#fic: ‘til my pulse loses time

[kastlequill]

iii/v. ‘til my pulse loses time: pulsus paradoxus

pairing: kyle gaz garrick x f!reader word count: 1.7k synopsis: the third time you save gaz tags: whumptober, infection, wound tending, hurt/comfort, medic!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: none ao3: read here ← prev | next →

III.

You had lost count of how many times you’d warned him about the risk of infection, which was already quite high given the sheer frequency at which he acquired open wounds.

Best keep that thing covered, soldier, had been your soft-spoken command to close out his fourth visit in the span of a month and a half. That time, a stabbed forearm, and the time before that, a nasty gash down his spine, and so on. I don’t want to see you back in my infirmary for a long while, copy?

But it seemed your cautioning had gone in one ear and out the other. It wasn’t that Gaz didn’t know how to protect himself, nor was he incapable of mitigating the damage he sustained in combat; the sergeant was a competent man, something that you greatly appreciated when it came time to patch him up.

Rather, it was more so the case that he treated his life recklessly. Surviving was one thing, but exiting the fray unscathed? That was an altogether different and separate objective which, in his mind, warranted far less concern than completing the mission.

To him, the game plan was very simple: successfully execute orders, then get the hell out of there. Bonus points if he kept the majority of his body intact and functional.

For a soldier, this logic made total sense. Such a thought process was to be expected from someone who had spent over a decade honing his physical form into a weapon and had thus learned how to mentally detach himself from his personhood whenever necessary. During the firefight, his muscles and limbs moved in accordance with years of conditioning and training, acting on autopilot. Gaz, the man who brought you lunch on your busiest days and made damn certain none of your rowdier patients were giving you shit, faded into the background; what he did became exceedingly more important than the fact that it was he who did it.

For a medic, however? The stunning lack of self-preservation irritated you to no end.

And today, that irritation spiked to a record peak the instant he walked into the medbay with unfocused eyes and beads of sweat on his brow bone, jaw slightly loose, chest heaving for air.

“Hey, Doc,” Gaz said with a wince, the greeting sounding more like a croak than anything else. He pressed the palm of his hand to his forehead. “I’m not feeling too good. You mind if I. . ?”

Those were the last words to leave his lips before he all but collapsed into your waiting arms. Ignoring the worry that had begun to churn in your gut, you immediately helped him stumble to a nearby cot then gradually sat him down. Instinct took over, spurring you to quickly gather your medkit, don a pair of surgical gloves, gently open his mouth, and stick a thermometer under his tongue.

High body temperature, difficulty attending to external stimuli, fast pulse—textbook signs of an infection.

You were thankful that the nurse was too busy checking on another admit to notice how you cradled his face in your hands for a beat longer than was necessary after removing the thermometer. “Gaz, I need you to stay sharp, you got that? You have to show me where you’re injured so I can do my job.”

Blinking a little more awake, he gave a curt nod and lifted up the front end of his shirt to reveal what looked to be a knife wound slightly above his left hip. If the accumulation of dried pus was anything to go off of, it must have been at least a week old.

That’s definitely infected, alright.

“Why didn’t you call this in?” You lightly pressed into the inflamed flesh around the problem site, assessing its tenderness, but stopped when he let out a low, pained hiss. “We could’ve gotten it squared away in less than half an hour and saved ourselves the trouble.”

His half-lidded stare locked onto your alert, wide eyes. “Y’told me you’d rather I not come around for a bit, yeah? Can’t have you getting sick of me already, Doc. It’s bad form.”

It took everything in you not to flinch.

Of course a soldier would interpret an offhand joke in its most literal sense. Your playful tease had been intended to disguise genuine concern. Instead, the man had gotten the impression that you were annoyed by his insistence, which couldn’t be further from the truth.

In reality, you damn near prayed to any and all deities for them to shorten the time between his visits and lengthen his stays.

“That isn’t—” You swallowed an overwhelming wave of mixed emotions. “That isn’t what I meant, Kyle.”

He grinned, suddenly very coherent and present. “So it’s Kyle now, is it? Well, if I’d bloody known some measly infection is all it’d take for you to call me by my name, then I would’ve fuckin’ done this ages ago.”

Heat rushed towards your face, mostly pocketing itself in your cheeks. Some reassurance followed suit; Gaz couldn’t be too bent out of shape if he still had the energy and mental faculties to. . . to flirt with you.

As you cleaned the oozing gash, flushing it out with cool water and dabbing on a topical antibiotic with a Q-tip, the sergeant lowered his head to watch you work, eager to witness you in your element. Perhaps it should’ve annoyed you because of how frequently his forehead bumped into yours, but you understood his curiosity well. It was only fair, considering how often you wondered about him in the field; what he did, how and why he did it.

Who he became.

The occasional graze of your fingertips along his ribcage made the skin there to ripple, and he released a shaky exhale. “What’s the verdict, then?”

“Nothing that oral antibiotics and proper wound care won’t fix. But I want to keep you here overnight for observation and rehydration.” You stuck on a lopsided bandage and used your hand to smooth out any crinkles in the adhesive. When you lifted your face to address him more directly, the slight brush of his nose against yours caused a hitch in your breathing, and you jerked backward, startled by his closeness.

A pleased hum emanated from his throat. “Always lookin’ out for me. Soon as I get this blasted thing sorted, I’ll thank you properly.”

“There’s no need,” you assured him, stepping further out of reach. “Just focus on getting better, will you? This prescription is over the course of seven days. Don’t let me hear you’ve been skipping your meds.”

Needing to put several meters between the two of you, the shelves at the backend of the clinic were the perfect escape. There, no longer in view, you sifted through various supplies until you found an open box of penicillin, counted fourteen tablets in total, then funneled the antibiotic into a standard orange prescription bottle. By the time you returned to his cot with the medication, the sergeant was already munching on a couple of crackers, courtesy of the nurse.

He visibly straightened at your arrival and softly said, “Thank you. I mean it.”

Just doing my job, was what you should have replied. Nonchalant; not the slightest bit personally vested in your patient outside of the clinic.

“If you really want to thank me, you’ll stop getting hurt all the damn time,” were the words you muttered instead, sounding like a petulant child. Or perhaps you simply sounded like someone who gave a shit.

Because you did. You, a tested combat medic who should honestly know better by now, cared deeply about him, a special operator who risked his life daily so that the rest of the world remained relatively out of harm’s way. And given the horrors you’d seen both on the battlefield and in the infirmary, to care for someone like him was a terrifying notion.

What a nuisance, these matters of the heart.

His eyes dulled at your response, and you were consumed with the desire to bring back the light in those brown depths. “You know I can’t.”

The confirmation, though expected, still stung. Knowledge was such a curse, you decided. On some occasions, it benefited you to wield it, but on others, it only brought inescapable suffering. Regardless of the consequences, the possessor of said knowledge was forced to carry it within them always, robbed of a chance at blissful ignorance.

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” you sighed, lips settling into a resigned smile. “It was worth a shot.”

From then on, the remainder of your tending to him was spent in silence. Not an awkward silence, nor an angry silence; just silence. A neutral, comfortable silence—your favorite.

All that was left to do could’ve been passed off to the technician or even skipped entirely, but you felt compelled to go the extra mile where he was involved. You wet a rag to rid his forehead of sweat and used a tissue to gently dust away the crystallized mucus in his tear ducts. Before you had the opportunity to assist him in laying flat on the cot, your pillow-fluffing was interrupted by the slight weight of cold metal meeting the warm skin of your neck.

A dog tag. His dog tag.

Your brain momentarily short-circuited. The gravity of the action was not lost on you, nor was its heavy implications. Not in the least.

“I’ll try. For you,” he clarified, resolutely holding your gaze, an oath on his lips, “I’ll try.”

Good enough, you thought. Because it had to be.

This would have to be enough, whatever this was. This, a fledgling, precursory thing. This, stealing moments with him during the brief lapses of warfare, hidden behind the plastic tarp covering the infirmary. This, assuaging your anxieties by catching sight of him from afar, the distance between your clinic and his barracks too vast. This, an invisible threshold, a nonexistent white line that warned do not cross. This, the space decreed by professionalism somehow both too much and too little.

This would have to be enough.

tbc.

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick #cod gaz #cod x reader #call of duty #cod #kyle garrick #kyle garrick x reader #gaz x reader #my fic #whumptober #fic: ‘til my pulse loses time

[thebestbooksaround]

hi! i love your fic recs, and was wondering if you had any good secret relationship/fake relationship 9-1-1 fics?

Not many! But here are some I’ve read :)

Secret Relationship

nobody has to know  by coupe_de_foudre (@panevanbuckley)

“You think he knows?” Eddie shrugs, only half-heartedly batting at Buck’s hand as he goes to dip his fries into Eddie’s milkshake. Buck just sticks his tongue out childishly before shoving the fries into his mouth and Eddie rolls his eyes. It does nothing to rid the adoration from his face, so Buck doesn’t take it too personally. “I dunno, I think he might suspect something.” Buck takes another fry, dangling it by his mouth for a moment. “Shame,” he says, taking a bite, “I was enjoying nobody knowing.”

* just to be with you by woodchoc_magnum (@woodchoc-magnum)

In which Eddie and Ana are dating, Buck is secretly in love with him, and Christopher isn't handling it well. This is a series and the second part really focuses on the secret relationship!

* Missing Pieces by AshwinMeird (@ashwinmeird)

Hen was not sure what to make of the new recruit, Evan "Buck" Buckley. He was reckless and that was about as much as she knew about him.

That eventually changes though and all the important parts of Buck's life reveal themselves to her over time.

* fair-weather love by maybemaybenottt (@deareddie)

"A crack of thunder. A rough shove. An empty space where Buck stood just moments ago. A pit in his stomach as he realises his boyfriend has just fallen 25 feet. A shout that claws its way out of his throat involuntarily.   "BUCK!"" or, A call goes wrong. Buck falls. Eddie waits.

Fake Relationship

dreamin' with the lights on by trippingminor (@probieravi)

“Uh, that’s not all,” Eddie says, before he loses his nerve. “I was hoping you’d come as my—partner.” He winces as soon as the words leave his mouth, because genuinely, this is the stupidest goddamn idea. Shannon is probably cackling wherever she is over the fact that Eddie is acting the man he is very tragically in love with to be his—fucking fake boyfriend, or something, just to avoid the attention of some PTA parents.Buck blinks at him. “Are you—you want to pretend to be in a relationship to get Heather Paul off your back?” he asks, fingers squeezing around Eddie’s pulse point a little. or, eddie asks buck to come to christopher’s parent-teacher conference with him as his boyfriend. it’s fine. really.

* To Build a Home We Deconstruct Our Rituals by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels (@letmetellyouaboutmyfeels)

After the shooting, Eddie realizes he needs to put some things in place. Like who will get his assets if he dies. Who will speak for him if he ends up in a coma. What might happen if his family contests Buck's guardianship. Luckily, he's got a simple easy-peasy solution that won't result in insanity, catastrophe, or heartbreak: Marry Buck.

OR

The Best Lie is a Truth (My Best Mask is My Face) by letmetellyouaboutmyfeels

The Buckleys are celebrating their 50th Anniversary, and Maddie and Buck are both expected to come. To take the heat off Maddie, Buck impulsively blurts out that he's seeing someone new. Obviously, there's only one solution: bring Eddie as his fake boyfriend, pretend to be in love with him, and survive the weekend with minimal bloodshed. No problem, except for the, uh. "Pretend" part. Oops.

* I Didn't Know I Was Lonely 'Til I Saw Your Face by HMSLusitania (@hmslusitania)

After the ladder truck and the blood clot and the tsunami, Bobby makes Buck go to therapy before he does something stupid(like sue the city). Buck's not totally comfortable being alone with a therapist, but fortunately he makes a friend and ally who's willing to help him out - Eddie Diaz from the 136 who's just been caught in an illegal fight club. OR Total strangers Buck and Eddie go to couple's therapy together to get out of the therapy requirements their captains have placed on them.

* things we shouldn't do by Ingu (@ingu)

“Why is everybody taking my relationship status so personally? Can’t I be fine with being single?” Buck said. “Hey, you don’t have to say yes, be sad and alone if that’s what you want,” Josh replied. “But, I’m just saying. I’ve seen photos and this guy is volcanic levels of hot. Also, single dad, super cute kid. Saves lives for a living like you. I think you should give it a go.” (the one where Buck and Eddie accidentally get set up on a blind date with each other, and everything snowballs from there)

* Speak Now by datleggy (@datleggy)

Fake Dating AU idea from a tumblr post that got out of hand the minute I started writing. Eddie lies to Shannon about being in a serious relationship when she wants to re-enter his and Christopher's lives, and of course the person he asks to be his pretend significant other is none other than Evan Buckley, because what are bros for?

* And of course, Tethers by red_to_black (@redtooblack) [WIP]

Eddie's spent years trying to find a place to call home with Christopher, hoping that Shannon will come back and then desperately hoping she wouldn't. He thinks he's in the clear when she shows up at his doorstep, demanding they get back together. Eddie comes up with a foolproof plan: get a fake boyfriend, convince Shannon he's gay, and live happily ever after with his life mostly intact and Christopher safe and happy. Get rid of fake boyfriend when Shannon gives up, and life can resume as normal. Enter Buck, and the plan goes to hell in a handbasket.

#tb2a answers #tb2a finds fic #fics i love #buddie fic #buddiefanfiction #tv: 9 1 1

[liass-21]

i want a really depressing benthan au where they break up and it's set to you're losing me by taylor swift, particularly the lyrics: "we thought a cure would come through in time, now, i fear it won't;" "stop, you're losing me/ i can't find a pulse/ my heart won't start anymore/ for you/ cause you're losing me;" "how can you say that you love someone you can't tell is dying?;" "my face was gray, but you wouldn't admit that we were sick;" "how long could we be a sad song/ til we were too far gone to bring back to life?;" "and i wouldn't marry me either;" "do something, babe, say something/ lose something, babe, risk something (you're losing me)/ choose something, babe, i got nothing/ to believe/ unless you're choosing me"

i don't have a real plott just vibes but ahhhhhhh sjkldgnlsddks i'm in pain

ur mind….

like would this be beautiful? YEAH (and i don’t even listen to t swizzle) but would i write it? no i hate putting my little guys in sad situations :(

would i read it while going thru a breakup? yeah in a heartbeat

ur fic ideas are always so <333 send me them anytime dude

#ask box #ask me anything #fic ideas #benthan

[disastardly]

WIP Weekend Game

Did ~5 hours of driving today, had a lot of time to think about writing, so put my brain to work! Original rules here, but let’s repeat them anyway:

In a reblog (or new post w/ rules attached), post up to five (5) filenames of your WIPs; not titles, file names.

Post a snippet from one of them. Snippet must be words you wrote in the last 7 days. We’re posting progress here. If you haven’t made any, go make some and come back to post!

After you’ve posted, people can send you an ask with one of your file names. You must then write 3 sentences in that file. If the filename is one you can't share from (for example, an event fic), write 3 sentences on it anyway, and then 3 more on another to share.

That’s it! You can invite others to join in, or just post. If I see you participating, I’ll ask!

Reading this? Join in!

Not writing anything right now? Too bad! Send an ask when you see a post. We’re at your beck and call; make us WRITE!

Now without further ado, the files:

Magical Mysteries Never Give a Single Thing Back (Eddie Crossroads Demon)

1 - Emergence

0 - Tales of the Outer Planes

Steddie Witches AU

Til I Lose My Breath

Snippet under the cut!

From 0 - Tales of the Outer Planes

Motivation enough to sling the guy around, to not question Nancy’s hands next to his own, to push through the fury in his bones, threatening to tear him apart at a moment’s notice even as Eddie, head lolling, mouth bloody, eyes fluttering, giggled, “Gettin’ real grabby, Harrington.”

“You love it,” Steve chuckled, except it was more of a wheeze than anything actually amused. Still put a smile on Eddie’s face, cracked and torn and mirrored insanity in Steve’s own pounding pulse.

“’Spose I do.”

No pressure tags: @patchworkgargoyle @greenlikethesea @serpentinegraphite @infinite-orangepeel @hairstevington

#writeblr #my writing #stranger things #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanfiction #wip weekend #tag game

[magniloquent-raven]

I love your trans-billy! I need more <3

AW OMG IM SO FLATTERED!! it was just a little vent fic tbh, but i have been wanting to write more trans billy because the fandom needs more of it, so here is a part two!

(read part one here)

(i do get into billy’s childhood a little bit in this part, so cw: child abuse mentions)

--

seems like billy's whole damn life is just a series of stupid choices and him dealing with the consequences of his own impulsiveness.

started young and never stopped. when he was six he chopped off all his hair in the school bathroom right before class photos. didn't even consider what would happen when he walked out of that room, he just felt wrong and wanted to fix it.

he had to walk around for months with a patchy hack-job because neil refused to pay to get it fixed. his mom said she'd try to make it better but billy wouldn't let her touch it. he was afraid she'd try to make him pretty again. undo all his hard work.

after that it was easier to sneak into groups of boys unnoticed, like the kids three streets down who were always playing basketball in the empty parking lot. they'd turned him away before, took one look at him and sneered that a girl couldn't keep up.

but after he put on a pair of too-big cargo shorts he stole off the neighbours clothes' line, and a t-shirt he'd hacked the sleeves off of, with his newly shorn hair all they did was make fun of him for looking poor. but they let him play.

months later, they hadn't caught on, even though his hair was growing out, and he wore the same clothes every time he saw them. he was starting to get nervous about being discovered.

what he didn't expect was neil discovering him first.

it was the first time his dad really hit him. more than just grabbing his arm, or shoving him a little. the first time he left scars.

he said if billy wanted to act like a boy, he'd get taught like one.

and life was a constant battle after that. even when he had his mother in his corner, it was usually a losing one. after she left there was barely any point in fighting at all, but he could never seem to stop entirely.

not when this was, according to his father's standards, what it takes to be a man.

but in trying to prove himself, he ended up in some fucked up places.

on the floor in his bedroom, his back torn open and the sharp crack of a belt ringing in his ears, still refusing to admit that tearing up the dress his nana made him wasn't an accident.

under the bleachers, blowing a guy who called him a dyke one too many times. then leaving him with his pants down and a broken nose 'cause he wouldn't stop trying for more than that.

waking up in a hospital bed, eighteen years old and wondering why he's still alive. being told it's a miracle. being told he was heroic. saved some little girl. got his name in the paper.

four months later taking a bus to chicago, picking out a new name on the way and never looking back.

and he might be living a whole new life here, but that doesn't mean he left all his stupid back in california.

it's been a week since he spent an afternoon half-conscious in steve's arms, and things have been disturbingly normal between them. steve hasn't asked any weird questions, or commented on billy being pathetic and needy, or acted like things have changed.

they haven't talked about any of it, and it's making billy nervous.

he's not sure what he thought would happen when he asked steve to hold him, to stay, he wasn't thinking at all, really, so now he's gotta deal with that.

problem is, he hasn't been dealing well. he's been dodging steve's calls. he's been jumpy, freezing up when steve comes anywhere near him.

which, he's come to notice, he does a lot. always sitting next to billy when they hang out in groups, always brushing past a little closer than necessary when he slips by him to leave the room.

and now. steve's insinuated himself into billy's evening, showing up unannounced with beer and a blindingly cheerful grin, sitting next thigh-to-thigh on the lumpy love-seat. and. billy's grinding his teeth. pretending to pay attention to the tv and not steve's warm leg pressed to his knee.

touching steve has always been a special kind of glorious agony, but now. now it's all that and week-old memories of soft lips brushing his forehead, remembering what it was like to wake up in his arms, feeling dizzy with warmth and want and...

steve's knee shifts, presses firmer against his, and billy can't take it anymore.

"alright, that's it!" he's on his feet, fists balled at his side, steve blinking up at him with his big dumb precious doe-eyes, and he trembles like an indignant cat. "the hell is up with you, harrington?" he snaps, pointing an accusing finger.

steve stares at him, mouth agape. "...um. nothing?" his cheeks are pink, and billy wants so badly to kiss him 'til he blushes everywhere.

he swallows hard, and crosses his arms. "c'mon, man, don't lie to me. it's been a week—" his voice falters, but he sets his jaw, tilts his chin like a challenge.

when he woke up that night, steve drooling on his shoulder, arm securely around his waist, he panicked. he shoved steve off of him, and they spent the next twenty minutes in tense, awkward silence while billy cleaned up and ignored steve. steve, who stayed, ordered a pizza, payed for it, and then left without eating a single slice.

and then.

nothing.

for a goddamn week. hanging out like nothing happened.

"i—" steve chokes on air, breaking eye-contact. "i mean. i didn't think you—" he's sinking in on himself, retreating into the couch, his gaze wandering the room listlessly. billy would feel bad if he wasn't so amped up on nervous energy, thrumming with adrenaline, waiting for the other shoe to drop. "i'm sorry."

billy blinks. "you're sorry."

"yeah?" steve glances at him, but only for a second before he ducks his head. he picks at his nails, frowning at his own hands in his lap. "i...i can go, i...sorry if i made things weird."

"if you...made things...weird," billy repeats, slowly. like it'll make any more sense coming from his own mouth.

it doesn't.

he deflates a little. steve looks up at him, expression pinched, bemused.

"are you just gonna repeat everything i say, or...?"

"harrington, i swear to god," billy grits out, "start making sense, or fuck off."

at least billy understands what's happening when guys sneer and leave after they find out the only dick they'll ever get from him is made of silicone. this clusterfuck is just...hurting his brain.

steve opens and closes his mouth soundlessly. "um..." he runs a restless hand through his hair. "i thought...you know...i got a little too, um. affectionate. last week. and you seemed so freaked out when you woke up, i...figured we could just, like, move on. act like nothing happened. 'cause it'd be easier?"

"what."

"but clearly that wasn't it—" he cuts himself off, and sags, groaning, head falling into his hands. "shit, i'm an idiot. billy, i'm so dumb, i'm so sorry. you were worried about how i'd react to. um." he pauses. gestures towards billy's crotch. "right?"

billy flushes. "i wasn't—can you stop pointing at it, jesus christ. i wasn't worried. i was just..." he trails off and bites his lip. shifts his weight around awkwardly. he's usually so much better at thinking on his feet, but fucking hell is he so off-balance right now. too thrown off to even come up with a little white lie.  

steve drops his hand, looking sheepish. "look, i...you never said anything, so i didn't mention it either. i'm not...it isn't any of my business if you don't want it to be."

"...do you want it to be?" billy's heart is in his mouth as he says it, pulse stuttering, tripping over itself.

"i—" steve's eyes widen. they stare at each other for a beat. the moment stretches, the drone of the tv in the background the only noise in the apartment. "are you asking what i think you're asking? because i don't want to assume and—" he trails off with a strangled noise when billy steps forward and climbs into his lap.

he's barely touching him, knees brushing his hips, sitting mid-thigh, keeping his hands to himself. but it still feels...intimate. steve's gaze heavy on him, inches away. knowing that if he put his hand on steve's chest he'd feel his heart racing.

"i'm asking," billy says quietly.

he sees this kiss coming and yet he still doesn't expect it. doesn't expect to be touched so softly, his face cradled like something precious. doesn't expect the way his stomach swoops, heart clenching, tense for a second before something warm blooms in his chest.

when he curls his fingers into the front of steve's shirt he does, in fact, feel his heart racing.

#harringrove #billy hargrove #trans billy hargrove #a raven's writing desk

[bigkyloenergy]

𝙃𝙊𝙉𝙀𝙔𝙀𝘿 𝙑𝙀𝙉𝙊𝙈

 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐕: 𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐊𝐄𝐃.

a witcher!kylo x reader fic. dark themes, smut ahead. 18+.

summary: you are a barmaid / stablewoman at an inn in toussaint, kylo ren, one of the last of the witchers from the school of the viper regularly stays at the establishment. you wonder what keeps him coming back.

read on ao3.

Empty mugs piled the tables faster than you could keep up tonight, collecting them in your arms and being forced to inhale the putrid smell of ale that should’ve gotten familiar by now. You wrinkled your nose, hoping no leftovers would splash on your clothes as you journeyed to the kitchen. The first snowfall had hit, and it was heavy, the windows covered in blankets of fluffy white curtains. Men huddled near the fire, booking more days than normal, waiting for it to pass. While your impatience wore differently. 

Subconsciously, your mind could conjure the exact days since you’d seen him. 

But the last few days have been check in, check out — change sheets, check in again, check out early — is that person even still here?... and repeat, your body was a machine catered to serving. 

Seemed like useless tasks now that you knew what it was like to awaken every nerve ending that you possessed. For what seemed like millionth time, you damned the Viper who had found routine passing in your workplace, leaving you with this cursed form, like leftover ash from a campfire.

You counted the keys gone when you slinked back behind the counter, wiping your forehead on the back of your sleeve, grateful when you found only a few missing. The last week they’d been emptied, along with your sanity. 

  “Pst, missy,” Ruek whispered from behind you, and you turned to see his fuzzy face peeking from behind the heavy kitchen door, “you got anymore orders?” 

  “No,” you gave him a tired smile, “just checked out ten guys in a row, who I swear were the same person.” 

  “Beards’ll do that to ya,” his kind eyes squinted as he emerged, and you leaned against your station, giving your feet a slight break, “they make us pretty. Here, close your eyes and open up. I’ve got a surprise.” 

Hesitating, you gave him a look, tipping your chin as you tried to see what he was holding behind his back. He clicked his tongue, “Come on, your cheating nature is showing, close your damn eyes it’s not gonna kill ya.” 

Finally, you sighed, doing as he said. You could use a bit of a distraction from work anyway, all you did was go home, plant your face into the pillow only to wake up to the same programming. 

  “Open,” he reminded, which only made you more annoyed. It was Ruek, so you inevitably gave in to avoid the argument. You felt something cold on your lip, reaching your tongue toward the ‘special’ treat, and biting into… chocolate? Quickly, juices poured into your mouth, which urged you to finally open your eyes. 

The cook stood, grinning proudly, a dipped strawberry in his hand. “Eck, Ru, you should've warned me, you know how I am about stuff that sweet.” 

He opened his mouth to speak, but what followed was not from him.

  “I used to think this inn had good service,” Kylo’s voice strapped you to an invisible post, straightening your back, choking on the leftover flavors. 

The Viper wasn’t looking at you, he was staring straight at Ruek, exigently demanding a response. 

  “My fault, thought Miss could use a little break.” 

  “Hm.” 

You wanted him to look at you, your very soul was demanding it, to be drowned, the striking yellow in his eyes two suns that burned everything in their path, and you the phoenix who rose under them.

How long had he been here?  

   “Do you need a key?” You finally spoke, trying to sound nonchalant, licking the bits of chocolate off of your lips as you reached for one.

  “No. I already have one.” 

What? Betty wasn’t even here. You had been the only one checking anyone in and out for the last couple days. Your brows furrowed. 

  “There’s a spill near the gwent tables.” He added.

  “Is that why you came over here?” You could feel Ruek looking at you, wondering why the hell you were questioning the man in the first place. Of course, The Viper didn’t answer, nor did he fully acknowledge your presence.

  “I got it. If we have no more orders. No problem. Just — uh let Jerrid know if you need anything from the kitchen.” Ruek shuffled away while you were too busy playing stare off with Kylo’s mask. 

  “You let everyone’s fingers in your mouth, little müna?”

  “What? No. He has me taste test stuff all the time,” gods, this man kept you oversharing at any crumb of attention he gave you, still severely irritated with overgrown mutant though you began to smirk, “is that why you came over here? Are you.. are you jealous?” 

  “You expect me to play cards next to someone’s secretions.”

  “It is, isn’t it? You can play Mr. Keepaway all you want, you think you have this affect on me where you can use me to your will. But you wanna know what I know that you don’t?” 

He didn’t respond, eye twitching, which only aided you, leaning over the counter that Kylo could very easily hop, and this was when he finally met your eyes. Though your traitor of a body screamed with validation, you only grinned.

  “I know this isn’t one sided. What would you do if you knew I fucked him?” You didn’t, of course, but the thought of making The Viper jealous thrilled you to the core, “If I let him cum in my mouth without having to force my jaw open? If he was the one I was fallin—” 

Your chin was grabbed, keeping you still over the counter, your feet almost hovering on the floor. Leather squished your cheeks, his gaze scooping your bravery from you in a single second. 

  “Careful.” The Witcher warned, studying your face, tipping it slightly in his grip, reviving the soreness in your jaw.

  “Or what, Kylo?”

He paused, and for some reason you knew you weren’t going to lack a response this time. Dropping you, he left you to land against the bartop, and his broad shoulders turned toward the small crowd. 

  “Leave.” His voice was a crack of thunder, splitting the customers' relaxation in half.

Most scattered to their feet, afraid of why this King of the Abyss was evicting them, not wanting to take the chance. The men who were brave enough to stay were met with a glint of silver, only to follow, and you heard the silence from valleys away. 

Your eyes darted to find Ruek, there was no living thing in that room except you and Kylo.

If he was even living. 

  “What the hell? What’re you doing? Are you trying to make me lose my job?” He caught your neck again, like it was a new skill he was practicing, then pulled his mask down over his chin.

The whole world stopped. Your breathing was arrested in your lungs, feeling a rush of awareness cut off your circulation and leave you dizzy with the sight of perfect, scarred lips, remembering how earnestly they had caressed your breasts atop of his horse. He was grimacing, wrinkles near his nose as he looked down at you. A lost warning. 

He slammed you into the nearest table, not paying mind to any of the silverware that was under you nor the plates he had just shattered on the floor. Standing between your legs that hung off the end of the it, the fireplace triggered the iridescence of his armor, another engligment to why he wore his title so well. 

You couldn’t stop studying his face, mapping every curve, and you were needy as you leaned up in an attempt to capture his mouth, find every ingredient of what made up this man that haunted you, possessed you. 

Not a ghost, but a demon. 

Just as your lips brushed against the tip of his, your tongue an anxious explorer, he pressed you back down into the oak. 

  “You are mine,” He spat, his lips curling around his teeth as he let the word marinate on his tongue. 

  “No,” you gasped, “f—fuck you, I’m not anyone’s, and you out of everyone has shown me that.” 

  “No? So your cunt isn’t soaked for me right now?” Your thighs pressed together, lips parting just at the words rolled off his venomous tongue, yet you shook your head in pure denial. “Liar. I can smell you. Can practically taste it.” The unoccupied hand ran along the outside of your thigh, under your skirts, til he pinched the fat between his fingers. 

The way his mask hung at his chin was just as sensual as his voice, you didn’t even know how that was physically possible, then again this man broke the rules of reality every time you saw him. He pulled you down further, pressing his hips into yours, “Say it.” 

  “I won’t,” your voice broke with a whine as you felt the bulge in his pants, your legs wrapping around him without a second thought, he smacked your calf, forcing them to hang once more. You groaned, yearning to feel some sort of pressure at your pulsing clit, your body’s temperature spiking by the second. 

  “Hm. We’ll see.” 

The Viper plucked the string that held your bodice together, pulling it until it completely unraveled, your blouse the only thing that hid your perking breasts. You looked down to his gloved hand, then back to him, hair skating over his shoulders, gods-made handles for your undoing. You let out a sigh as he thumbed your nipple through the material, keeping his palm wrapped around your throat. Your hips buckled, finding nothing, the beast keeping his hips perfectly spaced from yours so you couldn’t use him for any sort of pleasure. You felt your blood boiling, and not just from the intricate torture he was inflicting. No man had ever had this affect on you, but he was not any man. 

A low growl came from deep in Kylo’s throat, and your eyes opened, not realizing you shut them in the first place. He was unblinking, watching your reaction as the stitch of his glove rolled around the bud. 

  “Please, Kylo,” you begged, shattering every restraint you had just from seeing him so immersed in you like this, still clothed yet utterly hopeless, knowing he was your only salvation.

  “Say it.” 

You whined, one of your fists hitting the table, not wanting to give into him. But you weren’t the only one suffering. Pulling your top down, he released your tits from their confines, and immediately consumed them. His mouth opened, hot and wet, leaving easy marks as he glided from one to the other, tightening his hand on your neck every time your chittering frame squirmed. 

One of your hands found his hair, and you were surprised when he didn’t pull it from his head. You took the opportunity earnestly, digging your fingers through the raven locks, breaking through knots to find a good grip. He sucked on you like he was getting oxygen straight from your skin, popping a nipple from his mouth only to give the same attention to the other. 

Your cunt was pulsing so badly it hurt, every flutter mocking the emptiness of it, so much that you had to swallow down noises at every flick of the Viper’s tongue. 

Leather fingers danced back down your form, parting your thighs, not hesitating as they peeled your panties from your saturated pussy. The first time you had his cock, you fucked yourself into a rage trying to mimic the way it felt, three fingers wasn’t enough for the fantasy and you knew it. Being so close to that now left you ravenous, forgetting the challenge that was imposed in the first place. 

He ran the tip of his finger down the line of your lips, collecting the juices at the end of it with a single scoop before he pushed it back inside of you. Barely spreading you as he toyed with your entrance, circling and stretching it open, already making wet noises in the emptied inn. 

  “Fuck! I — please fuck me, please. I’ll do anything. Please just — fuck Kylo, please.” The words could barely be made out through insistent whines, he stayed silent, his mouth and finger working diligently to send you over that edge, into the pool of his domination. 

He reached his thumb up to press pressure on your clit, never moving it, while the finger hooked inside of you, and your whole body jerked forward. Kylo quickly put your back in your place, mentally and physically, forcing you to remember his promise. 

  “I’m yours! Okay! I’m yours, puhleaaase, just please…” You couldn’t even properly be convincing, though you meant it, even if you didn’t want to admit it outside of him fucking you sensless. 

He yielded both of his hands, lifting his face from your chest and ridding you of the secure grip you had on his head. Honey yellow eyes surveyed you from your heavy lidded gaze, all the way down to your lifted skirts, then back up again. 

  “Hm. I suppose I need to be more convincing.” In one languid motion, he had your dress above your head, corset falling to the floor with it, leaving you completely bare on top of the main round table in the dead center of your job. Ruek could be watching from the back for all you knew. 

Kylo leered above you, his chest filling, consuming your gaze as much as he did your mind. His teeth pinched the middle finger of his glove, pulling it off with his mouth.

Your stomach flipped. 

He grabbed the amulet that hung at his neck, snapping it off and rolling it around in his hand, examining it the same way he did you. You could swear you saw his eyes glisten with… something, before his focus was back.

The Viper’s large fist started to glow, and soon so did the metal.

Anticipation tickled the back of your neck, your heartbeat similar to an approaching wardrum as it filled your eyes the more you watched, “what’re you doing?” 

  “Showing you.” He didn’t blink.

  “Showing me what?” 

  “Who you belong to.” 

The metal of the viper face was red hot, smoking nearly. He held it between two fingers, grabbing your thigh in one hand and tugging you as you began to crawl up the table. You obediently stilled. 

“Don’t move or we’ll have to do it again.” 

You sucked in a breath of air, senses filling with his scent — pine, mint, leather, the very earth. Just as you did he began to line his cock up with your entrance, rubbing against the folds. He hushed you as you squeaked, and began to lower the medallion down between the hills of your chest. He perfectly lined it up, not having to look twice before he dropped his hand down, and you cried out. The flesh boiled and singed, and the entire map of your skin feeling the aftermath.

The pain was quickly distracted by another as he split you open, a growl being spat between his teeth as his cock sunk all the way into you, giving no time to adjust to the overwhelming size of him. Your nails dug at the stained wood, scratching for some kind of stability as your skin bubbled, painting a gift made by the Viper himself, all while the tip of his dick began to wrack against your cervix. 

Your eyes rolled back completely into your head, nimble fingers finding straps of his armor to hold onto, which only assisted him in beating his hips off of your cunt. He lifted one of your legs over his shoulder, your knee barely making it to curve, it only helped the Witcher angle you to his pillaging. 

The smell of burnt flesh filled your nose, truly you almost forgot about the branding he had just centered on your torso, meeting euphoria with the way his cock worked inside of you. It sent you to another plane, both of his large hands gripping your hips as he forced your smaller frame to bounce off of him. Forks and other leftover dining ware pinched at your back, ridding them off the table the more he pounded you.

His eyes were blazing carnality, encapsulating the definition of primal. 

  “You are mine,” he spoke through each stroke of his hips, dropping the carved metal to hold your body still with the familiar hold on your neck, “every inch of you… you are a hole for me to fuck. And that is all you are.” 

You whined, specks floating in your sight as you kept alert, eyes so heavy with pleasure it was damn near blinding you. 

  “The next time you let another man touch you,” a sharp smack of his hips, pain crawling up your spine, threatening to quite literally break you, “I will fuck you atop of his carcass.” 

Another plunge of his cock and the table was splintering under you, until it snapped in two. Kylo didn’t care — in fact, it was as if it didn’t even happen, the perfect savage beat he was plowing you with was never broken. 

He just used his own body as a kickstand for your lower half, the persistent assault keeping you where he wanted, finding no need in his hands other than to appreciate your body.

Kylo twisted your nipple, sliding across the spot he had just engraved, your lips parting in return. You heard another grunt from him, forcing your dazed focus on his face, which would forever be your most vivid memory, and you couldn’t even bring warning for the orgasm that he was inducing. 

Just as it creeped up, his bare thumb was circling expertly over your swollen knot, breaking the dam. Your climax poured in, walls clenching and milking his cock in the process. 

A gritty groan was dropped into your ear, and it only served as a catalyst to your silent screams, legs shaking while your cunt became much more sensitive. You tried to pull up, away from his relentless motions, he didn’t let you, just chased you along the broken table, filling you to the brim. 

Lewd sounds began to echo with the crackles of the fire, and all you could focus on was him — he was watching his cock go in and out of you, holding your skirts above your waist to get a good view of his slickened dick, pushing him toward his own finale, using you every inch of the way. 

You could barely tell from his face when he finished, you studied the Viper like it was your true passion, fossilizing his mannerisms, expressions, even his voice. You ate up every moment, the threat of them being memories a looming shadow of presence. The tiny twitch of his nose, deep wrinkle of his forehead, subtle signs he was coming apart for you. 

He pulled out of your fluttering cunt, after leaving a lazy kiss on the scabbing mark of possession he’d left, being more gentle with that than any part of you.

Kylo pulled his mask back over his face before he was tucking his cock away. You were almost sad to see it go. 

If he didn’t come back after this, maybe you’d be okay. You looked down at the piece of himself that he permanently placed on you, your finger running on the curve of its open mouth. It didn’t hurt, maybe due to the adrenaline pumping through your veins. By the time you looked back up, he was turned. 

  “What’re you—”

  “Sh.” 

Your lips pressed together, wanting to reach for your dress, yet something about him told you not to move a muscle. 

The door pushed open, a panicked villager entering, tripping over themselves at every step.

  “Help, a monster is attacking the town! It’s killing everyone, my family, please!” 

#kylo ren fanfic #witcher fanfic #kylo ren x reader #kylo ren smut #ben solo x reader #Witcher AU #witcher!kylo #hv. #dead dove elements #tw branding #tw noncon #tw violence

[hesther-mcg]

chained  

➥ pairing: bucky barnes x f!reader

➥ summary: the one where two people are chained to one another, hopelessly in love but every bit of wrong for one another

➥ rating: angst, song fic, biker!bucky au 

➥ warnings: explicit language, mentions of toxic relationship 

➥ a/n: happy valentines day! in the name of irony i’m going to post this today, bc i can. this has been rattling around in my noggin for a bit now and i actually rlly like this. i hope u do too. i highly recommend listening to the song while reading, its also available on spotify. 

chained :: elle king ft. cameron neal  chained  marvel m. list

We can run away, but we can’t hide for long 

And all that lingers harms us 

She’d tried it—moving houses, running away from the problems she was used to, changing things. She’d already tried it, and it had worked beautifully at first. The high of being in a new place, a place all to themselves, it was wonderful. And it had brought out the man she had started to believe was gone, the man she’d loved for so many suns and so many moons; years of her life having been spent growing alongside him, and she felt nothing short of complete satisfaction. 

“Thanks for running away with me,” she’d whispered to him in the late hours of the night, head rested on his bare chest and his calloused hand running up and down over the delicate skin of her back.

“I’ll go wherever you want me to, babe,” was his promise, spoken softly into the dark with a tenderness reserved for her heart and ears only. 

But all good things came to an end, and her life had brought truth to that statement. Things settled, routines came back and everything that lingered became visible. The issues that remained, the unspoken anger and unresolved conflicts rearing their ugly heads once again. She’d tried to pack up her life and her love and run away, but she was learning that she couldn’t hide for long. 

I can lie to you, but the truth comes alive

Every time I die saying goodbye

Everything was a slow progression, the honeymoon phase wearing off slowly but surely; the conflicts creeping in where they weren’t welcomed. Again, everything was fine at first, they seemed to move as a team and it filled her heart with a warmth almost indescribable—they were so much of the same mind, in her eyes. 

But then things drifted off course, the scales tipped in every which way except balanced—right where she wanted, and irritation grew to be the default when she saw his hands reach for the motorcycle keys. Betrayal became the default when she looked away from him and nodded her head, giving a flat and unconvincing ‘I’m okay,’ or ‘have fun.’ Hurt became the default when she bit her tongue until her mouth filled with the taste of crimson copper and her sobs shook her entire body, the sound of a roaring motorcycle engine filling the house. 

She could lie, but he always knew. They had their problems, they battled through their conflicts, but they were still positive and negative forces magnetically pulling the other closer, two links in a chain stuck together for eternity. 

Cause I don’t want to change

but I can’t stay this way

Love was a lot of things; sometimes she thought of it as something warm and familiar and safe, and other times she was convinced it was the chain that kept her around. She loved him, god damnit did she love James Barnes, but she knew that she was nearing her limit. Her heart could only take so much before she’d lose herself completely, and then she was done for beyond that point. Forever damaged; irreparable. 

When Y/N thought about a life where she was on her own, miles upon miles away from the man she only wanted love and comfort from, her chest felt similar to how she imagined a sinkhole made the earth feel. The memories they shared, the laughs and the cries and the endless fun, it would forever haunt her if she were to leave—but one could argue that they already haunted her, already plagued her thoughts and dreams and every second she was breathing. 

“What do you want?!” He’d screamed when she’d brought up her concerns, arms raised in the air and brows furrowed. 

“Things can’t stay this way, James,” she’d stressed, fingers knotting her hair as they frantically ran through the strands. 

And I don’t even mind staying chained, and thinking of you

Thinking of you 

“What if I don’t wanna change?” 

The breath had caught in her throat at his words, heart sinking to the pits of her stomach as her teary eyes bore into his, his figure blurry but radiating frustration. 

“Then I’ll leave,” she threatened, the words burning her mouth as she spoke them. “I love you but I won’t let that stop me.” 

But she always did—when he crawled into bed with slow movements and gentle hands, words soft, sweet, and oh so guilty. Apologies and false promises, admissions of love and sweet nothings, it mended her heart for the time being and she remained in the same place. 

Is it up to me?

It’s always been up to you to find the peace we needed to 

Strength had been dwindling, strength to fight for a relationship immersed in chaos. When things blew up, when the road grew rocky and dangerous and sometimes even lethal, it’d always been her to struggle putting the pieces back together. His words of affirmation and endless charm was the glue that only temporarily mended the cracks, but it was her will and her strive that got them there in the end. 

Strength was dwindling, and she was starting to give up. “It’s always been up to me, James,” she’d told him, voice quiet, scratchy, and broken. “It’s always been me, but it’s on you now.” 

He hadn’t responded, lips slightly parted as he took in the way that she didn’t even bother looking at him. He knew he’d been digging a grave, and he was starting to see that eventually he’d have to lie in it if he didn’t straighten up. The problems in their lives, in both him and her, they were deeply rooted and while she’d been trying to hack away at them, he’d only been watering them. 

Is it said and done, is it carved in the stone? 

How many days is it gonna take ‘til we get back home? 

Most days, he did nothing but convince her that their fate was sealed—that their ultimate demise on the horizon and refused to move for anything. She’d tried and tried to tell herself that that wasn’t the truth, exalted all resources willing into existence the fact that they were meant to be—stuck together for the trials and tribulations that life undoubtedly bring them. 

Things could change, and perhaps they would; nothing was said and done for them because only Y/N could write her story and only she could choose her ending. 

But the harder she held on, the longer the path seemed to be. If what they had was a journey through struggle and strife, then the journey seemed years and years long—an endless battle to just make it through the days to even see the end of the road, and it more often than not left her wondering how long it would take before they would make it back home. How long would it be before they returned to where they started—sickeningly sweet, head over heels in love and willing to do anything under the sun for one another. 

Cause I don’t want to change

But I can’t stay this way 

If this was what growth was, then she wished someone had told her of how painful it was. It felt like scratchy throats from screaming matches, aching chests from nights spent clawing away at the burning skin, and so many more things that weren’t even worth listing. The point of it was that she was finally reaching the point where the door was opening, creaking slowly and revealing the outside world where she could escape.

Y/N didn’t want to escape, but she was starting to see that maybe it was what she needed to do. At one point she had loved her life because he had made the sun shine brighter every day and the stars twinkle a little more each night, and while she longed for that version of James he was not anywhere in sight—and hadn’t been for a long time. 

She knew she couldn’t stay this way, she knew it and felt like a complete idiot every time she saw her own reflection, but, much like the aforementioned growth, this change was just as painful. And pain was something she’d felt enough of. 

And I don’t even mind staying chained, and thinking of you

Thinking of you

The doors had all been slammed, every single one had the unfortunate fate of being in the path of an angry James, and a few of them hadn’t survived and refused to close completely. 

“Why do you want to leave so bad, huh? If you don’t wanna be here then just fucking leave!” The emotional torment was clear as day in his voice as he screamed to the top of his lungs, and it tore her heart to shreds. 

“You know damn well why!” She’d shouted back, face beet red as her chest violently heaved. “I don’t fucking deserve this, Buck, and I’m sick and tired of it!” Her nerves buzzed under the surface of her skin and she could feel her pulse in her face, and the man before her only stared back with dark eyes. 

“You won’t change,” she’d sobbed. “You won’t and you know it, and if you loved me you would.” 

“Y/N—” he’d started, taking a step forward but she’d held her hands out, pushing herself against the wall to get further away. 

“No.” Her words were shaky yet void of fear; actually, James could hear the grit that she’d developed after dealing with his shit for so long and he felt his chest cave in slightly. “You stay there and you listen to me.” 

Will you wake me up? Will you shake me up?

Cause I’m losing my way in the game 

The cracks and creases on her heart deepened greatly, and when they did so she felt every bit of it. The way his eyes bore into hers, as if he was searching her soul like he’d done so many times before, made her look away—for this time she couldn’t trust him to search with good intentions. 

“I’ve tried for a long time to make this work, and you can’t tell me you don’t see it. You’re not stupid, James; don’t pretend to be.” She’d shook her head with her last statement, hair going every which way and tears almost filled his eyes because she was right. “But it wont work if something doesn’t give and I’ve given enough!” 

He nodded lamely, because that’s all he could think to do. He knew she didn’t want his words, they didn’t matter right now. 

“Are you even serious about this? About us? You know this isn’t a joke, this is MY life! It goes way beyond just you and your issues and your anger,” her arms waved around in the air. “James, I’m losing myself in this and you’re supposed to save me!” 

The tears did fill his eyes then, stinging the blue orbs and causing him to blink rapidly. He felt like shit, and every bone in his body ached with guilt. 

Even at our best, my love 

Neither one of us was ever really good enough 

The realization that some things truly weren’t meant to be, that some people really weren’t meant to be together, was a tough pill to swallow. Y/N felt herself choke on it multiple times throughout the years, but it was finally down and done with. She couldn’t say if they were never meant to meet, or just never meant to stay together, but either way she knew that they were a recipe for disaster. 

Her chemicals and his mixed together didn’t make the love that lasted a lifetime, the kind that made it through the dark and the light of the rocky road through life. They made poison, a stunning and paralyzing formula of toxic traits and deep rooted issues. They weren’t a match; even at their best they were never compatible—just too blind and in love to see it. 

“I don’t know why I can’t change, and I will always stay this way,” she sang softly, her heartbreak shining through under the bright lights of the stage in a bar miles and miles away from the man she loved. The band behind her kept up well, putting the raw emotion behind every beat and note that this song required, and for that she was grateful. It was a slight break in the constant dull that she felt, a break that she was beginning to believe she wouldn’t see in her lifetime. 

“And I don’t even mind staying chained,” the drawl in her voice was nothing short of old soul and broken dreams, and it wouldn’t have fit in anywhere other than the rundown bar filled with folks of a similar kind. She’d worn heartache daily long before she walked away from that house, but now it never seemed to wipe off. It was never ending, and so was the thought of him. She truly was chained to him, and sometimes in the middle of tear filled nights she told herself that he was still chained to her as well. “And thinking of you.” 

Thinking of you, thinking of you, thinking of you. 

➥ send as ask to be added to the bucky tag list! 

#the witch: writes #bucky barnes #bucky barnes au #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #song fic #james barnes #james barnes x reader #james barnes x y/n #james barnes fic #elle king #biker!bucky #biker!bucky au #bucky barnes one shot #bucky barnes imagine #james barnes imagine #marvel #mcu #marvel cinematic universe #winter solider x y/n #winter soldier x reader #the winter solider imagine #—with love #jbb

[shiftytracts]

Stop Wanting More, part 1 of 2 (T/M/A fic)

In which season-four Jon tries to quiet his hunger for live statements by gorging himself on paper ones, and Daisy tells him what she used to do when she got shaky between hunts. Part two here.

…For almost ten thousand words (~5.1k in this half, ~4.3 in the other), beeeecause of course I did.

Content warnings:

Disordered eating (mainly of the statement variety, but mentions also the literal kind)

Nausea, and brief descriptions of prior vomiting

Brief but not-ungraphic description of Jon’s (canon) Boneturning incident—so, injury, very mild body horror

Vague discussion of Daisy’s passive suicidality (in part two)

Animal cruelty and death: Daisy talks about hunting rats for sport (in part two)

—

Jon paused the tape recorder, closed his eyes, and tried to breathe. A statement’s second-to-last page was the hardest to get down. The dull ache that had begun under his ribs twenty minutes before now stretched down far enough to converge with the one in his stiff hips. His pulse throbbed in his stomach; he could feel it swell and recede beneath his hand with every beat. Nausea boomeranged up from somewhere under his navel. He reminded himself he could stop for now, finish this later—and, as always, that thought made him feel even colder than the sludge of other people’s fear pooling in his stomach. With his free hand Jon pressed Record again, and turned to 0101702’s final page. Oh, god, there was barely anything on it. Just the rest of this paragraph and then one more. He kept his eyes on the page, didn’t stop speaking its words, but fumbled blindly for another statement with his fingers.

“Knock knock,” Daisy said as she entered. “Christ—you’re still recording?”

In a flash Jon folded his hands on the table, sat up a little straighter, tried to suck in his gut. “Er—”

“Thought you said you were gonna do one more.”

“I’m almost done.”

“You’ve got another one right there.”

“I…” he considered I’m sorry, but then she’d say For what. “I don’t know what to tell you. It is my office.”

“Yeah, and your home,” Daisy scoffed—“and mine. Sort of.”

“D—did you want…? You’re welcome, to. Sit down, or….”

She did, on the arm of his couch. “I know, Jon. That’s not what I meant.”

“Okay.” To show he’d meant his welcome, Jon pushed his chair back from his desk and turned in it to face Daisy. Hopefully she’d remember he couldn’t ask What did you mean.

“I mean, don’t pretend this is work. How many statements have you had today? You don’t think that one can wait til tomorrow?”

Seven? Or would this one be eight. Jon forced himself to exhale out the portion of gut he’d been holding back since she arrived; it hurt too much to keep sucking in anyway. “A lot. I’m just.”

“Hungry, yeah.”

“Even when I’m stuffed I’m hungry.” He snarled a laugh, and set a rueful hand over his stomach like a fig leaf.

At first he’d tried sating the hunger with garden-variety food. That didn’t help much. Way back when he’d first transferred to the Archives Jon had fallen back into the old habit of forgetting to eat—which, yeah, not great, but, it did mean he remembered well how amazing it used to feel to cram down even a stale biscuit after too many hours’ inanition. All the hidden notes he’d found in yogurt and dry toast. He even remembered tearing up once at the taste of a banana, early in 2016. Before that he’d been sure he didn’t like bananas; afterward, for a short while he’d eaten one nearly every day, hoping vainly to recapture the ecstasy of banana after 14-hour fast. No luck, of course. After a few weeks he’d concluded he still didn’t much like banana as final course of healthy lunch. He’d especially disliked peeling them: how sometimes the stems bent without breaking, and the more times you tried the warmer, softer, more flexible they got. How little strings of peel still clung to the banana after you peeled off its main body, like static when you pull off a jumper. Or like the lint it leaves behind on your shirt. And the way bananas bruise, like people do. All these vestiges of its previous life—reminders it had lived to feed itself rather than him.

Since the coma, all people food—er. That was, all food intended for human consumption—tasted like that chase after a faded spark. Cloying and mushy and… organic, reminding him too much of the garden it came from. And the way it landed in his stomach was far worse. The original banana, the one Martin had pressed on him in the Archives in April 2016, had gone down like nectar, ambrosia, manna from heaven, &c.; the ones afterward, like an unwanted dessert always does. (Cloying. Mushy. A biology lesson mildly tapping its watch.) These days, though, eating regular dinner on a stomach empty of other people’s trauma felt like trying to fill up on cake. Not like cake after fourteen hours of nothing; Jon was pretty sure his 2016 stomach would have welcomed that. But like cake at dinner time. When you’re expecting, you know. Dinner. It gave him the brief, fake-seeming energy of a sugar high, and made him sick before it made him full.

Especially when he was otherwise ailing, for some reason? After Hopworth he’d treated himself to a lie down and a sandwich. The rest had helped, but he’d squandered most of the energy it gave him on the effort to keep the sandwich down. At that moment nothing, not even the coffin, had scared him so much as the thought of what it would feel like to throw up when you had only ten ribs on one side. He hadn’t expected losing them to hurt, at least not for long—had expected the rib to flow out of his skin into Jared Hopworth’s hand like an ice cube through water, which in retrospect was stupid given the testimony of Mr. Pryor in statement 0081103, but he hadn’t had time to reread that one beforehand and at the time Jon remembered only that Hopworth didn’t break his victims’ skin when he pulled out their bones. Turned out that wasn’t much comfort: he’d still had to break the ligaments attaching Jon’s ribs to his spine and chest. It had felt like a bad dislocation (four of them, technically), only instead of the feeling of bone pressing on things it shouldn’t there was an equally violating sense of tissue wallowing in holes that shouldn’t be there. He’d had this horror that if he were sick the flesh would crumple and pop where his ribs used to be, like when you try to suck the remaining water out of a near-empty bottle.

A few months after that he’d caught cold. (A point in the still-human column, Daisy had called it.) You know the first day or two of a cold, before the encroaching mucus takes out your ability to smell or taste properly, how innocuous olfactory phenomena like cheddar and laundry soap suddenly become Bad Smells, on par with the olive bar at a posh supermarket? Well, in a similar way, this one seemed to sharpen the dichotomy in his body’s opinions of people food and monster food. His lack-of-ribs had mostly healed by then though, so either vomiting with only ten ribs on one side did not cause the anomaly he’d feared, or, if it did, it hadn’t hurt enough for him to notice it in the cacophony (pucophony?) of other sensations.

(Daisy liked to play on words, so he’d been doing it more lately. This project the Eye seemed happy to help with, though in this case the suggestion arrived in his mind at the exact same moment as a reminder that, technically, the word cacophony can apply to sensations other than sound only by synecdoche.)

And then, a few weeks ago, when the whole Archives went down with norovirus… well, it wasn’t a fun time. He’d at first mistook the lethargy, weakness, trouble concentrating for signs of hunger—the new kind of hunger. Ms. Mullen-Jones’ statement about the Divine Chains cult hadn’t seemed all that bad, when he’d first recorded it. Scarier than if he’d read its events in a novel, of course; that was just how statements worked. He experienced them more vividly than stories, though less so than the events of his own life. (Because the people they happened to thought they were real! he’d told himself when he first took this job. It’s empathy, that’s all. Nope, sorry—evil magic.) When he read a paper statement these days, though, the knowledge it wouldn’t give him nightmares never quite left him. And he’d thought he was growing desensitized to the kinds of horror most people came to the Institute to report. Coming back up, though—maybe it was the fever, but god, the visions he got on that statement’s way out, of Agape and the soft, sticky hivecorpse of Claude Vilakazi’s followers—the way it made the donut he’d shoved down that morning (in a show of team spirit, god help him) come back up tasting like rotten rice wine—it was worse than the dreams. Worse, he could have sworn, than even the first time he ever dreamt Naomi Herne’s empty graveyard.

While hanging over the bowl of the Archives’ toilet waiting to see if he’d got it all up or if there was still more to come, Jon remembered thinking again of the banana Martin had given him. A few days earlier Daisy had made him watch the video of the I don’t understand this meme and at this point I’m too afraid to ask man vore-ing a banana; Jon had confessed to her, in a conspiratorial whisper-laugh, that for him vore itself had been one such meme until that very second, when the Eye had seen fit to inform him. But when applied to a banana, the term apparently just meant eating it peel and all. In 2016 Martin had broken the banana’s stem and pulled back a section of peel before handing it to Jon, so as to brook no argument. Was it really the banana itself he’d cried over? Not the gesture of friendship, when Jon deserved it so little? The thought of someone caring for him enough that when he got hangry at them they handed him a snack. Martin had been living in the Archives then, like Jon did now. Sleeping in Document Storage—a guest in a room owned by pieces of paper. Those bananas may have been the only thing that felt like his.

A Guest for Mr. Spider was about vore, technically. Not an uncommon topic in children’s literature. Some surmised that was where the fetish came from, though others maintained kinks like that were inborn, and the stories merely alerted their hosts to them for the first time. Red riding hood, three little pigs, little old lady who swallowed a fly. The Leitner touch was only the part where he drew you to his real-life lair and real-life ate you.

Looking back, that was probably the first thing he’d ever admired about Martin—how easy he’d made it look to skin a fruit. Not at the time admired, of course, but in those weeks afterward, when every banana Jon ate made him claw at the peel til his finger joints throbbed.

That stomach bug had struck the Archives with serendipitous timing, though. If he’d not found out how thin abstinence from the Hunt had made Daisy on the same day he’d barfed up a statement, Jon might not have pieced together what their combined evidence meant. Until then he’d put down his own post-coma weight loss to the fact he rarely ate more people food than a donut in twenty-four hours. Lots of avatars were scrawny, after all. Jane Prentiss, Mike Crew, Justin Gough, Annabelle Cane, John Amherst, Simon Fairchild. Jude Perry and Jared Hopworth could mold their respective fleshes however they wanted, so he didn’t count them as exceptions. True, Trevor Herbert’s bulk had struck him as odd; surely a homeless man wouldn’t waste cash on food his body no longer wanted. And what about Breekon and Hope? Did butterflies and a quartermaster’s pen and tongue sustain them? But maybe, Jon had told himself, it was like with alcohol. Maybe the avatars with more flesh on their bones had worked to develop a tolerance for (air quotes, heavy sarcasm) people food, for the sake of their physiques, or. So they could, he didn't know, eat socially? Without feeling sick, like Jon did whenever one of the others brought donuts.

Preposterously stupid, this theory seemed in retrospect. The truth was much simpler. It was like Jude Perry’d told him. She was strong and he was weak, because she fed her god with her actions, while Jon’s had had to resort to eating his flesh.

He wasn’t going back to live statements! That wasn’t an option; he knew that. He couldn’t feed his god with his actions. But he could have more paper ones. Maybe they were like the candles poor Eugene Vanderstock used to bring Agnes—the ones she’d sat over for hours. Hours and hours, inhaling the suffering that made them. They’d kept her strong enough, right? At least in body. All those people in charge of her care, all so much in her thrall—if she’d looked hungry one of them would’ve mentioned it in a statement.

During Jon’s school days, back when he was still trying to learn how to be a girl, this brief window had opened up right around age thirteen where the girls around him had enough self-consciousness to start developing eating disorders? But not enough to keep them secret. Thirteen had been this phase of, like, I’m a teenager now, see? I’ve got the teen angst now—SEE?! Where after they’d finished the day’s maths assignment, or while setting up microscope slides, one could overhear girls swapping self-harm anecdotes and tips for how best not to eat. Anne, whom he’d been almost friends with, went through two packs of chewing gum a day for a while. She would shove three or four sticks at a time in her mouth, then spit them back out into their wrappers as soon as they lost their flavor. Eventually they made her sick, and she switched to chain-sucking butterscotch discs. (Most artificial sweeteners, as the Eye now informed him, had mild laxative properties—including those used in gum.) Other acquaintances had brought comically large thermoses of coffee to school every day, and scurried to the toilet between classes. But it was another polyurious crowd that Jon kept thinking of, these days—the kids who would chug water every time they felt hungry. Trying to fill up on paper statements felt just like that.

He’d never understood that urge until now. Hunger was already a bad sensation; why would it help to add the further bad sensations of nausea and stomachache and cold? But now it made sense: feeling better was not the point. The point was to stop wanting more. He couldn’t get rid of the hunger, exactly—not in a way that mattered. Not the shards of glass in his belly, not the itch in his esophagus like a finger tapping behind his gag reflex, not the way simple motions like soaping his hands made his whole body ache. Not the sharpening of his senses to such a fine point that he jumped whenever Thérèse in the office above him shut her desk’s sticky drawer. (He hadn’t known that was what made the squeaky noise until a few weeks ago when the Eye decided he might like some office gossip. Even now he didn’t know which of the faces he sometimes passed up there belonged to Thérèse. She had no statements to make.) Nor the fog in his mind, though he tried sometimes to blame that on the Lonely. He couldn’t sate his hunger with paper statements—couldn’t make himself full, in the rosy way we usually connote that word. All warm and carefree and pleasantly sleepy. But he could cram the hole inside him with enough stale horrors that the temptation to chase down a fresh one momentarily left him.

And that was the new plan—to stuff himself with paper statements.

Tomorrow would mark two weeks since the day he’d first tried it. Brian from Artefact Storage had a statement to give him, Jon could feel—either Stranger or Spiral, it was hard to tell quite which. Something that caused paranoia. Not a great fit for that department. Good fit for a temple of the Eye, Jon supposed, remembering Tim and Michael Shelley. But Artefact Storage? God help him. He wondered if Elias had done it on purpose, hiring a paranoid man to work in a room full of objects that wanted him hurt. If so it must’ve been this one—this purpose. And on Wednesday mornings Brian manned the place all alone. Poor soul was already clinging to this job by a thread, though (so, Web…? That could cause paranoia too, as Jon well knew). Surely if Jon made him relive his trauma that would break it. Though perhaps that’d be a mercy. And but besides, two weeks ago Melanie had still lived here, and sat all morning between Jon’s office and Artefact Storage. Until she went to lunch. But by that time the woman whose laugh Jon could sometimes hear through the walls (Pooja, the Eye had since told him her name was) would have joined Brian. And it’d just be too weird, too risky, to go in and ask him about it with a third person in the room. Even if it wasn’t also evil.

So he’d read 0132210—the statement of Sierra Talbot, regarding a swimming pool whose depth changed every time she entered it—in hopes that’d make him quit thinking about the paranoid man down the hall. It didn’t, not really; paper statements didn’t take up as much of his attention as they used to. But he couldn’t get up and walk to Artefact Storage in the middle of one. When he finished and still couldn’t think of anything but Brian, he dug out another statement (this one from 1938, regarding a bad penny). Just to keep himself chained to his desk til lunch. And then a third (Liza Ho, attack of the killer seagulls). And by the end of that one he felt too heavy and cold inside to want to go anywhere but the couch. It made his stomach swell until it hurt to sit up straight, and the thought of shoving anything more inside made him feel sick—exactly like chugging water every time he felt hungry.

Basira had said maybe the Web just wanted to keep them so afraid of their own impulses they sat and did nothing so they couldn’t be puppeted. Maybe she was right. He’d never felt more like a spider, with his weak, skinny limbs and bloated stomach. Lying on the couch massaging other people’s horrors into more comfortable shapes inside him. Thank god he’d already given up tucking in his shirts, when he came back after the coma. Jon had worn the same trousers for three days in a row, now—shucked them off at the end of the day, hoping if he left them on the floor that’d convince him they were too dirty to wear again, and then slipped them back on over clean boxers in the morning. They were the only trousers he had that stayed up with the button left unfastened.

(Technically, the noun bloat refers to the feeling of weight or tightness in the abdomen. To describe a belly which has expanded beyond its typical size, one should use the word distended. Though these phenomena can occur separately, most people conflate them under the single word bloated. This trivia had seemed worthless when Beholding told him of it. But now he knew better. Every morning he woke up feeling like he’d had his whole torso replaced with the aching void of space, empty but for silver glints of pain that were the stars. And then he’d look down and find his belly still distended.)

Melanie and Basira didn’t know—at least not officially. They both seemed to have noticed how much more often lately they’d walked in on him recording, but Jon was pretty sure they suspected him less of bingeing on statements, more of pretending to record so as to avoid talking to them. He welcomed this misapprehension.

It was also possible they knew but declined to comment, since. Well, it was kind of a pathetic habit? Physically, a bit pathetic. Morally, though, such a big improvement over compelling statements by force that maybe they figured they ought to let him have it. If so he should be grateful, he reminded himself. Their pity, after all, was humiliating only in principle; Daisy’s teasing and concerned questions embarrassed him in practice.

“Enough navelgazing,” Daisy scoffed, but when Jon looked over at her he could see a smile creeping its way onto her face. “Look—finish the one you’re on, then come over here and I’ll. Tell you a story.”

“I—what?”

“Don’t know if it’ll count as a ‘statement,’” she said, with air quotes; “not much fear in it, more just.” She looked at the floor, then shrugged. “But it seems worth a try, yeah? Might make you feel better.”

“I-I, er. I really shouldn’t?” He meant in case it had a taste of human blood effect, but set his hand on his stomach again in hopes she’d think he meant he was too full.

“Yeah, you should. I want you to hear it.” Daisy shrugged again. “Think it might do you good to know.”

Jon turned back to his desk, unpaused the recording and wrapped up the statement. He’d quit bothering to record end notes on most of these—told himself he could add them in later, like he used to when he’d first taken this job. How proud 2016 Jon would have been to see how many statements the 2018 Archivist got through in a week.

He paused for a moment before standing up, to take as deep a breath as he could manage when stuffed full of paper. The end of that statement had gone down easier, since he’d had that few minutes’ break talking to Daisy, but he still didn’t love the idea of standing and walking. Especially since he knew once he got to the couch he’d be glued there by fatigue. If he didn’t pee now, he’d spend most of the night far enough into sleep to be paralyzed, but not far enough to numb his bladder. He excused himself to Daisy, promising to come right back. Then hauled himself up, with help from his cane and one arm of his chair.

Six limbs it took to maneuver this body now. Two more and he’d’ve gone full spider.

Three quarters of the way to the bathroom—that’s how long it took before the ache in his legs outpaced that in his stomach. He arrived on the toilet seat shaky and out of breath, as always. Months ago he’d given up standing to pee. When you sat you could rock back and forth, and cross your arms tight over waves of quease.

Not much came out, as was also usual lately. As far as Jon could tell, his body now required only enough water to keep his mouth from drying out while recording. Dehydration no longer made his head hurt, so, why bother. Good thing, too, he supposed—the last two weeks he hadn’t needed much non-metaphorical water inside for his body to parse that as needing to pee.

He let his trousers stay pooled around his ankles until after he’d washed and dried his hands. Then pulled up his shirt, to judge from his reflection whether they’d stay up with the fly undone. If he kept his hands in his pockets, yeah. Could you tell the difference, visually, once he put his shirt tails back down? Not for such a short distance. They wouldn’t have time to get disarranged.

It didn’t matter; Basira didn’t even glance at him on his way back, and all Institute staff who didn’t live here had gone home.

Jon opened the door to his office, said hello to Daisy but didn’t manage to look at her, and sat himself down on the other side of the couch. From the corner of his eye (or someone’s anyway) he saw her rise to her feet. “I’m gonna pee too,” she told him, picking her way toward the door; “get yourself comfortable, like you’re going to bed.”

“Where will you sit.”

“I’ll squeeze in.”

“I don’t mind leaving room for—?” Finally he made himself look up at her, in time to see her shake her head. Daisy hadn’t been strong on her feet either, since the Buried; she held herself up now with a hand on the doorjamb, elbow bent so her shoulder leant against that wrist. He regretted quibbling. “Never mind; I’ll just.”

“Really? You’re comfortable like that? You look like a sheep in clover.”

The knowledge came to him before he could ask her what that meant—complete with a nasty visual of what happens in cases acute enough to require rumenotomy. Jon swore he could feel himself swelling to accommodate this tidbit. His eye twitched in discomfort.

“Think I prefer ‘windbag,’ if it’s all the same to you.”

She made a face like that was grosser than what she had said. “You ruined my joke. I was gonna say I won’t let you have any more leaves til you look less like you might explode.”

“Sheep in clover suffocate,” Jon frowned; “they don’t explode. You must be thinking of how they cure them when—”

“Leaves. In. A. Book, Jon. That joke.”

“Oh. Yes, I see.” He made himself chuckle.

Daisy sighed and shifted on her feet. “I’ll be right back. Just lie down, alright? Like you’re going to bed.”

Jon agreed to lie down, but couldn’t decide whether to face the wall (as he would to sleep), leaving her to slide in between him and the back of the couch the way she had a few times before when she’d walked in on him catnapping, or whether he should lie on his back, where he could see her as soon as she opened the door. It was important to make sure she knew he appreciated her offer to give him a statement. Or, no—to tell him her story, he meant.

Ultimately he picked the latter course.

“You sleep like that?”

“Sometimes."

“I’ve never seen you sleep like that. You always face the wall.” Daisy crossed her arms, blew hair out of her face. “That for the tummy ache, or for me?”

“Uh….”

“Would it hurt you to face the wall.”

“No, I just.”

“Turn around, then. I’ll squeeze in,” she said again.

“I-if you’re sure.”

He rolled onto his side, gritting his teeth as the cramps in his stomach swirled in new directions. What made it slosh like that, he wondered. While he fought to regain his breath Jon watched Daisy climb up onto the back of the couch on shaking elbows and knees, then avalanche down hands- and feet-first so she fit between him and its cushions. He’d never watched her do this before—always either startled out of a doze at the sound of her thumping down next to him, or simply woken up to find her there.

“You’re just like the Admiral,” he informed her.

“True words spoken in jest,” muttered Daisy. Too quietly for him to hear what she said over the couch’s tortured creaks, but half a second after she finished speaking the words appeared before his mind, in white, all-capital letters with a black background like closed captions on the news. “That’s Georgie’s cat, right?” she said aloud.

“Yes.”

Her knee jostled the cap of his; when it made him gasp she snarled under her breath. “Sorry. Can you move your leg?”

“Yes, it’s fine, just—”

“I mean would you move your leg.”

“Oh.” He did so.

“Thanks. Ugh—you’re cold,” Daisy accused him; “where’s that blanket.” He pointed behind her to the arm of the couch where it lay folded. She shook it out, and draped it over both of them. Reached around behind him to make sure it covered his whole back. Jon tried to ignore the way his stomach lurched every time Daisy’s weight shifted against the cushions. Finally she settled next to him to catch her breath. Their foreheads touched; her stomach pressed into his, though not as tightly as the last time they’d lain like this. “Can you breathe or am I crushing you?”

“Not at all, you’re fine—in fact, if the couch cushions are chafing you too much you can—”

Daisy huffed, and scooted herself in closer to him. “That better?” She set her warm hand down right where his belly diverged from pelvis. Jon tried to keep both voice and tremor out of his exhale. Since the coffin, Daisy’s hands and feet suffered at night and after any exertion from the same excess of heat his sometimes did. So the cold inside him probably felt nice on her hand, if not to the rest of her.

(Like snuggling up to a hotel mattress, she’d described it, after the first time she joined him for a nap when he’d just had a statement. Cold, hard, covered in lumps and dents, and creaks when you roll over on it. “I’d prefer you didn’t,” he’d replied, while praying her elbow wouldn’t come any closer to the crevasse where his ribs used to be.)

“Christ you’re stuffed,” commented Daisy. For emphasis she lifted her fingers, then set them back down on his gut.

“I don’t know what you expected.”

“You won’t pop if I tell you a story?”

“Not literally,” Jon said, blinking.

“Of course not literally,” she scoffed; “you know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

“Will it make you sick. Don’t want you throwing up on me; this is Melanie’s shirt. If you ruin it she’ll hit us with her cane, and I don’t trust you to hit as hard back with yours.”

“Mine’s shorter and thicker,” he mused. “I don’t have to hit as hard.”

“Stop. Avoiding. The question.”

Jon sighed to show her he capitulated. Then thought about it. He felt cold and sick, but the idea of saying no to a statement made those feelings worse, not better. And the sharp clusters of pain in his belly were harder to sleep through than quease.

“I’ll be fine,” he decided. “It’ll help.”

“Alright. When you’re ready, ask me what I used to do when I got shaky between hunts.”

--

Read part two here.

#stuffing #nausea #stomachache #hunger kink #a shifty tract #nonsearchable tma tag #other titles i. jocoseriously considered include 'divine chains' (like the cult from 153 get it?); #'too much information' and 'a movable-type feast'. #also for a long time the file on my computer was called 'statement eating: the moive' because alas i was a teenage h/omes/tuck

[seanfalco]

The Nervous Game | Nathan Young x Reader

Word Count: 1.1k Prompt: I wish you would write a fic where Nathan and reader are bored at home (or during their time staying at the community center) and come up with playing the nervous game! Requested by: Anonymous Warning: Recreational drug usage, mild spice

Leaning back against Nathan’s tiny mattress you threw your head back, blowing your stream of smoke skyward before handing him back the blunt and watching him inhale.  There was something inherently sexy about the way Nathan smoked and you couldn’t help but stare.

Maybe it was his hands, the way he held the blunt between his slender fingers.  You couldn’t help but wonder what else he might be good at with those fingers and heat rushed southward the longer you thought about it.

“Somethin’ on your mind, love?” he teased, waggling his eyebrows as he noticed your lingering gaze and you quickly averted your eyes.

“Nope, nothing.  Just bored as fuck,” you replied, hoping he would believe that, but Nathan’s smirk only grew.

“We should play a game then,” he suggested, sitting up next to you and putting out what was left of the roach.

Your curiosity piqued, you sat back up as well.  “What sort of game?” you asked, and Nathan’s lopsided grin widened, obviously glad you’d asked.

“You ever play the Nervous Game before?” he asked and you rolled your eyes.

“Yeah, like back in high school,” you scoffed, but you felt your face flush, unsure if you wanted him to touch you or not.

Sure you’d kissed him, okay, more than kissed, more like made out, several times, and you’d told him you fancied him and you knew he fancied you, so it was only a matter of time before you shagged him, but the question remained -- did you want to shag him yet?  Tonight?

“So?” Nathan huffed, “d’you wanna play or not?  Don’t tell me you’re too nervous,” he exclaimed coyly and you bristled with indignation.

“You’re so on,” you replied and squared off to face him.

Looking rather pleased with himself, Nathan scooted closer til your knees were touching.  “Okay, you start,” he exclaimed, and without missing a beat you jabbed your finger into the tip of his nose.

“Y’nervous?” you asked with a grin and Nathan snorted, pushing your hand away.

“Nope, not even close,” he exclaimed, leaning in to press his lips to yours.

“Nervous?” he asked as he pulled back and you fought back a grin.

“I don’t think you’re supposed t’play with your lips,” you pointed out, but the idea sent heat rolling through you, your knickers certainly damp now.

“It’d certainly be more fun that way though, don’tchat think?” Nathan queried, his eyes pointedly traveling down your body.

“It’s something t’keep in mind for later,” you agreed, filing the idea away and Nathan’s brows rose.

Trailing your finger down his neck, you stopped at his collarbone, just peeking out above the collar of his t-shirt.  “Nervous?”

“Not even close,” he boasted and you had a feeling he wouldn’t stop you no matter how far south you touched, the idea sending another pulse of arousal thrumming through you.

“My turn,” he said gleefully, his finger picking up where yours left off, moving down from your collarbone to the top of your breast and your breath hitched.

“Nervous, [y/n]?” he asked, wetting his lips at the look that crossed your face.

“Keep going,” you murmured, holding his gaze and his finger traveled lower, down to your peaked nipple, now hard and poking through your bra and tank top, and he bit his bottom lip as he palmed you, giving your breast a tentative squeeze.

Arching into his touch, a soft moan left your lips and Nathan took the hint, leaning forward to kiss you and you let him lower you back, pressing you into the mattress as he kneaded your breast harder, his tongue exploring your mouth with fervor.

“Fuck, I love your tits,” he groaned and you smirked against his lips as you reached between your bodies giving his nipple a firm tweak.

“Ow!” Nathan yelped, his lips breaking from yours abruptly.

“Y’nervous?” you asked smugly and Nathan gaped down at you for a moment.

“Do it again,” he finally said, surprised to find he liked it and you cocked an eyebrow as you obeyed, rolling his nipple between your thumb and finger before moving to the other.

“Y’sure it’s not too late t’switch to usin’ our mouths?” Nathan asked coyly and you laughed as you pinched him again.  “Okay, okay,” he relented and your fingers resumed their trail downward, slipping under the hem of his shirt, feeling the sparse trail of hair from his navel leading down below the waistband of his jeans.

“Just keep goin’ darlin’, you could touch me anywhere and it wouldn’t make me nervous,” he boasted, watching you hopefully, but you stopped, unsure if you felt how hard he was for you that you’d even be able to stop yourself, your cunt already throbbing painfully to be filled, but you weren’t ready yet.

Not yet.  Not just yet.

There was still that apprehension, that fear that you were just another bird to bag in a long line of them, just another notch in his belt and that once he’d had you he’d lose interest.

You liked Nathan, a lot, and you didn’t want to think those were his only motives, but you’d been wrong before.  And as his hand slipped lower, heading toward the inside of your thigh, a though occurred to you.

“Anywhere, huh?  Y’sure bout that, Nathan?” you asked, catching his attention, his hand pausing on your thigh and he frowned, confused, til you reached around his back, slipping your hand under his jeans, squeezing his ass before you kept moving and he finally realized what your destination was.

Wide eyed he rolled off you with a strangled yelp.  “Okay!  Anywhere but there!”

“Oh ho, looks like I win then,” you exclaimed, fixing him with a smug grin.

“You played dirty, but fine, I guess y’win,” Nathan relented, pouting.

Deciding to take pity on him, you scooted closer, your smirk softening as you leaned over him.  “As winner, do I get to pick a prize?” you asked, trailing your finger across his bottom lip and he perked up.

“I suppose,” he drawled, attempting not to look too eager.

Leaning down to kiss him slowly, you took his hand and slipped it under your shirt, placing it over your breast once more.  “I like it when you touch my tits,” you murmured, and Nathan grinning into the kiss, not hesitating to knead you roughly, his other hand reaching behind you to unhook your bra.

“This okay?” he asked hesitantly and the fact that he’d asked took you by surprise, but in a good way, and you nodded.

“It’s okay,” you panted between kisses and you began to think, to hope that maybe despite his constant slew of raunchy jokes and lewd comments that Nathan wanted more from you than just sex.

———————

Tag list: @magic-multicolored-miracle @midnightseance @etherealsxnder @cunaeparker @iamsexytrash @orions-nebula @sokkasdarling @itsametaphorbriansblog

#misfits #nathan young #nathan young x reader #nathan young smut #nathan young imagines #my writing #prompt request #i wish you would write a fic where... #anonymous

[kastlequill]

ii/v. ‘til my pulse loses time: pulsus bigeminus

pairing: kyle gaz garrick x f!reader word count: 1.4k synopsis: the second time you save gaz tags: whumptober, broken bones, blood and injury, wound tending, hurt/comfort, medic!reader, 4+1, no y/n warnings: war ao3: read here ← prev | next →

II.

The first time you left the base’s vicinity to operate out in the field was under less than ideal circumstances.  

You’d been stitching up a deep laceration across the chest of an infantryman when your radio crackled to life. On the other end of the comms, Captain Price had informed you of his squad’s status after a particularly nasty ambush near a series of steep cliffs not too far off from the medbay. While Sergeant McTavish and that lieutenant had managed to avoid the worst of the damage, one Sergeant Garrick was currently still stuck under several large bits of debris. Before the captain tried pulling him free, he wanted medical personnel to be on standby. 

So here you were, staring at a pile of rubble, wondering just how far below laid the man out of whom you’d dug a bullet some weeks ago. 

“Have you been able to contact him, Captain?” you asked so as to fill the silence with something, anything other than your unrelenting thoughts of paranoia and worst-case scenarios. 

Price nodded, his hands grabbing onto the collar of his tactical vest. “Affirmative. We checked in just before you arrived.”

“Put him on the line.”

The captain unclipped a hand-held radio from his waistband and tossed it your way before turning around to convene with his remaining men. You raised the device to the level of your chin, pressed the button on its side, and spoke.

“Sergeant Garrick,” you greeted, tone clinical and matter-of-fact. “Can you hear me?”

A cough sounded through the static. “Nice to hear a familiar voice, Doc.”

You almost snorted at that; familiarity wasn’t exactly the first word you’d use to describe your professional relationship with the guy. The two of you hadn’t exchanged more than a few acknowledging gestures since that day his comrades dragged him into the clinic. In fact, until this very moment, you’d thought he had forgotten all about the interaction, reducing you to a mere vagueness in his pain-hazed memory.

It appeared, however, that the sergeant remembered plenty enough. While he had managed to stay out of trouble—and thus out of your orbit—during this past string of weeks, the pit in your stomach had never quite left.

Your initial premonition had proven correct. Injured again. Through no fault of his own, yes, but establishing fault was hardly important when it came to life and death.

“How are you faring down there? Try and rank your pain on a scale of one to ten.” While you waited for him to respond, you began to set up your equipment, digging for your stethoscope, for bandages and gauze. Once everything was to your satisfaction, a quick wave of your hand brought Captain Price back to the site, ready to excavate the final member of his team.

“Feels like a bloody mountain of rocks just fell on top o’ me, how ‘bout that?”

Damn soldiers. Always difficult, always stubborn. “A number, Gaz.”

“Between a three and a four,” he relented after a few beats of silence. His voice sounded strained despite his efforts to conceal the truth of his current state. “But no rush, yeah? The quiet’s not so bad.”

You handed the radio back to the captain, with whom you shared a look. Freeing Gaz was your highest priority; there’d be no more delays.

Price signaled for McTavish and the one called Ghost to approach the rubble, and, together, the three of them got to digging. Their gloved hands lifted debris, methodically removing boulders and slabs of earth in a way that would minimize the risk of it all toppling down. It was arduous work, but involving heavier machinery might do more harm than good.

Ten minutes into the unburial, they located him. Pinned beneath stone, in an air pocket—alive. McTavish and Ghost relieved the crushing weight, enabling Price to grab Gaz by the arms and drag him towards an open spot of land. There, he tried to sit upright, eager to become of use, but a single stern if I catch you moving before the medic gives the all clear, I’ll make your arse clean latrines for the next month, hear? from his captain had him stilling.

As you knelt closer to the wounded man, those brown eyes swiveled to meet yours, trapping you with their alert intensity. Dirt was speckled across the bridge of his nose, appearing more like a patch of constellations than grime, and a cut crusted with dried blood ran through his left brow. Dust clung to his lashes, exhaustion deep set in his face, and yet he looked. . .

Good. Too good, considering where he’d been for the last hour. Not the most professional observation, sure, but you were only human.

The longer you maintained eye-contact, the more recognizable the reverence in his stare became to you; it wasn’t uncommon for soldiers who’d been separated from their environment, from their very atmosphere, to view the mortal world as heaven itself once they returned. That same sentiment was now infused into his gaze, shining with wonder, like he had just found the answers to his life-long questions, had just stumbled upon eternal paradise.

The kiss of the wind, the hug of the sunlight, the confession of the birdsong. A utopia; Eden.

“Happy to see the sun, Sergeant?”

A flicker of confusion replaced the awe in his expression, but it was gone so quickly you questioned if it’d even been there in the first place. “Right, the sun, yes, that. Bloody ecstatic.”

Gripping his shoulders, you assisted him in moving from a supine to an upright position, your efforts careful and gradual. The amount of buckles and straps and zippers that constituted his tactical vest were unnecessarily complicated, in your opinion, which made freeing it from his body too damn difficult. After a minute of watching you struggle, Gaz took mercy on you; he brushed aside your unsteady hands, swiftly unclasping the vest and pulling it over his head with a wince.

The motion drew your attention to his face. You assessed his clenched jaw, the pronounced frown line between his brows, the strained muscles and bulging veins in his neck—all physical signs that did not particularly bode well.

“I’m going to check if anything’s broken. Is it alright if I feel my way around?” At his nod, you brought your fingers to his sternum. “This may hurt.”

And so began the routine of poking and prodding and pressing. He inhaled sharply when you touched along his midsection, over his ribs, but he waved off your whispered apology, motioning for you to continue your examination. Even through his clothes, you could discern what felt like misaligned bones, which was to be expected.

You leaned slightly away to retrieve your stethoscope then guided its ends into your ears, wanting to listen to his lungs. Carefully untucking his shirt from the waistband of his cargo pants, you slipped your hand beneath the fabric and rested the auscultatory device against the skin of his back.

“Take a deep breath in for me. Hold it. Then slowly, slowly breathe out.”

Ever the soldier, he heeded your directive, his chest filling with oxygen. No crackling noises, and his respirations sounded regular, so you concluded that he had avoided puncturing a lung. Thankfully.

However, that still left the matter of the tenderness you’d felt in his torso as well as the fractures his ribcage had sustained.

“His ribs,” you diagnosed, withdrawing your hand from his heat, hanging the stethoscope around your neck, then rising to your feet to better address the captain. It unnerved you, the height difference between you and every single one of these men, and you thus had no desire to further add onto that preexisting disparity by staying on the ground. “They’re almost certainly broken, but we’ll do an x-ray to confirm. The good news is that the recovery should be quick and easy. He’ll be field-ready in no time at all.”

Price nodded, and the majority of his concern ebbed away, frown lessening. “But?”

“But.” There’d always be a but in this field. No good could come without being joined by the bad; they were a package deal. “The bad news is he’ll have to visit the medbay at least once a week so I can monitor how it’s healing.”

If you had fully turned around to face him then, you would’ve seen the sly grin that now illuminated his features, the glint that entered his eyes. Alas, you did not, and so his following words caught you off-guard, bringing heat to your cheeks.

“Seems we’ve got awfully different definitions of bad news, love.”

tbc.

#kyle gaz garrick x reader #kyle gaz garrick #kyle garrick x reader #kyle garrick #cod gaz #gaz x reader #cod #cod x reader #call of duty #whumptober #my fic #fic: ‘til my pulse loses time

[imagine-loki]

Atlas: Space, Neptune

TITLE: Atlas: Space

CHAPTER NO./ONE-SHOT: 10/12

AUTHOR: fanfictrashdump

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine narrating episodes of Loki’s life with the Avengers based on the songs from Sleeping At Last’s “Atlas: Space” album. 

RATING: T-M

NOTES/WARNINGS: Welcome to my Sleeping At Last’s Atlas: Space challenge, aka Another writing project I do not have time for, but my brain insisted on doing.

This series will be less like a multichapter fic and more of a one-shot compendium, but that they all interconnect in one way or another. It will revolve around Loki and Becca’s relationship (Taking Turns, Glow, Helmet Heists–don’t worry, more Loki-Charlie stuff will be along) and I will use those one-shots as reference to the timeline. Each chapter will be one song, used as inspiration for the story.

Chapter 10: Neptune

Summary: Loki and Becca have decided to discuss the last decade of their lives without each other. Loki finds that his absence has done much more harm than he intended, but he vows to make amends. (Immediately after Glow.)

Warnings include: Language, mentions of suicide, disease, cancer, implied smut, angst but ends well?

=

Pitch black, pale blue It was a stained glass Variation of the truth And I felt empty handed

They were meant to be taking turns, telling each other what had happened in that stretch of years since they had last met. He truly wanted to tell Rebecca of every detail she had missed due to his self-imposed exile, but the second the coffee, eggs, and toast hit the table, they both felt eerily silent. Loki stared at the black liquid swirling in his mug, tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. Despite the growing discomfort, his eyes inevitably pulled to her. Even after all this time, the very sight of her, as different as it was now, made his heart stutter. It immediately morphed into a constricting pain in his chest, forcing him to clear his throat awkwardly.

You let me set sail With cheap wood So I patched up Every leak that I could ’til the blame grew too heavy

Could he tell her the truth?

Sure, she deserved it. More than anything–the jewels and vast empires he wanted to gift her–she deserved the truth. Could he tell her that he had run just because he was afraid? What kind of monster would that make him? Especially now that he knew how much she had hurt in his absence. It felt like such an empty excuse now–perhaps it always was. Through the dip in her v-neck long-sleeve shirt, he could spy a glossy scar, perfectly round, beneath her collarbone. He felt a momentary compulsion to brush his fingers against the shiny skin, but he closed his hands around his mug.

Stitch by stitch, I tear apart If brokenness is a form of art I must be a poster child prodigy Thread by thread, I come apart If brokenness is a work of art Surely this must be my masterpiece

“Stop looking at me like that, for fuck’s sake,” she breathed out, teeth grit painfully tight. Loki blinked forcefully, and he almost asked what she meant before she interrupted. “Like you’re wondering whether or not I’m broken. I think you know I am.”

“No! I–” He stopped when she gave him a withering look for lying. “I’m sorry. It’s taking longer than I thought to reconcile seeing you…so different. It–”

Her face hardened, an expression that he was so unfamiliar with that it startled him. His own softened in response. “I did what I could with what I had. With who I had because I did not have the luxury to go off on some stupid space adventure–”

“I’m sorry. I will beg you on my knees until my dying breath for you to forgive me, but I can’t change any of that, Becca.” He growled at himself, taking a deep breath and staring upwards to get the prickling tears in his eyes under control. “Please, just eat your breakfast.”

“I’m not very hungry,” she replied, pushing her plate away.

“Rebecca,” he warned gently and she scoffed.

“You don’t get to do that, Loki.” She curled up in her seat, drawing her knees to her chest, protecting herself. “Coming back doesn’t give you an automatic pass. It doesn’t put us right back to where we left off.” Outside, the weather had taken its cues from her mood, and the window darkened with storm clouds.

I’m only honest when it rains If I time it right, the thunder breaks When I open my mouth I want to tell you, but I don’t know how

“I know. I am sorry. I am trying. I swear to you I am trying to figure out how to tell you that I am a shit individual and that I wish I could take back every single second that I wasn’t here. This wasn’t what I wanted for you. This was never–”

The tears finally won over, coming down his cheeks, unhindered, as he silently willed her to take a bite of toast, of eggs, anything. He clenched his eyes shut, head hanging low. His eyes had spied more shiny bits of skin, but these made his blood run cold.

“What are those scars?”

The way he asked the question left out any doubt of him knowing exactly what they were. He didn’t even need to watch her to know she had shifted her arms inwards.

I’m only honest when it rains An open book with a torn out page And my ink’s run out I want to love you, but I don’t know how

I don’t know how No, I don’t know how I don’t know how I want to love you, but I don’t know how

I want to love you…

“Desperation,” she answered after a long, long silence. “I didn’t have a Bifrost handy.”

She offered him a tight-lipped smile when his eyes shot up. It wasn’t like he didn’t already know, but the confirmation hurt all the same. He had been honest with her about his inner turmoil after he discovered he was adopted. It wasn’t a secret that he had let go of his adoptive father’s spear without a second thought. Becca had been so angry to learn that he felt like there was nothing else to do but fall into the abyss. He now understood that rage.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there.”

Becca snorted. “It’s kind of a one-person job, Lo.”

“That’s not funny!” He roared, landing his fist on the table hard enough to make the flatware rattle.

“You’re right. You’re right. It would’ve been a joke if I had said I needed a better supervisor to finish the job,” she riposted, deadpan.

His hand clenched around his coffee mug, almost debating if it was worth it to throw it against the wall so that it would relieve some of his tension, but deciding against it. He hurriedly swallowed a sip that scalded all the way to his stomach.

“I don’t know why you’re upset. You wanted to know what happened. That’s what happened. I worked, alone. I mourned your death. I got sick. I got carved up like a roast. I was sick while still being sick. I didn’t want to do it, anymore. I did something about it. I failed. Now you’re here. And I am glad, but loving you doesn’t make anything else any less real and it doesn’t make me any less angry.”

Her words felt like a weight upon his chest, threatening to crack it open.

“How can you still love me?” Loki’s voice was small and shaky.

That was the real question, wasn’t it? How could she even harbor indifference for him after his abandonment. He didn’t deserve her light, her kindness, her well-placed rage.

“I don’t know.”

Pitch black, pale blue These wild oceans Shake what’s left of me loose Just to hear me cry mercy

A strong wind at my back So I lift up the only sail that I have This tired white flag

The dam broke. A sob wrenched her chest and she lowered her head to her hands, fingers pulling at the short tresses in what had to be a painful way. “I don’t know,” she repeated. “None of this makes sense, but we never made sense, did we?”

Loki finally moved out of his seat, taking a knee in front of her and tracing shapes on her knees over her plaid pajama bottoms. “That’s not quite true, is it? You and I always clicked rather well, despite how much of a bad idea that was.”

“There’s not much left of me, nowadays, to click to anything.”

“I’ll give you every piece you need to be whole, again,” he assured. “Every molecule of me is already on borrowed time and I will give every instant to you if it’ll make you smile–”

Becca covered his mouth with her hand, which she dropped once he nodded in agreement of his silence. “I can’t live with promises, anymore. Don’t promise me a thing–”

“But–”

“Loki. A promise is worth nothing if you don’t follow through.”

“I swore to you that I would stay until you demand I leave.” He swallowed thickly and breathed deep. “I know I said that before, but I was an idiot, too scared to lose you, too scared of his own demons to love you as you deserved.” He settled back on his haunches, giving her space to breathe. “I am here for you, body, heart and soul. I surrender to you and only you. This is the only place I want to be, Becca.”

With a sniffle, she joined him on the floor, slipping into his arms to hug his middle. She shuddered at the familiarity of his touch, slightly cool, and smelling like pine and cinnamon.

Loki tentatively lowered his lips to hers, tasting the few sips of bitter coffee on her tongue. His body knew how to navigate far before his mind had even caught up to what was occurring. He sought to comfort her frantic nerves, hanging by the barest threads, soothe her mind and ease her burden. Lips trailed down her jaw until they reached her neck, where they settled against her pulse and nipped. When his fingers itched at the hem of her shirt, she stopped him with a hand around his wrist.

“I apologize. I moved too fast,” he panted, moving a fraction back to look at her face. A flash of lightning illuminated her face in an eerie glow.

I don’t know how, know how, know how I want to love you, but I don’t know how

I want to love you…

A dark shadow crossed her expression. “No, it’s not that.” He prompted her to continue with a nod. “I’m not the same.” He opened his mouth to protest, but she shook her head as a deterrent. “It’s not the weight, it's…”

He frowned, catching the hem of her shirt. He raised his eyebrows, silently asking for permission. Becca simply looked away, clenching her eyes shut. Loki slowly hitched her t-shirt up, ignoring the sight of her ribs, sticking out awkwardly, knowing he could remedy that easily enough, and soared past until reaching two large scars on her chest just below her now mutilated breasts.

“Who did this to you?”

Becca clenched her eyes tighter. This was clearly one of those things she did not want to talk about, but he wanted–needed–to know. “I got sick again,” she repeated for what she felt was the millionth time that day. “They had to…”

“Cancer?” He asked, breathlessly, his fingers tracing over her scars with a featherlight touch. He was familiar with the Midgardian disease, though he had not met anyone to suffer it, firsthand. She nodded her assent, jerkily. “Again? What do you mean, again?” Holding her breath, she leaned back, pulling her bottoms down just enough to show him the scar between her hips. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you when–”

“You were dead,” she said as way of excuse.

“I still heard your pain,” he admitted, swathing her skin with his hands. She only looked half surprised. “I was meant for Valhalla and through the darkness I heard you, and all I wanted was to reach you.” He pressed his forehead against hers.

“You did.”

“Much too late, dove.” He cursed under his breath, for what felt like the millionth time. “I should have stayed. I could have helped, anything.” When he couldn’t bare the what ifs any longer, he kissed her again, pulling her body into his. “I intend to make amends,” he husked, attacking her neck with renewed fervor, forcing a groan from Becca’s mouth. Her brief hesitation was short-lived as she wrapped her legs around his waist and he lowered them both to the floor.

“Thank you,” she murmured as the lay naked and panting on the floor some time later. “For not freaking out.”

“Why would I? I get to discover every inch of you all over again,” he replied, smiling contentedly, fingers idly brushing the scar over her womb in a way that made her shiver.

“Same.” She tapped a scar over his chest with her index. “What happened there?”

“That’s a long story,” he sighed, resting his head on her chest to listen to the steady thumping of her heart.

“We have time.”

“That we do.” He smiled, realized the implication of the phrase. He was to stay. “Well, it started with my oaf of a brother…”

#Loki #Lover #Angst #Others #Submitted fic #submission #Fanfictrashdump #chapter 10 #atlas space #neptune

[settle-down-frohike]

fic trope mashup: 38, 56

Spoilers: Redux II

Rating: R for language

38. Grief Fic 56. Awful first meeting, fill in the blanks fic

Part 2 of this (sort of a fleshing out of this) Sorry this one took me so long!! Tagging @today-in-fic and @edierone

Two nurses and a very insistent Maggie help him from the floor, huddling and fussing over him appropriately, his ears vaguely registering Scully’s voice in the background insisting that he go down to the ER to get checked out. Christ, but it was good to hear her scolding. He wished he could faint every day of his life from now on if only to hear her bark, “Mulder!!” over and over again. Voice meant breath and breath meant she yet lived. She lived. She was going to live.  Isn’t that what she had meant?

They finally all agreed on allowing him a cup of juice and a cookie to bring his blood sugar to an acceptable level, provided he stay put in a chair keeping his head between his legs, which suited him just fine being that he couldn’t bring himself to meet her eyes. He had no intention of making a sobbing spectacle of himself with Bill glowering in the corner like a petulant teenager.

What passed for a cookie was bland and dry but downed easily enough with the “juice” that tasted more like a melted popsicle than an actual orange. Slowly his racing heart began to recede to an acceptable rate and the sweat coating his body began to dry, leaving him sticky and chilled. Daring a glance up, he found Maggie at Scully’s bedside, kissing her daughter’s knuckles and thanking God, oblivious to Scully’s sobering definitions of what remission really meant, that the cancer was not gone in fact but dormant. The Devil would not be defeated, only smothered for the time being. According to their faith, Satan could only truly lose his hold on this world when a Savior had been born and sacrificed to one day resurrect from the dead, eventually claiming the victory in the Last and Holy war on evil. He knew of no such savior. Not yet, not in this story.

Time had been bought nonetheless, and as for Mulder, he could only thank whomever had been listening to his offer of sacrifice in the chapel. He would meet his end in exchange for this charity, of that he was sure. If it be tomorrow, he was ready. Samantha was alive, albeit a stranger to him, and Scully’s beautiful heart was still beating. He could be done with this life in a moment knowing those two things. Til death do we part…his left ring finger faintly tingled, sympathetic nervous system recalling Maggie’s thinly veiled hint at her understanding of the order of things.

He shook his head against maudlin thoughts, reaching desperately within himself to try and find a smile or at least a joke that Bill might find inappropriate given the circumstances. Finding none and feeling suddenly claustrophobic, he mumbled an excuse to use the men’s room, feeling rather than seeing Scully’s attempts to make eye contact. He felt her reaching for him, and he wasn’t yet strong enough to be any sort of tether, so he ran. Ever selfish, and wasn’t that just like him. Maggie was joyously sobbing on her phone to their priest it seemed, blubbering something about miracles and answered prayers. Bill continued to play the part of sullen watchdog, and though he would never admit it to the towering Irishman, Mulder was grateful. However misguided his actions, he loved his sister.  And maybe he was right to protect her from this ominous, looming form dressed in a suit. This fallen angel who seemed to have ushered in a good portion of their family’s sufferings. 

His legs still felt limp and toneless as he searched the hallway for any sign of a restroom, which mercifully ended up being just past the nurse’s station. Before he could truly embarrass himself once again he made it to the sink and began to splash generous amounts of icy tap over his cheeks and around his neck. His heart had begun to thud again suspiciously and he had hoped he could ward off another attack of the vapors. A look into the mirror revealed glassy eyes and ashen skin, and he chastised himself inwardly for his inability to pull it the fuck together. His heart continued to pick up its pace, and yet he could not physically draw in enough oxygen to pacify its need. A sudden painful, unrelenting tension in his chest began to build until he could only collapse back against the outside of a stall, desperately tearing at his collar and tie in search of freedom from a sense of helplessness and terror that had rapidly begun to consume him, making his vision swim and the floor seem to tilt on its axis.

A hand on his shoulder made him flail out reflexively, “DON’T TOUCH ME!!” he yelled at the beige blur hovering over him.

“Dude are you ok?” he could hear it say, barely able to make out shaggy brown hair and a stout form in what looked like a uniform.

“I’m fine…” he gasped, “I just can’t breathe. My chest—“

“I’m gonna get a nurse man hold on—“ 

“NO! No nurse…” Oh God he was dizzy. He was going to be sick. This oaf was probably going to have the calvary with a crash cart in here at any second and Scully had seen enough of his antics for one day. God please, just give her 24 hours of respite. He could die tomorrow he promised but give her today.  

“My chest…I just need to breathe. I can’t….my chest hurts…I just need to breathe…” he pulled futilely on the reigns of his galloping, runaway pulse, unable to command the beast that continued to carry him to a sure and humiliating death. 

“I can’t do this..I can’t do this…I can’t…’ the words tumbled from his mouth, unbidden.  The grip on his shoulder tightened, and he swatted weakly at the offending gesture.  

“Hey man I think it’s a panic attack. I get’m all the time. Listen to me you gotta breathe in your nose, dude. Breathe big. Big breaths. Focus on the floor, man. Look at the tiles. Focus on the still stuff.” 

Infinitesimally, the grout, then the grid like pattern of the floor came into focus, as did the owner of the west coast valley-guy accent. A janitor. Name tag: Todd…Young. No… Not young… Thirties…Flunky..Another wave of nausea washed over him as he watched the other man rise and swing the door open, then closed. 

“I put my sign on the door. Just take a minute man. It’s cool.” 

As the room around him expanded and stilled, the hysteria began to abate. His throat began to close around a heavy lump and stung behind his jaw, his mouth watering. He clenched his teeth and refused to cry on the grimy floor of a public restroom in front of an equally grimy guy who just so happened to have missed his calling as a therapist. With some effort, he swallowed the tears down along with his insulting first impressions. Todd sat cross-legged next to him, and remained otherwise silent for a time, allowing Mulder to finally reach some form of stasis. 

“You ok dude? Man I thought you were having a heart attack. Guess I made the right call, he chuckled soberly, “Shit. I’da lost my job. You aren’t gonna die on me anyway are you?”

Mulder chuffed, “Not today.” He’d managed finally not to gulp down air.  Todd nodded and added distantly, “Cancer ward, man. It happens a lot here.” 

Now Mulder was truly remorseful for his earlier aggression. This guy had probably seen a lot of grief in these halls. He wondered about this Good Samaritan. Probably tossed aside by most, and yet a blessing to the injured who happened along his path. Todd. He would not forget his name.

Feeling sufficiently contrite and knowing his extended absence from Scully’s room would not go unnoticed, he gathered himself from the floor and picked up his tie to tuck in his pocket. Whatever words of thanks he could have formed during another moment when his wits were about him, they weren’t forthcoming right now. Todd heaved himself up as well, and went to retrieve his cart. One job finished, another to start. Mulder understood the feeling. It never really does end. He strode slowly from the restroom, leaving Todd to his duties, and the festering source of his malaise bubbled up like a bratty child, refusing to be ignored. 

Samantha. The feel of her snatching her hand from his had been akin to a slice to his palm. Quickly over and done, leaving a gaping wound destined to scar. He had failed and yet he hadn’t. She was returned to him and yet rejected their reunion. He had her back and yet had lost her all over again. 

Scully. Alive and warm and…incomprehensibly lovely… and doctoring him from a hospital bed. He was so sure that call had meant the end. And yet they had been granted, by some deity or  malevolent force, another chance. A life to live or to barter for some future price, he had still to know. Why can’t he smile? Why can’t he be happy? He’d gotten what he wanted, hadn’t he? The questions presented themselves in his mind in Scully’s voice, not tauntin exactly, but coaxing him into focus on the here and now, on the what is, and not what might be. And wouldn’t that be just like her…Is just like her…because… she’s okay. Today, right now. She’s okay and in the next room to his left. The idea seemed so ridiculously improbable at that moment that he began to giggle, manically at first, then fitfully, finally collapsing into full blown sobs on the bench just outside her door. Hands hiding his face, head between his knees, just as he’d been instructed. For a moment, he had release. 

#myfic #prompts #asks #fic trope mashup #i dont know why but i pictured jack black as todd lol #maybe oneday i will finish this series #i think part 1 was like a year ago

[ascottywrites]

The Mini Bonnie-centric Fic List

Just a few of my favorite Bonnie Bennett revolving stories that I have found myself able to read and re-read over the years. 

Let’s face it, they did wrong by her and sometimes you just need the wrong-doings to be touched on instead of arbitrarily glossed over. And, ya know, some other interesting things thrown in. Like, who doesn’t dig time travel? 

if you love me (don't let go) by sarcastic_fina (Complete: 6/6| 76,135) --Bamon

"You think victims are born? No. Victims are made. And you? You're the perfect victim. Always willing to throw herself on the fire. A martyr. Because at least if you die saving them, they'll remember you."

Stranger then Fiction by norrific (wip: 28/?| 104,543) --Tonnie 

Oh my God, you're caught between a vampire and a wolf. You know who that makes you'

 'Don't say it, Caroline.'

 'Bella Swan.' 'I told you not to say it.'

 'Come on Bonnie, how could I not say it.'

*This story hasn't been updated since 2011, so I would think it's safe to say it's been abandoned BUT I still like re-reading what's there from time to time.  

SIlver Linings by Blood And Bites (godrics_quill22) (Complete: 13/13| 45,922) --Bamon 

“Bon bon” Damon made a sound between a groan and a whimper as her pulse sounded loud and harsh in his ear. He could feel his face changing, feel his fangs start to extend as the sweet nectar that was her blood beckoned him and yet he made no move. Never in his life has he felt so pained. “please...—” it came out as a broken gasp. Usually he would speed off but he couldn't even gather the strength to do that.

Something there (that wasn't there before?) by wavesketcher (Complete: 12/12| 29,463) -- Bamon 

It has been a month since Bonnie returned from the Prison World and everyone is adjusting. Damon and Bonnie's relationship has shifted but to what, and where does Elena Gilbert fit? Slow-burn Bamon.

The Summoning by Jazzywazzy08 (wip: 15/?) --Klonnie 

Bonnie is called by her ancestor to the time of the Originals to ensure that they remain human. However, everything doesn't go as planned. 

you know I will adore you ('til eternity) bysarcastic_fina (wip: 16/?| 165,113) --Bamon 

"Run all you want, but it won't change anything, Bonnie. It doesn't matter what world we're in, you'll always be my wife." After being sucked up into what they assumed would be oblivion, Damon and Bonnie soon find themselves in an idyllic little town where they're free to find peace. Which is exactly what they have for twelve years, until reality comes calling to bring them home.

The Truth is a Hard Thing to Admit by LilCoqui90 (Complete: 1/1| 793) --Bamon 

When Bonnie hasn't returned after an argument over his *immature* breakfast choices, Damon is forced to deal with what he may lose if she never comes back.

*just a shamless self promotion, yo

A Kiss Goodnight by Lapis Love (Complete 35/35|  241,517) --Stefonnie

It was movie night. One friend showed up and then moments later, a vampire with a notorious and voracious appetite arrived looking to turn Bonnie into dessert. He wanted to devour and she needed devouring. Re-live the love story of Ripper Stefan and Bonnie Bennett.

Think Twice by Lapis Love (Complete: 58/58| 458,478) --Bamon 

They were two sides of the same coin. Enemies that shared the same name, the same background, the same face. One had blue eyes. The other had black. Yet they both consumed the same woman. 

#bonnie bennett #bonnie x damon #Bamon #Stefan Salvatore #damon salvatore #klonnie #Tonnie #klaus mikaelson #bonnie x klaus #tyler lockwood #bonnie x tyler #bonnie-centric #TVD #the vampire diaries #10/10 would reccomend #fanfiction #ficrec #ficlist #recommendations #steffonie #rec list

[gaiyofanfiction]

The Stray District - Chapter 10 (Final)

Stray Kids Gang!Au

Lee Know x Reader

Drama

A/N: YAY WE FINALLY MADE IT TO THE LAST CHAPTER! I really am so thankful for all the positive feedback on this story. Thank you for all your support. Please come back to check on the sequal! <3 ~Yosei

I also wanted to give a shout out to @kunsequence @mujabbcco and @visualkeybusby for helping me edit throughout this book. Thank you so much, I couldn’t do it without any of you! <3

Warnings: PG13. Violence, Torture and Seductive Themes (Nothing sexual that crosses a line for underage idols.)

Disclaimer: This is pure fiction. All artists named in this fic are given a fake personality by me. This does not in any means reflect on the individual idol or groups. To my knowledge, they are all sweet, amazing people that wouldn’t hurt a fly.

~~~

It's said that when a moment of great significance in your life occurs, time tends to slow down. That's how it felt, anyway, when you watched with horror as your bodyguard and best friend crumpled to the ground in front of you. Time slowed down to the point where it felt like everything stopped.

“FELIX!”

Your knees buckle and you fall to the ground, crawling over to the unmoving boy. You pull his head into your lap, brushing his hair out of his face. Tears well up in your eyes, a full blown panic attack building up inside of you.

“Felix, no! Please Felix, please wake up!”

You gently shake his shoulders, desperately trying to wake up the boy you call family, your tears spilling down your flushed face. However, no matter how hard you shake him, he continues in his slumber. You once again hear the click of the gun in Taeyong's hands, but nothing comes out. You realize that the bullet that took Felix was the last one.

Something inside you snapped. Your eyes no long held anything but hatred, a low growl building deep in your throat. You slowly look up at Taeyong, the boy who shot your Felix, a cold, icy look making him swallow the lump in his throat. You gently lay Felix back onto the floor and stand up. Suddenly, you lunge at Taeyong, all your current pain forgotten. You knock him to the ground and straddle his body and deck him in the face. That's when all the humanity inside you left and was replaced with nothing but pure animal instinct. One punch after another, you land on that pretty face of his. He does his best to fight you off, but it's to no avail as he was still delirious from his previous fight with your and Lee Know's members.

“You. Fucking. Piece. Of. Shit. I'll kill you, do you hear me?! I'LL KILL YOU!” You scream into his face, landing punch after punch, tears streaming down your cheeks.

After about 5 seconds you feel hands grab onto your wrists, stopping you from beating the boy into the ground. “Y/N, stop! You need to stop!” It was Lee Know's voice, his hands who held your wrists.

“He killed Felix! He needs to pay! HE DESERVES THE SAME FATE!” You scream, not taking your bloodshot eyes off the NCT leader underneath you.

“Please, stop!” He whirls you around to face him and immediately his heart shatters. He sees your face bright red with anger, sweat dripping down your forehead, breath short and fast, you were seething with nothing but pure anger. But the thing that made him wince was the tears that kept coming and coming, the tears that were like a river down your flushed cheeks. He could see nothing but pure pain and terror flashing in your eyes. For as long as he's known you, he's never seen or even heard of you breaking down like this. The strong, independent, fierce leader of District 9, the girl he fell madly in love with, was completely falling apart right in front of him. And he didn't know what to do.

He pulled your trembling body into his, hugging you so tightly, no matter what you do, you can't escape. “I know he deserves it. But if you kill him and the cops find out, you'll be arrested. We wouldn't be able to buy them off this time, your blood and DNA are all over.” He lowers his voice into a whisper. “Please, stop. I can't lose you.”

With those words, your entire body freezes and then let's go. You wrap your arms tightly around the Stray Kids leader, your choked back sobs now coming freely. He pulls you off of Taeyong and into his lap, letting you feel every emotion that's inside you while you're safe in his arms.

“Boss!” Lee Know hears Changbin's voice. “Hey, he's still breathing!”

Your head snaps up to look at Changbin, who was bent over Felix, his ear to the boy's lips. Woojin runs over to Changbin and Felix, kneeling down to find the boy's pulse. Once he did, his gaze finds yours, a slight look of relief filling his eyes.

“He’s still alive. For now. But his pulse is very faint, he needs to see a doctor right away.”

You gasp a little and try to wiggle out of Lee Know's hold but a sharp pain in your shoulder and thigh causes you to hiss in pain. Lee Know shifts his arms so he's carrying you and stands up. Changbin follows suit, gently picking up unconscious Felix.

“Please, be careful with him.” You half whimper, eyes focused on Changbin and Felix.

Changbin looks at you, his eyes softening. “I promise I will.” He’s not one to show emotion but admires how much you care about your members.

“He won't let anything happen to Felix, hon. I can promise you that.” Lee Know kisses you on the cheek, making you blush. Once again, you glance at your bodyguard, worry circulating through your mind.

~~~

Hyunjin had called a friend of his who is a doctor on the way back home. By the time the 10 of you make it back to District 9’s hideout, Doctor Jinyoung and Youngjae had arrived just in time. Hyunjin had explained the situation to them over the phone, so they were prepared by the time you arrived.

As soon as everyone enters the hideout, Hyunjin, I.N, Seungmin, Chan and Han collapse onto the couch, exhausted from everything that had went down. Lee Know helps you inside, being careful of possibly hurting you again, while Woojin helps Changbin with Felix.

“Felix's room is down the hall. Second door on the left. If you could lay him down in there and the doctors could take a look at him.” You squeak out, your voice hoarse and weak. Changbin nods and follows Woojin to Felix's room.

You turn to Dr. Jinyoung and Youngjae. “Please, I don't know how bad the wound is, but please help him. He's my best friend. I don't know what I'd do without him.” Tears once again well up in your eyes, Lee Know giving your shoulder a squeeze in reassurance.

Dr. Jinyoung nods and gives you a soft smile. “We will do everything we can. It'll be a while, however, til we can stabilize him. But we won't leave here til we've exhausted every option to save him.”

You smile weakly and nod, thanking the two doctors. Dr. Youngjae looks down at your cut thighs and back up to your bruised neck. “Miss, you're also going to need medical attention.”

You shake your head, your voice turning slightly more authoritative. “I'll be fine. I've dealt with worse. Just right now I need you two to focus on Felix.”

Dr. Youngjae looks uncertain but nods anyway. The two of them follow Woojin and Changbin. The two gang members returned shortly, the door to Felix's room closed shut while the doctors work.

You sigh, running a hand through your hair. “At least it's all over. We're all safe.”

“For now. But NCT is still out there and they don't forgive easily. We still need to be on our guard.” Woojin points out. You nod, agreeing to his statement.

The room is quiet for a moment, making you suddenly very aware of your current state. You clear your throat. “Well, I will be going to my room to patch myself up.” You eye the boys around the room. “I wish to not be disturbed. No one is to walk in without permission, understood?”

They nod in agreement. You turn to walk away when Lee Know speaks up. “I'm coming to help.”

“Did you not hear what I said? I don't want to be disturbed!”

He waves a dismissive hand before taking yours and dragging you down the hall. “Yeah yeah. I'm coming anyway.”

You scoff, but your face turns bright red at his actions. Seungmin chuckles behind you. “Only he can make her so flustered.”

“Shut up!” You take your shoe off and throw it at the Drug Lord but miss as you are being tugged into your room. Lee Know shuts the door behind him and seats you onto the bed.

“You don't have to be in here, you know. I can take care of myself.” You cross your arms.

He raises an eyebrow, “is that right? How is your neck? And your thighs? Oh and the brand on the back of your shoulder after you had to antagonize the psycho children?” You pout, choosing to keep your mouth shut. He rolls his eyes. “Where's your first aid kit?”

You sigh and nod to the bathroom behind him, giving up this pointless fight. Lee Know walks into the bathroom and is back a second later with the large first aid kit. For the next few minutes, the gang leader cleans your cuts, both of you silent. You can't help but stare down at his beautiful, concentrated face. The corners of your mouth twitch into a smile.

“I knew I was handsome, Y/N, but I didn't know you liked me that much.” He raises his eyes, a smirk playing at his lips.

You let out a squeak and suddenly look anywhere else but him, making him chuckle. Another minute has passed before you open your mouth. “Did you mean what you said, about me being your girlfriend?”

Lee Know nods, “of course. I wouldn't say anything of the sort unless I meant it, my dear.”

“How did you just assume I'd be okay with it?” Your eyes narrow slightly.

“Because you can't resist me, my love.” He winks at you, causing your face to once again turn beat red.

“If you like me so much, why did you always mess with me and why did you kidnap me?”

He chuckles, “well, one, you're fun as hell to mess with. You're one of the only gang leaders who can keep up with me. Two, I really did want all of District 9 to myself.” He shrugs matter of factly.

You laugh slightly and run a hand through your hair, watching him finish bandaging up your legs. “So, what do we do now? Now that we're together, it would be stupid to be rivals again.”

Lee Know stands up, handling both of your hands in his. “Well, I can move in. But wherever I go, so do my boys. So. You now have 5 new roommates, yaaaaay!”

You groan and fall back onto your bed. “Where am I going to put all of you? I only have enough rooms for my boys and I.”

Lee Know crawls onto the bed, hovering over you. He let's a finger slowly flitter against your cheek, staring lovingly at you. “I'm sure they don't mind the couch or the floors. They've had it much worse before. We should probably look for a new place soon anyway, since NCT is still out there and they know where both of our hideouts are. Chan can help I.N with a new security system, so we wouldn't have to worry.”

You nod and mumble, “okay.” Your breath hitching. “But I'm still calling you Minho.” You don't take your eyes off the gorgeous man hovering over you.

Lee Know slowly lowers himself down til he's laying right on top of you. His lips gently brushes yours. “Fine. But you're the only one who can.” A smirk plays at his lips as he captures yours with his. The kiss was hungry and possessive. The makeout session lasts for a long time, the two of you stopping once in awhile to catch your breaths. He's been waiting for this moment for a long time, he'll be damned if anyone takes it away from him.

However, like the world is working against him, you suddenly both hear the door to your room open. “Y/N? Boss?”

You both turn your heads to see Changbin with his hand on the door knob. You groan, “okay, so your boys don't knock either?!”

“Ugh. I swear to god, this better be important!” Lee Know's voice raises, causing Changbin to slightly flinch.

“It's Felix. He's awake.”

The two of you snap to attention upon hearing the news. Your heart pounds as you run out of the room and into Felix's. As soon as you enter, your greeted with a half smiling Felix.

“Hey, Boss.”

Tears well up in your eyes as you pounce on the injured boy. He groans out in pain but doesn't care. He wraps his good arm around your trembling body and pulls you in for a tight hug. The rest of the boys file in after you, relieved to see Felix is alive and awake.

“Hey, hey. It's alright. I'm fine.” He rubs your back gently.

“What do you mean, it's alright?!” You snap softly at the boy, pulling away slightly. You give him a chastising look. “Lee Felix, how dare you get shot and almost die for me! I'm so mad at you right now!”

He rolls his eyes. “Y/N, that's my job. I swore I would protect you with my life and I stand by that promise.”

“Except you're not supposed to die! You're Felix! You're the strongest, fastest body guard in the world! Nothing can happen to you!”

“Hey! What about me?!” Changbin complains.

“Shut up, Changbin.” you wave your hand dismissively.

Everyone laughs at your antics, making Changbin pout. Lee Know pats him on the head. “Awe, don't worry Binnie. You're still my favorite bodyguard.” Changbin swats his hand away with a frown.

You hear a throat clear, making the group of you turn your heads. Dr. Jinyoung smiles awkwardly. “I just wanted to explain that we were able to retrieve the bullet it had lodged itself in his left shoulder. He'll be okay but he will have limited to no use in his left arm for awhile. If he wishes to heal properly, he needs to be resting as much as he can.”

You nod understandably. You send the two doctors a small smile. “Thank you.” They bow their heads and take their leave.

Once they're gone, the boys mingle among themselves. You turn to Lee Know. “We should explain the situation at hand.”

He nods, suddenly snapping his fingers, accompanied by a sharp whistle. Immediately the room goes silent, all eyes on the two of you. “Alright, since it's pretty clear a few things have changed within the dynamic of our two groups, we've come to a mutual decision.”

“We've decided that Stray Kids are going to move in with us.” The boys all groan, mumbling protests under their breath. Your expression turns dark, your voice low and menacing. “I know I didn't just hear back talk out of any of you. Stray Kids will be moving in with District 9. We will ALL learn to get along or there will be severe consequences. Have I made myself clear?”

The boys swallow the lumps in their throats, nodding vigorously in agreement. After making sure they truly listened to you, you snap back into a cute smile. “Good!”

Chan leans closer to I.N, “damn, she's scary.” I.N nods, eye wide.

“So, Han, Chan, Changbin and Hyunjin. You four have the freedom to choose where you'd like to sleep. Anywhere is fine.”

“Oh, I call dibs sleeping with Y/N!” Han excitedly jumps up and down, waving his hands.

You roll your eyes. “Hell no you don't.”

“Awe but you said I get to choose!”

“Han, knock it off. You won't be allowed to go anywhere near her room.” Lee Know growls. “I'll be the one sleeping in there.”

Han groans and pouts. Seungmin pats the boy on the head. “Hey, do you wanna go check out my lab?”

Han raises a brow in curiosity. “You have a lab here? Can we blow something up?”

Seungmin shrugs. “Yeah, sure.”

Han lights up, a smile back on his face. “Sweet! Let's go!” Seungmin leads Han out of the room and into the basement where he keeps all his supplies.

“Do you guys at least have a gun range so I can practice?” Hyunjin sighs, slightly upset he has to leave behind his range at home.

Woojin chuckles and pulls out his weapon, twirling it in his fingers. “Yes, we do. I also just got in the new Cold Steel 80PGTK Gi Tanto set, if you’re interested.”

Hyunjin let's out a small gasp, “no fucking way! Those are so hard to find in this District!” Hyunjin excitedly follows Woojin out of the door, eager to see the set of knives.

Lee Know turns to you and grabs your hands, a smile slipping onto his lips. “That seemed easier than I thought. Maybe this will work after all.”

You smile back, placing a kiss to the back of his hand. “I'm really glad. I was nervous for a bit there.”

I.N and Chan stand there, awkwardly watching this weird and cute exchange between the two of you. I.N leans over to chan. “Hey, do you want to go hack into the U.S air base system and change all the missile launch codes?”

Chan blinks. “Yes. Yes I do.” He follows I.N out of the door to cause some trouble.

That leaves You, Lee Know, Felix and Changbin standing in the room together. Changbin plops down on one of the comfy chairs in Felix's room, leaning back. “I want to stay here.”

“What? Hell no! Go sleep on the couch.” Felix glares at the bodyguard.

You turn your own glare onto your own bodyguard. ���Felix, play nice. Changbin was the one who discovered you weren't dead yet and carried your unconscious ass back here.”

Felix's face turns a bright red. “Oh. O-Okay then. Fine, stay here or whatever.” You notice the blush on his face and giggle to yourself.

Lee know leans into you, his voice almost a whisper. “Looks like everything is fine now. Shall we go to bed? I know we are both exhausted and could use some sleep.”

You groan at the sudden heaviness you feel in your limbs. “Yes, god, please.” Out of nowhere, Lee Know sweeps you off your feet and carries you bridal style into your room, kicking the door shut with his foot.

That night, all 10 of you had gotten the best sleep you've had in awhile, happy that everything worked out in the end.

~~

A groan is echoed in the large, metal room. Jaemin blinks as his consciousness comes to. He goes to hold his head in his hands but his arms won't budge. He looks behind him to see him, Haechan and Jisung tied together.

“What the fu- how did we end up like this?”

He thinks hard for a moment when suddenly a vision of Lee Know punching him in the face flashes through his mind. He instantly growls, pissed he let that happen. Suddenly the door to the room busts open to reveal a bruised and battered Renjun, Jeno, Mark, Chenle and Lucas.

“What the fuck happened in here?!” Lucas’ eyes widen.

“Well what the fuck happened to you five?” Haechan's voice speaks up in response, signaling him having woken up.

“Fucking Stray Kids and District 9, is what happened. Surprised the hell out of us.” Mark mumbles, rubbing his head.

“They are so ficking dead for this.” Jisung growls. He had also finally woken up.

Mark and Jeno go to untie Haechan, Jisung and Jaemin from their binds. Renjun kneels down onto the floor where a body lay. “Goddamn, they beat the hell out of Taeyong.” He checks his pulse to make sure he was still alive. It's very faint, but it's there.

Renjun lets out a low growl, his anger raising. “Oh, they are so not getting away with this. Those fuckers don't know who they messed with. Not only beating the hell out of all of us, but taking what rightfully belongs to me.” A smirk spreads across his face. “This isn't over, not by a long shot. We will take District 9 and their Lovey Leader Y/N along with it.”

~~~

<prev|

[Masterlist]

#stray kids #stray kids reactions #stray kids fanfiction #stray kids angst #lee know angst #lee know #lee know x reader #minho x reader #minho angst #nct dream #nct dream angst #nct #kpop angst #kpop reactions #kpop scenarios #stray kids scenarios #gaiyofanfiction

[wordsablaze]

Twice Bitten

What if Walter had also been bitten by a second snake and the venom had just taken longer to show its effects? Set as a continuation of S01E18... enjoy!

A/N: I recently got into Scorpion (I adore it) and I end up writing many angsty drabbles since there's just so much potential (despite having other fics to write -oops) so here's the only one I currently deem acceptable :)

Special Agent Cabe Gallo is a lot of things and protective over his more or less son is one of them.

Said son, namely the one and only Walter O'Brien, had willingly allowed a venomous snake to bite him earlier that day and nothing about that was okay.

Granted, he'd factored in the chances of his team successfully making an antidote and he'd brilliantly prevented a world war but that didn't mean he was okay.

Who would be, though, after falling into a box of venomous snakes and having to make the choice of being poisoned?

So, when Paige smiles gratefully and disappears to take her exam, Cabe’s attention is solely focused on Walter.

“Hey, kid, you doing okay?” Cabe asks as gently as he can.

Walter turns back to him and nods.

Then promptly collapses.

Cabe vaguely hears himself call out Walter's name as he watches the genius’ eyes flutter shut before, along with the rest of him, disappearing from view.

He's out of the car in record time, as if they'd just tempered with his brain again, forgetting everything in favour of trying to help the man he considers his son.

He's too late to stop Walter from hitting the ground with a painful thud but he kneels beside him, practically cradling him as he gestures to the policeman currently pulling out his phone.

“Don't call an ambulance, he'll be long gone by the time it gets anywhere,” he orders, then taking Walter's temperature.

Walter shifts in his arms and mutters something about codes before slumping again, and Cabe's heart almost misses a beat before he can identify a pulse.

Dialling the Garage, he starts talking as soon as he hears the click of the phone being picked up. “Get your best medical equipment ready, Walter's just collapsed and his fever is through the roof.”

Tired swearing echoes down the phone and then Tony's firing questions at him that he tries his best to answer as he manoeuvres Walter into the passenger seat of his car but how on earth is he meant to provide a rough estimate of just how high Walter's blood pressure is currently reaching?

“Uh, you've got roughly ten minutes before it'll be too late for us to cook up an antidote in time, especially since we have no idea which snake bit him, so get moving right now!” Sylvester softly yells down the phone.

Walter groans suddenly and Cabe freezes, glancing over him and noticing the way his hands are slowly clenching.

“Hold on, kid, it won't take long.”

“G’llo?” Walter mumbles, struggling to sit up properly.

“Stay still, Walter!” Cabe all but orders, not meaning to shout but unable to help it in his concern.

Still, regret stings in his heart when Walter flinches, seemingly resigning himself to whatever situation he believes he's currently undergoing.

“Hey, Cabe, how red are his eyes?” Tony's voice rings out from the car's speakers even though Cabe definitely hadn't reconnected them; that's just how it is when he practically fathers a gang of geniuses.

“Hang on,” Cabe mutters before reaching towards Walter, who flinches again but stares directly at Cabe in unneeded defiance.

“I wasn't going to hurt you, son,” Cabe whispers, then turns his attention to Toby. “His eyes are perfectly fine, aside from them leaning towards closed most of the time.”

He hears Sylvester's voice in the background and decides to turn back to Walter, noticing the way he's still staring in anticipation.

“What's your favourite colour, kid?”

Walter blinks. “Colours are a product of sensitive cones and rods in our eyes and mostly serve to identify the surroundings around us. We cannot experience one colour without knowledge of each other option and a typically favoured colour is usually just symbolic to the absence of any others so I can't really answer that question.”

Of course, he slurs half his words and Cabe has to make some educated guesses for them but the general idea is perfectly clear and this may be the only time he's truly happy about that.

“You just don't give up, do you?”

Walter shakes his head but his skin seems to be paling at an alarming rate and there's only so long the two of them can pretend he's fine.

“Cabe, does he have a rash?” Happy's voice this time.

“Negative. But he's slowly losing consciousness, you guys had better be ready for when we get there,” he warns as nicely as he can.

“Hurts,” Walter mumbles almost too quietly. “Burns worse than coffee…”

“Don't you dare!”

“‘M sorry, ‘m sorry,” Walter slurs, then repeats that for just over a solid minute in which Cabe breaks at least six traffic laws.

As soon as he's pulling up to the garage, Toby and Happy are opening the door and pulling Walter out, Toby supporting him and rambling to Happy, who runs ahead and starts yelling at Sylvester.

Cabe takes only a brief moment to appreciate how loyal the team is before sprinting into action as well, locking the car door and following the others.

Within seconds, everything is shoved off the countertop in favour of Walter being placed there. He winces at the harsh landing but Cabe's here to stop him falling off, gently steadying him as he clenches his fists, clearly in pain.

“Pupils are still dilating, cross off the options I told you!” Toby yells to nobody in particular but Sly hums affirmatively anyway.

“Where's the homogeniser?” Happy asks from upstairs.

“Second grey cabinet!” Cabe calls back, unsure of how he knows that.

He stands next to Walter and takes his hand, unfurling his fist and squeezing gently. “Come on, son, don't be taken out by a snake…”

Walter groans, his eyelids fluttering. “Ankle,” he rasps shakily.

Toby gasps. He rolls back Walter's trousers, allowing them to see two small puncture marks and a purple hue creeping up the surrounding veins.

Cabe curses to himself as Toby pokes the area next to the bite and Walter hisses in pain, his limbs circling inwards.

“It's okay, we'll fix this, you know that,” Cabe reassures him, simultaneously reassuring himself as well.

“I don’t-” Walter cuts himself off, coughing, and Toby jumps back in alarm, crashing into Happy, who just about avoids dropping the machine in her hands.

“Toby!” she glares at him, then grimaces at the sight of Walter. “That does not look good.”

“He’ll be fine,” Cabe says firmly, clenching his jaw.

As if on cue, Walter moans in pain and starts shaking, his eyebrows furrowing as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Sly!” Toby yells, running off to his desk and rooting through a drawer.

“Got it! Happy, here!”

His voice sounds so urgent, even Happy can’t linger any longer, but at least that means they’re getting somewhere.

“My fault....” Walter mumbles softly, his eyes opening ever so slightly and meeting Cabe’s concerned gaze.

“What? Son, this isn’t your fault,” Cabe whispers, the quietness of his voice surprising him.

“Should- Should’ve known…”

Cabe lets his eyes shut for a second before shaking his head, pushing Walter’s hair back even though it’s not nearly long enough to be in the way. “We’ll fix this.”

“I'm not-” Walter cries out suddenly, his back arching off the counter and his muscles going taut.

“Guys!” Cabe doesn’t take his eyes off Walter for a second, watching him carefully even as Happy declares that she needs a minute, hoping that his visible difficulty breathing doesn’t take a turn for the worse any time soon.

“Stay with me, son,” Cabe says, slightly desperate.

Walter stills so abruptly it seems surreal.

“O’Brien?” Cabe asks, then places two fingers on his neck to take his pulse. Except that his pulse isn’t there and his skin feels as warm as embers.

“Breathe, kid!” Cabe shouts.

Walter does not.

Cabe’s about to start chest compressions when Toby crashes into him, breathless. He pauses for a split second before plunging a syringe into Walter’s thigh, emptying the contents into Walter’s bloodstream before actually taking a breath.

“C’mon, c'mon!”

Walter’s breath hitches and he splutters, coughing violently.

“Oh my- Walter!” Happy catches him just as he rolls sideways, narrowly avoiding him toppling onto the floor and giving himself a concussion.

Cabe’s there in an instant, ignoring his galloping heart in favour of steadying Walter and giving Sylvester, who looks too hesitant to come any closer than a metre away, a grateful nod.

“I- I ha- hate snakes,” Walter manages, groaning.

Toby lets out a nervous laugh and pulls the empty syringe out, placing a comically bright plaster over the tiny wound. “Well, for the right fee, I can help fix that for you.”

“Seriously?” Cabe asks, but everyone knows a small comment like that was well-needed to relieve the tension.

“No more stupid plans,” Cabe orders, mock-glaring at Walter because he knows the genius will never change, no matter how many times his life hangs on the line.

Walter nods anyway and with the support of Cabe and Toby, he just about manages to sit up, his breathing evening out a little.

“Well, uh, on the good side, your chances of surviving another snake bite are statistically higher than the average person now,” Sylvester mutters.

Walter smiles weakly. “Good… to know. Thank you.”

As if gratitude had tired him out, Walter then all but collapses backwards onto Cabe, his eyelids fluttering rapidly again.

Toby holds up a hand before anyone can express concern. “It’s fine, he should be knocked out ‘til morning. Perfectly normal.”

"Nothing about this is perfectly normal," Happy mutters, either bemused or irked; nobody can quite tell.

“Right, well, I’m taking him upstairs. Thank you all,” Cabe says, nodding at the three of them in turn before frowning at Walter and choosing to simply scoop him up bridal style because one or two compromising pictures are worth quicker comfort for someone who’d essentially just died.

He can hear a camera shutter click as Walter’s head falls against his shoulder but he just ignores it, carrying the idiotic genius up the stairs and placing him on the bed, exhaling slowly.

“That was too close, kid. You’ve got to stop risking your life like that…” Cabe finds himself whispering again, glancing over Walter in both regret and relief.

Walter’s too unconscious to care but he does stir slightly, curling toward Cabe. He might not even know he’s doing it but that brings a genuine smile to Cabe’s face and so he chooses to settle beside Walter, knowing he’s not about to leave before morning.

“Sleep well,” Cabe murmurs gently.

It’s the closest he’s felt to being a father in a very long time.

like/reblog but please don’t repost, thanks! masterlist

#scorpion #fanfiction #fanfic #walter o'brien #cabe gallo #toby curtis #happy quinn #sylvester dodd #scorpion team #hurt comfort #angst #snake bite #s01e18 #once bitten twice die #twice bitten #my writing #hopefully i'll write something more concrete eventually #here's to another fandom <3

[dabiapologist]

[My Hero Academia Fanfiction]: Like We’re Running Out of Time

For the DabiHawks Gift Exchange 2k18!

@how-to-train-your-kirishima , Surprise! I was your partner for the exchange! Sorry for being a day late, hope you enjoy the fic <3

Rated E

Word Count: 6.2k

Tags: Hooking up, on the DL, Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Handjobs, Semi-Public Sex, Exhibitionism, Light Dom/sub, Light Bondage, quirks used for sex, Overstimulation, Sex Toys, Gift Exchange, dabihawks gift exchange, #NSFWDabihawksGiftExchange, Bottom Dabi (My Hero Academia), Bratty Bottom Dabi is my life force

It’s funny to him how Dabi is both the main source of his stress and the relief at the same time.

Read it on || AO3

                                                                  1.

Hawks learns early on that Dabi is capricious by nature.

He often wonders if it’s a villain thing or a Dabi thing to be as fickle and unhinged as he is; probably both. So when Dabi unexpectedly grabs him by the sleeve and pulls him into a bar, Hawks decides it’s not worth the effort to fight it. He’d been in a sour mood for most of the night, for reasons which remain a mystery to Hawks, given that Dabi is not much of a sharer.

But now, two hours in and an untold number of tequila shots later, Dabi seems to be in much higher spirits and is once again tugging at his sleeve-- this time they’re headed for the bathroom.

“If you stretch my sleeve out you’re buying me a new jacket,” Hawks mutters. It barely registers over the booming bass coming from the stage at the other end of the bar, and Dabi doesn’t react, so Hawks assumes his complaint went unheard.

They’re barely in the door before Dabi grabs him by the collar and shoves him into one of the stalls. Between the four of them: Dabi, Hawks, and both of his human-sized wings, it’s cramped as all hell in the tiny stall but that makes no nevermind to Dabi, who looks wicked and determined.

“Here ?” Is the only thing Hawks can say when Dabi bites at his lips. Dabi likes to kiss with teeth.

“Yeah.”

This is a popular bar. It’s crowded. There’s people walking in and out of the bathroom as they speak; some laughing, some puking, some thoroughly wasted. Hawks flushes, arousal and anxiety growing the more packed the bathroom gets. He’s not known for his expert silence during sex, and the walls in this bathroom are the kind that carry sound a little too well.

His only saving grace is that, whether for ambiance or frugality, the lighting in here is shit. No one would be sober enough to recognize his silhouette.

“People are gonna hear us, you know.” He whispers.

Dabi kisses him deep and slow, completely unguarded as he wraps an arm around Hawks’ neck. He tastes like a night full of bad decisions. He can feel Dabi smiling against his mouth between kisses and nips, but he doesn’t say anything for a long while. Gradually, his free arm slides down his back, the heat enough to set his feathers quivering against the cold stall wall, over his hip, down between them to cup the prominent bulge in Hawks’ pants.

Dabi is capricious. He lives and fucks like he has nothing to lose.

“Then we’ll make it good for them, too.” He finally says.

And, fuck, it is impossible to say no to him when he starts to sink to his knees, looking up at Hawks with those cold blue eyes as he tugs his zipper down.

Hawks huffs, resigning himself to a blowjob in a dirty toilet stall in a shady bar. This isn’t how he used to spend his Thursdays.

“Or...we can go back to your place, if you’d prefer?” Dabi says with a teasing smile. Hawks glares back down at him. Like hell I’m going anywhere like this. His cock is rock hard in Dabi’s warm hand, and the warmer it gets, the more of a fog Hawks’ mind falls into.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Dabi says quietly, laughing. Hawks doesn’t care enough to respond. He leans back against the stall wall, sighing every ounce of tension out of his body as his eyes slide shut. It’s been a long week, and right now, the thought of his cock in Dabi’s mouth is the only thing that is keeping his mood and stress above water.

It’s funny to him how Dabi is both the main source of his stress and the relief at the same time.  

He tamps down a throaty moan when Dabi takes the tip in his mouth way too tenderly, gently flicking and circling his tongue over the tip for a bit before taking it a little deeper. The wet sounds of Dabi’s mouth moving over his cock seem to reverberate in the present quiet of the small bathroom.

Right now, it’s empty, so Hawks allows the soft groan that’s been building in the back of his throat to finally escape. Dabi hums around his cock in response, quickening the pace.

“Fu-fuck, Dabi…” Hawks grunts when Dabi takes his full length in his mouth, mouth vacuum tight around his cock. His leg jolts when Dabi releases him with a wet, lewd pop, taking some time instead to suck one of his balls.

His phone starts vibrating in his pocket. It is then that Hawks vaguely remembers that he is still technically on duty, so he’s obligated to check who it is that’s calling. But just as his hand starts to slide into his pocket, Dabi licks up the underside of his dick so torturously slow that all conscious thought leaves him in that moment.

“God, Dabi, I love your fuckin’ mouth,” He moans out loud, the words not coming from his brain, but from every inch, every nerve in his body.

“Yeah, I know you do.” Dabi says with a chuckle before leaning back in to finish him off.

“Do the thing, pl-please,” Hawks begs-- he absolutely hates hearing the need in his tone, but he needs to end this week on a high note, and there is no higher note than the sheer euphoria that comes with the orgasm that Dabi can give him.

“Man, the live band is really awesome tonight, what’s the na-”

Fuck. Some guys just walked in, disrupting the perfect heat and tension in the room. But it’s only for a second. Dabi has him fully in his mouth again, his cockhead hitting the back of his throat hard and fast, and he knows Dabi heard him. He knows Dabi knows what he needs.

If they hear him come, oh fucking well.

Truth be told, his body has been aching for this for weeks, and it will not be denied for a second longer.

“Yo, shh… I think someone’s getting blown in one of the stalls…” Hawks overhears one of them say. He could laugh. That’s putting it pretty fucking mildly, he’d say.  

The cat calls start not long after, but Hawks is too far gone to be irritated by it. If anything, it only adds to the mood.

“Suck him good, baby,” One of them says, and he can feel Dabi pause. He slowly pulls back, giving Hawks’ cock a teasing lick.

“Oh, I am,” He calls back, effectively silencing the lot of them, “Now either shut up or fuck off.”

Hawks loves the silence that follows. He’s not sure if they’re still there or not, but he could care less.

Dabi takes him by the tip again, head bobbing good and slow over the turgid flesh. Hawks’ hand flies into Dabi’s hair on reflex, wordlessly begging for that sweet heat. And Dabi always obliges him, if only to hold it over his head later.

His mouth falls open, letting his shuddered and uneven breaths come out unhindered. Dabi’s mouth starts to get hotter as the seconds go by. He doesn’t alter his pace, keeping Hawks on a smooth, slow gradient. But his mouth is fit tight around his reddened cockhead, his soft moans as he moves sending pulses up Hawks’ body as the temperature rises.

Dabi has truly mastered every aspect of his quirk. Hawks both loves and hates how impressive his control is. Both over his quirk, and over both of their bodies.

His climax is not silent, and it’s not gentle.

He chants Dabi’s name over and over again, gripping Dabi’s hair and the stall wall behind him hard as his body spasms and twitches in Dabi’s grip. Dabi keeps blowing him even after he’s spent, relishing in the squeaks and pitchy whines Hawks lets out at the overstimulation. His mouth is still so deliciously hot as it moves over his cock.

“Fuck, you’re so good…” He purrs, delirious with bliss and very, very drunk. Dabi finally lets him go after a few minutes, but not completely. He licks and kisses along Hawks’ cock, from the still oozing tip to the thick vein along the underside.

“...Damn… Can I get next?”   The person in the next stall suddenly says.

That's the first and only time Hawks ever sees Dabi genuinely laugh.

                                                                                                                      2.

Turns out, the call he had ignored was from his overlords at the hero commission. And come the next morning, they are none too pleased with him and his spectacular lack of reportable intel.

“How close do you think you are to gaining entry into the league?”

Hawks sighs. “Frankly, not any closer than I was last time. My, uh-” His cock is still pleasantly sore from the searing blowjob Dabi gave him last night, and it takes a lot of focus for him not to zone out thinking about Dabi and his hellishly hot mouth around his cock.

“-my liaison in the league isn’t known for his… what’s the word I’m looking for here… his, uh, chattiness ,” Hawks helps himself to the glass of water one of the secretaries set down for him. “It’s taking a little longer to crack him than I anticipated.”

His phone buzzes twice while his boss continues to lay out their plans for the league. Hawks discreetly peaks at the screen.

Speak of the devil.

Where r u

Rude. Hawks scoffs as he quickly types a reply.

Busy rn ill text u later

“Hawks, did you hear a word I just said?”

Hawks quickly snaps back to attention. “Yes ma’am. Sorry, got a text from one of my sidekicks. Nothing serious.”

She looks unconvinced, but lets it slide. “Fine.”

His phone buzzes again a few minutes later.

Does it look like i can wait til later?

      (1) New image  

He shouldn’t open it. Not here, not now. Hawks knows this. This would be the literal worst possible time to see whatever it is Dabi sent him. He knows it’s probably dirty, probably a little x-rated.

And yet, here he is, with his finger still hovering dangerously over the attachment.

Hawks chews his lip. Fuck it.

He opens it. Dabi’s unfairly pretty blue eyes stare back at him, looking incredibly smug for someone who clearly has no clothes on. He’s lying on his stomach, butt naked. From the angle he took the picture at, Hawks can only get a small glimpse of that tight, pert ass over Dabi’s shoulder, but he’s sure that was the point. Dabi only ever shows enough to entice. To incite a reaction.

He’s definitely gotten what he wanted, in that regard.

“Motherfuck,” Hawks pants out loud. Luckily for him, everyone is listening rapt to the presentation and no one hears him. He studies the picture a little more, drinking in the little subtleties. Dabi looks damp, his hair hanging more in his face than usual and curling at the ends. Droplets of water are visible on his bare arms and the top of his chest.

Now it’s Hawks turn to ask.

Where r u?

But after he sends the text, he stares at the picture, sharp eyes zeroing in on a very familiar sight. That plaque on the wall behind Dabi is all too familiar. Because Hawks’ name is on it.

And Dabi’s response confirms what Hawks already knows.

I'm in your room. Hurry up and get here.

Another text comes before Hawks has a chance to fully process the first.

I’ve been lying here fingering myself for the past half hour. Prepping for you.

Hawks can’t help but smile at the marked change in grammar and punctuation that takes place when Dabi sexts him. It’s kind of cute.

Oh yeah? He texts back, Are you nice and stretched for me?  

He can feel his cock starting to harden in his pants. Shit.

Dabi’s next text gets him rock solid. He can practically see the smirk on Dabi’s face as he types it out.

No resistance.

“Sorry to interrupt everyone, but I have an emergency that just came up.” Pfff. Understatement of the fuckin’ year.

He waves off their protests and races out of the room without looking back once. He doesn’t bother with the stairs or elevators. Instead, he pushes open a nearby window and jumps out, letting the wind catch his wings. His place is a ways off from this building, but he’s a fast flyer, especially when something worth the strain he puts on his wings is waiting for him.

Because when Dabi says ‘no resistance’, he isn’t just talking about his body.

***********

“I was in a meeting.”

“Don’t care.”

“It was important .”

“And yet here you are, in bed with me.”

Hawks grins against Dabi’s skin, gives it a slow lingering kiss, savoring the tingling in his lips from the warmth. “What can I say? You’re very persuasive. I saved that selfie, by the way. In case I ever need to blackmail you.”

Dabi groans something unintelligible into one of the pillows as Hawks rolls his hips once last time before finally pulling out and lying down next to him on the damps sheets. They lie in comfortable silence for a bit, each coming down from their climaxes, letting their bodies cool off. Hawks’ eyes fall shut and he slings an arm over his eyes with a satisfied sigh.

“I needed that,” He says after a while. His hand moves from its resting place on his stomach, slides down his front to reach for his cock. He tugs the condom off gently and ties it off before tossing it vaguely in the direction of his waste bin. It lands on the floor instead.  

Dabi mumbles something in agreement before shifting to a more comfortable position. Well, about as comfortable as he can get really; Hawks’ feathers are tight around his wrists and wrapped around the metal bars of Hawks’ headboard. The bright red against black lacquered metal quickly reminds the both of them of Dabi’s current captivity.

“Are you gonna take these off of me any time soon?”

“What’s the matter sugar , are they too tight?”

He gets the reaction he was hoping for. Dabi turns to him slowly, eyes sharp and irritated behind heavy lids.

“They’re fine. And don’t call me that again.”

Hawks chuckles, biting his lip. He fishes around under the sheet, feeling for the tiny remote that had gotten lost in the midst of the vicious, frantic fucking that had taken place not twenty minutes ago.

“You’re tied to my bed, Dabi,” Hawks says when he finally finds it. He taps “ON” and dials it up to the second setting. Immediately, a soft buzzing whirs from underneath Dabi’s body, and the other man hisses a curse. “I don’t think you’re really in any position to be telling me what do right now.”

He dials it up to three as he lies back, propping himself up on his side. “You bought this ticket, now you’re taking the fuckin’ ride.”

Four.

Dabi’s already panting softly and writhing at the suddenly way too intense stimulation; Hawks licks his lips with a pleased noise as he watches Dabi’s hips start to grind into the mattress. But the bullet strapped to the underside of his cockhead isn’t going to be moved so easily. He made sure of that.

“Fuck,” Dabi moans, his voice rising a couple of octaves. But Hawks can see the smile on his face as he struggles against the intense sensations. He loves this.

“Want it higher?”

Dabi mumbles something that barely sounds human, let alone Japanese. Hawks leans over and gives him a swift slap on the ass. He never thought he’d see the day where he got to hear Dabi, serial arsonist and murderer, leader of the Vanguard Squad of the League of Villains, and Shigaraki Tomura’s right-hand man, yelp like a child, but since they started hooking up, it’s become a sound that Hawks is not only familiar with, it’s one that goes straight to his cock every single time. He strokes himself a few times as he sits up and walks in his knees to seat himself between Dabi's spread thighs. It doesn’t take much effort to get himself fully hard again. Dabi makes for a hell of a sight.

“Words, Dabi. Use your words.” He instructs as he rips open another condom and slides it on.

Dabi licks his lips. “Ye...yes. Higher. Please.”

Hawks shuts it off instead.

The feathers around Dabi’s wrists come undone briefly, if only long enough for Hawks to immediately grab him and roughly flip him over onto his back. They return to their previous position as Hawks makes himself comfortable between Dabi’s spread legs. He scoots in closer and pulls Dabi’s legs further apart, one resting on each side of him and giving him full access to any and every part of Dabi’s body he wants tease.

“That's better,” He says with a chuckle and dials the bullet up from “OFF” all the way to seven.

The noises Dabi lets out are primal.

Hawks strokes himself in time with Dabi’s harsh pants, letting his free hand caress over Dabi’s thighs, his abs, down to fondle his balls, and finally back up to ghost over his cock. Not that that needs any extra help. It’s thick and purpled, and pre-come is already leaking out onto his stomach.

“God, Dabi, you look so fucking hot right now,” Hawks whispers as he reaches for the lube sitting off to the side. He squirts a bit on his fingers and rolls them around to coat evenly.

No resistance. Those are Hawks' favorite words.

He loves the way Dabi’s back arches up off the bed as he slides a finger inside him, his name coming out like a breathy sigh. Hawks likes this side of Dabi the most; the pliant, primal, submissive side, the side that likes to lose itself in pure sensation, in pure ecstasy. Nothing else matters, if only for a while.

He slides a second finger in as he dials it up to eight.

“God, Hawks,” Dabi moans loud, breathing ragged and uneven as his body shudders and squirms and he rolls his hips in Hawks’ grip, wordlessly pleading for the slightest touch. Hawks swears he could blow another load from hearing Dabi say his name like that alone. It won’t be much longer until he loses control and gives in to the urge to plow right back into that perfect, addictive heat, but he staves it off a little longer. Watching Dabi unravel is half the fun, after all.

When he dials it all the way up to the highest setting, Dabi screams bloody murder.

“I can’t, I can’t, I can’t,” He chants over and over,  furiously tapping his hand on the bed. Hawks grins down at him and shuts the bullet off. Dabi moans hoarsely as his head falls back onto the pillow, his entire body visibly unclenching and relaxing into the soft mattress. “Holy shit,” He pants out, trying to catch his breath.

“Aww,” Hawks coos, raking his fingernails up the inside of one of Dabi’s thighs, thoroughly pleased at the violent shiver that travels up the other man’s body at the sensation, “Had to tap out on me, Dabi?”

Dabi tries to kick him. Or at least, that’s what Hawks thinks he’s trying to do, as the only thing Dabi can really manage at the moment is a mumbled curse and a weak spasm of his leg.

“That one...that one is way stronger than the other one,” Dabi chokes out after a minute or two, “I need a few minutes.”

Hawks sits up on his knees and stretches out on top of Dabi, hands on either side of his head.

“Gimme a kiss,” Hawks says quietly.

Dabi leans up obediently, or as much as he can with his hands still bound, still breathing hard and struggling against Hawks’ feather bindings. “Come closer, asshole,” He mutters, trying a few times in vain to reach Hawks, who keeps playfully rearing up out of range. Dabi growls, frustrated, and starts snapping, trying bite instead of kiss.

“Whoa, easy,” Hawks chides, licking his lips, and then he leans down to lick Dabi’s, too. The second their lips brush, Dabi’s mouth falls open and the other man quickly flicks his tongue against Hawks’.

“Want it back on?” He murmurs against Dabi’s lips, licks at them again. Underneath him, Dabi groans and shifts, grinding against him as he wraps his legs loosely around Hawks’ waist.

What he wants doesn’t need to be said.

Hawks fucks into him slow as they continue to kiss and tease, indolent tongues and teeth tasting and biting at the other’s lips and jaws. Sliding inside of Dabi is like sliding into a hot bath; the heat is all-encompassing and travels up his core, up his spine, to every single hair and cell of his body, up to his heart and jars its rhythm. It’s quickly become one of Hawks’ vices, and one that has him in a death grip.

The instant the bullet comes back on, the pace grows feverish. Hawks feels a little lightheaded from the heat in the room; his forehead and back are damp with sweat and beneath him, Dabi’s body is covered in a glistening sheen of sweat, too. But the drag of his slicked cock moving in and out of Dabi’s ass, the low hum of the bullet vibrating between them, steadily growing louder as Hawks dials it back up, and Dabi groaning his name, voice breaking and his body arching against his own… it’s all maddening. He couldn’t stop even if he wanted to, he thinks.

He lets the feathers come undone and hauls Dabi up onto his lap, pulling him flush against him and crushing their lips together. Dabi barely puts up a struggle, even as Hawks roughly yanks his long legs and secures them around his waist. Being the taller of the two doesn’t mean much, they both realized early on. Dabi may have height, firepower, and an attitude problem, but not much else. Hawks is stronger, much more powerful, body rough-hewn from hero work, and he loves to remind Dabi of that fact every time they fuck.

Dabi leans in his ear. “Oi, your phone’s ringing.”

Hawks responds by sitting up on his knees and hoisting Dabi up higher, grip firm on his thighs and ass as he bounces him on his cock.

“Fuck it,” Hawks grunts as he thrusts hard up into Dabi, “It can wait.”

It keeps buzzing on Hawks’ nightstand, but it barely registers when Hawks dials the bullet back up to max.

*******

“I called you four times last night,” Miruko says loudly when he meets her for breakfast the next morning, their weekly tradition. “Where the hell were ya?”

“I turned in early last night,” Hawks lies smoothly. Too smoothly, he thinks with a grimace. It’s become second nature.

“You? Sleepin’ early ?” Miruko parrots as she stares at him, unconvinced, “You sick or somethin’?”

Hawks shakes his head, stifling a yawn. “Nah, I’ve just been going a little too hard lately, maybe.”

That’s a definite understatement, he thinks to himself. Too hard is right. His entire body is still sore from the ridiculous, straight-out-of-the Kama Sutra position they finished each other off in. His lips snag his bottom lip as the events of the night before play on a reel in his mind. God, that orgasm was more than worth the effort and the soreness. Dabi rides dick like no one else Hawks has ever had. It’s a little unfair. Hawks knows he’s good, but Dabi is like a divine being when he’s on top.

His cock twitches to life in his pants and Hawks flushes. This is really not the time to be thinking about this.

He tucks into food with forced vigor, eating quietly as Miruko recants the story of her latest criminal conquest, dropping in the odd “wow” and “you’re amazing, dude” at the appropriate times, but inside his head, he’s miles away, back up in his apartment with Dabi wrapped around him.

                                                              3.

It’s been nearly three weeks since the last time they hooked up, hell, since the last time he saw or heard from Dabi period, and Hawks is irritated and, if he’s honest with himself, embarrassed, by how on edge he’s been since then. His leg is bouncing under his desk at a hundred miles an hour, and has been for most of the time he’s been sitting.

His sidekicks are giving their reports on pending cases and cleanups, but Hawks just can’t seem to focus on anything anyone is saying.

“Hawks, sir?”

“What?” He snaps. His sidekicks all jump back at his tone. Hawks is a tough boss to work for, but he’s never once yelled at his sidekicks. He sighs apologetically, leaning forward to rest his head in his hands.

“Sorry,” He mumbles. “I’m not feeling like myself tonight. I didn’t mean to take it out on you all. Sorry.”

One of his sidekicks hazards a step forward. “Uh, should we, um… should we give you the rest of the stats and stuff later?”

Hawks inhales deeply, lets it back out. “...Yeah,” He nods after a brief pause, “That would be better. Give me ten minutes.”

They all nod in affirmation before filtering out of his office one by one. Hawks pays no mind to the hushed chatter or concerned looks over their shoulders as they leave. When his office is empty, Hawks stands up from his desk with a tired groan, stretches his arms up until his back cracks as he crosses to the other side of the room, and flings himself face first down onto his couch.

“Fuck this,” He mutters into the couch cushion.

He lies there for a long time, unmoving, just breathing and thinking. Thinking about nothing in particular, about everything.

His phone buzzes loudly over on his desk just as he starts to drift off, and Hawks considers just letting it ring. But he’s gotten yelled at enough lately for missing important calls, and he’s over that. He pushes himself up off the couch, cursing softly to himself. It stops ringing the second he reaches his desk and picks it up.

                                              (1) Missed Call from:

                                           Crispy Bacon McMurder

Hawks snorts, his mood instantly lifting. Oh boy, if only Dabi could see his nickname in Hawks’ phone. He’d roast him alive.

Hawks hits redial, waits for a few seconds. Dabi finally answers on the third ring. Over time, Hawks has learned to differentiate regular, moody Dabi from genuine emotion Dabi. Dabi’s face isn’t nearly as expressive as his tone.

“Where are you?”   Tonight, he sounds annoyed.

Nonetheless, Hawks cradles his phone in the crook of his neck as he leans against his desk, folding his arms across his chest. He hasn’t exactly been shooting rainbows out of his ass either, and he’s in no mood for Dabi’s bitchiness tonight. “Tch, hello to you, sunshine.”

Over the line, he hears Dabi suck his teeth.

“I’m working.”

“You on patrol?”

“No, I’m at the agency, finishing up some paperwork right now. Is this League business or you business?”  

Silence on the other end.

Hawks waits, listening to Dabi’s quiet breathing on the other end. After a beat, Dabi sighs and chuckles, his low, smooth baritone enticing and disarming, no matter the tone in it. Hawks feels a smile pulling at his mouth. He shakes his head at himself.

Dare he say it, he actually kind of missed Dabi over these past few weeks.

“I guess it’s a little of both, ” He finally says, his tone taking on a lighter, more playful edge. Hawks wets his lips, smile growing a little more. He likes it when Dabi gets playful. He can’t even really explain why, beyond the obvious reason that he’s sure he’s going to get laid at some point in the near future. Right now, that’s enough for him to go on. He’s running on fumes.

“Wanna meet up somewhere?”

“Yeah.”

Just then, there’s a knock at the door.

“Okay. The usual place, ten minutes.” He mutters quickly into the phone and hangs up just as one of his sidekicks pokes his head back in. “Listen,” He interjects before the guy has a chance to even greet him, “I’m gonna head out really quick. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

“Oh, uh, but-”

“I’ll hear the rest of the stats later.” Hawks says impatiently as he shucks his coat on and adjusts the collar, along with his visor.

“Is this something you need help with? One of us can accompany you if you want, sir.” His sidekick calls out after him.

Hawks doesn’t even turn back. “Nah, this is something I need to do alone. Later.”

********

The warehouse is a bittersweet place for Hawks. Coming here always makes him uneasy, but it’s the most convenient place for both of them, equidistant from Hawks’ agency and from Dabi’s-- the League’s-- hideout, though the exact location is, as of yet, unknown to Hawks.

Dabi is already waiting for him when he gets there exactly ten minutes later on the dot, leaning against a large crate and halfway through what is probably his second or third cigarette. He blends into the darkness like a bad dream, the only hint that he’s there is his eyes shining and the orange tip of the cigarette as he inhales.

He looks so fucking good right now.

And frankly, Hawks had intended to talk League business first; he told himself over and over on the way that his mission must always take priority. It’s a talk he’s had with himself many times since meeting Dabi, and it’s gone out the window virtually every time once things got physical.

And tonight, he concedes, defeated, will be no different.

The second they lock eyes, Dabi smirks at him and he flicks his cigarette away, his eyes flashing with an intensity that pushes what little rational thought that is left out of Hawks’ mind as he closes the distance between them.

Coats and shirts begin to litter the floor within minutes of their heated collision, the both of them needy and eager. And pressed for time. Hawks can feel it in the way Dabi claws at him more desperately than usual, hands roving over every inch of skin he can get his hands on, greedily drinking in his moans as they kiss hard.    

A few more minutes , Hawks thinks. He’ll allow himself a few more minutes and then it’s down to business.

But then Dabi moans something filthy in his ear and then starts to suck at his bottom lip. Fuck it. That’s also something Hawks finds himself saying and thinking often, nowadays. His sidekicks will just have to wait for him, for once.

He immediately shoves Dabi hard up against one of the man-sized crates, fumbling with both of their belts.

“We gotta do this quick,” He says between grunts and kisses.

“I know,” Dabi responds with equal fervor, already shoving his pants and boxers down.

“Give me the lube.”

Dabi pauses to look at him, eyebrows furrowed. “I don’t have any lube.”

Hawks freezes. “Shit, me neither.”

The two of them stand there for a beat, staring at each before finally, Dabi’s head falls back against the crate, a rueful smile on his face. “Well, fuck us.”

Hawks leans in and kisses him deep. Despite the time crunch, it’s slow and languid and deliciously warm. Fuck it. Seriously. He’s been so high-strung these past few weeks, he needs this. It doesn’t have to be full-on sex, he just wants to be close to Dabi for a bit. And clearly, Dabi is having similar thoughts.

The other man cups his face, angling his head to deepen the kiss. Between them, his hand creeps down and brushes over Hawks’ bare cock, stroking it.

“Mm,” Hawks moans low when he pulls away briefly. He mimics Dabi and takes his cock in his hand, stroking it in time with Dabi’s hand.

“I can get by with a handy,” Dabi says against his lips, “For now, anyway.”

Hawks chuckles. “Yeah.”

By the time their paces reach fever pitch, his phone is already buzzing in his back pocket, his sidekicks wondering where the hell their boss has run off to, no doubt. People really have the worst timing, Hawks thinks. But their passionate fervor makes quick work of the both of them. Dabi groans into his neck just as it stops, coming in a few quick spurts into his hand, Hawks’ name falling way too softly from his lips. Hawks had finished only seconds before, and is still coming down from his own orgasm as he brings Dabi to his.

The two of them take a brief moment of respite, kissing and touching, basking in the altogether much too brief afterglow their respective obligations allow them.

“So,” Hawks begins after some time, pulling away to make himself decent, “What did you want to tell me?”

Dabi is already dressed again and lighting up another cigarette, back to his usual aloof self. The only evidence of what just transpired between them is the faint flush of his face and his ears, and his still somewhat heavy breathing.

God, if only they had the time. The things he would do to Dabi all over this dirty warehouse.  

“I have some exciting news,” Dabi says, exhaling smoke in a thin tendril, “Boss wants to meet you.”

Hawks pauses. “Really?”

“Yeah, Hawks. Really.”

“When?”

Dabi shrugs. “Dunno yet. He just happened to mention it the other day, and asked me to pass the message along. But relatively soon, I figure.”

Dabi pauses to take a long drag. “He’s got some plans in the works, currently,” He says before exhaling the thick plume all in one shot, “and he’s gonna need someone on the inside. He’s ready to give you a chance to prove yourself and your loyalty to our cause.”

Hawks remains silent, contemplating Dabi’s words --and the thinly veiled threat in his tone.

“What do you think?”

Dabi takes one last puff before flicking his cigarette butt away. “What do I think of what?”

“Do you think I’ve proven myself?”

Dabi doesn’t respond right away, instead taking the time that they don’t have to calmly finish his cigarette. Hawks quickly gets the sense that Dabi is purposely letting him dangle, relishing the suspense. There’s always time to see someone squirm, as far as Dabi is concerned.

He only gives in after Hawks make an impatient noise and shrugs his coat on with more force than necessary. “I told him that we can trust you.” Dabi says quietly, pushing himself up off the crate and once again closing the distance between them, this time with none of the urgency from before.

Dabi cups his neck, thumb over Hawks’ jaw tenderly. Or at least, there is an illusion of tenderness. Dabi’s eyes have taken on that cold, hard edge that sinks like a stone in Hawks’ stomach.

“I can trust you, right?”

He’s gotten way too good at lying lately.

“...Yes, Dabi. You have my loyalty. I swear.”

Dabi presses his forehead against Hawks'. It's much too affectionate, Hawks thinks, starting to feel anxious. Certainly much too out of character for Dabi. Hawks swallows hard, hoping Dabi can't feel how tense he is. He can handle bitchy. He can handle needy and horny. Hell, he can handle rage and he could handle it if Dabi had his hand on his throat to choke the life out of him. But this is the one version of Dabi he hasn't trained himself to handle yet: vulnerable. And because of that, this is the most dangerous version.

Because nothing is ever off the table with Dabi, especially when his guard is down. He knows how fickle Dabi can be, after all.  

The other man closes his eyes, sighing as he brushes their noses together. His warm hand is still firm on Hawks' neck, easing the tension in Hawks' neck and shoulders.

Again, Hawks positively hates how Dabi can be both the source of his stress and the source of his relief from that stress.

"Good, because I want you with us when we make our move," Dabi says quietly. His grip tightens slightly, massaging into Hawks' skin.

"Don't ever betray me, little bird."  

And with that, he pulls away completely and departs without another word, leaving Hawks vulnerable to the sudden and intense chill that passes through the empty warehouse; though, Hawks can't quite say how much of it is simply the night breeze and how much is his nerves fraying at the ends.

He takes flight not long after Dabi leaves, the other man's words still echoing in his head as he lands on the roof of his agency, where a few of his lead sidekicks are already waiting for him.

Don't ever betray me, little bird.

I won't. Hawks had wanted to say out loud. But in the end, it's best if he keeps those words to himself, because he's not sure he doesn't mean them anymore.

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