent he's spent with him since his arrival on Deep Space 9. He's found Julian to be a loud man, nearly incapable of silence, with a quick tongue and a smile that never seems to leave his face. He hasn't been particularly fond of the man, and finds his unending energy and bantering to be irritating for the most part.

Now, though, Julian is none of the things he usually is. When Worf reaches him, there's no witty remark to greet him. Julian doesn't seem to notice him. He's sitting against the wall, curled at the torso, his hands tucked against himself and hidden. The only sounds that escape him are ragged gasps and whimpers of pain. There's no bravado or smile here, just a wounded man in the throes of agony.

Worf kneels before him. "Doctor Bashir." He says, his voice quiet.

Julian looks up at him. His eyes are wide, his expression anguished. The damp sheen on his cheeks doesn't escape Worf's notice. "Commander-" He chokes out, "Jadzia, is she-?"

"She is alright," Worf assures him. A lie, for certain, but if there's another thing he knows about Doctor Bashir, it's that he will abandon his own needs without hesitation in order to help a patient. And right now, he's the one with the wounds that can actually be treated. Jadzia's pain runs far deeper, beyond the physical, "What is the nature of your injuries?" He asks.

"My hands," Julian says, shaky-voiced and struggling, "The phaser, it e-exploded right in my hands. It- it hurts," He admits. Vulnerability is not something Worf has seen so far on the doctor, and he finds it to be an aching sight, "God, it hurts so bad..." He whimpers.

Worf doesn't doubt him. "Let me see," He bids, holding his hands out. Julian hesitates, and he adds, "I will not harm you, Doctor. I only want to assess the extent of the damage before calling for medical attention."

Julian's pain-bright eyes dart over his face for a moment. Then he swallows hard, and uncurls himself enough that he can lift his arms. He holds his hands out slowly, his arms shaking badly, and Worf is as gentle as he can be as he takes the doctor by the forearms and draws his damaged limbs closer so that he can take a look.

His hands are, in a word, mangled. Even a cursory glance tells him the damage is extensive. The gloves of the arcsuit are completely gone, and the sleeves are torn away till just past the doctor's wrists. Splotchy burns mottle Julian's skin red and pink and raw, extending from his fingers down to his forearms. Worf carefully turns his hands over, and finds the picture is the same on the underside of his arms, and that there are deep lacerations in his palms and across his fingers.

He remembers hearing Julian scream. Loud and shrill, the sound of pure agony. Now he understands why.

Worf gives the rest of Julian a quick glance. There are other tears in his arcsuit- higher up his arms, at his chest, at his neck and face- but he doubts those shallow wounds can even be felt compared to the raw agony of his injured hands. Even so, they must be treated.

"You will require a hospital," Worf tells him, "I will take you to be transported. Can you stand?" He asks.

Julian nods weakly. Worf doesn't need to be asked to help; he shifts his position and gets an arm around Julian, easing him off the wall. He hooks his hand underneath Julian's arm and pulls him up to his feet with ease, his other hand supporting the doctor's injured hands, keeping his arms steady. Julian leans heavily against him, his knees weak and unsteady beneath him as he struggles to stay upright.

Worf supports him easily as they start to move. He keeps Julian tucked securely against his side, offering balance and support as he continues to tremble like a fawn. He moves him quickly past Jadzia and the fallen Nemi Vess, knowing that if Julian sees them, he'll forget all else, including himself.

"Worf?"

Worf looks around for the exit. "Yes, Doctor?"

"P-Promise you won't tell anyone I cried?"

Worf pauses. Looks down at the doctor, trembling and small against him. Julian looks up at him, and he's smiling, but that smile doesn't meet his eyes. Like he's trying to make a joke, but he means what he says too much.

"There is no shame in acknowledging pain," Worf tells him sincerely, "But if it will comfort you, then I will not tell anyone. You have my word." He vows.

Julian chuckles. A wet sound, halfway to a sob. "Remind me to- to thank you, once we're back at the station." He says.

Worf gets them moving again. "There is no need for thanks," He replies, "I am only doing my duty. You would do the same for me." He reasons.

"Humour me." Julian implores him.

"Very well," Worf agrees, if only so they won't argue. The doctor very much loves to argue, no matter what state he's in, something else he'd learned fairly quickly, "Now, save your strength." He bids him.

Julian nods, drooping heavier against Worf. He holds him steady with ease, supporting his slight frame as if he weighs nothing at all. Should Julian's legs fail him, Worf will carry him, as he would any wounded comrade. Until then, though, he'll support him in his endeavour to walk. One agonizing, unsteady step at a time.

[pfhwrittes]

i’m trying to dredge through my various B&Q memories (and talking to friends who used to work with me in B&Q) for inspo and i just remembered something that happened and dear god. i’m imagining simon and price’s reaction to being in that situation.

so the store manager decides to reorganise the warehouse. he doesn’t check with price or more importantly simon about this. he just hops on the forklift, puts up the signage to say the forklift is in use and bans everyone from entering the warehouse (not an unreasonable request, pedestrians vs forklifts has never ended well historically, but the balls of that man to ban simon from his warehouse jeeeesus).

you don’t actually know that’s what he’s decided to do until the store manager is barking out over the tannoy “all available staff to the warehouse, that’s all available staff to the warehouse. NOW.” and because you’re a) available and b) nosey as fuck as you’ve never been allowed in simon’s warehouse, off you go.

when you arrive, it’s carnage. there is paint everywhere. for a horrible moment your brain provides you with the elevator scene from the shining but substitutes the river of blood with 625 litres of brilliant white matte emulsion instead.

“what the actual fuck”

aaaaaand that’s soap. he’s materialised out of thin air next to you and is surveying the damage with a visible aura of pure horror. your stomach lurches in sympathy because that’s his stock that’s slowly dripping from the abandoned pallet. and the racking. and the walls. jesus fucking christ. it’s everywhere. everything in a 2 metre radius is covered in paint. including the stock, the store manager, and simon.

simon, who has the store manager pinned by his neck to the wall next to the safety notice board.

you can’t see simon’s face, his shoulders look like they’re carved from granite with tension, but you can certainly hear what he’s shouting in the slowly reddening face of the store manager.

“you useless, dangerous cunt!”

you flinch backwards. you’ve never heard simon so angry.

“you could’ve fucking killed someone! you’re fucking lucky that you didn’t kill yourself!”

you turn wide eyed to stare at soap, who’s mouth is hanging open in shock. you turn back to the scene playing out in front of you as simon roars in rage again.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?! answer me!”

simon shakes the man in his grip but doesn’t actually let go. you watch as the store manager’s face turns puce in a combination of rage and trapped blood flow. oh christ, are you about to witness a murder? you think you’re about to witness a murder. what the fuck.

“simon. that’s enough.” price’s voice is a whip-crack of fury that breaks through the tension of the scene. you release a breath you didn’t even know you were holding as he wades into the fray. price stops behind simon just an arms length away.

you don’t hear what price says to simon, but he drops (actually drops, fucking hell) the store manager who splutters and coughs trying to catch his breath desperately.

“y-you’re - fired! what the fuck -!”

price grabs simon as the enraged man lunges towards the store manager.

“take a walk simon.”

you and soap hastily move out of the way of simon who storms out of the warehouse and onto the shop floor barking a stern “move!” to a mixed crowd of customers and colleagues desperate to get a glimpse at the soap opera levels of drama happening beyond the warehouse doors.

“you, don’t move” price points a threatening finger at the store manager before turning to face you and soap. “johnny, get over here. get the spill kit.”

soap snaps to attention and moves further into the warehouse, skirting the pooling paint as carefully as he can manage. you flex your hands nervously as the full force of price’s attention is aimed at you. god, you want to melt into your black safety boots to avoid his commanding tone and the banked fury that is present on every line on his face.

“love,” price’s tone softens slightly as he addresses you and you’re grateful for it, “go after simon. he needs a clean uniform.”

you nod and spin on your heel, before you leave the warehouse you chance a glance back over your shoulder and see price looming over the store manager.

as you make your way across the shop floor, you have the horrible realisation that someone is definitely getting fired today. you shoot up a prayer to the retail gods that it won’t be simon.

[back2bluesidex]

Where Do Broken Hearts Go: Ch 5 Snippet

A little sneak peek before the full chapter... Which will drop verrrrryyyyy soon!!!! 👀

[bobfloydsbabe]

Me: The Penthouse Smut™ is gonna be all filth

Also me:

[oh-bonerline]

Kiss prompts? Don't mind if I do.

How about 9 (…in public) or 22 (…in a rush of adrenaline).

Okay! I kind of rolled both into one! And I set it after tonight's show with "People" and Matty's shirt getting completely destroyed. Hope you enjoy!

**

With the song still shaking his bones, the crowd still ringing in his ears, his shirt still tattered and (just barely) hanging from his shoulders, he comes off stage. His lungs ache. His throat is raw. He tastes blood in his mouth. He does this day in and day out, goes out there and pours most of himself out on the stage. But something about performing “People” always makes him feel young again, alive again, awake again. There is something primal about it. Something cathartic and cleansing, unfettered and wild. 

He isn’t looking where he’s going. He isn’t paying attention to much of anything. He’s a little bit blinded by the stage lights and more than a little bit deaf. So he walks right into something firm and big and warm.

He walks right into a pair of arms that are strong and hold him up and pull him in. He walks right into a mouth that presses against his and is somehow insistent and gentle and desperate and restrained, all at the same time. He walks right into Ross and they kiss without thinking about it. They kiss like two kids at a hardcore show, still feeling the bass and drums in their fucking brain stems, rewiring them, making them hungry for each other, even as the band walks off and the house lights come on. 

They kiss like they used to sometimes after their early gigs. When the crowds were smaller but the energy was huge. When all of the songs were new. When every gig was their best yet. When fame was something strange and novel to them. When there were girls waiting outside for them, waiting for him mostly, and Ross would pull him off stage and into the van or into the toilets and kiss him like he was laying claim to Matty. He would say, “I wanted you first,” with Matty’s face in his hands and Matty’s spit on his bottom lip. And Matty would nod dumbly, not at all sure what he really wanted. He just wanted to be kissed again, to be kissed by Ross again. 

Ross is tearing the rest of his shirt off of him. The sound of the silk ripping makes Matty bite down hard on Ross’ bottom lip, his tongue coming out quickly to soothe it. Ross’ hands grasp and pull until the shirt falls away, leaving all of Matty’s skin exposed. Matty’s hands go up to Ross’ hair, pulling it out of its already loose bun and pushing his fingers through it. The sound Ross makes when he pulls hard on his hair makes Matty arch his body closer and deepen a kiss that he thought was already as deep as it could get. He should know by now: There is always deeper, always closer, always more with Ross.

They pull apart for a second. Ross has the shirt in his hands–nothing but a very expensive ball of fabric at this point–and he’s looking at Matty with his lips parted and red where Matty’s teeth had been. His chin burns from Ross’ beard and he has the sudden urge to shove the shirt in his mouth and fuck him right here, right now. 

Instead he takes the shirt from Ross’ hands and lets it fall to the ground. He kisses Ross again–a messy kiss with mouths open and teeth knocking. Everything misaligned and desperately seeking. His tongue licking at Ross’ beard until it finds the heat of his mouth. Once their mouths and bodies are lined up exactly right, they stay there, pressing and pressing. He wants to scream into Ross’ mouth, but he doesn’t have the voice for it now so he hums and grips Ross’ shirt like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. And Ross has his hands on Matty’s back, callused fingers on his spine, trailing up to his neck, into his curls, and back down again where they disappear beneath the waistband of his pants. Matty gives a small, hoarse groan when one of Ross’ fingers dips even lower, but then Ross’ hand is retreating, going back up again and coming to rest on his waist. 

Matty decides to keep kissing Ross until the thrumming in his body calms down. Until things go quiet and he can see again and hear again and stand on his own again. Never mind that kissing Ross has added an entirely new layer of thrumming to his body. Never mind that kissing Ross has made his legs impossibly weak and incapable of holding him up at all. Maybe he’ll just never stop kissing Ross. Maybe he shouldn’t have to. 

It doesn’t occur to either of them that they aren’t hidden away in the toilet or the long gone van or anywhere else now. They’re off to the side and halfway behind some equipment but they aren’t really hiding at all. There are various festival workers walking around them, politely averting their eyes. There is Hann looking at his phone and then up at them and then back at his phone as he goes about his own business. There are still fans out there on the field, coming down from their own highs. 

Nothing occurs to either of them except for their mouths and bodies. Except for the singular, present moment. And then the next one. The now and the now and the now.

[estherkae]

I stand among wind and dune and snow and feel the water still on both sides of me. The coming storm warns its presence, and I fall into a solitude as I trace myself going into its gut.

The sun goes down at a quarter to four. I have forced myself to think, in uncomfortable coercion, of the time and place he was; my fingers press the back of my throat and push it out and down. My rape is my own., and has always been mine and my doing; I have nursed it and called it my kin. Yet, I spit at my body, I forget its companion; it is not my own, it is not mine to call to any longer.

[fissions-chips]

fresh air

('bad karma' AU pt 6- tw for mild violence and blood, and implied abuse/violence)

   The fluorescent lights of the department store were harsh and gleaming, reflecting upon every pale surface with a sickly, too-white light- Jon narrowed his eyes against it, reaching up to scrub at them with the heel of one palm as he stood, waiting. In a way, they reminded him of home.

   It was late. Late enough that the light outside had been swallowed up by the shadows of the city buildings, and all Jon wanted to do was go back to sleep. 

   Five days- that was all it had taken for Butler to go stir-crazy, unable to stay inside the dojo any longer- that, at least, was a feeling Jon could understand. It was too small and too sparse a space to be trapped in, with nothing to do but sleep, or train, in Butler’s case, though Jon had yet to see him do so. Given the chance to stretch his legs by accompanying the bodyguard on a list of errands, the man should have felt relief, or excitement- instead, he only found himself miserable. 

   He was only here because Butler didn’t trust him enough to stay locked up in the dojo, and knew that, if he had tied the man hand and foot to leave him behind, Jon would have broken his own fingers trying to get loose. He’d tied his hands on the way here anyways, Jon forced into the back of the car and struggling to stay upright against sharp turns and the occasional pothole, but the bindings had quickly been cut when they’d arrived in Dublin, replaced by a hand curling around his good wrist in warning, as the bodyguard had told him, firmly, not to do anything stupid.

   Looking down at his wrists, one still bruised and throbbing, wrapped in clumsy bandaging, Jon felt his lip curl unbidden. There was a tearing sensation, every time it moved- he hadn’t known how to bind it so that it would heal. A patchwork job done by shaking fingers… how attempts to mend his own injuries usually went. It wasn’t the first time. 

   Won’t be the last, either.

   Jon was surprised that they were even here, in all truth- the Fowls even had their own wormery, whatever the hell that meant. Butler didn’t seem the ‘department store’ type. Then again, he supposed that even the bodyguard could reason that there was only so ‘high-end’ one could find a toothbrush, or a comb. Small, basic shit. Dragging a hand through his hair, Jon was grateful he’d have one, now- it had thinned somewhat in the past few months, and Jon swore it hadn’t used to be this brittle, but at least he would be able to tidy it up. 

   His facial hair had been cleaned up now, too. He’d been allowed to shave properly under the bodyguard’s supervision- when it was decided they would be going out for the day, Butler had waited so that Jon could arrange himself into something approaching presentable. The blue tracksuit he was wearing fit him far better than the bodyguard’s clothing had, apparently stolen from the patriarch of the Fowl family, a man of slimmer build than Butler himself. It still hung loose on his sides and at his shoulders, but it was comfortably warm, and it hid the worst of Jon’s condition from the rest of the world.

   Butler moved methodically between the isles, grabbing the things he had hurriedly jotted down this morning, items that would make the dojo a little more manageable. Food that Jon could make on his own, mostly- and, notably, his own first aid kit. 

   Something about that stung, slightly- it had been nice to have someone else patch up his wounds, wipe the blood from his face. As hazy as his memory had been at the time, the bodyguard had been gentle when he had first checked him over. Jon wasn’t used to that. 

   Then, his wrist twinged, and Jon pushed it to the back of his mind, bitterness rising in the back of his throat. 

   He distracted himself by meandering around, aimless, careful to keep within sight of the other- pulling cans off of shelves to read the back of them, flipping through magazines as he passed by. He hummed along to the music playing over the speakers, though he couldn’t quite make out the words, too deep in his own thoughts at the moment to follow along. He considered glancing at the books for a moment as they passed. He wasn’t much of a reader anymore, but it would be nice to have something to do in the dojo.

   Suddenly, a hand clamped around his shoulder.

   “-on!” 

   Butler’s voice was sharp in his ear, tinged with frustration- Jon flinched away, free hand clawing at the man’s own as he stifled a yelp between his teeth.

   “Keep up,” The bodyguard muttered, dragging him along. “I don’t know if that man has sent anyone after you, so don’t wander off.” 

   Oh. Bristling, Jon broke away from the other man, letting Butler fall in front of him once again. It was the most the bodyguard had said to him since the incident with the knife- ever since Jon had cut him, the man had been stony and near-silent with him, only speaking to Jon when absolutely necessary and interacting with him as little as possible. He kept to the main room while Jon hid away in the bedroom, sleeping on the couch- whenever Jon opened the door, to grab something from the kitchen or simply see if he was awake, the man was met with a sharp glare and a deepening frown. 

   He hated it. Jon hated it. Now, when the bodyguard said his name, he couldn’t help but imagine it spat like a curse, Butler’s eyes closed off and cold. He couldn’t blame him, not really- it was hard for anyone to look a man in the face who had hurt them, once, twice. Jon knew that well enough. But silence was miserable, and suffocating. It offered no distractions, no comfort, and so Jon found his hands roaming, constantly picking and clawing at his own skin in some desperate, unbidden effort to quell his nerves. He'd already split his scarring jaw back open, worn his wrists raw against his bindings in the handful of hours it had taken to drive here. His fingertips stung where he’d bitten his nails down to the beds. 

   Sullenly, he tried to push it from his mind, letting his gaze drop to the ground, catching faint flickers of his reflection in the smudged tile below. His eyes were hollow and tired- he waved his hand at himself in a small, sardonic greeting. 

   A few more minutes found Butler moving to check out- Jon stood some distance behind, head bowed. A small gleam of light caught his eye, and, after quickly glancing ahead to find the bodyguard distracted, walked across the aisle to find himself in front of a stand of jewelry. Cheap things, compared to what he’d used to wear, but Jon felt his stomach drop all the same, slowly reaching out to pluck a bracelet off the rack and spin it in his fingers. The metal was cold, and glittering, and golden- his vision blurred slightly as he stared down at it, his eyes stinging. 

   God, he missed his jewelry. He missed his jewelry so badly it ached. It had all been stolen away from him, when he’d first been captured- Jon still didn’t know what had happened to it. They’d had to wrestle him to the ground to pull it off of him, Jon breaking more than a few guard’s fingers and teeth on the way down. All of his bracelets, his rings, his necklaces… sold now, most likely, or passed around Valentine’s circle of friends as little gifts. Maybe the other CEO was wearing some right now, wherever he was. Jon’s face fell at the memory of the other man, sneering, grinding his boot into the back of Jon’s head as he’d pocketed the metal. 

   These will look far better on me than you, you ugly fuck~ jewelry can only do so much for one’s appearance.

   Staring down at himself now, Jon couldn’t help but agree- dressed in the stolen tracksuit of his enemy’s kin, face dotted with bruising marks and with his wrist clumsily bound in smudged, crooked gauze, he could hardly recognize himself. Slipping the bracelet onto his own wrist couldn’t help with the state he was in, or where he was trapped, but it made him feel slightly more like himself, for the first time since he had woken up on the floor of Butler’s bedroom. Spinning it slightly around his arm, Jon’s expression softened as he stared down at the golden metal, tracing the etching along its outer edge with his thumb. Beautiful, even under the dingy white lights-

   “Jon!” 

   He stiffened, head snapping up to find Butler glaring at him, gesturing sharply for Jon to join him. He was currently preoccupied, it seemed, with someone else- Butler was pointing to something on a different screen and talking to a smaller, older woman, seemingly explaining whatever it said. Their own items weren’t even bagged yet.

   For a moment, Jon almost considered dumping the bracelet alongside everything else the bodyguard had gathered- asking, even, if he could get it. Now that it was on his wrist, Jon couldn’t bear the thought of leaving without it, without the smallest semblance of his former finery. His free hand continued to trace the grooves of it, spinning it around his wrist, curling protectively over the metal when he saw the way Butler’s eyes narrowed as the bodyguard glanced over his shoulder, still sharp with frustration. When he saw the jewelry, the man sighed, gesturing again sharply for Jon to join him. 

   Jon’s face fell. What a stupid fuckin’ notion, asking for it, he cursed himself. Unhooking the bracelet from his arm, Jon spun it in his fingers as he watched Butler turn back to the older woman with a small shake of his head, his expression immediately softening as he continued to direct her in how to use the machine. Something bitter bubbled up in the back of Jon’s throat, his good hand clenching in a fist as he looked back down at the bracelet, and then cast a glance behind him. 

   He could move to follow Butler. He could put the bracelet back and wait, quiet and tired, until the bodyguard finished what he was doing, and then he could wait beside the car- for everything to get set in the back, for his own hands to get tied by the wrists so he too could be shoved in the backseat. He could sit in contemptible silence for hours on the long ride back and stare out the window at a country he couldn’t navigate. He could wind up back in the dojo, back in that damn bedroom all by himself, waiting. In silence, for who knew how long, just waiting for something to happen and for Butler to snap again, like he had- 

   Jon lifted a hand, absentmindedly picking at the faint, pale line beneath his throat where the bodyguard’s knife had brushed it. It had healed in the span of a day- it would fade after another. He could have killed me. There had been nothing behind Butler’s eyes in the moment but cold, clear focus- nothing when he had twisted Jon’s wrist to the snapping point, and nothing when he had screamed in his face for the man to drop the knife. The knife he had handed him. It had all happened without warning.

   His lip curled for a moment, there and then gone. That same bitter, roiling feeling filled his chest, familiar, and Jon sank into it, eyes narrowing. I’m too fucking tired for this, he thought. He gave one last look to the bracelet, and another to the bodyguard. 

   Then, without a word, Jon turned on his heel and walked away. 

— — — — — 

   The evening air was colder than he had anticipated, rattling in his lungs as Jon slowly made his way down the sideway, shoulders hunched and eyes cast to the ground- the tracksuit was warm, however, and he was grateful for it. Crossing his arms, his breath fogged in front of his face as he rounded a corner, barely pausing to glance around as he continued on his winding, crazed path through the city streets.

   Jon didn’t know where he was going. All sense of direction had abandoned him completely as of late, and his mind was too scattered to bother reading the street signs as he passed. The names wouldn’t have meant much to him, anyways- he hadn’t been to Dublin before. Looking up for a moment, Jon peered at the buildings looming around him, etched in shadow as the sun continued to set. The streetlights cast a soft, hazy glow across the bricks and mortar, and Jon felt some of the tension ease from his body as he tilted his head. 

   Nice place, he thought. Bet it’s pretty when the sun’s out. 

   Surrounded by city lights and the quiet sounds of downtown, he felt more at home than he had in… who knew how long, actually. Chicago was far busier than the small side roads he had chosen to wander down- the few people sharing the sidewalk paid him little mind as they passed, eyes averted and stepping aside to avoid bumping shoulders. A small part of Jon flinched at that, missing the close-packed, bustling streets of his home- then again, someone looking too closely might risk recognition, and Jon didn’t know what he would do if word got out about his reappearance. 

   Val could find me again. 

   A cold chill ran down his back, colder than the air that fogged his breath, and Jon’s fingers dug into his arms until they ached. Does he think I’m dead? He wondered, unbidden- sudden anxiety pulsed through him. Does the world think I’m dead? How had Valentine explained his disappearance- him fleeing from his crimes, or snatched up and killed by some other enemy? Had the man simply sat back, watching as Jon’s company scrambled to find some easy excuse? 

   He pushed the thought from his mind, forcing himself to focus back on where he was now- whole oceans away, in the backstreets of Ireland. Completely aimless, yes, but already he had walked further and seen more than he’d had the privilege to in weeks, possibly months. Unlit storefronts and the cobblestone street beside him were miles more interesting than a near-empty bedroom, or the cramped coat closet Valentine had kept him locked in. 

   His heart skipped a beat. Don’t think about it.

   It would be completely dark soon- and some small, grounded part of him knew that, no doubt, Butler was already on his way to find him. Tracking him down like a bloodhound. Jon turned his head and cast a quick glance around him, finding nothing of note- he looked forward once again, free hand fiddling with the bracelet still wrapped around his wrist. Stolen, now, but Jon couldn’t have cared less. 

   He had left out the back. It might have been mere moments before Butler himself had followed, already on his trail. Or maybe the bodyguard had assumed that Jon would follow, not noticing the lack of his presence until he reached the car. Either way, he wouldn’t stop until he had hunted Jon down- of that the man was certain. Regardless of whatever self-imposed risk Butler felt it might cause to let Jon roam, he was a professional, and professionals didn’t let their targets go so easily. 

   Pausing for a moment beneath the warm glow of a streetlight, Jon lifted his hands to his face and tried to warm them, his fingers trembling. The cold was starting to bleed through the warmth of the tracksuit as the sun vanished beneath the horizon, and with it came a quiet, creeping unease. There weren’t any people out now, it seemed- the street was empty around him, and the sudden silence and stillness sent a spike of anxiety stabbing through him. 

   “Fuck,” he muttered. “M’ lost.”

   A strangled little laugh slipped from his throat as Jon pressed his back against the metal pole. Can’t be lost if you’ve got nowhere to go, some small part of him crowed. Fucking hell. What’s gonna happen when that bastard catches up to me? 

   His injured wrist twinged, and Jon tucked it to his chest. Bet he’ll break the other one, that same little voice sang in the back of his mind, half-hysterical. Bet he’ll break your fingers too, like Marcus.

   “He… no. Probably not.” Jon muttered to himself, wringing his hands together as he looked around warily, trying to swallow back his nerves. It was a pointless effort- he could feel nausea beginning to claw its way up the back of his throat, his heartbeat hammering in his chest. “He’s professional, professionals don’t…” He stopped himself. 

   It was the professional in Butler that had caused him to nearly snap Jon’s wrist- the training of the ‘Blue Diamond’ clear in his immediate reaction and the way he had effortlessly disarmed him, ready to slit his throat at a moment’s notice. And that was over a slashed hand, an accident. What was going to happen the next time Jon slipped up? 

   Something worse. 

   Jon paused as he felt a sudden, sharp sting beneath his jaw- drawing his hand back, he found rust-red gathering beneath his nails. He’d picked his wound open again. Looking down at the blood now dusting his fingers, sickness stirred in his gut. 

   At least he’s not Val, Jon reminded himself. He jammed his hands into his pockets, forcing himself to keep walking, eyes fixed on the next pool of light the streetlights provided. He’s not Val- he doesn’t want to hurt me... I don’t think he wants to hurt me. He swallowed thickly. 

   I wouldn’t blame him if he did. Business was business, and Jon had once had him shot dead. Any other criminal would have jumped at the opportunity to beat him bloody- or worse, make a mockery of him like Valentine had. A pet. 

   Memories flashed into his mind, of the other CEO’s voice growing cold and furious as he’d spilled wine over his head, as he’d kicked him in the stomach, as he dragged him around by his hair and forced him onto his hands and knees. That damned shallow smile- still, his hands in his hair had been the closest thing Jon had always had to someone else, even as Valentine had loathed the thought. That was how it had always been. Things had been better between them once, yes, but that’s what the man had always boiled down to. The best substitute Jon could find for humanity in a world that made creatures of men.

   And now. Now there was Butler. His hands had been kinder. Jon began to bristle as a whirlwind of some unreadable, uncomfortable emotion bubbled up in his body. Fuck. 

   Butler’s hands had been gentle. Even as Jon had kicked and snapped at him, blind with fear and blind with fury alike. Jon hadn’t had anyone to treat his wounds like that, anyone to wash his hair or make him good food, for as far back as he could remember. Butler had bought things for him to make his stay easier, even though he was a hostage- a hostage who had done him harm, no less. What was Jon supposed to do with that? 

   He dug his nails into the joint of his wrist, biting back a hiss as he tried to focus on the ache of it, reminding himself of the bodyguard’s cold eyes as he’d stared down at him. “Not again.” He hissed beneath his breath. Not again, you stupid fuck. What you’re going to do is go. As soon as you can, as far as you can. It won’t just be your wrist, next time- you know that. It’ll be your neck.

   At some point, the bodyguard’s good grace was going to run out. It had to. The knife in the kitchen was just the start.

   All things considered… a snapped neck is more than I can usually hope for.

   Jon paused again at a streetlight, letting his head fall back against the metal. At this point, he was likely walking in circles- the chill had long since seeped into his bones, and his feet were numb. His head pounded in time with the racing of his heart, the world blurring slightly before him as sudden frustration beat a drumbeat tattoo in the back of his mind. Frustration at what, he wasn’t quite sure- his situation, Butler, and himself, perhaps, all coiling together in a thick knot in the pit of his stomach. 

   “Fuck it all.” He muttered, voice cracking slightly. He let his head fall into his hands, digging his fingers into his hair and pulling sharply. “Fuck it all!” He shouted- a small, hysterical laugh slipped from his mouth, and he slammed one fist into the side of his head. 

   “There’s nowhere to go! It never fucking stops!” 

   Pushing himself away from the light pole, Jon hugged his arms to his chest and forced himself onwards, turning streets at random, no longer watching where he was going as his shoulders clipped corners and his feet caught on cobblestones. His whole body was shivering now, anxiety and anger mingling on the back of his tongue- his mind was racing too violently to catch, and a small part of him ached to be back in the car again. 

   Jon didn’t notice when the side streets began to widen once again, or when the occasional streetlight became a faint, but constant glow of dim light. The distant sounds of tires on pavement met his ears and passed right through, the man lost in a haze of his own thoughts. Scattered figures occasionally loomed in his vision, and Jon snapped at them, flinching away until they disappeared once again, and he was alone. 

   His foot caught on a lip of concrete, and he staggered- Jon cursed, whirling on his heel and struggling to keep his balance. 

   Sudden, white light filled his vision, and Jon froze as a sharp, blaring sound wailed in his ears. 

   The fu- 

   Something caught him by the back of his shirt and pulled, the man snatched clear off his feet and dragged backwards violently. The wailing and lights raced past, Jon’s head snapping back against the brick as he was pulled into an alleyway and shoved up against the side of a building, hands slamming onto his shoulders to shake him. 

   “-on! Jon!”

   Stern, dark eyes stared back at him. 

   With sense, sight and sound utterly disoriented, something sparked in Jon’s chest, white-hot and screaming- the man snapped his knee upwards and kicked, feeling the weight of the other pull away from him slightly as he bared his teeth and snarled. 

   “Piss off!” 

   The hands digging into his shoulders didn’t let go, but he heard a grunt of pain, and Jon began to thrash, voice going splintery and strained with fury. “Get the fuck offa me, you prick!” 

   “What the fuck was that?” 

   Butler’s sudden shout brought reality crashing into Jon like a bolt of lightning- the man stilled, blinking owlishly as he found the bodyguard glaring down at him, brow furrowed and eyes blazing. 

   “You were standing in the middle of the street- did you not see that truck? Spiro, what the hell has gotten into you?“ 

   His words were suddenly cut off by another grunt as Jon kicked him again, right in the shin. “I didn’t see it, asshole! Get off of me before I kick you in the-“

   “Jon-“ 

   “No,” Jon hissed, teeth snapping in the other man’s face as he struggled violently beneath him, voice cracking sharply. “Get off of me, you stupid fuck, or I swear to god I will slit you up the middle the second I get the fucking chance! Get off-“ 

   “Calm down,” Butler gritted out as Jon’s fist caught him sharply in the ribs. “Before you wake up the entire city. Why did you run off?“ 

   Panting for breath, Jon tried to slam his head into the other’s nose- Butler leaned back just in time, grabbing him by his good wrist and shaking him again. His voice grated in Jon’s ears, the man completely rattled and shaken by the memory of the near-collision- his heart pounded so loudly in his skull that he could hardly hear the bodyguard speak. 

   “It’s past midnight. We need to get back to the-“ 

   “NO!” 

   Jon’s fist caught him right in the scarring tissue above his heart as his eyes glittered madly.  “If you think-“ He shouted, shaking beneath Butler’s hands. “That I’m gonna go back to that goddamn house and that goddamn room, just so I can sit and stew in how badly you wanna kill me-“ 

   He paused for breath, letting his head fall back into the wall. “Then you are a bigger fuckin’ idiot than I thought.“ 

   Butler stared back at him, dumbfounded. “W…what?” He muttered, eyes wide and bewildered by the sudden display of rage.

   For some reason, his confusion only sparked more fury in Jon’s chest, and the man sneered, voice dripping with venom. “So you can just- you can snap my neck right now, or get the fuck off of me.” He faltered, slightly- something briefly flickered over Jon’s face, face falling slightly as he hissed in the other man’s face. “Or just… just go on and fuckin’ hit me-“ 

   “Hit you?” Butler mumbled. Then, his brow furrowed. “Jon, I’m not going to hit you. I just pulled you out of the road!”

   “Oh, but that’s what big, dumb fucks like you like to do, right?” Jon hissed nastily, bared teeth gleaming in the faint light from the road. “Hit. And hit, and hit, and hit-“

   He threw his head back, his voice rising to a sharp, hysterical shout. 

   “Go on! Get it out of your system! I’m right here, asshole, so take your swing! Make it hurt!” 

   At the last word, he aimed another kick at Butler’s abdomen- the next thing Jon knew, his back was on the ground as the bodyguard loomed over him, both arms pinned to the cold stone beneath. His injured wrist throbbed, and Jon tried to wrench it away, only to earn a knee slammed into his chest for his trouble. 

   “Jon. Calm down,” the bodyguard repeated. He waited until the man had ceased struggling beneath him before he continued. “I’m not going to hit you, for fuck’s sake. Take a moment and breathe-“

   “You broke my wrist easily enough.“ 

   “It’s a sprain!” Butler snapped, unable to bite back his exasperation any longer. “You tried to stab me, I was disarming you! What else was I supposed to do?” 

   Jon let out another mocking laugh as his fury began to ebb alongside his burst of energy, dissolving into the same sick bitterness as before. “Stab you? Stab you? You asshole, you handed the knife to me!” 

   Butler paused. 

   “Why the hell would I stab you?” Jon spat, beginning to struggle slightly once again as his injured wrist spasmed. “Do I look like an idiot? What the hell would that have even done? You were making me dinner- next thing I know I’m on the ground with a bloody giant screaming at me! What the hell was I supposed to do, wait for you to kill me? You didn’t even ask for it back first!”

   His eyes narrowed. “Things were almost okay for a bit there. Now, it’s the fuckin’ silent treatment, and you glaring at me like you just can’t wait till you can put a bullet between my eyes. Do me a favor, eh? Get it over with. I’m sick of this shit.”  

   Jon let his head fall back, then, closing his eyes. Exhaustion still dragged at him- he took a deep breath, let it out slowly through his nose, waiting for the bodyguard to move. He didn’t, for several moments- when the man opened his eyes, he found Butler staring down at him, his expression unreadable. 

   After another moment, he spoke. 

   “Jon, I’m going to say this again. I’m not going to hit you. I’m not going to shoot you. I don’t know how many more times I can tell you.” Shifting back, he released the smaller man and stepped back, one hand lifting to press at the space between his eyes. “It’d be a waste, at this point. Your wrist was an accident- I thought you were going to stab me. Can you actually blame me for that, given everything?” 

   Jon glanced away- his silence was answer enough. 

   “My training- that’s how it is. For what it’s worth, I could have actually snapped it. In any other circumstance, I would have. I didn’t. I’m not going to make the mistake of handing you a knife again- and you cut my hand open. It’s still split, by the way, so we’re even.” 

   Nonetheless, Butler’s eyes flicked to his wounded wrist with something almost like guilt on his face as his grip loosened slightly, only for the bodyguard to double-take as he caught sight of the gold bracelet, still wrapped around Jon’s wrist and glittering faintly. He blinked, shocked, before reaching out automatically as if to take it-

   “Wait- did you… did you shoplift-“ 

   “Don’t.”  

   Jon’s voice, suddenly shrill with panic, caused the man to pause- he glanced across to find Jon with eyes wide, fixed on that golden bracelet as he tucked his arm against his chest. “D-don’t- don’t you fucking take it I swear to god-“ Jon’s mouth snapped shut as his face fell. 

   Shoplifted. Holy shit. Common, petty crime- Jon didn’t care about the fact he had stolen it, not really, but the fact that he, Jon Spiro, once-feared CEO and mob man, had stolen a cheap little bracelet hit him like a bat to the stomach. 

   “…Please, don’t.” He spoke, after a long moment. “Break something, or… I don’t know, I don’t know what you’ll do, just please don’t take the bracelet. Val took every piece I had.” 

   Butler’s brow furrowed. “…Okay.” He muttered, after a long moment. “Okay.” 

   Jon could see gears turning in his mind, something sad behind his eyes- his mouth opened slightly, as if to speak, only to close again as he decided against it. Instead, he offered his hand. 

   Jon didn’t take it for several seconds- instead, he heaved himself half-upright and paused, staring at the ground. He didn’t know what to make of Butler anymore- he didn’t trust him, and he sure as hell didn’t want to take his hand. His wrist still throbbed… but the bodyguard had admitted to his error, and Jon’s bracelet was still in his possession. Nothing was broken. He was cold and tired and hungry, and there wasn’t any more point in running. He had nowhere else to go.

   He sighed. Then, he reached up and let the bodyguard pull him to his feet. 

   The walk back to the car was silent- Jon kept his head bowed, hands jammed into his pockets. His breath fogged in front of his face, blurring his view of Butler ahead of him. The bodyguard was visibly lost in thought, and Jon didn’t feel like dragging him out of them. He didn’t feel like much of anything. 

   Thankfully, the car had been moved closer- Jon leaned against the side door as Butler rummaged around in the front seat, turning on the heat and moving bags to the back. When the bodyguard shut the door, Jon closed his eyes and held his wrists out, waiting for them to be tied again. 

   Instead, he found himself steered to the passenger door. “Get in,” Butler muttered, gesturing to the seat. “Don’t do anything stupid. You need to warm up.” 

   The seat warmer, at least, was certainly appreciated. 

   As the bodyguard drove them back in silence, Jon busied himself with rifling through the items Butler had bought. A comb, shaving materials, the first aid kit- the handful of clothing items, all pale in color, was a welcome surprise. Jon found himself brightening slightly, exhausted as he was. It was a dull, hollow sort of contentment, but it was better than the misery of before, and Jon even smiled slightly as he unearthed a mass-market paperback from the bottom of one bag, plucked from the department store shelf. 

   Trashy romance, eh? I didn’t take him for the type. 

   Butler didn’t dignify him with an answer when Jon lifted it in his hand and lifted his brows at him, amused- the slight flush to his face, however, revealed his embarrassment.  

   After an hour or two, Jon found himself half-dozing against the window, the rumbling of the engine too loud to let him nod off completely- suddenly, the bodyguard’s voice startled him out of his stupor, and he jolted upright. 

   “I’ll wrap your wrist when we get back.”

   Jon blinked owlishly at the dark road ahead. “Hmm?” He muttered, biting back a yawn.

   “Your wrist,” Butler repeated, his eyes fixed on the horizon before them. “… I’ll wrap it when we get back. So it’ll heal.” 

   “Oh.” Jon looked down at his hands. “Uh… thanks.” 

   Butler shrugged. 

   “Go back to sleep. I’ll wake you when we get there.”

[upsideoutinsidedown]

WIP Wednesday, yay (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*: ･ﾟ✧

For a Soulmate AU where you are imprinted with the date your soulmate will see as the most important day of their life. Of course, due to the romanticization of soulmates in this AU, no one considers that a person’s “most important day” may be for something negative, such as, say, being transported to an alternate dimension where you become entangled with the various monsters trying to kill you.

[camellia-thea]

For the asking game for Dove, here’s some custom ones to follow on from number 19 in other ask I did: What are times when she has given into frenzy? What different kinds of frenzy has she succumbed to? What happened, and how did she feel about it afterwards? (originally 19 was How does your OC behave when enraged)

gracious storyteller <3 thank you for dealing with my obsession

this is about a vampire the masquerade character, and as such has some warnings -- hunting (a living human being, by a vampire), predatory behaviour, violence. there is reference to offscreen domestic violence

dove snarls. fangs in her mouth, oblivion swirling at her feet.

the man on the ground scrambles back, but she's advancing quicker than he can move. his eyes dart around, but there is no where to go; stuck in a farmhouse outside of palmerston north of all places with a demon above him. his back meets the wall, and she steps between his legs.

well done, little mouse.

her beast speaks with the voice of her sire, but she doesn't hear it fully, focused on the meal beneath her.

he's still scrabbling on the ground, kicking out at her, and the chuckle that draws from her is throaty and feral.

she's a sight; slight and pale, but almost built from shadows, sculpted from contrasts, with teeth bared. she looks inhuman, otherworldly, but not in the way one might think of when they hear vampire. no, she looks wrong. uncanny, sickly, and now, hungry.

the room is a mess. when she first caught him, he'd tried to throw the table at her, underestimating her speed. she'd thrown him hard enough to hear a snap.

her eyes catch the light as she ducks down to kneel over his waist, one hand on the wall, another catching his chin.

don't end it so quickly, toy with him... just a little

and she does; teeth over his pulse, even as he shakes. it's not really a bite, not to feed. just enough to draw blood and pull it over her teeth. the beast is there, urging her to bite, to hurt, to tear, but she holds back. she pulls away so he can see his blood on her teeth, her chin.

run.

the word is sharp, as she hisses it into his ear. and she's off him, standing dead still. he manages to scramble upright and throw himself towards the door.

she counts.

ten

he fumbles with the door, his hands not cooperating.

nine

it slams with a bang, and he's throwing himself from her sight.

eight

her beast is purring in her head, resting over her shoulder

seven

telling her to ruin him

six

because how dare he look like him.

five

the one who bound her

four

and he'd hit her.

three

it was enough to sentence him to death.

two

or worse

one

game over.

and she tosses herself after him.

she has no super speed, no super strength, but the shadows wind around her feet, bleed into her, and she becomes them.

he's running towards the empty, unlit road, the isolation of rural farmland working in dove's favor.

she catches him in moments, sends him flying into a bed of shadows. as if they are alive, they pull him in, the cold death of it all. he succumbs, the struggle bleeding out of him.

and finally

dove feasts

[sebsrainbowbicycle]

Is there anything you are writing right now that you’d be willing to share?

Hi anon! Sorry I missed this, tumblr hates me 💖

Yeah you know what, why not. Here’s the first paragraph of I’ll follow the sun, which is the Smick fic I’m writing right now when my brain cooperates.

******

When they finally kiss, it feels to Sebastian like going out on a wet track with slick tyres, exhilarating and dangerous with a near certainty of it ending in disaster. But as Mick presses Sebastian against his hotel room door and nips at his bottom lip, he finds that all rational thoughts have left his head. Mick runs his hands through Sebastian’s hair, grabbing firmly enough that a shudder of want curls up Sebastian’s spine and sets his body alight. The moan that is coaxed from Sebastian, by the hands in his hair and the thigh pressed between his legs, clears the clouds from his mind for a moment. He puts his hand on Mick’s chest and pushes firmly, giving him a moment to catch his breath. Mick's eyes are dark and he cannot remember a time that he looked better. Sebastian heaves a breath and attempts to steady his heart rate. He has a decision to make; take the safe route and bail out or full send into the chicane. In previous years Sebastian wouldn't even question it, he is a racing driver hardwired to always go for the gap no matter the consequences. But he is not that same man anymore, probably hasn’t been for some time. He isn’t winning races let alone world championships, and to go for this gap, 12 years he thinks, is just too dangerous for everyone involved.

[bisaster-energy]

literally don't listen to the oh hellos valley album if thinking about sam winchester makes u feel anything because those songs are so fucking samcoded it'll tear ur heart out

[syoddeye]

john price x f!reader thing. unedited. ~600 words.

john price finds a dent in the driver’s door and a note tucked under a wiper.

sorry i can’t afford to pay, please forgive me x

and he’s angry, of course. who wouldn’t be? piece of shit. then he registers the looping handwriting and the little heart in the corner. interesting. he pulls the cctv. lo and behold, there she is. the culprit. some stumbling drunk buffoon.

~~

you probably shouldn’t have nabbed an e-scooter when you were three sheets to the wind, but you did, and fuck, you’re paying for it. you genuinely feel bad about the dent you left in the parked car last night, but you think a broken wrist and three stitches in your lip is more than enough punishment, thanks. you groan, remembering how you tossed the scooter into a bush and hiked a few streets away before calling 999. having to clock in for an opening shift added insult to injury.

~~

he imagines it’s rough going, working an espresso machine with a busted wrist. he supposes the manager didn’t want her as the cashier given the lip. pity, the swelling and stitches aside, she’s quite cute. but serves her right.

he wonders how she’ll react when he picks up his coffee and procures the printed still of her face, clear as day, fleeing from the scene of the crime.

he should feel bad, considering her injuries and what a barista job pays, but. it’s the principle of the thing.

“rough night?” he asks, hovering at the end of the bar.

“huh? oh, yeah. could say that,” she smiles tiredly. it’s a little strained, but still warm. “pity partied too hard.”

john’s smirk flattens. “pity party?”

“yeah,” she shrugs. “series of unfortunate events.”

like running into my car?

“what, bad date?” he jokes carefully, hiding behind a friendly grin.

“ha, guess so. it was supposed to be an anniversary dinner.” she explains dryly, looking all the more defeated as she tamps the grounds.

“supposed to be?”

she glances up, locking in the portafilter with a crank of her good arm. she finally looks a little suspicious of him. smart. “yeah.”

“i don’t mean to pry. you just seem like you could use a vent.” solid recovery.

it works. she considers a moment, shrugs again, and nods as she pulls the shot. “guess so,” she licks her lip and looks back, evidently deeming him harmless. not smart.

“found out he was cheating, called him on it, and he stormed out. after we ordered.”

that’s. that’s not what he expected. but it stirs something oddly protective. john’s a bit old-fashioned, he’s the first to admit it, so to hear about a man carrying himself so poorly? a man running around on a pretty thing like her?

it doesn’t sit well with him. car be damned.

“so how’d you…” he prompts, nodding at the cast.

“oh, yeah, we ordered some fancy wine. i drank most of the bottle alone, sobbing,” she cracks a self-deprecating smile and it dislodges something in his chest. “but the server didn’t charge me for dessert. i, uh, fell on my way home.”

crashed. you crashed into my car.

“sounds terrible.”

“it was. the whole night was. anyway.” she pauses to slide a pen from her apron to write on the cup. “americano to go?” she asks, pushing the drink over the counter, eyes floating to the next order.

john spots the same little heart, the looping letters. he looks back at her, plugging along despite the clear heartache and injuries. he sighs, crumpling the print out in his pocket.

“think i’ll have it to stay, actually,” he mumbles, knowing she doesn’t hear him as she makes the next drink.

he camps out at a table where he can watch her. there’s a dent in his car, but he’s decided there’s a barista-sized hole in his life.