#what would the deadly six be like...?

[juiceyobsessionist]

My first contribution to this fandom is this six page essay i wrote on gloxinias morality for ethics class.

More under the cut

Gloxinia of Repose is a character from the Netflix show The Seven Deadly Sins, and ultimately one of the more interesting characters within the show. Gloxinia’s morality is a warped and twisted version of consequentialism. Gloxinia serves as a minor antagonist through the series, though in the end he ends up as something akin to a ‘hero’. However, due to the nicheness of the show itself, some background information is vital to understanding Gloxinia’s complexly twisted morality.

The setting of The Seven Deadly Sins is a vaguely medieval time period, with a fantasy genre. Gloxinia is part of a gang labeled The Ten Commandments whose goal is to take over the land of Britannia. Opposing The Ten Commandments is a group called The Seven Deadly Sins.

It’s a rather simple ‘good versus evil’ fight, with The Ten Commandments generally having some twisted morality and a dislike for most of the other races.

However, Gloxinia was something of an odd character. He was not outright bloodthirsty. He was sadistic and childishly cruel, yes. He seemed to prioritize fun over actually doing his job properly, and was willing to put on a big performance rather than fighting with all his might. Most notably, Gloxinia had a particularly pessimistic view of the world and seemed to have some sort of grudge against humans. He even went so far as to call them a “Vial repugnant race”. To add to this, he also was shown to be rather lazy and self centered. The only person he was actively nice to was his friend Drole. Every other person who allied with the humans, he attempted to kill in the most fun way possible and was shown to get rather annoyed when people strayed from his little ‘game’.

Then, he did a quick switch up. He stopped being awful after he helped to kill his ex friend, Meliodas. All through the fight scene with Meliodas, Gloxinia could be seen actively feeling bad. This scene is extremely important, because it proves that Gloxinia is not sociopathic. He does have some sort of twisted morality behind him.

Then, after that, he switches and decides to help out The Seven Deadly Sins, giving Harlequin and Diane a large portion of his own power to do so. He discovers his dead sister was still alive, and ends up sacrificing himself in order to let The Sins escape from the demon Chandler, and to attempt to make up for all of his wrong doings. He ends up dying rather quickly, but he seems content with his choices, as he did die with a smile on his face.

Through all of this, he also has his friend Drole right by his side. The two even end up dying together. Drole and his sister were his favorite people, and Gloxinia was not ever shy in showing that. He would heal Drole with a very limited healing ability, and the loss of his sister incited a 3,000 year long mental breakdown. This mental breakdown is where his crueler persona developed, and it’s what caused Gloxinia to join The Ten Commandments to begin with.

Yet, despite his clear adoration for his friends, he did not extend the same kindness to Meliodas. He actively helped kill Meliodas, and while Gloxinia clearly felt bad for Meliodas that did not stop his horrible actions. So the question is: Why? Why was Gloxinia willing to pick and choose which of his friends he killed off? Why was he willing to heal Drole, and go on a warpath for his sister Gerheade, yet he could not even find it in himself to spare his other friend? They all seemed just as close from the few interactions we saw. So what on Earth made Gloxinia willing to pick and choose between his friends? Well, the answer is simple. Gloxinia is a consequentialist, and he believed killing Meliodas was for the greater good.

According to Russ Shafer, author of The Fundamentals of Ethics, fifth edition, “If you have a choice between two options and the first is less good than the second, then the first can’t possibly be right.” This is a good way to sum up the entire thought process of consequentialism. The whole moral theory is based upon doing whatever good possible (Shafer-Landau). It is about minimizing damage and picking the best option from the wreckage, even in a bad situation (Shafer-Landau).

However, consequentialism is not without its issues. It is a rather easy morality to sway if you have the wrong ideals. As put by Alvin I. Goldman, author of RELIABILISM, VERITISM, AND EPISTEMIC CONSEQUENTIALISM, “Consider Judith Thomson's (1976) example of a transplant surgeon who encounters a patient during a routine check-up and decides to chop him up, take his organs, and transplant them in five other patients, each in need of one of those organs. From a teleological point of view, this action is good, perhaps even right. Greater overall happiness will be promoted by this action than by simply attending to the original patient and letting those in need of organ transplants die (Goldman).” As Goldman puts it in this quotation, prioritizing the needs of the many is not always necessarily ethical.

Now, this relates to Gloxinia and his moralities quite easily. He felt Meliodas was a threat. Meliodas had been branded a traitor to the demon race and The Ten Commandments were supposed to kill Meliodas and free the rest of the demon race from the seal.

Gloxinia had always been the type to weigh his options carefully. To try and choose the least harmful path, or the path that did the most good, as consequentialists tend to do. It is important to note that after being betrayed by a group of humans, Gloxinia saw humans as evil at this point. This is absolutely integral to his character, and the choices he makes. He chooses to try and kill Meliodas, one of his oldest and only friends, because Meliodas sided with the humans.

To Gloxinia, killing off all of the evil humans who tried to kill his sister was a good thing. Humans were a disgusting race which he despised. It only made sense for him to try for genocide. Meliodas was an obstacle to him at that point, and Gloxinia, in the truest consequentialist fashion, chose to help kill Meliodas. Gloxinia was clearly not happy about it, indicating that this decision was not one chosen lightly. This was something that made him consider his own moralities, and ultimately choose to attempt to do something that felt less wrong to him. Which is where helping Harlequin and Diane came into play.

He ended up helping them figure out how to be more powerful, while also informing them on the events that led the demon race to be sealed to begin with, as well as the events that led him to ultimately become a Commandment.

It would be a crime to speak on all of this, and leave out the most important event of Gloxinia’s life. An event that he based his entire morality off of, and the one that led Gloxinia to being a Commandment. His sister's death.

This whole event happened because he trusted a group of humans. The humans ended up betraying him and cutting off his sister's legs, her eye, and half of her wings. One human defected from the group and tried to save Gerheade, but Gloxinia spotted the human holding what he assumed was her mangled corpse and murdered the human. Then, Gloxinia went on to continue killing humans. As many as he could find. Zeldris found him and offered to let him join The Ten Commandments.

This was the greatest showing of his consequentialist nature showing through. To Gloxinia, killing off humans was for the greater good. The action may not have been fun, but it was something that had to be done. Or the humans may go around doing the same to others. While Gloxinia certainly did have fun with it, he still was doing it willingly.

What Gloxinia experiences when he changes sides and decides to kill humans is actually referred to as moral disengagement. Which, according to Helet Botha, author of Existentialist Perspectives on the Problem and Prevention of Moral Disengagement is “ Moral disengagement was originally conceived of as a psychological process—a set of cognitive mechanisms—whereby an individual becomes capable of dissociating with their internal moral standards and thus behaving unethically without feeling distress (see also Newman et al., 2020) (Botha).” This is how Gloxinia was able to do such a quick switch from liking humans to hating them.

Some people may attempt to argue that his morality could possibly be psychological egoism. A good way to sum it up is by Di Carlo Emiliano, author of Antecedents of Deviant Behavior: Psychological and Non-Psychological Factors and Ethical Justifications, “According to the homo economicus assumption, the human being is a self-serving individual only interested in maximizing its utility function (Jensen & Meckling, 1976) (Carlo Emiliano).” In other words, humans are selfish. They put themselves first, for better or worse. And considering how Gloxinia attempts to commit genocide against humans due to his own trauma, it may certainly see that way.

There’s no denying that everything Gloxinia did was tinged with a bit of selfishness. He killed, he separated families. Broke apart entire generations all because he decided he hated something. His sister turned out to be alive after all, and he apparently just left her there. He certainly thought she was dead, but that does not change the fact that it was selfish. Not only that, but a lot of Gloxinia’s dialogue would lead you to believe that he truely and genuinely believes that all humans are selfish. And he absolutely does. Which is why he goes out and kills the humans he’s killed.

“Is it appropriate to sacrifice one person to save many?” Is the question asked by Yoshiyuki Takimoto, author of Verification of the Japanese Version of Greene’s Moral Dilemma Task’s Validity and Reliability. This question is a great example of consequentialism, and Gloxinia’s overall mortality. He is willing to sacrifice one person to save many. And in the end, he sacrificed himself to try and slow down the demon Chandler. He lost and died. It was his way of bringing good out of all of the bad he had caused. The ultimate sacrifice.

So, with all of this being said, it’s quite clear that Gloxinia of Repose from the Netflix show The Seven Deadly Sins had a consequentialist morality. He constantly weighed the pros and cons of his own actions, was deliberate in the way he approached things, and consistently did his best to try and bring true goodness. Even though it was a very flawed and scary stance to take- genocide just really isn’t the correct answer for most problems. He still took this stance with the idea that what he was doing was absolutely and entirely good. And in the end, in an attempt to make things right, he sacrificed his own life. He died for his morality, his viewpoints, and to protect the very friends he tried to kill.

Bibliography

Shafer-Landau, R. (n.d.). The Fundamentals of Ethics (5th ed.). Oxford University Press.

Goldman, A. I. (2015). RELIABILISM, VERITISM, AND EPISTEMIC CONSEQUENTIALISM. Episteme,

.10th Anniversary of Episteme, 12(2), 131-143.

https://doi.org/10.1017/epi.2015.25

Di, C. E. (2022). Antecedents of Deviant Behavior: Psychological and Non-Psychological Factors and Ethical Justifications. Employee Responsibilities and Rights Journal, 34(2), 169-191. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10672-021-09387-x

Di, C. E. (2022). Antecedents of Deviant Behavior: Psychological and Non-Psychological Factors and Ethical Justifications. Employee Responsibilities and Rights Journal, 34(2), 169-191. https://doi.org/10.1007/s10672-021-09387-x

Takimoto, Y., & Yasumura, A. (2023). Verification of the Japanese Version of Greene’s Moral Dilemma Task’s Validity and Reliability. Psych, 5(1), 224. https://doi.org/10.3390/psych5010017

[galaxywinter]

Deltarune Theory

I’m currently on a deltarune/undertale hyperfixion and I have a weird theory that’s been in my head and it won’t leave me alone so I decided to post it here.

So my theory starts with that the theory that each chapter has a secret hidden boss with a dark crystal and if I am correct there is going to be seven chapters so seven dark crystals to find.

It was the number 7 that seems important to me since in Undertale there were 7 human souls needed to break the barrier and each soul was associated with an attribute.

Now, I don’t know if the this has been theorized yet but the number 7 jumped out at me since it reminded of the seven deadly sins and the seven heavenly virtues.

Now in order for this theory to come together I have to go into the seven souls of the undertale.

So for the Seven souls I theorize they might represent the seven heavenly virtues just under different names it helps that two of the souls actually share the names of two virtues which is

Patience and Kindness

Now to connect the others

Charity would be Justice since Charity is help others who are in need just as Justice is suppose to save or avenge those in need.

Chasity would be Integrity since both are about keeping a moral or virtue true to themselves

Dilligance would be Perseverance since they both mean to work hard to obtain or finish something.

The last two are a bit harder to pin down but I believe

Humility would be Bravery since both need to have self assurance and understanding of one’s self in order to be humble or brave.

And last I think Temperance would be Determination since both require self control in order to reach a goal or life you want to achieve.

Now what this has to do with deltarune is the theory that each hidden boss will have the soul change like in the Spamton fight and if that proves true I propose the theory that all the dark crystal holders are representative the seven deadly sins.

With Spamton his sin would be greed as shown whith him being a salesman, with his obsession with kromer and his ultimate goal of getting more power by taking NEO’s body and trying to take Kris’ soul.

It would also explain why the soul turned yellow during the NEO fight. As proposed earlier the soul color yellow is for Justice which going by the theory would be the virtue Charity whose opposite corresponding sin would be Greed, Which according to my theory Spamton represents.

With Jevil it’s a bit harder to pin him down but I believe he might represent the sin Gluttony as while he doesn’t do the stereotypical gluttony behavior of excess in eating but he follows gluttony as in excess of everything or Chaos as he puts it he sees the world as a game and does what he wants to excess which is what gluttony sin also represents.

With the fight we stay red and that is associated with determination like in undertale which would be the virtue Temperance who opposite corresponding sin is Gluttony.

So if my theory holds true Mike who is the suspected to be the next dark crystal holder might represent one two and I have two theories based on two theories of what he will be

One theory is that he would be a cowboy and specifically an expy of woody based on Toby Fox song Friend in me and if that’s true I suspect he would be the sin envy as that’s the sin Woody shared in the film and the theory that he was western tv show that was cancelled and he might be envious of the others shows or tv darkness success.

Or theory two he’s going be the radio the video star killed, Since Mike might be a radio that tv took attention and maybe with Tenna’s lies about him that tanked his reputation he might be the sin Wrath because he angry at the defamation and lose of his reputation.

So according to my theory the next dark crystal holder will either be the sin of envy or wrath and if my theory is true the the next secret fight will change to have more patient attacks for wrath since Patience is the corresponding opposite for Wrath or turn our soul green for envy since kindness is the corresponding opposite for Envy.

Anyway this is the theory that been in my mind it’s probably wrong but it’s fun to think about.

[always-a-slut-4-ghouls]

Me when I notice a spider normally: awww, hi cutie

Me when there’s MOVEMENT RIGHT BESIDE MY HEAD ON MY PILLOW IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT: AAH! Jesus FUCKING Christ. When did you get there and why my pillow? *catching breath* *I gently shake them onto the floor* *i then have to pick up my laptop from where it slid off of my startled ass*

[hanasnx]

“ I WAS MADE FOR LOVIN’ YOU ” — logan howlett.

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ WARNINGS: fem reader ノ age gap ノ established relationship ノ size difference ノ suggestive content ノ sexual content: naughty daydreams about pussy eating, nipple play, and groping; masturbation; voyeurism.

“I’m gonna take care of you.” Those six words—six—have defined your relationship with your husband, LOGAN HOWLETT. There’s a great protector in him, this compulsion to mentor and house within him that stretches far beyond his own needs. You fall within that range, and as soon as you met him you latched onto him. It didn’t take long at all before your imprint was reciprocated. Now he thinks of you first in everything he does.

He may not always look it, but you’re a factor in all his decisions. Settling down, nabbing a good job—one that didn’t ask for his background—was all to put you up in a house in the mountains. Far away from civilization, an ivory tower made up of wood he cut himself, surrounded by acres of nature. He’s always thought of himself a hair on the wild side, somehow you tame that down. It’s good, he tells himself, you and him.

It’s a partnership, and all he wants out of you is your safety. He likes you where he can keep an eye on you, make sure you stay out of trouble, make sure you’re comfortable.

You wish you could explain just why he thinks he has to protect you, why he married you, why he pays all the bills and expects nothing in return. You wish you could explain just why this relationship comprises all facets of a real marriage except for intimacy.

Logan won’t touch you. You’ll eat off each other’s utensils, fall asleep on his chest on the couch watching a movie—hell, he’ll reluctantly incline in your direction with a roll of his eyes to let you peck his cheek good-bye when he leaves for work. Yet, he won’t even kiss you. Even before he married you, there wasn’t so much as a grope or a stray look.

There’s home in Logan. You live to please him. You’ll cook him whatever he wants, keep the house he built for you clean as a whistle, you’ll spend all your free time with him, grab him his nightly beer and light his cigar so he stays content—but you’ve never even seen him naked. You doubt you ever will. Regardless, you stay, you can’t imagine leaving this life, leaving him.

It’s defied your expectations the fairy-tales of your childhood gave you. Your knight in shining armor rescued you, yet refuses to plant even true love’s kiss. When you’d matured, you’d fantasized about an insatiable husband that found you so irresistible he couldn’t keep his hands off you. Logan’s never looked at you that way, even though he calls you his wife without hesitation, married you without a second thought.

“Is it because I’m younger than you? I’m only in my early twenties. That’s not a big deal!” you’ve reasoned with him, but he still treats you like you’re naive. He must want passion, you’re sure of that. Why else are you young and beautiful if not to take advantage of it while you still can? Just once you’d like to see him yearn for you, to show lack of restraint, to come home one day so hungry for you that you don’t make it out of the kitchen.

Those claws… those deadly metal claws… you wish he’d use them in fantastical and deviant ways. Just one would glide through your nighty like sheet paper, bareing you to your husband—a sight for him only. You lie awake next to him at night, envisioning raunchy dreams of him proudly boasting the size difference between you two, demonstrating his sheer raw strength by overpowering you and taking what he wants from you. You’ve run your fingers delicately over his lips and the rough pad of his shaved chin, but you can’t imagine just how good it’d feel against your tit, swirling his hot tongue around your perked nipple while his callused digits pinch the other. You can pretend his head is ducking between your thighs, the sensation of his soft hair tickling your skin and tangling in your fingers as his masculine jaw scratches the fragile tissue of your pussy. As starved as you are, even discomfort like that is enough to make you moan into your palm, only to check over your shoulder to make sure you still hear your husband’s snoring.

You steel yourself at the noise, the low rumbling of his sleep cautions you to stay quiet but to proceed nonetheless. Your hand creeps down your neck, your chest, your stomach… You really should leave the room, but you’d risk waking him up for real at the sound of the door. Instead, you fuck yourself yet again, the soft rocking of the mattress as you hump your own hand filling the ears of your kindhearted husband—who’s been awake this whole time.

[itzpookiepooh]

Dunno if you've written about the LADs men with a possessive MC already, or if you take requests for specific characters but I was thinking of this trope with Sylus, Caleb and Zayne (separately)

With them being on a date in public where he's getting a lot of attention because of how attractive he looks and MC is just...glaring at everyone who stares at him for too long like a territorial cat lol

Ppl will oggle at him, then notice the smaller looming presence to his side, staring at them like they should be six feet under 👁️👁️

Their reactions to that, basically haha

btw late happy birthday!

Ouu I love possessiveness so ima do it 🤭 Thank you sm! 🤍

Mine All Mine

Rafayel was far from unattractive and everyone knew it. Especially the girl who was his biggest fan. She always knew where he was and hung around. So when you guys were walking along the beach you weren’t surprised she popped up.

“Rafayel the famous artist!” She squealed running up to him and hugged him. Your glare was deadly, it could kill an army.

She was calling him all types of talented and handsome. It was pissing you off. She had the nerve to gaze at you and smirk like she was stealing him from you or something. Now it was your turn.

You pull him in by his arm, hugging it. He goes to look at you and you pull him down to you and kiss him. Out of character for you but Rafayel didn’t mind as he melted into the kiss.

“Come on we’ll be late.” You mumbles wiping his lips with your thumb. He nods mindlessly as he drags you along. You turn around to wink at the stunned girl.

Sylus is a handsome man and you know that well. Many men and women know it well too. Tonight was no different, the auction was lively and Sylus’ appearance livened it up more. He looked down with a smirk at every item that came across the floor. Your arms were intertwined as his fingers tapped the chair.

A man in a bunny mask walks by with champagne asking if you both would like to indulge in any. Sylus declines making the man focus on him more. He tries to get Sylus to try their best wine and whisky. He even sat on the arm of Sylus’ chair. When he tried to touch Sylus’ chest you grabbed his wrist.

“If you haven’t noticed my husband isn’t thirsty so it would be best to move along.” You snap with a sarcastic smile. He scoffs before stomping away to which you rolled your eyes.

“So feisty.” Sylus teased. “Shut it.” You snapped back.

Why was Zayne so calm and collected whenever anything was happening to him? A mystery really. Zayne was breathtaking you nor anyone else could lie about that. He also had the personality to match which attracted the wrong kind of attention in your eyes. So when you came to join him for lunch only to see one of his colleagues trying to bring him lunch in her containers from home you nearly blew up.

You’ve caught her countless times trying to make him warm up to her. It was driving you nuts. Zayne secretly loved watching you be possessive over him. He thrilled him but he would never tell you that.

“Sorry. Only I bring him lunch…” You look down at the container containing his least favorite dish. “And he doesn’t like this stuff.” You smile sarcastically before closing it for her.

“Then what does he like?” She questioned a bit of sass in her tone.

“Me and anything to do with…well me.” You smile before staring at her blankly. You guide Zayne to his office to which he chuckled on the way.

Xavier lived for days you were possessive. You were like a mini him and he loved the reaction you’d get whenever someone flirted with him. Today was no different when you guys beat wanderers that attacked town square, a certain fan wanted to give Xavier a bit more praise.

“I’m free this weekend. It’s only right since you came just in the nick of time to save me.” She gushed getting closer to Xavier who looked at her obliviously.

“That’s polite but—“ You were quick to swoop in. “I’m sorry but he’s not allowed to fraternize with citizens.” You tell her with your arms folded. She cocks her head sideways in confusion.

“I don’t understand? Then who—“ You wrapped an arm around his and smiled. “Me. That’s it.” You dragged him away as he just stared at you lovingly.

“Fix your face, Xavier.” You tell him sternly but he keeps staring at you like a puppy.

You and Caleb are neck and neck in the possessive category by the way. He tries to scare everyone away. You try to keep him to yourself. It’s a constant back and forth with you two. A tennis match if you will.

Tonight was no different either. Some of Caleb’s colleagues invited you both out for drinks and one of them got too handsy. She was drunk touching on Caleb who was being polite trying to keep her hands at bay. The final time was enough for you as you grabbed her wrist giving her a deadly stare. Almost immediately she sobered up and didn’t bother him for the rest of the night.

“You’re cute when you act like my guard dog.” He teases in your ear. You stare at him the same way before he holds his hands up in surrender.

“Alright I’ll stop.” He surrendered before holding you close.

You guys sure love to challenge my writing skills 😭

[harunayuuka2060]

*After Leona, Kalim, and Deuce encountered the first reflection, six mirror portals suddenly materialized to everyone’s astonishment—one of them sealed shut by a massive, coiled chain.*

Everyone: ...

Lilia: Is this the demon’s handiwork? Does he mean to ensnare us?

Leona: ...

Leona: If we're going to look on the bright side, at least we don't have to deal with unnecessary journeys like in Lizard's dream world.

Malleus: ...

Idia: You do have a point.

Ortho: Hmm... I detect beings behind these portals. Curiously, each exists in a separate time period.

Everyone: Huh?

Leona: *sigh* I knew it. That’s why I took the first initiative. Anyway, I'd be just waiting here. Do your best.

Riddle and the others: ...

Idia: Ortho, can you analyze the nature of the reflections beyond these portals?

Ortho: *shakes his head*

Riddle: If Ortho can't analyze them, then we'll have no choice but to split into groups and proceed with caution.

Leona: ...

Leona: Vil, Trey, Jade, and Jack—you're up next.

Jack: Huh?

Jade: Oh?

Vil: *frowns* Since when do you get to decide the groupings, Leona?

Leona: Choose that one over there.

Vil: ...

Jade: Oh dear. He ignored you, Vil.

Trey: I'm sure Leona didn't mean to do that, haha...

Vil, Trey, and Jade: *are baffled by what they're seeing*

*Even in their crisp formal suit, MC's adult form exuded undeniable allure as they stood behind the bar, fingers caressing the curve of each glass they cleaned.*

Trey: ...I think Leona made a mistake.

Jack: *confused* Why? Is there some problem with MC being a bartender?

Vil: ...

Trey: ...

Jade: We have an innocent one in our group.

Jack: ???

*The four opted to observe their surroundings a while longer before approaching. They soon noticed one peculiar detail—though MC occasionally glanced in their direction (clearly aware of their presence), they made no move to intervene, instead quietly letting the group roam while watching them with silent interest.*

Jade: ...

Jade: It seems they're waiting for us to settle in and order something.

Trey: Do you think so?

Vil: ...

Vil: Let's start by talking to them.

Jack: Wait!

Vil: What—

*As MC served a cocktail to one customer, rose vines began creeping beneath and around them—coiling silently up their chair.*

*Finally, they acknowledged the group—offering them a knowing smile.*

Ruggie: Jack? What happened? Where are the others?

Jack: They told me to escape while I still had the chance—that MC was trapping people inside.

Silver: What? Why would they trap them?

Jack: No idea—Vil practically threw me at the exit.

Silver: ...

MC: You didn't need to kick your friend out like that. I could have offered him a non-alcoholic drink instead.

Jade: But it would still be a poison, correct?

Vil and Trey: ...

MC: *chuckles*

MC: I don’t see the issue here. Not all poisons are deadly—right, Vil?

Vil: ...

[starry-bi-sky]

Danny's used to finding lost kids in Amity.

The ghostly kind, that is. But the human variant happens on occasion too, usually when a too-lax parent takes their eyes off their child for far too long in the park. But he digresses.

It happens more often than he would like. He's not really sure what the family dynamics between ghosts are like in the Zone, he hasn't gotten around to asking about it. Although, it's not like he would be able to anyways — hard to ask questions about something you don't know much about. So far, it all seems kinda... laissez-faire.

Point is: Danny is used to finding lost kids in Amity.

It's since lost its novelty on him. Kids are kids everywhere, dead or alive, human or not. And kids are curious, and portals between the Infinite Realms and the Mortal World are rare in both dimensions. The braver ones will want to explore the things that are new and unknown to them, and they'll do so without any thought of what might happen.

The lost kids Danny finds are, more often than not, just kids who got curious about the portal and got too close to it, and ended up falling through. And in their panic and haste, accidentally fled the lab and got lost in the city.

Like right now.

The noise he makes as he squats to the ground, his knees bracketing his shoulders, is... well, the best way he could describe it is that it kind of sounds like a pigeon coo, or the trill a cat makes when you touch it while it's sleeping. It's as soft and as quiet as he could make it, while still being loud enough to be heard through his mask.

Ghostspeak is not a language that you can learn... technically speaking. That's because the majority of Ghostspeak relies heavily on core vibrations, of which Danny and other humans don't have. The verbal components that Ghostspeak does have also aren't done with the human vocal chords in mind, so most of the sounds Danny can't make.

...Except for a few.

The little noise he makes whips through the tunnel both him and the kid are in. The boy's terrified sniffling abruptly stops, if only because it's cut off by a teeny, startled gasp, and him snapping his head up at the sound.

Danny, crouched reminiscently like a frog, and a solid six feet away, tilts his head just slightly. He hunches his shoulders in and dips a little closer to the ground — it feels a bit awkward on his back, but he's found that moving unnervingly, even if it has to be animalistic, tends to help a lot in situations like these.

Lots of ghosts thrive off being weird and off-putting and inhuman; acting like one usually gets a lost ghost to calm down faster than if he didn't.

He can't parse how old the boy is — physically, he looks about eight, but he could always be older — but he can see shimmering, blue tear tracks streaking down his face. There's a snake-like seam stretching from both corners of his mouth and connecting up to his jaw, and little patches of scales around his yellow-eyes.

The boy's eyes go wide at the sight of him, before his pupils abruptly shrink into needles. The temperature plummets and the boy's mouth peels back to reveal two curved, deadly-looking fangs, and a perfunctory hiss comes out of his mouth.

"Go away!"

Danny does not go away, goosebumps rake down his arms and spine, and he cranes his neck until he hears it pop. The ringing in his ears subside, he braces and reaches back— "Ḩ̶̢̤͉̜̔̕- H̶̩́͋e̶̘̋̅̈̀ļ̵͎͉̑̒̚p̵͙̫͉̏."

He can't help the soft grunt that escapes him after, swaggling his head left and right like a lion shaking out its mane. His mask hides his grimace — he generates enough of his own ectoplasm to understand Ghostspeak and to have a few intrinsic abilities of his own, but compared to an actual ghost, it's minuscule.

It's like trying to speak in a register lower than your throat can handle; on a technical level he can in some aspects, but it still hurts to do. It's one of the few actual words he knows how to say, most are just sounds. Rumbles and trills and purrs that he's somewhat perfected.

The boy's face scrunches up, he shrinks a little away from Danny, looking both equally wary and judgmental. Which.. yeah, fair. That's the usual response. The boy croaks: "What?"

Danny tilts slightly forward — only enough to shift from a crouch to a partial kneel. He points at the boy, and then slowly draws his finger back to point at himself. "H̶̩́͋e̶̘̋̅̈̀ļ̵͎͉̑̒̚p̵͙̫͉̏," He repeats, throat straining, "ḩ̴̲̘̺͗͂ě̵̳̼̝̀̎͠͝l̶̬͈͍̳͂̓͆p̷̢̡̧̛̩̟̆̅͐͘."

He reaches back and tries to flare what little ecto-signature he has, and follows up with a low-rumbling noise he knows for certain means 'safecomfortsafe'.

Danny points to the exit of the tunnel: "H̵̼̹͎̊̏́͑̂͘͜ǫ̴̠̺̜̞́̕͜m̵̪̋e̸̢̞͔̞̺͛̽."

That seems to catch the boy's attention, his head perks up and his folded, pointed ears flap slightly. Unsteadily, his knees draw away from his chest, some of his distrust melting away like frost under the sun. "You- you know where home is?"

Danny can't say the word 'yes', its out of his range and his capabilities. But he knows how to mimic the sound of 'pleased', so he presses his cheek to the ground — ignoring the unpleasant clack it makes as mask thunks against concrete — and nods, replicating the trill.

The boy looks hopeful, a crack in the ice, before suddenly remembering to be wary. He shrivels back again, his brows furrowing and eyes narrow. "Who are you?"

"H̷͇͚̹͝e̶͉͑͗͒̂͝ĺ̸̡͇̟̅p̸̰̕." Danny repeats, because he doesn't know how to say "Phantom" in ghostspeak, and not every ghost knows English — Wulf is the first to come to mind in that regard. He points again to the exit: "H̵͈͉̖̳͚̾̀͐̄̀ö̶͖͑̄͝ḿ̷̨̭̬͋͆̃́e̵̺͑."

"Is that all you know how to say?" The boy asks, (more like demands) "Help and home?"

Danny nods again, he sits back up and slowly crawls back outwards from the tunnel, gesturing for the boy to follow. "H̴̤̊o̶̢̳̻͓̿m̵̘̘̀e̸̡̝̼̓̉," is all he says, "H̴̤̊o̶̢̳̻͓̿m̵̘̘̀e̸̡̝̼̓̉."

He only crawls back a few steps before stopping — he's not actually going to leave until he's certain the kid was going to follow him. And so far he wasn't moving, yet.

They stare at each other for a few long seconds, Danny watching expectantly. Emotions run rapid and rabbit across the kid's face, flickering between uncertainty and consideration. After a few minutes, victoriously, the boy drops his legs and begins to follow.

Danny rewards him with a very pleased trill. Perhaps some of his joy bleeds through his signature— the lines in the boy's face disappear for a moment as a little giggle escapes him.

"What are you?" The boy asks him once they're closer to the entrance, Danny holds his arm out to prevent the boy from walking out, and then peers out of the tunnel for stragglers. It's the middle of the night in Amity Park, but you never really know. "You don't feel like a ghost."

Ah, well. Danny glances at the boy, how does he explain liminality to someone who might not grasp the concept, and might not even know English? He barely understands himself what he is.

Danny shrugs, and points to himself, "H̷e̵l̷p̴."

[meganwritesfanfics]

How to Save a Life (Dr. Jack Abbott x Reader) Part 1

Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5

Companion Piece: You Are My Sunshine

Word Count: 1613

TRIGGER WARNING: Discussion of firearms, women being threatened.

I altered the show's timeline slightly to make my story work. I will continue to post parts, if you would like to be included in the tag list, comment down below.

It was a normal shift, or as normal as any shift in the Pitt could be. After a heartbreaking case, Y/N heads outside to clear her head and talk to her husband Dr. Jack Abbott. But suddenly a normal shift takes a deadly turn when Y/N is taken hostage by a disgruntled patient

“Resuscitation efforts discontinued at 14:51,” Robby said and she felt like see had been been punched in chest. Kid loses always hit everyone hard. Especially a drowning. Y/N’s eyes locked with Robby’s as the mother of the lost girl screamed with grief. She just shook her head as she bolted from the room, not wanting anyone to see her tears. She always felt like so weak when she lost it after losing a patient. She had been a doctor for 10 years, it should affect her as much anymore. But the hard cases always got to her. 

“Caring does not make you weak,” She could hear her husbands voice in her head say as she reached for the necklace he gave her. “It makes you a better doctor.” 

She stumbled out to the ambulance bay, taking a deep breath. The cool air filled her lungs and she felt like she could breathe. She wiped some tears away as she pulled out her phone, pulling up Jack’s contact. She knew he would be waking up soon if he wasn’t already. They had a tradition of texting one another if something happened at work that upset them. Sometimes it was easier for Jack to write down his feelings than it was to speak them out loud. Y/N appreciated him sharing in whatever form made him feel the most comfortable. And Y/N always knew the best things to say to make him feel better.

“Just had a really rough case. Lost them. Just wanted to remind you that I love you more than anything in this world, and you make me incredibly happy.” 

“You have time for a call Doctor?” A text shot back and Y/N smiled as she hit call. 

“What are you doing up?” She laughed. 

“Ugh, you know I can’t sleep without you next to me.” Jack said groggily. “What’s going on Doll.” 

“It was a six year old kid, Jack. Drowned.” Y/N said her emotions coming to the surface again. “She was trying to save her little sister.” 

Jack remained silent just listening as Y/N explained everything they tried to do to save the girl. “Oh darling, I’m so sorry” 

“I just kept thinking, what if it was our baby lying on that table.” Her hand instinctively hovered over her stomach. Neither of them had told anyone yet, but Y/N was about 8 weeks pregnant. 

“Y/N, you can’t think like that. If you connect every lost kid to our baby, you are going to go insane.” 

“I know. It’s just hard.” Y/N sighed. 

“Well, just think, in a few more hours, you will be home with me, I will make us dinner, and then we can do whatever you want to take your mind off the day.” 

“Oh anything I want Doctor Abbott that sounds like you have something dirty in mind.” Suddenly Y/N felt something heavy and blunt against the base of her skull. 

In one ear she could hear Jack talking about all the things he wanted to do with her. In the other ear, she heard someone whisper. 

“Hang up the fucking phone. Now.” 

“Jack, honey, I have to go. I love you so fucking much.” She said and she quickly hung up, just as she heard Jack call her name questioningly. 

As soon as the phone was hung up and put in her pocket, Y/N felt an arm wrap around her chest pulled her roughly back as the barrel of a gun was placed against her temple. 

“Inside. Now.” The voice snapped as he started to drag her inside. 

Her mind was a blur as they came in through ambulance bay doors. She immediately saw the look of horror on everyones face as they came in. 

“Listen here!” The voice screamed. “I want to be treated fairly, I want to be seen by a doctor!” 

Y/N saw Robby come into main area and his eye went wide. 

“I need everyone to calm down.” Robby said with as much composer as he could, but in his head he was full on panicked. “Sir, I need you to let my resident go.” 

“No. Not until I am fucking seen. I have been waiting for hours and no one has seen me yet. It’s not fair. So I am going to get someone to help me, or so help me God I won’t hesitate to shoot her.” 

Ahmad took a step forward but the minute he did, the man cocked the gun and Y/N flinched. 

“Don’t you fucking move, you piece of shit, I’m not joking I will kill her. I need you all to take me seriously!” 

“Mr. Driscoll, we are taking you very seriously…” Robby said hands up his eyes looking over at Y/N’s scared form, trying to figure out some way to get her out of this. 

“Well then who is going to treat me!” Doug screamed as he swung the gun out at the rest of the group causing everyone to duck for cover. 

“I will!” Y/N screamed. “I will treat you! Just don’t point the gun at anyone else, just at me got it.” She negotiated and she could feel her phone buzzing in her pocket. Jack. Her heart broke, she hoped that by seeing this patient she could deescilate the situation. But she also knew that if he was going to these extremes, there was a higher than likely chance this could end in violence. 

“Y/N.” Robby said shaking his head.

“Listen Mr. Driscoll. I have been a doctor for 10 years. I am confident that I can get you the care you deserve.” 

“Finally, that’s all I’m asking. Was that so fucking hard!” Driscoll screamed. “Now,” He said as he started to drag her toward the empty room he could see. “If I so much as see a cop, things won’t end well for…” He leaned over to read her badge. “Dr. Abbott here. Is that clear?” 

“Mr. Driscoll, this is…” Robby started again but Driscoll quickly moved the gun to under Y/N’s chin shoving her face up so she was looking at the ceiling.

“I said is that fucking clear!” He screamed and Y/N could feel a tear roll down her cheek. 

“Crystal.” Robby snapped a look of pure rage in his eyes. 

Everyone watched in silence as Doug Driscoll dragged Y/N into one of the exam rooms and shut both doors. 

“Robby.” Dana said panicked. 

“We need to start moving all the other patients elsewhere for their safety. Also we need to…” He started but he could feel his phone vibrating in his pocket. 

He pulled it out to see he had multiple missed texts and calls from Jack. 

“What’s going on with Y/N. She sounded weird when she hung up the phone.” 

“Robby, I’m worried about Y/N.” 

“Can you just let me know if she is tied up right now. She’s not answering me and I just want to make sure she is ok.” 

Robby sighed. He didn’t want to make this phone call, and he knew what the outcome would be, but he knew Jack deserved to know. 

“Is that Jack?” Dana asked. 

“Yeah.” 

“You want me to call him.” 

“No, I got this, go try to calm down the newbies. And let’s get everyone moving.” He sighed as he pulled out his phone, his eyes still fixed on the room Y/N was in. 

“Robby, brother, thanks for calling, Y/N sounded really weird on the phone and I swear to God  I heard another voice in the background I know it’s probably silly, but I got this gut feeling…” Abbott started. 

“Jack.” Robby cut him off and Jack instantly went silent. 

“What’s wrong?” Jack said fear filling him instantly. 

“There has been an incidence. A disgruntled patient and he…” Robby hesitated. 

“Is she ok?” Jack asked and Robby could hear the sound of rustling as he was sure Jack was starting to rush out the door. 

“She’s ok, but the patient brought in a gun. He currently is holding her hostage in one of the exam rooms.” 

“Fuck!” Jack screamed and Robby heard the sound of Jack’s truck peeling out of the driveway. 

“Jack if you are coming here I need you to remain calm and level headed ok. That’s the only way we are going to get Y/N out ok.” 

“I’m not going to remain calm! He’s got my girl Robby. And she…” Jack hesitated his voice catching in his throat. “Have you called the cops?” 

“Not yet, I need to get all the other patients somewhere safe, and I need to talk to Gloria. And he threatened to kill Y/N if he saw any cops.” 

“I’m on my way, please don’t call the cops until I get there. I’m only about 5 minutes out.” 

“Jack you live 15 minutes away how the fuck are you already…” 

“I really don’t give a shit about speed limits right now.” Jack screamed before he let out a loud sigh. “Micheal, I can’t lose her.” 

“Don’t think like that ok, we are no where near that point. This guy is just pissed off but I think once he gets what he needs I think he will be gone.” Robby tried to reassure. 

“She’s pregnant, we haven’t told anyone yet because it is still super early.” Jack said and Robby could hear him breaking. 

“Jack, I am going to do everything in my power to make sure she is safe.” Micheal insisted. But he couldn’t help but feel that this situation was not going to end well. 

[theorist-fox]

Good Luck

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Crossposted on AO3.

Previous << || >> Next

Word count: 5.2k

Summary: There’s only so much you can endure for love. Simon’s avoidance takes him one step too far, and this time, there’s no turning back.

18+

CW: angst, arguments, canon typical violence (GSW, surgery, medical talk), a drop of smut.

I listened to this song while writing!

Masterlist 🦊 | In The Walls Masterlist 🦊

The treadmill runs underfoot when it shouldn't. 

You shouldn't be here—when the lights in the base are off, and curfew has clocked in. Not when your side is still aching, and your injury is still mending.

One would think that after ages in the special forces, you'd get used to gunshot wounds. 

Truth is—you never do. It's always the same burning pain that makes you piss yourself and throw up your guts. How you survived is still a big, fat question mark—sniper rifles are made to kill, not to neutralize. If that bullet had hit a little higher, you'd be six feet underground, not doing some cardio in the HQ gym.

Even now, two months after the incident, the stabbing ache in your gut still lingers. Granted, it's not fully healed, so any pain you feel is your fault. But sitting idly, twiddling your thumbs, feels far too passive for you. So, you decide to resort to the simplest training—cardio, light weightlifting—anything that might help the rage simmering in your chest subside.

Because yes—the worst thing festering in your guts, right in the broken sinews and ripped flesh, isn't the mending hole of a .308 round, but a growing anger that's making it hard for your limbs to sit still.

And it's that anger that's slowing down the healing process, it must be. 

You're running—not too fast. No headphones on, because you want to hear your breath panting and your feet thudding against the moving treadmill. You want to taste copper down your throat. 

Overexertion. Salivating tongue. The wonderful ache of sore muscles. 

Alive, strong, fast, reliable.

A friendly reminder that even though there is someone else occupying your spot in the team, you're still as fan-fucking-tastic as ever.

A friendly reminder that their role is only temporary. That when you're back on your feet, you're going to be the fifth member of that task force again. 

Breakfasts with Soap, early morning runs with Gaz, cigars in the evening with Price.

Ghost, on the other hand, can go and fuck himself. Hard. 

You don't blame him, really. Or, well, maybe a little. A smidge. 

Because that's just who he is. You can't blame someone for being who they are—and what he is, is a bastard. 

You should've known the moment you met him, the second he introduced himself as Ghost instead of Simon Riley, all those years back.

Instead of giving in, instead of acting kind, caring, and giving him your time—instead, instead, instead—you should've bit the same way he bit you. Ravaged you. Gave you hot and cold, push and pull, sunk his teeth until the bone, until you were nothing more than a rag doll in the maws of a rabid dog.

Surely, you couldn't have expected him to visit.

You couldn't have expected him to knock on your hospital room door, cuppa in hand, and have him give you his precious, precious time.

What you should've done was expect him to treat you in person like he treats you in bed. 

A whore: warm enough to fit his cock in, wet enough to stroke his ego. You being out of commission for anything remotely related to sex meant you being out of his life—plain and simple. 

A hard pill to swallow, but a true one.

And so, you run. 

You run and stare deadly holes into the wall in front of you. 

You run and ignore how the forming scar on your side tightens at each movement. 

You run and try your damned hardest to focus on yourself: on your body feeling alive even when unhooked from cables and machines, on the fog in your brain finally dissipating, on your chest filling and relaxing even without oxygen pumped in your nose.

Ten minutes turn into twenty, until you can feel your thighs chafe and your calves cramp, but still you push through. Because the alternative, the only other thing that would make your stomach finally loosen, would be to have that bastard within reach. Punch him until he hurts like you did.

Alas, God seems to have heard, for the next thing you know, is that Simon is standing, jaded as always, at the threshold of the gym to your left.

As soon as you spot him in your periphery, you punch the big red button on the treadmill. Your run slows to a walk before you stop completely and get down. 

You don't even look at him as you collect your water bottle from the floor, grunting softly when your injury folds and aches.

You don't even lift your head when you reply with a caustic, "Look what the cat dragged in."

He snorts. How dare he.

"See you got your wit back."

It's been two months since you last heard his voice. 

When you got shot and blacked out, the last thing you registered was his voice roaring over comms—but judging by the distant behaviour he assumed right afterwards, the complete absence during your hospitalization, you convinced yourself that the anguished cry of your name you've heard was imagined altogether.

One last attempt of your brain to find some comfort in the pain.

However, a treacherous shiver still runs down your spine when he speaks. The thickness of his voice, the rasp that scratches a nice spot in your brain. 

You shake your shoulders to get rid of it.

It's only then that you clock his form with your eyes. You tongue your cheek.

"Never left," you say, uncapping your water bottle. "Not that you'd know anyway, mh?"

As you drink, the balaclava shifts at his jaw as if he's running his tongue over his teeth. Thinking which approach to take—tactical and measured or absolutely ballistic and corrosive.

"You shouldn't be 'ere." He drawls with that grating tone that makes you believe he knows something more than you do.

Measured it is.

"Got cleared."

"Doc said otherwise."

"As obsessed as ever, uh?"

How his eyes sharpen tells you you've cut deeper than any razor blade could. A smug smile blooms on your cheeks because small things feel like huge victories when there are too many losses to count.

"You're under my command." He says bluntly, "Had to keep myself updated."

"Normal people would ask."

He tilts his head. "M'sure you gathered I'm anything but."

"Right," you say with a wry grin. "What was the doctor's diagnosis, then?"

"Lucky your liver got out of it intact," he replies, "Exit wound clear, no fragments. Minimal internal dam—"

"Oh no, I know that." You cut in, sickly sweet, like poison more than honey. "I meant yours."

His eyes darken, with a warning glint that should be enough to pierce through your resolve—shame for him that you're bulletproof and sharp like a knife. You don't care if it'll hurt—let it. After all, there is little left to lose, and you're sure that whatever is left will soon be lost.

"Abandonment issues? Does it stem from your childhood? Are you projecting something on me, Simon?"

"Sergeant," he says, lower than a growl. 

"What?" You snap, tongue riddled with bitterness. "Isn't that what's happening? Takin' my life apart 'cause you couldn't sort out yours?"

Simon rolls his shoulders and straightens his neck. He often does it when he wants to appear taller, broader, scarier—though you know better.

And right now, he's just as tense as you are. 

Both of you are teetering on the edge, walking a fine line that could lead to resolution, but you're afraid it won't. Not this time.

Each step he takes bends the thin rope under his weight. You wobble—precarious, afraid, a gust of wind is all it would take for you to fall and lose it all in one breath: the earned, mutual trust, the fragile love—no matter how disjointed and uncertain at times.

Reluctantly, you know that it has been tender, too.

"I'd watch my tongue if I were you,” he says. A measured threat.

Your eyes are sharp, and you don't dare to breathe. The space between your faces is tense—a ticking time bomb, something preceding destruction.

"And I'd stay the fuck back." You scowl. "If I were you."

There's a sneer painting his face; you're sure of it, even if it's out of sight. Something heavy and dark, hidden under fabric. 

"Aye, I have," he says at length. "For two months. But looks like you didn't enjoy that much, did ya now?"

Your brows fly to your forehead. Utter disbelief at the sheer audacity of him. Apparently, today isn't one of those days in which you can take what you dish out. 

Fuck it, you'll live.

"You think this is funny?" You scowl, cocking your head.

You watch his jaw shift, perhaps trying to reply, but you don't give him time. He's had plenty of it and wasted it all.

"You think it's alright, what you did?"

Your teeth grit until your head hurts. 

"Not even a knock, Simon." Your voice rises in volume and anger alike. "Two months. Not a call, a text, a wordpassed through Johnny."

Your chest grows tight, and those vines climb upward, closing in on your throat and head all the same. The pressure in your skull threatens tears.

You'd rather get shot again than cry now, of all times.

You thought he'd carved a path specifically for you. Instead, he was only covering your eyes in gentle kisses and cottoning your ears with sweet words—perhaps some remorse, if he could feel it at all. Treated you like a hungry dog, throwing a bone so you'd turn into a more docile pup, whimpering and asking for pets.

And still, you kept clinging with your fingernails to the scraps of tenderness he offered, even when unsure of their authenticity.

There is no trace of that naivete now embedded in your eyes. You're as hard as he's portraying himself to be.

Simon now studies the switch. He must see the sadness in there, even if it's buried under a thick layer of anger and spite. 

"Figured I'd leave ya to it," he says at last, pressing his thumb between his brows—a subtle gesture betraying his calm facade. "Give ya time to recover."

What a poor fucking excuse.

Oh, you want to make him hurt like he did you. 

Make him feel two months' worth of staring at the plain white door of the hospital room, waiting for it to open. Waiting to see him duck under the doorframe, holding a pack of Marlboros in his hand. 

Make a joke about smoking in hospital rooms and how irresponsible that would be, how insensitive, only for him to tinker with the smoke alarm and turn the orange butt of a ciggie your way. 

Bring you tea. The book you still haven't finished. Tell you about his day. 

More than sixty days spent pining, waiting, hoping like a helpless lunatic, with Johnny's pitying blues glued on the lines between your brows.

"Oh, spare me." You scoff. "At least have the decency to do that much."

His eyes narrow. You inhale, challenging him with your glare.

Fuck, he doesn't have to love you—to even like you—if that's the barrier he wants to put up.

But basic human decency doesn't seem much to demand. Especially knowing that you were so much more before this ordeal began. You were a colleague, a friend. A shag here and there doesn't cancel that. How can occasional sex erase years and years of carefully built partnerships, in and out of work?

How can he so easily change his view of you just because you parted your legs for him?

It hurts when you realize it. When it hits you right in the head like that bullet pierced your side. That you're done giving him excuses, that you're done giving him time.

That it's now or never again.

It escapes your mouth like something strangled, fighting its way out with elbows and fists. Thrashing through your throat, guided by better judgment and self-preservation, even as your heart begs for a moment more. 

"You know this doesn't work, right?" You gesture in the space between you two. "You and I."

That seems to be what wakes him. His eyes look alarmed, even if only for a moment, and it's a flash so brief you're not even sure it happened at all.

"We talked 'bout—"

"Oh, shut the fuck up." You cut in, exasperation showing in the way your voice rises. 

He jolts. Freezes.

You sigh a shaky breath. Your body burns hot, like the feelings brewing at the bottom of a much too-deep pot are finally spilling out. Skin lighting up, all too aware of everything, from the blood rushing to your cheeks to the throbbing ache of your healing wound.

"Yeah, we had that chat—no feelings, no strings attached, or whatever rubbish you tell yourself to sleep at night."

Your heart feels heavier, like someone's poured cement over it, and it's about to be tossed into deep waters.

"Doesn't mean you've got the right to treat me like this." You say in a single breath. "Like I'm not even a person. Like I don't matter unless I'm naked."

Something in him hardens like he's looking at you through his scope: squinting his eyes, steeling his shoulders. You struck a raw nerve, casting him in a light that even he wouldn't dare to face, self-critical as he may be.

Or you're just describing what you see. What he's shown you. Given you. Not who he is.

But how are you supposed to know that? Discern the mask from the man when he guards the latter so viciously.

"I'm not just someone you fuck," you say through gritted teeth. "I'm a person. I'm your sergeant—I'm your friend. I deserve your respect."

You slam a finger to his chest. The impact is not as strong as it is shocking.

Simon stumbles back.

"I had your back long before we started fucking, and when I get shot, you don't even bother knocking?" You exclaim. "You hear how fucked up that is? And you think I'll let it slide without consequences?"

You retreat your hand, trembling like a leaf. It falls at your side limply, surrendered as you are.

"You don't know me if you think that."

You gulp down something heavy stuck in your throat, but your voice remains abrasive and sharp.

"And I don't know why I ever thought otherwise."

You step back, holding his eyes a moment more—daring to bite back at your words. Daring to fabricate an excuse.

But you don't waste energy to gauge his thoughts this time. You have tried—so strenuously— to discover Simon Riley, but there are walls too thick to climb, gates too rusted and too old to be opened.

And, for once, you forgive yourself for having failed.

Simon stands stock still under the yellow lights of the gym, hands curled into fists at his sides, fighting an invisible enemy. A statue of a man, stone cold and so awfully far, far away.

You walk past him, water bottle clutched in your hand so tight you think your knuckles might snap.

The doorway's left behind you. Your steps quicken the farther you get from the gym, watching the light from the door give way to the darkness of a sleeping headquarters. 

You don't hear his steps, and you're unsure whether he's following. Hard to tell—the man's a ghost in more ways than just his name. Silent and prudent even when wrapped in tac gear up to his head.

When you reach your room, you think you're safe from further arguments. No more raising your voice, no more putting your heart through the meat grinder. It's gone and done, and you only want to get in your bed and not think about it until you wake up tomorrow. 

Still, your hands shake. You test for your keys in the tight pocket of your leggings and curse under your breath when you pluck them out and they fall from between your fingers.

When you're about to bend down, cussing further because your side still aches, a hand steals them from your sight. You follow the tattoos up to the face of the owner, even if you don't have to do so to recognize him.

He's not wearing the mask anymore. He has it tucked in a pocket of his jeans; you see the dark cloth peeking from the light blue. His shoulders are slouched, hair tousled and messy, likely due to his fingers running through it. Pale cheeks and sunken eyes, darker underneath, like he hasn't caught a wink in a while. 

A certain sadness in them, too. But that might be what your eyes want you to see—rationally, you would put all that much, much past him.

"Careful," he murmurs, handing the keys back to you.

You snatch them from his hands and practically punch them into the keyhole.

"Sarge—"

"No."

He calls your name.

"No."

You slam the door behind you once you're inside, but you don't hear the closing thud. When you look over your shoulder, you find him holding it open. Without further questions or waiting for you to rebut, he steps inside. 

You glower to deter him. It's useless.

Simon closes the door behind him and leans against it. His hand effortlessly finds the switch at the entrance and flicks it on. 

As you blink to adjust to the sudden light, your eyes naturally focus on him: a mountain of a man clad in onyx with the pale cream backdrop of your door. 

"Out," you bark.

He looks at you with eyes so horribly tired. Exhausted. Upset.

"Fuck's sake, jus' listen."

And his voice is not so different.

Then, there's nothing you can do. 

Those boots have been here without your frank permission more times than you can count. You're aware of the impossibility of redirecting them outside. 

You scowl, fingers tightening around the water bottle in your hand because his nerve could bloody well be the last straw.

But still—

You nod. Jaw locked tight.

"Make it quick."

He spares not a second more.

"Day o' the surgery, after they cut you open," he says. "I came."

He points at his neck. 

"Had a tube shoved down your throat, a thing around your chin to keep ya mouth open."

Then, to his face. 

"Beaten black an' blue, you were—swollen an' all. Reckon it was probably the fall after the shot—dunno, couldn't fuckin' think when I saw ya like that."

He licks his lips. Bows his head as if the floor might lend him the strength he needs to pull himself together.

He looks up again. Dark eyes tender unlike anything you've ever seen, and yet one corner of his mouth is downturned, like he's about to say something he's very disappointed with.

Your body is gelatin. Flaccid. Cotton ears, foggy sight, clammy palms. 

"You looked dead," he swallows something thick. "And I wished you were."

Your bottle slips from your hands and falls to the floor. A metallic thud. Water sloshes back and forth as it rolls on the linoleum until it stills.

Suddenly, you feel like a kid who's looking for her ma. 

There's a sadness so deep and suffocating you can't quite explain it if not by digging up childhood memories—a sense of loss, of being small and helpless and alone.

You fought tears all this time, and now it feels fruitless even to try. It's written all over your face anyway. 

You taste their salt before you feel your eyes swell with them.

"Fuck. You." You tell him, voice hoarse but no less spiteful.

"Wished you were dead—"

He walks to you.

"You're disgusting—"

"Because—"

Closer.

"Don't want to see your fucking face again—"

"I didn't know wha' to do."

Until he stands with his boots bumping your trainers. Until the cold wall touches the sweat on your back.

He holds your face in his hands.

You pull back. He doesn't let go.

"'Cause I don't know, love—" He breathes tenderly, like his voice is not his, while your nails claw at his wrist so he lets go.

He doesn't.

"I don't know how to mourn the livin'," he says, "Only the dead."

He gulps. You fall still.

"You said ya wouldn't put me through that again, but you did," he croaks. "Made it worse this time. I couldn't take it."

He thumbs your tears.

"Would've been easier f'me to bury ya with the others an' let the guilt finish me off."

Simon leans in until his lips brush your forehead. When he realizes you won't fight back anymore, his hands slide to your shoulders, then down your arms.

Gingerly, his fingers twine with yours. He doesn't tighten his hold; he merely tests the thin skin of your knuckles.

You pull back a step, burning eyes drifting up at him through the tears clumping your lashes. Truthfully, you weren't expecting him to cry with you. You don't think Simon can—maybe he's already shed one too many tears.

But his cheeks are glowing red. His eyelids are heavy, eyes cast down to you. He's just as affected as you are, but he shows it differently in those subtle ways you've learned to read.

After fighting the tremble of your lips, you steady yourself. Fingers warm within his own; you don't pull them away. 

"I don't deserve what you did to me."

Your voice is so tight you hate yourself for it, but if you don't speak your mind now, you're afraid you never will.

He shakes his head slowly, never straying from your eyes. 

"You don't."

Leaning down slowly, giving you ample time to move away if you wish, Simon kisses your shoulder. 

You sigh.

"Don't deserve a ton o' the shite I put ya through," he whispers.

His ear is right next to your lips. You're sure that no matter how much you try to control yourself, he'll quickly gather your feelings by the way your pulse thunders beneath his kiss.

So why hide it at all?

"And yet you never apologized for a single one of them."

Simon gulps. A subtle sound, as subtle as the man who made it. 

He pulls back. Smooths back your hair, sliding a hand from your forehead to your scalp. 

You lean into his touch, exhaling a breath that trembles like your hands.

"Never did, did I." He breathes. 

He leans in and presses a kiss between your brows, then down the bridge of your nose, to your cheek, the corner of your mouth. You close your eyes so he can navigate this new level of intimacy he's never initiated nor shown at all.

And then he captures your lips. 

His shoulders soften.

A long, drawn-out sigh from his nose. 

He pushes forward, forcing the back of your head against the wall. His hands travel to your stomach, hesitant and curious. He skims over the thicker patch of fabric, where the surgery scar is mending under soft, fresh bandages. 

A slight hiss in your breath because it still feels sore to the touch is what makes Simon pull back. Just enough to have the tips of your noses graze.

Suddenly, he kneels at your feet. 

Big hands envelop your waist, touch gentle but still present enough to rip the air out of your lungs. His thumb brushes over the bandage, causing you to shift uncomfortably.

You look down. Your eyes touch.

The silence around you cracks when he speaks, softness in his breath.

"M'sorry."

Chest tight and sore, like he just punched it. 

He keeps his eyes on you, not to study your expression but to convey his own. The earnestness you catch in there ripples through you like a shockwave ready to shatter you whole.

He leans in and buries his nose right above your belly button, in the rougher fabric of your shirt.

His thumbs hook at the hem, lifting it up so that his face meets your stomach.

"Tell me to fuck off, an' I will," he whispers to your skin. "Know I deserve it."

He kisses your belly, carefully navigating around your bandaged injury. 

"But fuck," he sighs. "I hope you don't."

His lips travel lower, where the waistband of your legging cinches your hips. His kisses turn open but unhurried, like he just wants to savour what he's denied himself for too long.

You roll your lips between your teeth, unsure of how to behave.

"Fuckin' hope you don't," he murmurs.

Your hands land on his head, then, hesitant and trembling, fingers threaded through his hair. Simon sighs like you took the weight off his shoulders and got rid of it entirely.

His fingers curl at the hem of your leggings. 

Slowly, he rolls them down, and he follows their trail, drawing his tongue and his lips down your thighs to your knee. His hand slips to your shoe, and he helps you take it off. Then to the other. Your socks, your pants, until your legs are bare, fabric tossed aside in a heap on the floor.

Simon never stands up.

He holds you by your hips with a covetous grip, but still soft enough to not hurt, almost mimicking the way his mouth moves over you: with smothered hunger, with gentle greed, one that feels somehow oppositely selfless.

Like he's doing it because it feels good for you and not because he desires to have it.

Simon's nose dips in the crease of your thighs. A kiss there, one to the seam of your labia, one on your mound.

His eyes flicker to you.

The lights in your room are a soft yellow, casting a gentle glow on his kneeling body that feels somewhat wrong, like there's too much being shown under the sun when only the two of you should witness it.

Gingerly, you slide your hand along the wall until you find the bump of the switch. With a flick of your finger, the lights go off.

The room is pitch dark now. Moonlight laps at the lines of Simon's face like it's trying to make him glow despite how dim everything around him is. 

It takes a while to adjust to the darkness, but you finally see him when you do. The downturn of his eyes, the telltale signs of sleepless nights, wrinkles of exhaustion and endless battles fought within himself.

Utter, devastating regret. 

You wonder if he can spot the heaviness in your eyes. The uncertainty, the fear of falling right back into the cycle, a trap of yours and his making. 

He's going to tell you the nicest things, pull you in until you can only stick to him like glue, and then he's going to vanish from your life. Treat you like you're strangers until you'll somehow find yourself wrapped around his finger again.

And then it'll all start over. Again, and again, and again.

You brush your thumb on his temple.

Simon leans into it like a dog starving for attention.

He hooks his fingers at the thin straps hugging your hipbones. Slowly pulls your knickers down to your ankles as he holds your eyes.

Gently, he coaxes your knee to bend, lifting your leg off the floor. He kisses the side of your foot, your calf and upward, until your knee is draped over his shoulder. 

Slowly, his nose nudges your clit. The muscles in your thighs twitch.

You're not wet; you're not aroused. He isn't either, you can tell. Otherwise, you'd have had his face buried between your legs hours ago.

The tip of his tongue draws a stroke there. Like waves, it reaches the base of your skull. Tips you off balance, almost. Makes your head spin.

Another tentative lick. The tender fingers in his hair turn into claws, and you grip it tighter. 

Another, another, until you're breathless and inevitably dripping. Simon collects it with his fingers, drawing circles at your entrance.

The flat of his tongue meets your clit in a tortuously slow dance, holding you still with an arm encircling your thigh. And then his finger slides in. You're forced to bite your cheek, muffling a moan that only manages to break free as a sigh.

But when you look down, even in the darkness, you see his eyes, glossy and charged. But still so very tired. 

Like yours.

Because maybe he's navigating through this exactly like you, and you hadn't considered it—too absorbed in your own heartache to notice his. And maybe he's even more afraid because when you have nothing to lose, and something's suddenly given to you, you don't know how to behave.

And maybe Simon thinks that doing this is the only way to keep you.

You exchange a look that holds more pain than lust, shaking your head at him so, so softly it’s almost imperceptible. And Simon sighs, surrendered—he takes back his hand, his tongue, and sits back on his heels.

Carefully, you unhook your knee from his shoulder. He doesn't put up a fight, doesn't tighten the hold on your leg. Instead, he drops his arm limp on his thigh. 

You slide down the wall behind you until your knees bump against his. Simon's fingers reach out, almost shy, and trace mindless patterns on your skin. 

He's hunched over, head bowed in what you venture might be shame, or perhaps that grief he said he doesn't know how to carry. 

Your hand touches his cheek. Dark eyes look at you through paler lashes with reluctant understanding.

That it's over, isn't it?

"Doesn't feel right anymore, does it?" You offer gently.

His chest swells. Shoulders taut and suddenly straight, like something's hit his spine and forced it upright. 

He tongues his cheek. Looks away.

"Don't think so, no."

Your lips quiver. It's okay, it was bound to happen. 

It should've happened so long ago. You should've taken the leap and pulled away from him much, much earlier—when your heart wasn't woven to his yet.

"Maybe one day," you say in the darkness, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "When we're not so…"

With your free hand, you gesture at yourselves. 

"…Fucked." You finish with a hint of a breathy laugh in between. 

Simon huffs too, and then deflates.

It's long before his hand comes to cup yours on his cheek. He keeps it there momentarily, while finally giving you the privilege of meeting your eyes.

And he looks so tender, even when he gently brings your hand down, away from his face. He holds it as it lands on his knees.

"Eloquent." He remarks.

You scoff. Roll your eyes with a pathetic sniffle. "Obviously."

He shakes his head softly. A big hand reaches up, and he flicks your nose. You scrunch it up, smiling in a way that doesn't feel forced for the first time since you met tonight.

Simon's thumb brushes your knuckles.

"One day," he repeats. "When we're not fucked."

Your smile feels wet and shaky. Tears are staining your cheek, but it's freeing instead of reluctant, this time.

His eyes are gentle, allowing you to peek through the curtain for the first time. Perhaps it's too dark now to see, but you're hopeful one day you will.

"Good luck to us, then." You say softly.

Simon breathes a chuckle. Brings your knuckles to his lips and holds your hand there.

"Good luck, love."

Biggest thanks to @/void-my-warranty for helping me out, you're a gem 🧡

[sv3t1ana]

Thinking about Husband!Sukuna with his stupid little wife. (739 words)

Sukuna is a king. Grumpy, ancient, borderline-sadistic, a being whose name alone would send entire nations into panic. He once ruled entire regions with a flick of his clawed finger. Of course, his sanctum still stands with sprawling halls and servants who keep their heads down unless spoken to. His throne has seen more executions than conversations.

And now he’s married to you.

You, his absurd little wife.

The thing is, Sukuna’s interacted with humans his whole life. He’s bathed in their blood, cursed their lineage, swallowed them whole.

But you were something else entirely. You came into his life one day like a raccoon through a doggy door, all chaotic, demanding snacks, and absolutely fucking impossible to get rid of.

-

Like clockwork, he settled into bed beside you after a long day of doing God knows what (Tending to the cursed realm? Massacring a clan?) He sighs, muscles relaxing as he’s pulling the silk covers over his tired frame.

And then his entire body goes rigid.

“I told you─no eating in bed.”

You glance up at him, pout already in place. “But I was hungry earlier.”

He throws the covers back as if they’ve betrayed him. The bed, his bed, is now a wasteland of crumbs, evidence of your rendezvous of whatever snack his era would consider garbage. He stares, expression that of a man who’s just been told his empire was conquered by ants─and that wasn’t really so far off from the truth.

“This is sacred,” he hisses. “This is a fortress of slumber.”

You just crawl into his lap and kiss his cheek, already forgiven in your mind.

He’s slaughtered kingdoms for far less. But for you, he’ll only seethe in silence before getting Uraume to change the sheets.

-

Then there are moments where your behavior is so detrimental to his legacy he begins to question whether binding his soul to yours was truly a wise decision.

“You used an enchanted dagger to open a box of Pop-Tarts?”

You’re sitting cross-legged, happily chewing on a blueberry pastry and barely sparing him a glance. “It was really hard to open, ‘Kuna.”

“That blade was forged in agony. It has been blessed in blood. It howls when drawn.”

“Yeah, it did kinda make a weird noise when I stabbed the foil.”

He’s silent. Processing.

“Anyway, please tell Uraume to get more of this flavor. I don’t like the weird brown sugar ones.”

He mutters something in a dead language as he turns away, mentally tallying the amount of shrines that needed a good burning to cleanse your disrespect. But later that night, you’re asleep in his four arms, legs tangled with his while his cursed energy pulses low and steady around you both like a purring furnace.

And yes, Uraume does return (rather quickly, as per his request) from their next mission with another six-pack of blueberry Pop-Tarts.

-

However, one of his lowest moments was when you finally convinced him, after two whole years, to get a smartphone.

You nearly cried when he unboxed it. He scowled at it like it was a cursed relic. “Foolish woman,” he muttered, trying to press the screen with fingers better suited for ripping out ribcages.

-

One day, post-battle and freshly showered with his wet hair cascading down his back, you did the mistake of saying his hair looked slay.

“…Who must I slay?”

“No no, slay, like, slay queen.”

“There is no queen. She has been devoured for centuries.”

You just giggle, pressing kisses into his chest.

-

And then there’s the drama recaps you give him.

You’ll sit beside the King, dressed in one of his ancient robes, face deadly serious as you recount the horrors of online beef.

“…So she soft-launched her situationship with the dude who used to date her sister, but then her sister hard-launched a new guy like five minutes later. Twitter was in shambles.”

Sukuna stares at you like you’ve just spoken in tongues even he doesn't know.

“Bring me this ‘Twitter.’ I shall slaughter him myself.”

-

But despite everything, the memes, the crumbs, the cursed dagger Pop-Tarts, and your insistence on calling him “babygirl” when he walks into the chambers shirtless, he adores you.

His chaos gremlin.

His wife.

He may rule over death, but only you rule over him.

It wasn’t even two weeks after the phone arrived that he looked you dead in the eyes and said,

“You burnt the cookies, woman. I ratioed you.”

You blinked. He blinked in response.

He’ll fold for you every time. Even if you eat hot chips in bed again or call him “my little meow meow” in front of the servants.

He’s yours.

So fully, tragically, and unironically yours.

more husband!Sukuna hcs here

[angelsworks]

Goldilocks and the Four Bears

I haven’t written for the cod fandom yet so all the 141 might be terribly out of character. In fact I haven’t written for a while. I appreciate all the people that still read my work and continue to support me. I hope you’re all doing well :)

Poly!141 x reader

Masterlist -> Here (will be made later :))

Warnings: 18+, mature themes, descriptions of torture, injuries and mistreatment, etc

Summary: After escaping from your last mission that had gone terribly wrong, your stumble through the woods leads you to a log cabin.

It was snowing. Fucking snowing.

Any belief in a deity had been long since crushed after the last few months. Well you thought it had been months. Your captors (a small but deadly terrorist group) had failed to provide you with your own calendar and clock. Much like how they had failed to provide you with new clothes to replace your own, that had been ripped and torn and become tattered to the eye.

It was stolen clothes you now wore as you made your escape. Trudging slowly through the already six inch snow, your thoughts trailed to the fresh snow adding to the existing six inches. The size 12 pair of boots were rubbing at your heels with increasing vigour. Leading you to contemplate if bruised skin could blister or not. The guard you’d killed as part of your escape had been good for one thing. Or three things actually. The ill-fitting boots, a loose pair of combat trousers and long sleeved compression shirt.

As you made your way through the terrain you felt a cold chill steadily working it’s way up your trouser leg. Slowly, spreading across the flesh, affecting any skin that wasn’t in direct contact with the trouser material. It made you wish you’d waited for a guard more similar to your stature. While the compression shirt was better than nothing, it was still thin. The flimsy seeming material now doing little to ward off the cold.

Maybe the sudden awareness of the less than ideal weather conditions wasn’t down to your stolen clothes, but the sudden loss of adrenaline. How long had you been running now? Well trudging desperately through the snow, making your way further and further into the thick forrest and fauna.

It was hard to try and map where you’d been, what direction you’d walked in and where you’d come from. It was all white. Every tree looked the same. Every incline became and decline and you’d become disoriented.

Months of abuse, of torture, ofpain. All ignored for a few short hours as you willed your aching body forward. Through trees and snow and stone. Through anything that would put you at a greater distance from them, from Miasma.

They hadn’t transported you. At least you were mostly sure. When you blacked out, you woke in the same dingy cell, on the same dingy floor. Only covered in more bruises or cuts. So you hoped you were where this all started. In Slovenia.

You’d done solo missions before. It was easier that way. One man in, one man out. No one to turn on you or leak information. With Gunner in your ear, nothing ever went wrong. Until it did.

Your objective was to gather intel. To stay under the radar before formulating the next attack. While sneaking around you’d learned just how large their operation was. In turn you’d also learned just how large their base was.

The small outpost hid underground levels. That became clear after your covert operation was blown and you were dragged down to the very heart of the multi-storey building.

Each day (if that’s what you could call them) gave you no indication of the time of day or how much time had passed. They made sure of that. In fact it was the first time in months you’d seen the light of day.

The light that you noticed was now fading apparently, as you looked desperately up into the sky. Grey clouds had rolled in, covering the majority of the sky. The sun was still peaking out from the dense overcast that was rolling further forward. Soon the sky would be covered and the snow fall would quicken.

A few miles back you were struck that no one from Miasma had followed you. You’d expected armed guards to be shooting at you and angry dogs to be tearing at your ankles. Yet you’d had no chase.

Maybe they knew you would get nowhere in the climate. That you’d be weakened by the terrain and from the violence you’d endured. They were right of course. But you didn’t let it stop you.

Even now as you’d gone further, you still felt the burning desire to survive. Granted it dwindled under the ache of your body and the never ending valley of white before you. But you wanted to live. You wanted your revenge.

The final rays of the sun had been clouded and the snow started to pick up. At least your footprints would be covered under the fresh snow. Not that it mattered if all your footprints lead to was a frozen corpse.

Flexing your fingers, you found yourself wishing for gloves. Your toes were long past numb and every injury you’d endured felt like it was waking up. Old cuts that had turned to scars felt fresh, bruises that had yellowed felt like they’d returned to their starting purple colour. Your felt heavy. You felt dense. You felt tired.

Your desire to drive on had dwindled now. The once raging fire was now only a candle. A candle that was down to its wick. The wax around it long since melted and now it was to its edge. Trying to burn the glue that chained it in place. The image made you crave warmth even more.

Was this it?

All the work you’d put in over the years. From a child you had trained for a mission you didn’t fully understand. A mission that belonged to someone else, to Gunner. He’d turned you into a soldier, his perfect soldier.

Is this how his perfect soldier died?

No it wasn’t.

So despite your blue fingers, numb toes and foggy mind, you push on. Just a little further, you tell yourself. Past these trees, past this stream, past more trees.

Your doubts evaporate when you come upon a clearing. You find a decent space boarded by snow dusted trees from all sides. They stand tall, seemingly acting as natural walls to protect those inside. The grass is covered in undisturbed snow. It’s thick and white and makes you smile.

None of it matter though because sitting in the middle of it all if your salvation.

A log cabin.

You consider the sight to be a mirage. Created from and low blood sugar, dehydration and desperation. But you trudge on, almost to a stumble speed, as you reach for the door handle.

It’s unlocked.

Despite any moral compass telling you that breaking and entering or trespassing is wrong, you ignore it. You’re hurt, aching and this is a last resort.

You close the thick wooden door behind you. Taking note of the copious locks it has. When you move inside the cabin you find that no one’s home. As quietly as you can on stiff legs, you sneak around the house. Trying to wake up the instincts you’d been trained on.

Enter a room, check your surroundings, check again. Don’t assume anywhere is empty. Threats could be hiding around any corner.

So for each room of the ground floor you do just that. Open door, check the rooms, move on. From your searching you’ve found a large living room, a kitchen, a dining room, a toilet some sort of office/drawing room. The decor gives you no clue as to who’s house you’ve invaded. There are no pictures of people, no personal possessions. It feels surreal. And wrong.

To start with you go back to the living room. Using the large fireplace, stockpile of logs and matches, you start a fire.

Again, better sense would tell you to avoid such an action. To avoid alerting anyone of your presence here. But you decide to put sense aside in a bid for survival. If you didn’t get warm soon you were sure you’d be frozen soon.

Next you go to the kitchen. You rifle through the cupboard in an attempt to find something edible. To your surprise you find the place to be well stocked. Even going as far as having fresh milk in the fridge. The sight confuses you. Send alarm bells ringing in your ears.

There are products in the fridge that are in date. Fresh products. Yet no one is home. It doesn’t make sense.

As you empty a can of soup into a pan you realise, it doesn’t need to. You’re happy to play stupid and see this as all some sort of blessing, some miracle.

While the soup cooks you fill a glass with clean, cold water. Relishing in the taste of something fresh. When you’ve downed the first glass you refill it again. This time with an intention to make it last longer.

After the first spoonful you find that you like vegetable soup very much. Almost burning your mouth as you devour it in a few minutes. Immediately it feels as though you’ve been recharged. The warmth from the fire has spread throughout the ground floor, your fingers have warmed around the bowl of soup and your body no longer feels related to a glacier.

The sky only darkens as you sit by the fire. Basking in the warmth and taking a moment to rest for the first time in months. You don’t imagine ever leaving your spot on the floor. But the promise of a bed upstairs has you moving your legs in that direction.

Before your ascent to the second floor, you strip your clothes and hang them on a drying rack you found to the side of the fire. Now left in the nude.

Upstairs you find multiple bedrooms. All almost identical, except for one at the end of the hall. You assume this is the Cabin’s master bedroom as it’s slightly larger than the others. Inside there’s a wardrobe full of clothes, a full length mirror, a TV, some sort of game station, and of course the larger than most bed.

In the mirror you catch sight of yourself. The cuts of course stand out first. From the slight turn you can muster in your neck, you can see large welts and thin cuts, bruises and scrapes, all littering the previously plain skin. From the front and behind, your legs look like a Jackson Pollock original piece.

Capturing various purple and blues surrounded by smaller splodges of green and brown. With the occasional black blob or two to really contrast the overall tone of the piece.

As a child you had a strange infatuation with your bruises. Likening them to a sticker or badge of achievement. They were easy to come by during training. A strange part of you liked the way they looked on your skin. They acted as a log book of the hits you’d taken, the falls you’d taken, any sort of impacts you’d had. They made you feel strong, maybe even proud too.

Staring into the mirror at your body again, it all seems worthless. You knew you were strong before. You didn’t need months as a prisoner to prove it.

You take a few steps forward to properly look at your face. Who stares back must be a stranger. You haven’t let your eyebrows be this out of shape since you were thirteen. You didn’t have that scar above under your chin before. Your eyes were always so bright and vivid. Not lifeless or hollow or so lost.

With newfound energy you take yourself to the nearest bathroom. That just so happens to be the en-suite in the bedroom. It doesn’t surprise you. Nothing about this abandoned, well stocked cabin does anymore.

Instead you shower in one of the nicest bathrooms you’ve been to in a long time.

At first the water has you freezing. Not due to the temperature but because of the fire it lights on your back. Every scrape, every cut, every burn now being cleaned. The cleanse sets your body alight. In a way you feel the heat is helping you to heal. Granted, all you have to show for it is a mixture of blood and grime, floating slowly down the drain. But it’s more than that.

It’s the last few months being scrubbed off your skin. Your wounds and ailments being shown that this is the end. They can heal in peace. You can heal in peace.

So you take your time. Using any products you can find; shampoos, conditioners, body wash, face wash. You’ve acquired a new razor, fresh from the packet. It’s amazing what a difference shaving your legs and various other places can do to your mood. You’ve always preferred removing the body hair. Afterwards the feeling of smooth legs under a thick duvet made all the work worth it.

The final step, bar drying yourself, was brushing tour yellowing and plaque ridden teeth. The minty taste in your mouth feels unfamiliar but it welcomed nonetheless. Wiping your tongue across the now almost pearly-whites you’re happy with how smooth they feel.

Now showered, shaved and dried, you make you way into the bedroom. Finding the wardrobe and drawers to be filled wit strictly masculine clothes. You pick out a pair of boxers and one of the large white t-shirts to sleep in. The shirt dwarfs you in size, looking more like a dress. Not one that you would wear outside though. Not with the black boxers showering through the material, or your hardened nipples making an appearance.

With your towel back in the bathroom and the lights off, you crawl into bed. Letting out the loudest sigh your sore throat could muster. Then quickly falling asleep on the linen.

It was snowing. In fact it was a fucking blizzard.

A barrage of white, dagger-like snowflakes pelted against the four men. The lack of light and the dense haze of the storm made it impossible to see where they were going. They were all thankful for the less than modern compass. Hidden away at the bottom of Jonny’s bag. When he acquired it was unknown. But the four were grateful nonetheless that the Scott had the dated equipment in is kit.

After their week long training they were ready to fall asleep on the nearest surface. The blizzard they now faced was an unexpected one. Nothing on Price’s radar Gad alerted them to such a storm.

They’d just finished their survival training in the mountains when the first snowflake formed. During the rest of their descent it had only worsened.

As the snow around them thickened they trudged on. Becoming more aware of the weight of their kit, ache of their muscles and chill in their bones. These men were tired, hungry and cold.

After more miles and more words of encouragement from Price, Gaz was sure they were close to the safe house now.

Laswell had been kind enough to let them use the safe house after a particularly gruelling training exercise. It would be the closest thing to a holiday the 141 would get this year. Before the worst of the storm it had the Scotsman joking that he would build a snowman outside. An idea quickly shot down by Ghost in the interest of remaining vigilant to an enemies surrounding the house.

While snowmen were out of the question, snowballs were not. Something Ghost found out, twice, in the back of the head. Turning to see an innocent looking Gaz and Soap.

“You’ll regret that when we’re back on base and you two are on shit duty” the balaclava wearing Brit grumbles.

Soap sighs dramatically, “Oh come on Lt. Dinnae be like that, it was only a joke”.

The threat prompts Kyle to add, “It was all Soaps idea, think he should get shit duties on his own.”

Soap gasps feigning offence, “You bleeding clipe, don’t come knocking on my door when you want someone to warm your bed tonight.”

The comment causes the younger man’s face to heat up and laughs to come from the others.

“That if we get there in this blizzard” the captain quips. Trying to keep morale, but refusing to ignore the sinking feeling that they’ve missed the safe house completely.

“How far now?” Gaz asks, determined not to start pestering like an insolent child. Yet equally determined to have a proper meal and get out of his cold clothes.

“Two klicks north, then we should be there.” Soap tells him, loud enough for the others to hear in the now whipping winds.

“It was two klicks north last time someone asked Soap, are you sure you’re reading that right lad?” Price finds himself asking. Despite his rank, his military expertise and all his training agains the elements, it doesn’t make him immune to the cold. Immune to looking forward to sitting by a fire with a cup of tea in his hands.

Laswell wasn’t one to be stingy with safe house stock. From previous safe houses he’d been to that she had set up, they’d been a home away from home. Proper bedrooms, running water, stocked shelves. Price found himself ready to welcome anything that had four walls, a roof and could shelter him and his men from the storm.

“Two klicks north Captain, I’m sure”. Jonny confirms.

Sure enough, through the dense curtain of blizzard, light emerges. A gentle glow against the black nights sky. The closer they get, the clearer the house becomes.

A log cabin.

A big one at that. The sight is inviting enough to bring a smile to the men’s faces.

“Laswell’s outdone herself this time, fuckin yaldy” soap practically exclaims. Pushing forward to the front of the pack, in an effort to get in first.

“Hold it Jonny,” Simons voice is quiet through the mask, but harsh enough that the others can hear.

Ghost points to the chimney, “someone’s here”.

Sure enough as the others look up, they too see the plumes of smoke, gently rising from the brick chimney.

“Another team captain?” Gaz finds himself asking, while reaching for the know hidden in his thigh holster.

Price finds himself doing the same, “No, we’re the only ones in the country.”

The tension in the air is thick, rivals the thick snow pelting down on them. The four of them stand motionless, a short distance from the front door. Covered head to toe in winter gear, a layer of the snowstorm attached to anything it can stick to.

“Right, there’s only one door. I’ll lead. We’ll secure the ground floor first. Stay silent, we do this quietly.” Price commands. The men nod, moving to grasp their various knives. Following their captain as he moves to the front of the cabin.

With an almost inaudible creek, Price turns the handle of the door. Pushing the oak forward, grateful that it seems to glide over the wooden floors. Allowing him and his men to breach the property without alerting its inhabitants.

Price enters the living room first, signalling for the others to spread out and search the rest of the floor. He does indeed find a crackling fire, yet no one man’s it. The warmth is welcomed, but for the time being he ignores any desire to sit near it and warm himself.

His attention moves to the drying rack set up beside the fire. Upon further inspection of the items he finds combat trousers, a compression t shirt and a pair of large boots, size 12 he gathers from the label on the tongue. The clothes are still damp to the touch, leading him to infer that the intruder arrived a short time ago.

The badge on the arm of the shirt catches his eye. He rips it off the Velcro and examines it up close. An unknown insignia, contractor perhaps? Some new found terrorist group? Price doesn’t know. It’s not one he’s come across before.

Simon searches the kitchen. The space is a decent size, dark too. He blends into the shadows as he checks the space for any sign of life. He finds a empty soup can on one of the worktops. Turning to the sink he notices a single glass and pan siting there.

Once finished in his search he creeps back to the living room. Finding his captain there, along with a stoic looking soap and serious looking Gaz.

Price raises his hand to Simon, showcasing the fabric insignia to him. With cold eyes Ghost runs over the stitchwork. Mind running through the possible groups it could be associated with.

“Any ideas?” Price asks in a hushed voice.

Ghosts silence is a loud enough answer for the group. No

“Whoever they are haven’t been here long. Their clothes are still damp. Large boots, size 12.” Price goes through the details he’s uncovered.

“Men’s?” Gaz asks.

“Most likely”.

“There’s a pan in the kitchen. They’ve had soup. Only one glass.” Ghost reels off.

“We don’t know who we’re dealing with, could be anyone. Stay vigilant. Be prepared for a fight. I’ll take the lead upstairs. Shout if you find anything.” Price commands.

The team follow him single file up the stairs. Weapons at the ready as the sneak up the steps. Footsteps light on the wooden floor.

Price takes the first door, Gaz the second, Ghost the third and Soap the last door at the end of the hallway.

While three of the 141 find their rooms to be empty, Soap stops in the doorway. After almost silently twisting the door handle and letting it slide open, he stands in silence. What he didn’t expect to find was a girl sleep in the master bed, a pretty girl to be exact.

The Scotsman finds himself lost for words. He expected to have to fight someone of his stature. Maybe larger. He expected to walk away with a bruise or two. He feels lost on what to do. Should he wake her? Should he leave her?

Meanwhile the others have gathered in the hallway. Sharing a concerned glance at their teammate.

“What is it soap?” Ghost asked quietly.

“It’s a lass. A bonnie lass at that.” He tells them. Wonder in his tone as he stares at the sleeping girl. Watching as her chest rises and falls at a steady rate. Completely unaware of the four men that have entered the house.

The men collectively frown, walking further to investigate themselves. Sure enough, after they pass the threshold of the master bedroom, they too stand frozen. A girl. Not a man, or group of men. A girl, sleeping in their bed, in their log cabin.

Completely unaware.

[onlymexsarah]

Burning Flames II || Eris Vanserra

Pairing: Eris Vanserra x Archeron!reader Summary: Since you became High Fae there were only two things that scared you: your deadly power and your attraction toward the male you should hate most after Tamlin, Eris Vanserra. Warnings: mention of war, death and my english A/n: I'm so happy that your are liking this story! There will be more chapters, but I still have to decide how many. If you want to keep up with the story and want to get added to the taglist just ask! Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

The war was a mess. The smell of blood and death was making Eris sick. He was fighting with both his sword and his power, determined to end every Hybern's soldier that ended in front of him.

His brothers were fighting as well around him, his father too, thank the cauldron. Eris didn't know what he would have done if his father refused to fight for Prythian. Probably his plan to become the new High Lord of the Autumn Court would have seen light sooner than expected.

It was foolish to hope that maybe his father would find his end here in battle, but still it was one more motivation to stay alive and fight until the end.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, something inside his chest stirred. He wondered for a moment if a soldier had managed to slice him in the ribs, but when he looked down he saw that no blade had come close to his chest.

It felt like a string was attached to his ribs, and it urged him to run toward the forest at his right. Eris grunted as he started to make his way throught the battlefield, following the invisible string that was now yelling at him to move faster.

A sense of terror fell over him as he crept closer, as he started to be afraid to know what, or who, laid at the end of that string.

He knew it before he heard you.

"Elain, run!" your voice pierced throught the forest like a fallen star in a clouded sky. He had dreamed of that voice longer than he liked to admit.

His quick eyes scanned around him, searching for any trace of you. Suddenly the smell of burned flesh hit his nose and his legs moved on their own. He had never run this faster in his life. He knew where you were, and he knew you were fighting. Alone.

As soon as he arrived he saw burning flames blinding his eyes for a moment. Then, among them, he saw you, without any armor and with what he recognized as an Illyrian blade at your side, untouched. Around you there were six Hybern's soldiers, sneering at you.

"The King want her alive!" one of them said as you tried to aim at them with your fire. "knock her off!"

It had happened so fast that Eris was still running before he could stop it. A soldier run around you and sliced your leg with his blade. Your yell of pain cracked something inside Eris as he saw your flames going out all at once while you fell on the ground.

Faebane.

Eris saw red. Two soldiers had their hands on your arms, twisting them behind your back. As soon as he was close enough his fire errupted all around him, burning completely the four Hybern's soldiers that circled you while he took his blade in his hand and looked at the two who were still holding you.

"I suggest you to leave her." Eris' voice was as cold as death. He barely register that your head snapped up and watched him surprised.

One of the soldiers snickered and held your arm thighter behind you, making you hiss in pain. "Your father should have bowed to our king when he had the chance."

"Your king should have never came here." was Eris' response before he launched himself at them. Two soldiers were no match for someone with his battles experience. He could have ended them quickly, but he inteded to make them suffer for what they were trying to do.

He took away their swords with little effort, then he gripped their neck with both his hands and watched as they screamed while his fire burned them from the inside out.

When the burned bodies of the soldiers fell down lifeless he took a moment to enjoy what he had done, and then a grunt behind him made him turn on his heels. There you were, trying to use your sword to stand up on your good leg while the other fell useless at your side.

"Let me help." Eris said towering you and offering you his hand. He saw how your eyes stared at his hand for a moment, as if deciding if spit on it or take it. "Don't worry, I won't bite you while there is still a war I need to win out there."

His ironic voice made your eyes snap in his and...cauldron boils him. As you finally decided to take his hand and let him help you to stand up Eris felt like someone punched him in the gut. He was short of breath, his sight darkened all around him until the only thing he could see was you, and only the Mother knew how beautiful you were.

Your hair had been tied in a long braid behind your head, leaving your face in full display for him to admire. Your flushed cheeks, your brown, warm eyes behind which he knew hid a deadly, beautiful power.

Mate.

You were his mate, and he was yours.

Mate. Mate. Mate.

Every inch of his body yelled at him those words. He could feel his soul twisting and jumping, finally relieved to have found their other one.

Eris hadn't realized how long he had stared at you because at some point you took your hand away from his abruptly, the same hand you had seemed to lingered in his for a bit too long, and scoffed. "Don't you have a war to win?"

His brain needed a second to function normally again. You were watching him cautiously, and he realized that the bond hadn't snapped for you. No, it had snapped for him because you were in danger, but the bond had no reason to snap for you.

A feel of protectiveness grew inside him as he watched your bloody leg while you ripped a piece of your cloak and wrapped it around your injury.

"Unfortunately, I can't let a lady in distress walk alone in the middle of a battlefield." he said taking back control of himself and using his casual, mocking voice.

You looked at him with the same defiancing eyes that had him almost kneel when you had watched his father like that during the High Lords meeting.

"I'm not a lad-" your voice stopped abrutply as your eyes widened, looking around you.

"What's wrong?" he murmure quietly, a hand ready on his sword trying to sense any threat.

You just slowly looked around one more time, one of your hand closed thightly over your chest, holding your cloak close as if you were suddenly cold. "The cauldron is here." you said slowly as Eris watched you carefully. "He is watching. He is..." your eyes widened again, snapping toward a direction deeper in the forest. "Nesta!"

And then you run.

***

You ran like your life depended on it. Your eyes were completely watered, you weren't sure if it was from the pain in the leg or the dreadly sensation that the Cauldron made you feel for your sister. You barely saw what was in fron of you, some branches hit your face, some roots made you almost fall.

When you reached your sister your blood froze. The King of Hybern was standing in front of Nesta, Cassian was laying behind her with his wings broken and legs shuttered. They were fighting, but you saw that Nesta was only buying time.

You would not stand there and watch her die. You took a step toward them, ready to yell at the King and bring his attention on you, but suddenly a big hand covered you mouth, pushing you back against someone's chest.

You tried to break free from his grip but he was stronger and pushed you to the ground until you were both kneeling behind a bush.

"It's me, calm down." as the male whispered in your ear you recognized Eris' voice. His other arm was firmly around your waist, keeping you against his chest as he was kneeling right behind you.

For a moment you were confused. Why had Eris followed you? The King of Hybern was right in front of you, the smartest choice would have been to run and go back to the battlefiel with his soldier, so why was he there?

You tried to break free again from his hand on your mouth, but he only pressed it tighter. "What do you think you are doing?" He whispered almost angryly. "You are without power. You can't defeat him."

You brought both your hands on his and pulled it away from your mouth to be able to speak. "He is going to kill my sister." you whispered firmly, turning your head slightly toward him. You had to rose your eyes to met his, and he was already looking at you with an intensity you had never seen. "Let. Me. Go."

"No." Eris sneered almost angrier that you had suggested it. "I won't let you get yourself killed."

"Why do you care?" You almost said out loud, angry at him and looking back at your sister. "My sister needs-"

The words died in your throat as your eyes had shifted on Nesta again and lying few feet behind the King you saw a body. A human, male body. Dead. Lifeless.

Your father.

A pained cry escaped your mouth as Eris quickly blocked it with his hand again. Your hands grabbed his wrist, but not to take away his hand, but to hold it tighter.

Your father's neck was angled at an unnatural angle; his glassy eyes open, staring in front of him. Your father was dead.

Eris hold you tighter against his body as you realized you were shivering with sobs. Had he recognized the body? Had he made the connection? You didn't care, because he held you nevertless.

As you gribbed his wrist as your life depened on it you started to feel something grow inside you. Rage. Anger. Hatred. All of them directed to the King of Hybern who was now standing in front of Nesta and Cassian, both on the ground holding to each other, ready to die.

And you couldn't accept that.

You bite Eris' hand. His surprised and distraction enough for you to stand up and running away from him, toward the king. You were ready with your sword in your hand to kill him, but someone appeared from the shadows behind the King and stabbed a black blade in his throat.

Elain.

"Don't you touch my sister." Elain hissed in the King's ear as he fell on his knees.

You met Nesta's eyes, and with a silent nod you both put your hands on the hilt of the blade and twisted it in the King's neck.

When you turned around to search for Eris, he was already gone.

***

Feyre called the meeting in your old house, and you had prepared everything in just two days. The chairs, the benches, the pillows and everything else that could allow people to sit or stand comfortably through a meeting that surely would last many hours.

To your surprise Beron was the first to arrive. He didn't acknowledge you or Feyre, but he came; that was the important thing. And with him he brought Eris.

You had not seen him since the battle, and somehow you had felt a little disappointed. You had expected...what? That he would seek you out after the battle? He surely had more important things to do, and the farest away you stayed from him the better.

He had saved your life, sure, but it didn't change the type of person he was. The type of person that had made the Night Court hate him for five centuries.

As soon as he entered you had tried to keep your breathing normal. Eris had a brutal slice down his cheek and neck, full of bruises all over his face that made you understand he had went back fighting when he had disappeared.

Worry run through your blood as you saw in what state he was, but you told yourself you were tired, that your father death had brought you to worry for everyone else. You had tired yourself until blankness those days to help the injured, to keep your mind busy, because everytime you stopped doing something the tears came back.

And now, seeing Eris like that made you wondered why he hadn't gone to see a healer. The slice looked back, and a primal sensation grew inside you, needing to help him to heal.

As Nesta showed them where they would sit you tried to push away all those thoughts, telling yourself that you were just confused by the war. But as father and son sat down on their chairs, Eris looked briefly toward you, as he had alwayd known where you were standing, and something flickered in his eyes, Something you couldn't decifer.

You found yourself lost for a moment in those deep amber eyes, but as Mor's figure entered your peripheral view you adverted your eyes, focusing on the next people that enetered the house, giving them a warm smile and gesturing them to their seats.

When the meeting started you stood at Feyra's right, while Nesta stood at her left. Elain had decided to stay away from unwanted attention, but as the only humans who had ever been Made, the three of you stood at the center, rappresenting the perfect middle between High Fae and humans.

People shared their stories, humand and Fae alike. They shared their lives, Feyre told hers, and you had to close your eyes to not cry in front of everyone for what she had been throught. Your little sister, alone in the Fae world had died, and you had risked to lose her forever had it not been for Rhysand and the other High Lords.

You clenched your hands tight in front of you. You would not tell your story. Not yet. Not to everyone. Every choice had been taken away from you since a long time, and even if it sounded extremely selfish, your first choice would be to keep your story for yourself.

The stories you heard were all about the same. Loss and deaths. Loss and deaths in all form and ways. All of the stories might start differently, but they all ended the same. With this war. With someone dead.

And for a moment your eyes fell on Eris again, who was listening carefully every story. You could have easily been part of that stories of death. Your sister might have had to tell the story of how you had died if it hadn't been for him. He had chosen to not let it happen. You couldn't understand why, but he still had. And even if he was a horrible person, you owed him.

His eyes never met yours during the entire night, and something inside you told you he was doing it on purpose. He was avoiding your gaze.

As the meeting come to an end you felt the physical need to talk to him, and it terrified you. You had met him just twice, and talked to him once. It didn't make sense that you wanted to talk to him, but you told yourself it was because he had saved your life. Yes, that was it.

As soon as the people left the house you put the hood of your cloak on your head and followed silently, never loosing sight of the redhead few rows in front of you. You needed to find him away from his father and his brothers, or it would have been extremely awkward.

But one you were alone with him what would you do? Thank him? Ask him why he saved you? Telling him you were extremely confused because the Inner Circle always pictured him as an arrogant, selfish asshole while he had no esitated to save you and stop you from getting killed from the King of Hybern?

Fuck it, you had lost him. You had a vague idea of where the Autumn Court's camp was, but you didn't dare to walk too close to it knowing damn well that their High Lord didn't like you at all.

"Tell me, is it hard for you to stay out of trouble or you find it funny?" a deep voice said behind you making you jump. You turned around and saw Eris hid in the shadows of two tents. "You made a fool of my father at the High Lords meeting, you should stay away from his soldiers."

You took a step closer to him and lowered the hood from your head as you rose your chin looking at him cautiously. "I was looking for you."

Eris didn't hide the surprise on his face. "Why?"

Yeah, why? Your eyes fell on the ugly scar on his face. "You saved my life." You said quietly. "Let me repay the debt by curing you."

He rose an eyebrow, looking at you suspiciously. "Didn't your watch dogs warn you about what a bad guy I am?"

You rolled your eyes and let a bright flame appeared on your hand as you walked closer to him. "I can handle myself, thanks for your concern." You saw him tensing as you stepped closer and you let a sigh. "If I wanted to kill you I wouldn't do it in the middle of a war camp."

Eris' eyes locked in your with an annoyed look. "And, pray tell, how can you cure what other healers couldn't?"

You ignored how his deep voice sent shivers down ypur spine, telling yourself it was for the cold air. "My fire has healing properties. I don't think there is something that my cauldron's gift can't cure." You gestured with a finger to turn his head to one side.

"Have you ever done it before?" he asked uncertain.

You took a deep sigh feeling your patience running out. "Are you always so difficult with people who want to help you?"

"Only if they are pretty." he grinned with a wink.

A sudden need to slap him grew inside you, with something else that you carefully ignored. "Last chance to turn your head or I'll let that ugly scar leave a mark on your face for the rest of your life."

His grin grew wider but, thank the cauldron, he turned his face to one side and shut his mouth. You brought the little flame that glow in your left hand close to his scar while with your other hand grabbed his chin gently. "It won't hurt, just tickle."

He tensed under your touch, and you wondered if in five hundred years someone, beside his mother, had ever showed him kindness. You mentally slapped yourself. Those were dangerous thoughts. From the stories you had heard Eris had never showed kindness himself, so why someone should be kind to him? You were only fufilling a debt, nothing more.

Standing so close he towered you with little effort, and you almost had to go on your tip toes to reach his cheek. For a moment you wondered how many people had stood so close to the heir of Autumn and didn't get hurt, but you pushed those thoughts away.

Your flames dances around his scar for few seconds before it started to heal in front of your eyes. As soon as it was healed completely you took a quick step back, putting distance between your bodies.

"Done." you said clearing your throat.

He touched his healed skin with his fingers silently before bringing his eyes on you. "Thank you." he gave you a nod.

You nodded back politely as your mind started to gather all the reasons why you should leave and forget about him as soon as possible. The list was extremely long. "Good night, Eris."

You put your hood back on and turned on your heels, ready to leave when his voice stopped you. "My tent is at the east side of our camp. I sleep there with my soldiers and they have a strict order to not hurt anyone." You looked over your shoulder, confused by his words. "If you ever need something, come there. You'll be safe."

You didn't hide the confusion on your face, but gave him a nod and thanked him quickly before walking away in the dark.

Eris was dangerous; his encinting amber eyes were dangerous; his silky voice was dangerous; his whole body was dangerous, and not because it was lethal on a battlefield, but because it made you forget every horrible action he had ever did. Only by looking at him you had almost dreamed things that would never be possible, and it terrified you.

For the next days you never placed foot again near the Autumn's camp, and Eris never sought you out.

tag: @adventure-awaits13

[ageingfangirl2]

Imagine Being Bonten's Receptionist (Bonten x F Reader) - Tokyo Revengers

PART 1: FIRST DAY/INTRODUCTIONS

TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN EIGHT NINE TEN ELEVEN TWELVE THIRTEEN

Bonten is Tokyo's most notorious crime syndicate but has an office like any respectable business. even if it was a front. Each member had an office, there were a couple of meeting rooms, and they even had other staff who like you were sworn to secrecy or face deadly consequences. The pay was better than any other place you'd interviewed at, and the hours were reasonable, but you were expected to be flexible if needed to come in early or stay later.

The reception area had a few sofas and tables, and your counter was the first thing you saw when you got off the lift. You couldn't actually enter the offices behind you unless you had a key card or you buzzed them in. It would be quite lonely out here on your own or so you thought.

Hajime Kokonoi had hired you, he said it was because you looked trustworthy, and of course, you made a joke that he'd probably had your background checked. He told you to your face he had and you were the most worthy applicant. When you pushed for more he sealed his lips. On your first day, he put a very nice vase of flowers on the reception counter stating it gave the place more life, but it was a bouquet of your favourite flowers. So you thanked him and he said it was nothing, even though a couple of flowers had to be imported. You heard he was stingy with money.

You were typing away when Takeomi Akashi walked out of the offices with an unlit cigarette between his lips not noticing your presence, because he was busy cussing the lighter that wasn't working. 'Excuse me, let me help you,' you call out, grab the lighter from your bag and walk over to him. 'Who are you?' he asks confused, and you explain as you light the cigarette. 'Thank you, you smoke?' he enquires and you shake your head, and explain your friends do and on nights out you'd rather them come to you than a stranger. 'Smart girl, never smoke.' Takeomi now knew who to come to when his lighter wouldn't work.

Kakucho walks out of the lift on his phone, 'good morning,' you say politely. The poor man jumps out of his skin and nearly drops his phone on the marble floor. You apologise profusely for scaring him and his face gets a little redder the more you talk to him. It's not lost on you that he's not so subtly checking you out, in fact, you find it kind of cute when he should be intimidating. 'Nice to meet you, err I have to go,' he stutters and makes a quick escape into the offices. At the end of the day, he introduces himself properly, telling you if you need anything you can call him. It had been a while since a guy had given you his number.

Word spread by lunchtime about the new hire and that's when you met the Haitani brothers Ran and Rindou. Hajime had warned you to be on your guard, you were innocent and the brothers would try to taint you. 'hello beautiful, I have a reason to come into the office more now,' Ran croons, leaning over the counter staring at you with lustful eyes. You sit up straight, 'it's nice to meet you, but nothing's going to happen.' Ran looks hurt while his brother laughs, 'Maybe you're not as much of a charmer as you think brother. Call me Rindou.' and you're shocked when he takes your hand and kisses it. You would almost believe he was a gentleman if he didn't have the same lustful eyes as his brother. You smile and remove your hand from his, 'I don't know what game you two are playing but it won't be easy. I've been warned.' the brothers exchange a look and huff, 'Koko,' they say in unison. You nod and go back to your computer. Little did you know that your rejection ignited a challenge between the brothers to see who could win you over first.

After the Haitani brothers, you thought you'd be left alone but there were a couple of cocky male employees who thought they could flash expensive suits and watches while being drenched in overpowering cologne. Unlike the brothers these two immediately violated your personal space making you feel uncomfortable, 'can you leave me alone please?' you ask, 'get away from me,' you insist. One of the men goes to grab your arm 'Know your place bitch--' when he's grabbed himself and thrown backwards. Kanji Mochizuki stands guard in front of you, 'the lady said no, just wait until the boss here's about this.' Then men scurry off scared by the threat. He turns to face you with a warm smile, 'Sorry about that, they won't cause you any more problems. Give me a shout if anyone else makes you feel uncomfortable.' you weren't quite sure what to make of him, but you just got your second number of the day.

Hajime or Koko as he told you to call him asked you to stay late to accept a parcel for another member. This is where you met Bonten's no.2 Haruchiyo Sanzu and the leader Manjiro Sano. You were taken aback seeing Sanzu covered in blood while Mikey didn't seem to have a single scratch on him, both looked equally intimidating and you didn't want to get on either of their bad sides. You gulp and look down at the parcel you'd not long signed for seeing it was addressed to Sanzu, 'good evening I have a parcel for Haruchiyo Sanzu.' both men stare at you, Sanzu looks manic while Mikey looks bored. 'Thank you, lovely lady, pink looks good on you,' Sanzu chuckles and takes the parcel before skipping into the office. You brush imaginary creases off your light pink blouse, 'well I guess I'll be going then, have a good night sir,' you pick up your bag, turn off the monitor and stand up noticing Mikey hadn't moved his eyes from you, 'are you okay sir?' you ask. He blinks a couple of times, 'Yes, get home safe,' you nod and press the lift button, feeling a little uneasy having Mikey continue to stare at you.

When you returned to your apartment, you threw yourself on the bed, thinking about your interesting first day of work and all the Bonten members you'd interacted with. This was going to be an interesting job.

[baigepueckers]

Caitlin Clark X Reader

Tunnel Vision

You weren’t supposed to be in this long.

Technically, you’re still a full time student…double majoring in fashion merchandising and visual media with a soft spot for late night sketching and iced coffee fueled styling projects. Modeling at first, was just a way to make connections. A side gig. Now, three campaigns later, you’re on your second Nike shoot, standing under studio lights in a converted warehouse studio in downtown Indianapolis, trying to look cool while sweat trickles down your back.

You’re mid wardrobe change when one of the producers peeks into the fitting room.

“Caitlin Clark just got here. She’ll be in Look C with you.”

You blink. “Sorry…the Caitlin Clark?”

The door closes before you get an answer, but sure enough, when you step out in the mesh top and windbreaker shorts combo, she’s there…stretching her legs in the corner, long brown hair pulled into a ponytail, Jordan 1s on the floor beside her like she’s still warming up for a game. She’s in a crisp neutral set, blazer over a white crop, looking more like a finance intern than WNBA star.

You’re adjusting your waistband when she glances up.

“Hey,” she says, eyes flicking up and down like she’s sizing you up…but not in a rude way. “You look good.”

You try to play it cool. “Thanks. Nike picks the fits, not me. But I’ll take the compliment.”

She smiles, almost sheepish. “I’m Caitlin.”

“Y/N.”

Her gaze lingers. “Are you a model, or…?”

“I’m a student,” you say. “Fashion merchandising. This is just my side hustle.”

She nods like that makes sense, like she can already tell from the way you carry yourself or the way your socks are cuffed just right. Then she gestures at her blazer with a small grin.

“Be honest. Do I look like I’m headed to a board meeting?”

You laugh. “Like you’re about to pitch a startup on Shark Tank.”

Caitlin groans and drops her head. “I knew it.”

The shoot goes smoothly, but it’s the breaks in between that matter.

You’re sitting on a trunk flipping through your sketchbook when she walks over with a protein bar and a smirk.

“So if I let you dress me,” she says, casual but not really “what would you do differently?”

You close your notebook slowly. “Like…for what? A date? Press? Game day?”

She raises a brow. “Tunnel fits.”

You raise both. “You’d let me style you for games?”

“If you promise not to make me look ridiculous.”

You grin. “Caitlin, you’re six feet tall with a baby face and a jumper that breaks records. I could put you in a trash bag and people would still post it.”

She laughs, rubbing a hand over her face. “Not helping.”

You scoot forward on the trunk, tapping her leg. “No blazers unless they’re oversized vintage. No more slacks…try cargo or leather. Maybe a graphic tee layered with something unexpected. You ever worn a bomber jacket?”

She looks at you like you’ve just solved a riddle she didn’t know she was asking. “You’re serious about this.”

“Deadly.” Then, teasing, “Unless you’re too scared to let go of your inner CEO.”

Her eyes narrow, playful. “You’re on.”

Two weeks later, Caitlin Clark walks into Gainbridge Fieldhouse wearing a structured bomber jacket over a cropped retro tee, cuffed cargos, and custom dunks with laces you tied yourself.

The media loses its mind.

The outfit hits X within five minutes. “Caitlin Clark soft launch era??” is trending by the end of the night. One photo, in particular, goes viral…her walking in with headphones on, jacket slung low, and a blurry shot of you holding her duffel behind her like some kind of behind the scenes scandal.

She scores 26 that night. During the postgame presser, someone asks about the look.

Caitlin doesn’t hesitate.

“Y/N styled me. She’s a fashion student. And a genius. I just wear what she tells me.”

Another reporter raises a brow. “Is this a…new partnership?”

She smiles, a little too wide. “You could say that.”

After that, it keeps happening.

You show up to practice with two racks of options. She pretends to be decisive, but always asks what you think.

“You like this one?” she’ll ask, holding a tee up to her frame.

“I picked it.”

“Yeah, but do you like it?”

She starts texting you photos from store fitting rooms. Compliments your rings. Steals your lip balm. Introduces you as her “stylist” but she always says it with a grin like there’s more behind it.

The team catches on first. Then the commentators. Then the fans.

They zoom in on clips of you adjusting her necklace in the tunnel. Caitlin reaching over to fix your hair. The way she looks at you like you matter more than whatever press conference she’s about to walk into.

Everyone’s asking.

But Caitlin won’t confirm anything…won’t deny it either.

She just walks into every game looking better than the last, eyes always finding you in the tunnel, smile curling like you’re her favorite part of the routine.

And after tonight’s win, she pulls you aside before media even gets the chance to chase her down.

“You coming to dinner after this?” she asks, one hand still gripping her water bottle, the other tugging gently at the sleeve of your hoodie. You’re tucked off to the side of the tunnel, lips still parted from congratulating her.

“Didn’t know I was invited” you say, tilting your head.

Her smile is soft, slow. “I’m inviting you.”

You raise a brow. “Strictly business?”

She hesitates, then shakes her head…tiny, but certain. “Not if you don’t want it to be.”

And that’s the shift.

The moment you feel something in your chest and flutter in your stomach at the same time. Because she’s been dancing around it for weeks…calling you hers, in little ways that didn’t ask for anything back. But now she’s looking at you like she’s finally brave enough to mean it.

“I like working with you,” she adds, quieter now. “But I think I’d like hanging out with you even more.”

You let the pause stretch between you…just long enough for her to get nervous. Her foot taps once. Twice.

“I’d like that too” you say, and the relief floods her face so quickly it makes you laugh.

She exhales, almost like she just finished a close game.

“You’re cute when you’re scared,” you tease, bumping her hip with yours.

“Shut up,” she mutters, blushing. “You’re the intimidating one. You style me like I’m about to own the court and then stare at me like you already do.”

You grin. “Someone’s gotta humble you.”

She’s still smiling when a staffer calls her name down the tunnel. Before she turns, she reaches out and brushes a loose curl behind your ear…gentle, like she’s not used to touching people this way yet, but she wants to.

“I’ll save you a seat,” she says, already backing away. “Unless you’d rather ride with me.”

You watch her walk off…glancing over her shoulder like she doesn’t really want to leave…and you realize you’re already moving toward her, heart skipping over the line you just crossed together.

And in the clip that goes viral the next morning…Caitlin stepping out of her car at the team dinner, jacket slung low, cheeks pink…you’re right behind her, slipping out of the passenger side, laughing at something only she could’ve said.

No caption. Just a flood of comments.

They soft launched each other and think we wouldn’t notice.

y/n styling her AND riding with her? okay power couple.

someone get these two on a tiktok.

tunnel fits with tunnel vision ;)

[artdcnaldson]

Been thinking about Patrick teaching Art how to masturbate

Patrick lowering himself down onto his stomach and between Art's legs on their pushed together beds, encouraging Art to continue despite his clear embarrassment.

Coaxing him into bringing his other hand down to his balls, only to end up doing it himself because the blonde's hands are shaking too much.

Once Art begins to get closer, so does Patrick. His hot breath fanning over Art's tip as he encourages him breathlessly.

Art shooting thick ropes of cum, half of which lands on his best friend's tongue, dribbling down his chin

And Art cums a lot and Patrick only wants to help. Sucking Art's tip into his warm mouth, licking his slit as he swallows him down

-🕊

I started shaking and vibrating reading this my god

Art jerking off as fast as he can the few random times Patrick leaves their hotel room while they’re at tournaments. He’s really, like, clinical with it— he just wants to cum as fast as possible. There’s no exploration, no teasing. He spits in his palm the same way Patrick showed him and fucks into his fist until he cums.

Patrick went out expecting a blowjob, and winds up getting stood up after the girl gets cold feet, so he trudges back to his room, already pent up and buzzing under his skin. It’s just his luck he walks into the room to see Art propped against the headboard of his bed, fist blurry from how fast it’s moving.

“Jesus Christ, dude, you’re gonna give yourself a friction burn.” Art yelps in surprise, throws a pillow over his lap to cover himself up, like the damage wasn’t already done ten times over. Patrick doesn’t give a shit. He relishes in making Art blush and squirm. He throws himself onto the bed, between Art’s thighs, and grins up at the blond. “You still jerk off the exact same way after six years?”

Art’s face wrinkles. “How else could I do it?”

So many ways. So, so many ways. But Patrick tries to be casual about it. “Dunno… you don’t touch anything else?” He tries not to act interested, like the answer won't plague his every waking moment the second it passes his lips.

"Dude, I don't finger myself. 'm not a girl," Art says, but the whiny affectation it comes out with doesn't help.

And fuck, that wasn't even what Patrick was thinking, but knowing that Art's mind went there... fuck, it does something to him. Patrick tries his best to push that thought deep, deep into the recesses of his mind and brings a smarmy little grin to his lips. It helps to hide his desperate interest.

"Yeah, but what about here-" he flicks Art's nipple and the blond squirms, which, incidentally, makes him buck up against the pillow. His cheeks burn hot and he tries and fails to make his glare look deadly.

"No." Art snaps. "I told you, I'm not a girl."

"I'm trying to help, you know. For old time's sake, you dickhead." He's trying to do more than just help. Patrick was the fucking king of hidden intentions. Of leading Art to do something for his own benefit. "It can feel better."

Art swallows, nose twitching slightly. It reminds Patrick of a bunny being led into a snare. He's not entrapping Art, of course. If Art just... told Patrick to fuck off, he'd go. Of course he would. He'd find some other hot tennis player to suck his dick.

"It can?" Art's pretty eyes are earnest, his pupils swallowing up all that pretty blue. Patrick smiles like the cat who got the cream and tugs the pillow away. When it lands at the headboard, he tries to ignore the large wet spot on the case. He's so hard in his shorts he thinks he'll pass out.

"Yeah," Patrick says. He grabs Art's wrist and moves his hand back between his thighs, past the twitching length of his dick. He moves his fingers over Art's and guides him to squeeze, so he's cupping his balls. The way precum dribbles from his tip isn't lost on Patrick. "Feels good."

Not a question, just... the first thing that he could think of. But Art nods regardless, his hand shaky as he gives a small squeeze. Patrick's eyes train on the expanse of his throat as Art's head falls back.

"God—" Art pants. "That's... yeah—"

Fuck yeah it is. Patrick swallows— all but licks his lips with big hearts in his eyes like a cartoon character. "Do it again. While you jerk off."

Art gulps and Patrick tracks the bob of his adam's apple. The blond exhales shakily and takes his cock into his trembling hand, his grip lax and hesitant. His other hand just barely teases over his sac, making his balls twitch and draw up. Fuck, Art’s so pretty— shaved smooth everywhere, flushed pink and needy, slick with pre.

Patrick wants Art’s cock stuffed down his throat so badly that he’s dizzy with it. “Let me, you’re not doin’ it right—“ Patrick says, and he replaces Art’s hand with his own. The blond whines and bucks up into his fist, legs kicking out.

“Patrick—“ He groans, but he doesn’t move Patrick’s hand, doesn’t squirm out of reach. “Fuck, Pat—“

Patrick swallows, moves closer. Art’s knuckles practically skim his jaw each time his hand reaches the head of his cock. His hips buck like he’s seeking the warmth of Patrick’s mouth. God, he wants that.

“See? Feels good, huh?” Patrick goads. He gives another firm squeeze and Art sobs pathetically, little ah, ah, ahs punched out from his lungs. Art nods, his curls plastered against his forehead. All of his words escape in breathy whines— yeah, feels good, so fucking good, Pat, god, please, please please please don’t stop, need it, do it again, fuck—

Patrick feels Art’s balls draw up, knows he’s going to come before Art even has a chance to warn him, not that he’s particularly verbose about it. All he manages is a mumbled, “Nnngghh— coming, coming—“ and he’s shooting warm, thick ropes of cum.

Art comes a lot. He’s always known the blond makes a mess, but Patrick never dreamed he’d be on the recieving end of a fucking facial from good Christian boy Art Donaldson himself. He feels Art’s cum paint his face, practically glazing him. It drips into his open mouth and he moans without thinking, his eyes fluttering shut as art comes and comes and comes.

When he’s finally spent, Art sobs weakly, collapsing back against the pillows. Patrick opens his eyes, licks the taste of Art’s spend from his lips, and looks at how fucking messy his cock is, dripping with pearly white. Patrick leans forward and licks, the same way he’s teasingly licked Art’s face, or his hand when they’re messing around. A long, messy lave of his tongue that makes Art’s toes curl into the duvet, muscles twitching until Patrick finally relents.

“Fuck,” Art says, breathless, exhausted, satisfied. “That’s… that was… I’m not gay.”

Right. He runs his hand through the cooling cum on his chin and smears it across Art’s face until his whines in protest and kicks Patrick off. “It’s not gay,” Patrick assures him, wiping his face with that same fucking pillow from earlier. One of them would have to sleep on it, but they could use the flip side. “I was just teaching you again. Don’t worry about it.”

Art nods, trying to convince himself through sheer delusion. That it wasn’t gay, that he didn’t like it, that he doesn’t have feelings for Patrick that can’t be explained away as being best friends.

Patrick taught him again, the way he did before. Only this time, he taught Art that when he wants to come hard, all he has to do is think about dark curls and blue eyes and a smarmy fucking grin.

[natalievoncatte]

Kara had a guilty pleasure, one she didn’t share with anyone. It would have been awkward, and besides, everyone- friends, family, Lena; they all would have mocked her, relentlessly. It was the first of September and Kara was bracing herself for six months of the most exquisite torture.

She wasn’t expecting it on Lena’s desk.

When she walked into the office, the scent hit her. It tickled something in her brain and set her nerves alight, cascading shivers of excitement running down her limbs.

Kryptonians, you see, are not human. They are aliens, and react to things, to stimuli, in ways humans do not. The most obvious implication of this is Kryptonite, or rather the Kryptonite radiation it emits, which is unique to Kara’s lost homeworld and is deadly poisonous to her while being essentially harmless to humans without both significant and prolonged exposure.

There were, however, other things that Kara responded to differently. Certain flavors were too intense; some things her peers found pleasant were overwhelming or inexplicably bitter or otherwise unpalatable. Her enhanced hearing, even without her powers active, made her sensitive to noises that a human wouldn’t even notice. The list went on and on.

One thing in particular, though, was especially… stimulating to her. It got her motor going, as it were. Not like that, of course. Ironically it had the same effect on her that caffeine had on humans, even in small quantities.

There was something in pumpkin spice that excited Kara. Just not like that.

Okay, maybe a little like that. Even the scent of it made her feel things, and there was a steaming hot cup of it on Lena Luthor’s desk.

Kara had been summoned over some editorial matter of little consequence, probably an excuse to chat. When she stepped into her office, Kara stopped dead because Lena reached across her desk and picked up that cup and Kara was already having trouble.

Lena was… Lena. She was dressed in thigh high boots and black jeans and a tight, low cut green sweater that revealed a generous swell of cleavage that immediately drew Kara’s brazen eye. She caught herself looking and quickly put a stop to it, but Lena was looking right at her, smoldering green eyes peering at her over the rim of that damned coffee cup.

Great Rao, Lena was beautiful. Her hair was swept over one shoulder, baring the elegant column of her neck and her sharp jawline. Her visible ear carried multiple piercings dripping with diamonds and there was a faint pink tinge to her pale cheek. The red of her lipstick was almost violent and she positively smoldered. One might have thought she was dolled up for a photo shoot.

Kara was staring at those lips as she took a sip of coffee, leaving a faint white stain on the white cup.

Such a visual feast with the mere scent of the spices in her coffee was enough to weaken Kara’s knees and make her secretly fidget her toes inside her shoes. It was only a quick chat, a five minute conversation, but it was excruciating trying to get through it like this.

“Earth to Kara,” Lena sighed.

Kara blinked. “Okay.”

“Okay, you’ll go?”

“Where am I going?”

Lena rolled her eyes.

“Okay, Kara, you’re benched.”

“Wait, what?”

Lena huffed. “Look, it’s noble, going days without sleep while you live your double life, and we did agree that Supergirl duties will take precedence over your work here… but I can see you’re exhausted. I can’t order you to stop rescuing cats from trees and helping old ladies with their taxes, but I can order you to take the rest of the week off from working here. Which you are. Starting now.”

Actually, Lena probably could order her to stop doing things. Lena could probably order to do anything with the spicy tang in her nostrils and the quivering weakness in her limbs as heat gathered low in her belly. Kara was glad that she had just been ordered out.

“Oh,” Lena said, “and stop at Noonan’s on your way out. I hear the pumpkin spice lattes are your favorite and well,” she gave her cup a little shake.

Kara decided she would not stop at Noonan’s.

She stopped at Noonan’s. She got a PSL and a pumpkin spice bear claw and a dozen pumpkin spice donuts and consumed them all in the span of five minutes once she set foot inside her loft, after which she spent the next thirty in the shower thinking about Lena’s pillowy red lips and how kissable they were and her pale skin and how badly she wanted to mark it as hers and she sort of spent an hour in a pumpkin spice fueled fugue, and then passed out on her bed buck-ass naked.

Which was where she still was when the knock came at the door.

Her head shot up from the bed and she realized that it was movie night and she was hosting. She had no movies picked out, no snacks, and no clothes.

What she did have was super-speed, and this had a spread of frozen snacks ready to go in the oven, and a stack of blu-rays to be voted on, and pants. She needed pants and probably a bra and definitely a shirt. Humans were weird about their torsos. Fortunately Kryptonians were, too. Kara was rather lucky that she hadn’t landed on a planet that considered shirts obscene.

There were at least two like that, which isn’t a lot, but it was more than you’d think.

Kara opened the door and greeted Alex and Kelly, ushering them in. Brainy and Nia were next.

Lena showed up last, dressed in one of her peculiar movie night fits- a stylish leather jacket over honest to god fluffy pajamas, like a fashion plate going to a slumber party. Her hair was down and wavy and she looked soft and inviting and Kara wanted to snuggle her relentlessly and was very glad that the pumpkin spice was largely out of her system.

Largely.

Oh.

Lena lifted the two six packs she was carrying, giving Kara a suggestive arch of her eyebrow. Lena liked to bring gifts when Kara hosted, usually wine. Tonight she had twelve chilled bottles of… pumpkin spice beer.

Kara wanted to scream. Or possibly moan. Or possibly make Lena moan and maybe spank her a little.

Fuck!

“Hi-hi,” said Kara.

“Hi yourself,” said Lena. “Mind if I come in, or do you want to drink these right here?”

“C-come in,” said Kara.

“Eyyyyyy,” said Alex, as she saw the six packs. “The spice must flow!”

“The spice must flow,” Kelly repeated.

“Chai Hulud,” Nia said, in a faux-deep voice.

“I believe it is “Shai Hulud,” said Brainy.

“Sure, honey,” said Nia, patting his knee.

“You gonna hand those out?” said Alex.

“These are for our host,” said Lena. “Kara has plenty of spirits in her fridge.”

Alex busted out laughing, confusing the others.

Kara remained stone-faced.

Movie night then went on as normal. Everyone took seats, the first movie was voted on, snacks were enjoyed and beers were had. The pumpkin bottles sat in their cardboard holders in the fridge, untouched.

Until they got into the second movie, and Lena sauntered over from the kitchen carrying two bottles, and thrust one into Kara’s hands as she wedged herself in between Kara and Nia, casually tossing her legs over Kara’s lap.

Kara steadfastly did not look. She would not look. She would not look. Surely Lena was just making herself comfortable and private hadn’t noticed that the top couple of buttons on her pajama top had popped themselves and she was showing quite a generous amount of…

Kara looked away sharply. She had looked.

“Do the thing, darling,” said Lena.

“Do the thing! Do the thing! Do they thing!” Nia began to chant.

Sighing, Kara took her bottle and Lena’s, and popped the caps loose with a flock of her thumbs. Lena squealed in delight and Kara realized that actually drinking this concoction was an amazingly terrible idea.

Especially since Lena was basically in her lap now.

Kara tried not to drink, but the hint of that spicy scent from the beer was enough to make every nerve ending tingle and start a fire in her belly. She took a long pull on it and quickly realized she’d drained the bottle in one go.

Lena, grinning, stood up. Kara watched every sway of her hips as she marched to the kitchen, bent to grab another bottle from the bottom shelf of the fridge, and sashayed back to shamelessly plop right in Kara’s lap and offer her the new bottle.

The little display has gotten at least Alex’s attention, and she looked somehow at once horrified and amused and whispered to Kelly, who snorted.

Nia picked up on it next, after Kara had downed her fourth one of the cured pumpkin brews and her brain was sloshing around in sweet cinnamony goodness.

She was running into a considerable problem. Lena was curled up in her lap, draped across her in fact, a soft weight that was driving her absolute insane even as the scent of Lena’s… of Lena mingled with the spices singing in her veins. She forgot the movie. She forgot the existence of everything but Lena, and barely noticed when Alex announced,

“Guys, it’s late. I think we better head out so that Kara and Lena can clean up.”

“Perhaps we should help,” Brainy suggested.

“Nah, let’s go,” said Nia, who then muttered, “seriously Querl we need to go.”

Kara blinked and watched them all pile out, Alex shooting Lena a knowing look before rolling her eyes and closing the door.

Two seconds after the door closed, Lena twisted languidly in Kara’s lap, and was now no longer sitting in her lap but straddling her.

Kryptonians, you see, are not human. They are aliens, and react to things, to stimuli, in ways humans do not. They also have anatomical structures that humans do not, something that was was currently causing Kara to blush furiously, because Lena was well… sitting on it.

“I can explain,” Kara squeaked.

The look Lena gave her would have been devastating, pumpkin spice or no pumpkin spice. Lena’s face filled her vision as Lena placed her hands on Kara’s sides and rolled her hips, dragging a groan out of her.

“Is that explanation going to include a hands on demonstration?” said Lena. “I may need a few rounds before I fully understand.”

Kara swallowed hard. “You mean… you w-want to…”

“Kara,” Lena sighed. “How is someone who’s been flirting with me for five years so bad at flirting?”

Kara stared at her.

“Just, um, to clarify, you’re flirting with me, right?”

“I’m sitting in your lap unbuttoning my top, darling. I believe that qualifies.”

“You’re what?”

Lena grinned and swept her fingers down her chest, popping the rest of the buttons in sequence. The pajama top suddenly hung lose, baring the lush inner curves of her breasts while obscuring the rest of her in an agonizing promise.

Kara, finally, after years of this, took the hint and had Lena relieved of her fuzzy pajamas by the time they hit the bed.

The next morning, or rather next afternoon when Lena woke up, Kara looked over at her. Her eyes had just opened and she was grinning ear to ear.

“Lena?” said Kara.

“Yes? Before we go again I’m going to need a protein shake and some supplements.”

Kara felt her ears burning as her cheeks heated.

“Did you know about the pumpkin spice thing?”

“Pumpkin spice thing?” said Lena.

“Alex told you, right?”

Lena pursed her lips.

“Nope.”

“Cat Grant?”

“No, although I did ask her and she said you, and I quote, ‘creamed your khakis’ in front of her one time.”

“Then who?”

Lena grinned.

“I went to Clark to ask him the right way to go about seeking your attentions. Lois overheard and pulled me aside. Apparently you two share the same weaknesses.”

“My only weakness is you, baby.”

“Oh, it’s baby now, is it?”

“Yup,” said Kara.