#i feel like the Handprint is an option but might be too obvious

[jensenackleswifey]

Don’t Ever Let Me Go

Supernatural Fic

Summary: While hunting a Crocotta, you discover someone is alive who should've died 10 years ago.

Notes: Blood, violence, gore, death, anxiety, angst (?), italics are thoughts about the past

"I think it's a Crocotta." Sam says from the seat next to me. "The phone calls from their loved ones before their deaths even though the victims’ families claim they didn’t... it’s the only obvious option."

Dean and I agree as Sam's phone rings.

"Agent Stiles."

I can hear a slight murmur over the phone, but I can't quite make out what is being said to Sam.

"Mhm... Yes, we'll be right there... Alright, thank you."

As soon as the beep of the disconnect is heard Sam announces that there has been another murder.

We all get in the Impala and head towards the latest crime scene to talk to the witness.

As we get there the body is getting wheeled into the coroners’ van and Dean stops it to check the deceased as Sam and I go up to the Sherriff

"Victims name is Lily Moonarch. She just dropped dead, same as the rest of them."

Sam replies, "Interesting. Any ideas yet?"

"Fourth victim and we're still stumped."

"You said there was a suspect?" I questioned as Dean rejoined the group.

"Yes, she was on the phone to the victim when she died." Dean and I shared a look, thinking back on what Sam had said back at out motel. "It's our only lead so we think she might have something to do with it."

"Okay well what's the suspects name, we'll head over first before you guys if that’s alright?" I ask at the same time as Sam appears at my side.

"Yes of course, her name is Phoebe Y/L/N"

Both Sam and Dean look at me wearily and I feel my stomach drop and my heart goes to my throat.

Sam is asking for her address, but my ears are ringing and everything seems muffled. I can barely breathe, and I can hardly feel Deans hand linked with mine, dragging me away back to the car.

Phoebe Y/L/N. Phoebe. Pheebs. My younger sister. My younger sister who died over 10 years ago when a demon killed my entire family while I was on a playdate. She was only 6 and I was 12.

"Mum! Dad! I'm home!" I yelled as I walked in through the large white door.

I heard no response, so I yelled out again but still, no one responded.

'Maybe they're asleep' I think to myself, so I walk up the stairs, but I stopped dead in my tracks when I see a bloody, red handprint smeared on the door of my parents’ bedroom.

"Mum?" I say anxiously awaiting her response.

I didn’t hear anything, so I push her door open very carefully. The scene before me is something no 12-year-old should see. Her parents dead on the bed in a pool of blood. A knife in her dad’s abdomen with his own hand wrapped around it. Her mothers throat slit. Blood splashed all over the room, the stench making me want to throw up. With tears streaming down my face I run out the bedroom and into my sister’s room, but I was too late to her as well. As I step in their room, a man is standing over her tiny bed with these hands around her neck, choking her. When the man looks over at me, he smirks, and slowly walks over to me, his eyes glowing red and he slams the door shut with just his mind.

"What are you doing here you sweet, sweet child?"

His smirk grows wider and so do my eyes as he continues making his way to me, but I can’t move. It's like I'm stuck in the mud, no matter how hard I try I just can’t move.

As I've accepted the fact that I can't go anywhere, that this is the end the door bursts open again, and a tall figure stands in the door, and I hear a shot.

"It's going to take a lot more than that to kill me, John." He drags out the man’s name, almost like he shouldn’t know what his name is but does anyway.

The man screams but no sound comes out, all that does come out is a long line of black smoke. The man- John, picks me up and runs outside and puts me in the car next to another boy who looks around my age and he runs back inside which I later found out was to double check that my family is in fact dead.

"Hi, I'm Dean and this is my brother Sam." Says the boy in the front seat.

"Y/N" I say through sobs.

"Y/N, Y/N, Y/N"

I jump up from the back of the same Impala I was in those 10 years ago.

Sam is looking over at me from the front seat and Dean is looking down at me on his lap with a worried look.

"We're 5 minutes away from Phoebes house."

I just look at him and give a late responded nod.

You can tell that the brothers are worried about me by the way they keep looking at me every couple of seconds.

When we pull up, I'm frozen in place, just like that night a decade ago but this time I have the help to pull me out of my trance. Dean puts his hand on my thigh.

"Y/N... Sam and I can do this on our own if you'd like? You can stay in here and-"

"No. I want to come. I need to see if it’s actually her." I interrupt.

"Okay."

We get out of the car, and I adjust my pants and suit jacket and wipe off the remaining mascara on my face and smile at the two brothers in front of me.

"Let's go."

As we're walking up the stairs in silence my mind is running wild with thoughts of what could happen. What is she's a vampire? What if it's someone else just with the same name? What if she doesn’t know who I am? I try to keep my heart rate normal and my breaths even but the longer we walk up these stairs the more worried thoughts are running through my mind.

When we get there both the boys give me a questioning look and I nod.

Sam knocks on the door, "FBI open up."

Phoebe opens the door.

"Is this about Lily?"

I stand there shocked, and Dean subtly holds my hand.

Before I can stop myself, I blurt out. "Pheebs?"

She finally makes eye contact with me, confused.

"No-one has called me that in years."

Sam puts his hand on my shoulder as a warning to stop and slow it down.

"It’s me Phoebe. Its Y/N."

"That can't be possible. The real Y/N died 10 years ago.”

"We were told you died 10 years ago." Dean told her.

"How about you come inside."

We all go inside, and Phoebe makes us all a tea and I pretend to not notice the holy water she boils for the drinks, and I sit down on her grey sofa in between Sam and Dean.

We sit in a semi-awkward silence until Phoebe hands us our holy tea and waits for us to drink it before continuing the conversation.

When there is no reaction to the holy water, a look of relief washed over her face.

"How are you alive?" Dean asked, almost accusatory.

Phoebe looked taken aback as she answered "I don't know. Just one day I woke up in my childhood home, cops everywhere. They told me my whole family were killed and my sister was missing, presumed dead. I went into a foster home and as soon as I hit 18, I moved in with Lily."

"So you have no idea how you go bought back?" Sam asked, sounding more sympathetic than his older brother did.

"Maybe she never died to begin with?" Dean suggested.

"But she couldn't have. I watched her die and John went and confirmed that they were both dead." I still remember the feeling of watching my baby sister die and never getting answers for it. Why did it happen? Who did it? I'll never get those answers, but it doesn’t matter anymore because my little Phoebe is alive.

"What about Lily?" She said, tears returning to her eyes. "Is it something supernatural? Is that why you’re here?"

"We think so." Sam replied.

I zone everything out after that. Looking around her little apartment. Her cat and the detailed drawings on the walls, she always was a good drawer, and the pink accents in her decor, pink is still her favourite colour. Everything is so normal compared to what I was expecting. I think I was expecting her to be a lot like me. A hunter trying to find out what happened all those years ago but she somehow managed to not get involved in this life and hopefully we can keep it that way by not getting her too involved in this job.

"Thank you for your time, Phoebe, we should get going." Dean says, putting his hand back on my thigh.

Sam and Dean stand up as I sit still, watching Phoebe.

Dean holds his hand out to me, and I accept it, getting to my feet and giving Phoebe a tight-lipped smile, still holding Deans hand hard.

"If you notice anything else strange, don't hesitate to call us," Dean hands her his FBI card. "We will call you with any updates as well."

"Thank you, guys."

As we're all walking out the door, I feel a cold hand grab by arm, and I turn around.

"It's good to see you again." Phoebe says and she pulls me into a tight embrace as I drop Deans hand. "I wanted to give you my number, maybe we can try and get to know each other properly."

"Of course, I would love that Pheebs."

A single tear falls from her eyes as I hug her again, never wanting to let go.

This could have a part 2 possibly

#dean winchester x reader #sam winchester #dean winchester #supernatural fanfic #spn #supernatural angst #jensen ackles #supernatural #spn fanfic #fan fiction #dean winchester fanfic #jensen ackles character

[girlwithsword]

i hate myself for this but i want a destiel sticker or pin thats low key enough that only folks who are in the desticule will get it - i dont want ppl who are Aware to notice, only fellow sufferers - recommendations?

#i cant believe im trying to i like your shoelaces this nonsense what //year// is it #i feel like the Handprint is an option but might be too obvious #destiel #desticule #deancas #another option is the top 13 zep traxx #but my fear there is that a) ppl will ask who dean is #or b) ask me about led zepplin #of which i know nothing

[tonesplash]

its thanksgiving get nasty (18+)

pairing: edward cullen x reader

summary: you get bored at thanksgiving dinner. unfortunately for edward you wore sandals

warnings: smut,brief footjob, thanksgiving dinner, edward kind of chokes on corn, reader doesn’t like their family, mild injury, fingering, innappropriate use of vampire speed, technically exhibitionism and public sex?? bad dirty talk, and cousin-shaming, reader is afab and might be described as female im not sure

a/n: i wrote this in 24 hours so any sloppiness is not my fault

masterlist

(c/n)= cousins name

When you told him thanksgiving with your family would be boring, you’d meant it’d be for him, looking forward to his reaction to being on the receiving end of your bloodlines ridiculousness while you’d get dinner and a show. But, as it turns out, your family just so happens to get along with Edward much better than they do with you.

The seating situation is a little unconventional, since because your boyfriend-snatching cousin stole the open seat next to Edward before you even made it back from the bathroom, leaving your only viable option directly opposite of him. On the bright side, you had the option of kicking his leg when he’d said something to embarrass you.

 Bless his soul, he’d done his best to bring you into the conversation but apparently, anything you had to say about your relationship had been relayed verbatim to the family group chat you weren't even in by your mother. So, after the third time you’re talked over by the aforementioned horny cousin or some other nosy relative on you’re bored out of your mind.

Everyone had gotten over your piss poor table manners years ago, or were just completely ignoring you at this point because there were no protests when they’d brought the turkey out and you’d stayed slumped low in your seat like a child in church.

Twitter had stopped refreshing ten minutes ago, and when you finally resigned yourself to tuning back into the conversation, your mother was showing Edward your baby pictures again. Idly swinging one bare foot under the table, your bare toe grazes the drape of his dress slacks under the table when you get an idea.

 You’d lost a sandal earlier after Edward had pinned it under his shoe in a vain attempt to stop your pinching and dirtying of his slacks with your filthy soles. You scoot a little further forward in your seat to reach out and press your arch flat against his shin.

Edward doesn’t visibly react, just shifts his leg away, leaving yours to slip to the floor until you reach up again to plant your heel on the seat of the chair. The conversation lulls for a moment as everyone says grace, and he uses the opportunity to grab your ankle and send you a warning glare over the top of your phone.

You meet his gaze and boorishly eat a spoon of mashed potatoes, shrugging as if he couldn’t read in your mind exactly what you were about to do. 

Your cousin asks about his mom car again and when you roll your eyes Edward flicks the outside of your fibula, sure to bruise, and you crinkle your nose, pinching his marble thigh between your toes as best you can through the material.

“Well my father thought it was necessary for my siblings and I to-” 

While he talks, he's soothing the spot he flicked, playing in the stubble leftover from your shoddy shave job this morning, and the absent affection gives you the final motivation to further push your luck. You tease the seam of his left leg with the very tips of your toes, coaxing the unnatural heat of the venom to build in the crotch of his pants, the coolness of the rest of him making it seem even hotter in comparison.

He inhales on a forkful of corn, almost taking it down the wrong pipe, and you fight a smile around the bowl of the spoon as he flawlessly recovers and finishes the thought. You idly wonder if you could be that smooth someday. For now, you press further, pressing a toe against the seam over his cock, stroking up and down as slowly and consistently as you can while stretched under a table because who would’ve thought that footjobs are kind of an athletic feat. 

Edward taps insistently at your leg, harder than he normally would, and you have to hold back a laugh at the idea of him splitting the table because he can’t take a little footsie action. You press forward again, arch encompassing his hardness through the fabric, toes curling against his pubic bone when-

“Ho-oly shit!” Searing pain shoots up from your ankle, and you double over, using everything in you not to shout, Edwards dawning mortification going unnoticed as everyone at the table turns to you at your unexpected outburst.  

“(Y/n)?” Your mother doesn’t seem that happy to have dinner interrupted, and you clutch your stomach as a quick cover.

“Uh, my bad.” You snicker nervously at the sudden attention, bravado gone. Your face feels red-hot. “I actually need to use the bathroom, I think,” you lick your lips and slide out of your chair. “Lady problems.”

The table erupts in a cacophony of gags and groans as the notion of a menstrual cycle is brought up in casual conversation, and it gives you the perfect cover to retreat to the upstairs bathroom. It takes you a minute to make it up the stairs without causing a scene, and just as soon as you close and lock the door behind you and settle down to weep in peace, he’s there, jiggling the doorknob like it’s a drug bust.

“Let me in.”

You’re apparently taking too long because as soon as your injured foot touches the floor, he forces the lock and slips in, shutting the door a little too fast to pass as human. 

“Jesus! Edward, are you trying to lose our deposit?” You lean around him to check for a handprint but he doesn’t respond, wordlessly setting you up on the counter, kneeling to examine your injured ankle, cool fingers soothing to the sore skin. You sit in silence, idly swinging your other leg to distract yourself.

“How'd you make it out?” You can't imagine they’d let the guest of honor go so easily.

“You forgot your bag, I told them I’d just bringing it up to you.” He places your bag next to you as evidence. “Maybe you should start carrying menstrual products for when you actually need them.”

Of course, he breaks your foot and wants to lecture you on responsible uterus care. Edward sighs, taking your foot with the gentlest touch and whispering a kiss into the skin. “It’s only a sprain, but I’m still sorry.” 

“S’Okay.” Your face burns, not expecting his guilt. “Serves me right, huh?” You titter, poking his side with your uninjured foot. He swipes it up before you can start again, halfheartedly laughing with you. 

“Let me wrap it before you get any more ideas.” You hand him the compression wrap from the medicine cabinet, and he gets to work. The wince you give at the pressure is more reflex than anything, but the anxious expression on his face tells you he wasn't going to let this go easily. 

“Y’know…” You poke at him again. The playful contempt in his golden eyes gives you the go-ahead to make your case. “If you’re really feeling torn up about it, seeing you wow my family like that got me a little riled up.”

“Really.” Edward kisses the secured wrapping and releases you, standing to frame you against the counter.

“I’m serious, impressing them isn’t easy, (C/n) is probably shaving in the guest room to steal you from me right now, just thinking about it has got me a little hot under the collar.” You run your hands over his back and through his hair, nuzzling into the crook of his throat.

“You’re laying it on pretty thick, don’t you think?” His hands smooth over your exposed thighs sending a shiver up your spine. You think you've got him, but he's such a tease sometimes you can never really be sure.

“Depends. Is it working?” You still, bracing for some line about ‘responsibility’ and ‘your family waiting for you.’

But then his hands are under your skirt, hooking into the sides of your underwear and pulling them down your thighs, leaving them to free-fall to your feet. You clutch his auburn hair in your fingers at the shock of open-air against your cunt.

“Do you think I could let you go back to that table smelling like this?” His sweet breath washes against your ear as he huffs a soft laugh. “I’d rather not go downstairs and pretend to care about football when I know you’re here, hot and ready for me.”

You can’t resist him any longer, pulling him close and kissing him with the desperation of a woman who needs to be back downstairs before dessert. His thumb teases over your cunt at first, swirling over your swelling clit and teasing your hole before he finds a focus, using the thumb of his free hand to hold your hood back as his slicked fingers grind the bud into a frenzy while he sucks your tongue into his mouth.

It’s all you can do to hold your breath while he touches you, cool fingers building a knot in your belly, smooth and steady as they batter you up into a frenzy. He adjusts his hand, his ring finger pressing into you and bringing a low ache from rushed preparation, but you welcome it, thighs shaking with the effort to stay open for him as your mouth falls open in a shaky gasp. Edward breaks the kiss to let you breathe , seemingly unbothered until- 

“(C/n) is coming.” 

“Wha-” A particularly deep stroke has you biting your lip as you struggle to concentrate. “What the fuck does she want?”

“She’s going to ask you where I am.” His expression doesn’t match his words, still completely concentrated on ruining you despite the obvious issue.

“And what am I supposed to tell her?!” You hiss back right as she reaches the door. His mouth closes over your pulse point and you don't think you've clenched that hard before in your life.

“Hey (Y/n)? Have you seen Edward?” Her voice is enough of a mood killer that you have to shove your face into his throat to ground yourself in the moment. He adds a second finger, gaining speed, and you pray and hope to any god listening to this that she can't hear the squelches through the door.

“N-no.” You rack your mind for an excuse. His scent is making it harder to concentrate. “I think he went out for a smoke?” Nice one.

“Really? I didn't smell anything on him...” If all your blood flow hadn't been centralized below the waist at this point you'd’ve asked how the hell she knows what he smells like. He's fully abandoned your clit now, leaving it to pulse in the open air while three of his fingers push and pull at your pelvic floor.

“That's cause he unh-” You slap a hand over your mouth to stop the moan before it can be recognized for what it is.“-he vapes!” Edward pulls back from your throat to look at you incredulously, but it's a little hard to be ashamed when he's nearly wrist deep inside you.

“Oh… Well, let him know if you see him that they’re playing charades and I need a partner. You know how it is.”

You forget to reply, too enthralled watching him spit onto his unoccupied fingers and mash the coolness against your clit, causing you to nearly spasm off the counter, losing the sensation as he silently laughs at having to hold you steady. She seemed to have taken your silence as an admission, as you can hear the door at the stoop of the stairs swinging shut after her. Thank God.

“Rub your spot, Sweet, come on, we have to be quick.” He kisses your temple and laughs a bit maniacally at the little whimper that escapes when you bring a hand down to your clit. “Surprisingly, she’s having trouble picturing me in a vape shop.”

You whine around a bitten lip, too far gone to listen to his ribbing. You’re building up to overstimulation with the sloppy way you’re rubbing yourself, and he must feel it too, because in the next second, his fingers are vibrating.

“Come on, (Y/n), don't you want to finish up here and mop the floor with them?” You hadn’t even realized how hazy your vision had gotten until he grabs your chin and levels your lidded eyes with his and says your name again. You nod sluggishly for him, not hearing a word. He laughs again, smiles wide. His teeth are pretty. 

“If you cum right now;” The buzzing grows stronger, your free arm spasming under you as you support yourself. “I’ll rub you raw after on the ride home. You just need to come right now and win charades with me.” 

The buzzing inside grows too strong, and your vision goes white, pulsing in long pulls around his fingers as hot waves of sensation spread from your head to your toes.

Edward kisses you, soft and slow, swallowing any whimpers tempted to escape as you come down, abandoning the counter to clutch his sleeve as the twitching reduces to a tremor.

“Oh my god.“ You laugh, planting your face into his collar as you catch your breath. “I can't believe you used charades to make me come, I'm never gonna forgive you.” 

“I heard the top prize is a ten dollar gift card to…” He squints and checks again. “The Google Play Store.”

“Ew, what could you even do with tha-”

“(Y/N) come help with plates!” Your mother shouts up the stairwell, totally fucking up any release you just had.

“I guess I should run down to the corner store;” Edward smiles, helping you to stand on wobbly legs and smoothing your skirt down. “Don't want to blow your cover.” 

“(Y/N)! Plates!”

“Oh my god;” Your eyes may never return from the back of your skull. “Meet you downstairs?”

He kisses you sweetly one last time, pulling you close and wiping the sheen of sweat off of your face.

“Downstairs.”

With that, he heaves himself out of the narrow sill, and you busy yourself cleaning up as fast as you can.

You just catch him hopping off the roof, and coming around to the front yard. He'll hear you no matter the volume, but you still shout the warning;

“Stay away from my cousin!” 

#edward cullen x reader #edward cullen imagine #edward cullen #Twilight FanFic #twilight smut #twilight imagines #twilight x reader #twilight x you #the twilight saga #reader insert smut #reader insert fluff #reader #thanksgiving #dinner with parents

[existslikepristin]

Sounds

Just my ultimate bias doing ultimate bias things. This is just the intro. There will be more to come. Thanks also to worldsover and EhBeeSeeDih for most excellent editing help!

Tags: TheLounge, Dreamcatcher, Gahyeon, Siyeon, Yoohyeon, other members all referenced, some unnamed male, lots of butt stuff, very light bondage, brief watersports (pee), various other kinks referenced, I just want everyone to know Gahyeon is the best human

Gahyeon observed the consistency of the lube that dripped, nice and slowly, from the fingertips of her black latex glove. She only wore the one, leaving her other hand bare. Besides the glove, all she wore was an oversized baggy tee shirt and a pair of panties that weren't her own. From behind her, the up-close-yet-distant sound of amateur porn moans reached her ears. It made her smile.

Not long after Gahyeon had revealed her desire to dominate to the rest of Dreamcatcher, she’d first been approached by Dami. Dami initially showed a similar interest in dominating others, but was equally interested in being a pet.

Gahyeon hesitated for some time, but eventually agreed to give it a try. It wasn’t much of a surprise that Dami made a pleasant, calm, obedient pet. Gahyeon never really had many ideas for commands to give to a panda, though, so perhaps her perspective was a bit skewed.

Some time later, the two got involved in a bit of role playing as well. Dami would be the prince, and Gahyeon would be one of a variety of higher-ranking royalty that Dami would then have to satisfy. Gahyeon would certainly never admit that this was one of her favorite roles to play in her escapades with her members. Mostly because it meant she received lots of massages from Dami’s delightfully delicate hands.

Dami was a grunter.

Gahyeon’s situations with Jiu and Handong were quite similar to each other in the sense that neither of them really expressed a major interest in being dominated.

Jiu was more of a standard, every day, give-and-take type of lover, but just happened to enjoy a bit of pain. Gahyeon was always happy to provide that little extra sadistic touch that would push Jiu over the edge of climax.

Jiu was a lip-biter.

Handong didn’t need a dom. She wanted somebody with a dick she could wreck herself with. Gahyeon had a growing collection of dildos and strap-ons to choose from. It was as simple as that between them.

Handong was a shouter.

Sua was, as expected, the most difficult to work with. She was a switch. But while domming, she was often excessively overpowering, demanding that her subs participate in her kinks, rather than compromising with them or catering to their desires. She had serious negotiation issues. All of which meant that Gahyeon was the go-to option when the other members wanted to be dominated.

Of course, Sua would reach out to Gahyeon to be dominated as well. But she was a bit of a back seat driver. Or a severe brat. Or uncooperative. It depended on the day. Gahyeon would often just suggest they do something less kinky. Of course, she wasn’t about to cut Sua out of her sex life entirely, given their friendship and Sua’s rocking body.

Sua was a screamer.

Yoohyeon, on the other hand, was quite the fun submissive. She was willing to try anything at least once, up to and including the most depraved acts Gahyeon could come up with. Once or twice, Gahyeon had even directed her to do some things sarcastically, but Yoohyeon complied immediately, no questions asked, resulting in both of them discovering some kinks that neither of them realized they had.

One of Gahyeon’s favorite aspects to domming Yoohyeon was her eagerness to be filmed. Gahyeon’s SD card case was an absolute treasure trove of videos. It didn’t matter if she was far from her members, because she could always count on some long-distance submission from Yoohyeon. And it never hurt to have something to watch when she just wanted to be alone and masturbate.

Yoohyeon was a moaner.

But as much fun as Gahyeon could have with those five women, Siyeon stood out from the pack as Gahyeon’s favorite. She had a hard time fully explaining the favoritism, but as far as she was concerned, it was undeniable.

Siyeon presented herself outwardly as confident, bold, even. Gahyeon expected in the beginning that Siyeon would have no interest at all in submitting to her, or anyone else for that matter. She quite literally wore the pants.

One hot summer night, however, Siyeon sheepishly asked Gahyeon to spank her. It seemed innocent enough, as far as sex acts went, but it escalated gradually. Over the course of several months, Siyeon’s outer shell melted away. She became Gahyeon’s clay to mold.

Everybody else let Gahyeon dominate them because she gave them what they wanted.

Siyeon begged Gahyeon to dominate her because she wanted to serve and please.

That wasn’t to say Siyeon wasn’t getting what she wanted out of the action of course. Just that what she wanted happened to be whatever Gahyeon wanted. It was the perfect match.

Siyeon was an instrument that Gahyeon knew exactly how to play.

The sexual activities of the members weren’t obvious to the average viewer, except some of the wild shit Sua would do, but that was easy to pass off as “girl group popularity-mandated gay bait.” Every once in a while though, Gahyeon would get the itch to break Siyeon’s façade down in public. The lightest brush of the fingertips, a sidelong glare, anything could be the trigger if Gahyeon did it with the proper intention.

She’d even gotten so bold once as to do it on live video, streaming to their fans with Jiu and Sua to either side. Siyeon nearly collapsed before Gahyeon let her go. That same night, Sua practically molested Siyeon, but Gahyeon was vindictively proud to see that it didn’t have the same effect.

Gahyeon watched as one last drop of lube fell from her fingers back into the bowl she'd poured it into for easy access. It was just viscous enough to stay on a surface, but wasn’t tacky. Rather, it was slick, as if there were no friction at all between her digits.

“How are you feeling, my wolf?”

“I-I’m excited, Gahyeon.”

Gahyeon preferred hearing her own name falling out of Siyeon’s mouth. The sound gave her a twisted sense of romance, as opposed to the supposedly traditional “Mistress” or “Ma’am.”

Gahyeon turned to look for the first time since getting lost in her thoughts. Siyeon was tied up, albeit only with the shirt and pants she had been wearing earlier in the day, rather than a rope. The knots that her sleeves formed were weak and could fall apart with the slightest force, but Siyeon was much too good of a girl for that. It wasn't her physical bonds that held her still.

There was a twinge of disappointment amidst Gahyeon’s glee at seeing that Siyeon was looking, entranced, back at her. She had, after all, dictated that Siyeon watch the video that was playing on her tablet.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?”

Siyeon gulped nervously, but Gahyeon could see the slightest, quivering smile touch the corners of her lips. “Sorry, Gahyeon. It’s just… I think I’m extra struck by your beauty today.”

Gahyeon smiled and placed her ungloved, unlubed hand on top of Siyeon’s head, stroking her hair softly. “Oh babe. You know flattery isn’t going to get you anywhere. It’s just going to get my fingers deeper inside you. And you'd better watch out, because you're getting close to the knuckles.”

Her gentle hair stroking turned into a rough grip, which she used to turn Siyeon's gaze away, back to the tablet.

"Don't you want to learn from this video, Siyeon? I made it just for you."

"Yes, I do."

"Then you should be watching. Look, or you're going to miss the best part."

Siyeon's eyes slowly refocused themselves onto the video. It was Yoohyeon, all but limp in a full-nelson-under-the-legs hold. Whoever was holding her up, slamming their cock repeatedly up her asshole, they weren't fully visible, but it was easy to guess their identity. Yoohyeon's eyes rolled up so far, they looked like they might do a full three-sixty at any moment. Anyone viewing the video might have been concerned for her well-being if not for her dopey smile.

"See, my wolf? She's such a good little slut. Keep watching and you might learn something."

Gahyeon let go of Siyeon's head, confident she'd follow instructions this time, and reached around to feel how ready she was. As expected from her favorite toy, and the hours of teasing Gahyeon had subjected her to up to this point, she was so wet that Gahyeon could have gone swimming inside her.

Her gloved hand dipped into the lube again, then made its way down the cleft of Siyeon's ass, coating the entirety. If she didn't already have very specific plans, Gahyeon would have considered using it as massage oil and kneading Siyeon’s beautiful butt cheeks until the bright red hand prints on them disappeared.

A series of moans came from the tablet speakers again, and Gahyeon smirked at what she knew was coming next, which was Yoohyeon.

"Eyes open, Siyeon. You really don't want to miss this."

Gahyeon watched Siyeon’s fingers wiggle beneath their impromptu bonds. Yoohyeon's moans shifted into a long, guttural shout, and a stream of pale yellow liquid shot out of her. Siyeon’s butt visibly clenched.

"What a fantastic slut she is, hm? Cumming so hard from her ass being used as a fuck hole that she can't even control herself, pissing all over like an idiot."

Even from behind her, Gahyeon could sense Siyeon’s devious smile forming. "Well that's rude to say about her," Siyeon said, risking life and limb.

Gahyeon responded with a series of powerful smacks, leaving the handprints already on Siyeon’s ass glowing red, as well as a haphazard smattering of lube. "Shut uuup," she whined, "She got fucked stupid and pissed herself. You know what I mean."

Siyeon turned back over her shoulder to show Gahyeon her smile. Fresh tears flowed from her eyes. "Yoohyeon's always a fool though," she managed to joke through the pain.

One last, full-motion spank made Siyeon’s smile briefly turn into a grimace.

"Is that what you're going to do to me too?"

Gahyeon resumed her steady lubrication of Siyeon’s entire backside. "Someday, maybe. But we have a long way to go before you'll be able to experience that level of pleasure without pain. And trust me, the inside of your ass is not the part of your body where you want to be feeling pain. We'll build you up to it."

There was minimal resistance against Gahyeon’s middle finger as it slipped fully into Siyeon’s butt. Siyeon hissed and her toes curled. Gahyeon kissed her neck, shushed into her ear, and used her ungloved hand to stroke from Siyeon’s breasts down to her clit and back.

After a moment of calming down, Siyeon whispered, "If anybody can get me there, Gahyeon, it's you."

Gahyeon struggled to hold back her cutesy giggle, even though she knew that it wouldn't make her seem like less of a dom to Siyeon. "We're going to do, at most, two fingers today. I don't want you masturbating with anything bigger than that on your own, okay? It might feel like you can do more, but we're not taking any chances. Understood?"

Siyeon’s shoulders flexed and toes spread as Gahyeon wiggled her inserted finger. "Y-yes Gahyeon," she stuttered.

"Good. Now, let's practice your safe word, shall we?"

Siyeon hesitated, but relented anyway. “Apricot…”

Gahyeon slowly removed her finger. “Perfect,” she said ever-so-softly, reveling in the goosebumps rising on Siyeon’s arms. “Was that okay? Nothing hurting?”

“It was perfect.” Siyeon used the same word Gahyeon had.

“Well then, let’s get started.”

#dreamcatcher smut #kpop smut #gahyeon #siyeon

[heliads]

Thinker, Traitor, Soldier, Spy

You are a soldier hired on as a bodyguard for John Walker, the latest Captain America. However, Sam Wilson may help you realize that there’s more to life than just following orders.

masterlist

What does a soldier do? They fight. They follow orders. What does a spy do? They listen. They report.

What do you do now? You are a soldier and a spy. You listen and do as you’re told. You sit with perfect stature at the desk. There are four guns on your person, three knives, and a smoke grenade, just in case. Two men sit opposite you, one clad in garish red and blue and the other in an army uniform. This is your new assignment, they say. You start today.

You did not die after Thanos snapped, although you were fighting to stop it. You were forced to live instead in the five long years, watching countless friends die. There is no stop to the bloodshed, there never is. When the fighting at last cleared and everyone was brought back, you knew there would be trouble. They’ve tried to call forth a hero, someone everyone can depend upon. A new Captain America, the one sitting before you.

John Walker troubles you. You have seen many men in your line of work, men whose tongues only serve to twist and lie or whose hands reach to their guns before they extend in peace. There is a glint in Walker’s eyes that doesn’t seem quite right, a yearning for power that doesn’t seem to fit in with his new role as Captain America. If you knew any better, you’d say that giving him this position is the last thing you should do to a man who craves power in the way that Walker does.

But you were not here to place judgement or call him out. You are a soldier, and that’s why they want you on their side. Your employers, that half-formed shell between the fallen S.H.I.E.L.D. and the rising S.W.O.R.D., have sent you to defend him and his partner, Battlestar. It’s just another role, a bodyguard to the latest celebrity of the military world. Nothing more.

Yet, when you rise from your seat and shake their hands, you can’t seem to lose the feeling that something is going to end up very, very badly. You’ve seen men like Walker before, men who like to think of themselves as above all others. You have no doubt that he’s already hating you for being here at all, despising everyone for thinking that he needs protection. If this job of bodyguard fell to anyone else, you’d tell them to watch their backs. Luckily for you, you never stop doing that yourself.

They place a gun in your hands before too long. They know you have enough weapons to fend off an entire army, but they do it anyway. It’s less a check than a charity, like saying here, we have your back. Trust us, fight for us. You’ve seen it done many times before. You board the same vehicles and planes as them, ready for your first fight against the Flag Smashers. You approach the trucks rattling down the roads, Walker and Hoskins by your side. You can see two figures already fighting the masked figures and recognize them from a legion of surveillance tapes, news reports, and case files: Sam Wilson and Bucky Barnes. If they’re here, fighting the same enemy, you can at least try to delude yourself into thinking that you might be on the same side.

You join the fight as soon as directed, firing weapons with expert precision. This isn’t the first time you’ve fought super soldiers and it certainly won’t be the last. You notice a group of super soldiers targeting Sam Wilson and drop towards them, knocking them back again and again. You’re about to head after them, pursuing them when they run down the length of the trucks, but then a hand closes around your arm. You rear around, hands already rising to pistols and knives, but relax slightly when you notice the confused face connected to it.

Sam Wilson stares at you, releasing his light touch on your arm when he notices your reaction. “Sorry about that. Who are you?” It occurs to you then that they have no idea who you are. You’re a gun, nothing more. A hired weapon used to keep out of public scrutiny. Sam Wilson is a good man, so of course he would not know you. You just shake your head slightly. “I’m with Walker.” It will tell him all he needs to know.

Sam’s brow furrows, and you take this momentary lapse in focus to dive off the side of the truck, reaching for a side mirror with perfect timing to swing between the trucks. Sam watches you go, but he doesn’t follow. He pauses for a second longer, then continues the fight, as do you. Something raises the hairs on the back of your neck and you throw yourself to your knees; seconds later, Walker’s shield streaks through the air to collide with a Flag Smasher’s shoulder.

You glance back at him, but still remain silent. He cocks his head to the side, evidently expecting a bigger reaction to him almost decapitating you. You refuse to give in to any emotions. You’ve walked through many tests from many more people. What is one more to you? At a brief moment of respite from the fight, Walker and Hoskins address Sam, stating their names along with a casual salute from the latest Captain America.

Sam takes this in with a tilt of his head, then turns to face you. You remain silent, refusing to divulge any more information than necessary. Seconds later, you’re granted a reprieve from his expectations when the Flag Smashers rally again, this time with more force. You’re ready to go to your last, even when Sam and Bucky and then Lemar and Walker are knocked from the truck. You’re ready to keep going, to finish the job, but then you see Walker shake his head at you even as the truck rattles past him. If he cannot complete the job, then no one can- the fame and glory must fall to him alone. You jerk your head once in a nod, understanding, and leap from the truck yourself. If the impact scars your knees in a jolt, you’ve conditioned yourself to ignore it.

Walker and Hoskins grab a truck on the walk back. You sit next to the driver, gun obvious in your palm. They attempt to pick up Sam and Bucky, although the pair seem more than hesitant to get in. Eventually, they give up and climb in, accepting Walker’s constant questions with barely more than a restrained eyebrow raise. Sam turns towards you, unintentionally or perhaps purposefully ignoring Walker’s latest offer at a partnership. “So, what’s your story?” You remain stoic and silent. Walker answers for you. “She’s an agent. You can trust her.”

Sam directs a confused glance Walker’s way. “I didn’t ask you.” Walker rolls his eyes. “You might as well have, she doesn’t talk much. Honestly, she’s no better than your buddy with the staring problem.” Sam gives Walker an irritated look. “She’s right there. She can hear you.” You raise an eyebrow. “I can hear you too.” Walker turns to you, feigning incredulity. “Look at that! She speaks!”

You can hear the warning in his voice, so you bite your tongue and stop speaking, even when Sam tries to talk to you again. You can still feel Sam’s gaze on you, although you say no more, even when Sam and Bucky give up on Walker’s constant attempts at friendship and jump off the car entirely. You can’t say you entirely blame them- if you could jump after them, you would be long gone.

You continue to work by Walker’s side, just as your orders demand. As the days pass by, however, you feel a permanent crease beginning to form itself along your brow. There is something wrong with Walker, a kind of insanity you’ve only seen a few times. It won’t be long now until he snaps, you just don’t know when it’s going to happen. Then again, it’s not your place to place judgement, not yet. You can watch, wait, and follow orders. Nothing more.

You’re sent to patrol an area where the Flag Smashers are rumored to hide, walking alone through twisting cobblestoned streets in search of the familiar logo of a red handprint. Although you search for a while, you sense that the person following you is not a Flag Smasher. No, it’s someone altogether different. You allow them to pursue you down a couple of streets then turn around unexpectedly, startling your follower. You come to face Sam Wilson, and the man chuckles softly when he sees that his attempt at following you undetected hasn’t exactly worked out.

“And here I thought I was sneaking up on you. Your reflexes are great.” Your face remains decidedly neutral. “I appreciate the compliment.” Sam allows himself a smile, then his face returns to the urgency that has pierced him for a while. “I need your help. You know as well as I do that Walker is getting in over his head. He’s going after the Flag Smashers in completely the wrong way. People are going to end up hurt. I think I can get to Karli Morgenthau, but I need your help in convincing Walker to stand down.”

You shake your head once. “I have my orders. I can’t break them.” Sam sighs once. “I don’t know much about you, Agent L/N, but I know enough. I know that you don’t want to see innocents hurt if you could help it.” You fold your arms across your chest. “You looked me up? If you did your research, Sam, then you’d know that I’ve never once disobeyed direct orders. I have been told to fight by Walker’s side, it’s what I’ll do.”

Sam stares at you. “You agree with him? You think this is the right thing to do?” You feel a bitter laugh crossing your lips. It makes Sam look at you in a different way, like he’s truly seeing you for the first time. Not just a hired gun or soldier, but a person in need of saving. For some reason, it makes you feel uneasy. “Sam, I have never had a choice in this. Do you think I’m going to sleep at night with a clear heart because of what I’ve done? I have never had a choice. Not once. It won’t start now.”

Sam’s gaze falls, not in disappointment but a mutual understanding. He is a soldier too, you remember, he knows what this feels like. “Not all orders are pleasant.” He agrees, then meets your gaze again. “If you have the option, though, I would be grateful if you reconsidered. It doesn’t have to be much. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t heading down his path.” You fight the urge to laugh again. “I don’t think I could if I tried.” A faint smile appears on Sam’s lips. “I didn’t think so either.”

You have gone through many difficult interrogations and communication sessions, places where you’ve lied and been lied to for the sake of a mission. This conversation with Sam, though, throws a stumbling block under your feet. You’ve always been able to move on from your job, to pack away the memories of screams and blood stuck under your fingernails until you don’t think of them at all. For some reason, you can’t get Sam’s words out of your head. What does he want of you? He doesn’t seem to have an ulterior motive, some want to have your knives and fists on his side. No, if you didn’t know better you’d say that he’s truly looking out for you. It’s a foreign concept, but for some reason it feels right coming from him.

Walker ends up teaming up with Sam and Bucky again. They’ve tracked down Karli Morgenthau to a church, the funeral service of a Donya Madani. Sam has gone inside to speak to Karli, hoping to persuade her to lay down her weapons and search for her peace and equity in a different way. If his words are anywhere near as effective as his talk with you, you have no doubt that she’ll listen to him.

Walker, however, is growing antsy with every second away from a battle. Eventually, he gives in to his gnawing need to fight and charges into the fray. Shots ring out, punches are thrown. When you look up, your stomach clenches with horror. Lemar Hoskins lies dead on the ground, neck broken, blood welling up. Walker goes silent, a maddening rage rattling through him. He sprints out of the room, after a perceived killer of his friend. You exchange a silent look with Sam, then the two of you run out after him.

You end up splitting up, Sam flying out and you going a different back route to avoid the cameras already recording. When you see the horrors of the scene before you, you feel acid creeping up the back of your throat. Walker raises the infamous shield, smashing it into the head and throat of a pleading Flag Smasher until the blood and gore stains everything within the surrounding distance. A primal scream echoes from the man’s throat, fitting for this act of barbarity.

You’re not sure how long you stay there, only that you can’t seem to move your feet until the square is cleared of horrified viewers. Only then do you force yourself to start walking. You don’t stop until you’ve found Sam, until you’re standing before him and he’s reaching out an arm to steady you. You’ve seen bloodshed before, enough death to drown out the world. For some reason, this seems different. Maybe it’s because you were fighting on Walker’s side before, and you’re still expected to do so now. Maybe it’s because you’re still locked away behind the rules, the orders.

Sam is speaking now, asking you if you’re alright. You look up at him, incredulous. “You saw what he did. Walker has to be stopped.” Sam looks hesitant. “I would appreciate your support, but I know what this means to you. Are you sure about this?” You nod harshly. “He’ll be waiting in a warehouse near here. I saw him go. If you arrive alone, maybe with Bucky, and try to speak to him first, you’ll have the best chance at getting the shield. It’s the only way.”

You expect Sam to go now, but instead he stays, making sure you’re alright. “And what happens after that? Where do you go?” You shrug. “I don’t know. They might reassign me. They’ll definitely order a hearing for Walker, I might be included in that too. I’ll see what happens from there.” Sam’s jaw clenches in worry. “If you need help, I’ll be there. I’ll speak for you.” You glance up at him. “Why? I fought against you, with Walker. I’m not one of your allies.”

Sam chuckles softly. “Not all things are alliances and sides. I trust you, you came to me. That’s all this has to be.” You nod at him slowly. “Thank you, Sam. Honestly.” You set off with him towards the warehouse, where Walker waits alone. Gore still stains the shield. Sam begins his negotiations, but everything falls apart when he mentions the shield. Walker looks at you, raw rage coloring his gaze. “You told him how to find me. You’re a traitor to your cause.”

Sam steps forward before the words can take hold. “She is a soldier making the right choice. Don’t involve her in this.” You glance back at him. Who would defend a toy soldier? Only the man who never saw you as one in the first place. When the fighting begins, it feels strangely liberating, like you finally have a cause instead of just a direction. This is truly a fight that matters, not just another job.

When it’s all over and Sam stands with the shield, you begin to walk out into the sunlight, leaving the dark cool of the warehouse behind. Someone joins you after a short while, someone with a new shield who nods at you with a smile when you wait for him. Your feet crunch on the gravel outside. “So, it’s over now.” Sam shrugs. “There are still the Flag Smashers. Some battles never truly end.”

You glance over at him, for once not stopping the smile hesitating on your lips. “I’ll be there.” Sam smiles back at you. “I’ll be glad of it. You’re a good person, Y/N, even if you don’t believe it.” You laugh at that. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Sam doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he’s still looking at you with that same thoughtful expression, like he’s just seen a masterpiece come to life and it happens to be you. “I think I like your laugh.” It’s then you know that you would follow him anywhere.

marvel tag list: @mycosmicparadise​

#sam wilson #sam wilson imagines #sam wilson x reader #sam wilson oneshot #falcon #falcon imagines #falcon x reader #falcon oneshot #captain america #captain america imagines #captain america x reader #captain america oneshot #marvel #marvel imagines #marvel oneshot #avengers #avengers imagines #avengers x reader #avengers oneshot #tfatws #tfatws imagines #tfatws oneshot #mcu #mcu imagines #mcu oneshot

[jesterlaughingstock]

Fic based on this au.

Here's the link to AO3. I'd suggest you read it in there because i made some slight modifications.

...

It has been 5 years since wall Maria came down, and the zombies ravaged through the lands beyond wall Rose. Many citizens were infected, and much more succumbed under the attacks of the cannibalistic monsters.

The disease we're talking about is a strange one, as in early stages, it gives the infected marvelous, yet uncontrollable powers. If the infected does not control their powers by the end of the early stage -which, by the way, lasts a week on average, but can be as little as an hour-, their skin falls off and they start turning into the cannibalistic zombies that we observe outside the walls.

Armin and his childhood friends had survived the massacre, but paid in terms of loved ones. He had lost his grandfather, the only one to care for him after the passing of his parents, and his friend Eren lost his parent who were also Mikasa's foster family.

And yet, Armin hasn't lost yet the hope and faith in the outside world. His blue eyes glowed whenever he thought about what fascinating landscapes might exist beyond their lands. It was no surprise then that he decided to enroll in the scouts regiment, along with Eren and Mikasa.

But after their first expedition, Armin began to regret his decision.

As soon as he came back, he started feeling chilly. He had always been sensitive to the faintest whim of weather, so he brushed it aside.

The next day, as he was writing some documents, someone had opened the door loudly, startling him. When he looked back at the pen, it was completely encased in ice. Through his confusion, he thought clearly enough to hide it in his pocket for further inspection. By the time he was done and alone, the pen had returned to its original state, as the ice had apparently melted off. And yet, the scary implications of the event still remained.

In a last whim of optimism, he decided to forget about it, and not reconsider it until anything else happened.

Which occured way sooner than he thought.

The same afternoon, as he washed his face from a bucket, he stuck his hands in the water, and between one blink and another, the water froze over, locking his hands in. This time, he properly panicked. The only thing that was between him and screaming in a high pitched voice was the thought of other people being aware of this phenomenon and the terrifying implications of it.

He shook his hands inside the frozen water; they were fully encased in ice, but for some reason it didn't feel as cold as it should've.

This is bad. Bad bad bad.

He inspected the ice even more, it seemed like it won't be melting on it's own for a long time, so he had to melt it off on his own. He breathed in, closed his eyes, focusing on the ice. He tried to imagine the ice warming up and melting. He felt his hands loosen up, which meant his improvised method was working. A few seconds later, he opened his eyes and the water had gone back to it's inital state and his hands were free.

The relief had been washed away by the realisation that this further confirms the obvious; he was infected.

Armin couldn't sleep at night. Infected? How the hell did it happen? He did go in the last expedition, yes, they had encountered a few zombies, some of which has snatched up some of their comrades, but he had been, along with the rest of the rookies, in the back lines. It didn't make sense, and it drove him crazy.

Was this it, then? Was he going to turn into a faceless zombie, or will he seek someone to help him end his life before his state went so bad? He knew what he was supposed to do. In fact, he had gotten up, in the middle of the night, walked up to Commander Erwin's room, and lifted a hand to knock on the door. Were these really his only options? Was there really nothing, nothing else to do?

Maybe there was.. He thought as his palm rested on the door. He thought about that afternoon's event, how he managed to melt the ice he created, how that display of control was contrasting with everything he had learned about the complete chaos that is these powers gained by the disease.

He remembered how the only hope was that the infected should learn how to control these powers in time. It was a long shot, but god, it was better than to rot as a man eating monstruosity or to be executed. Besides, a tamed power would be a huge advantage to humanity. Maybe, with his powers, they might be able to explore what's beyond there lands, what's out there in the world!

After much thinking, he decided that he would try, at least try to control these powers. If they still are as rowdy after a week, then he would do the sensible thing and turn himself in to his death.

In the morning, Commander Erwin Smith woke up, and discovered frost on his door, strangely shaping a handprint.

Armin went on with his mission. Whenever he was free and alone, he practiced. And at some point, it seemed to be going well, but obviously, he still had his slip-ups, accidentally encasing his spoon in ice at breakfast, the temperature of the room dropping whenever he was nervous, freezing another everyday object.. Ect. He had been able to reverse the effect on most of them, though some object were still encased in ice, but that was enough for him. And it seemed that the long shot of surviving the deadly virus wasn't so long.

Until one day when he was hanging out with Eren, Mikasa and the rest of the cadets.

"Your hands are so cold, what the hell?" Eren noticed as their hands brushed together, and attempted to grab Armin's. Armin felt his cheeks flush, but he also felt the familliar cold rush that he always felt whenever his power was about to manifest.

Panicked, he whipped his hands away, yelling : "Don't touch me!". The tempreature in the air dropped. He hoped no one else noticed. "Sorry, that was rude. I'm fine."

"Got it.." Eren raised his hands and backed away. He shared a look with Mikasa and reluctantly reached back. "Um.. By the way.. Are you sure you're fine? You're been kind of.." Eren trailed off and looked at Mikasa for help. She shrugged and gestured at him to continue, to figure something out.

"..distant. You good?" Eren finished off.

"Yeah, I'm good. Don't worry."

"You sure bro? You haven't been sleeping all that well either." Connie tipped in. "I wake up to get a midnight snack and you're still up. You pretend to be asleep but I'm not an idiot"

Armin felt cornered. He felt hot, and yet the room's temperature dipped a little more. He put his hands in his pockets, just in case. "I've just been having too much tea, that's it. Sorry if I woke you up at night."

"Armin, was it something that happened at the expedition? While you were alone?"

Jean's words caught him off guard. Alone? He was never alone in the expedition. He doesn't remember being alone. In fact, now that he thinks about it, his memories from that day seem discontinued, like he remembers being in a place, then being in another, but has no recollection of the trip between the two locations.

What exactly happened the day of the expedition?

"Armin? Are you alright?" Mikasa was now in front of him, when did she get there? It doesn't matter right now, he thought. He felt that he should leave immediately.

"I'm fine. Sorry." He left, headed towards the forest. When he was out of earshot and sight of any human, he let a deep breath out, as frost seeped rapidly from beneath his feet and on the ground around him, and all the nearby tree branches were covered in snow.

He thought harder about the day of the expedition; the hole in his memory was even more prominent.

What the hell happened?

Frustrated, he punched at a nearby tree, and around his fist formed giant ice spikes. He breathed heavily, suddently drained. He looked around and grimaced at the amount of ice he'll have to melt.

It took him a good amount of time to wipe all traces of his breakdown. By the time he was done, it was almost sundown. He made his way back to the headquarters.

At dinner time, Armin tried his best to avoid his friends. And as much as it pained him, he knew that they will ask questions he could never answer.

Instead he paid all his attention to his food, or at least pretended to, until Commander Erwin and Captain Hange joined so that they could discuss strategies together.

Meanwhile, Commander Erwin and Captain Hange were at his office, still discussing. Erwin had showed them the icy handprint he had found at his room's door, and before he knew it, Hange pulled their own collection of random objects completely encased in ice. Naturally, their discussion and planning lasted so long that they were astronimically late to dinner.

Connie had been harder for Armin to avoid, with him being his roommate and everything.

Luckily, the roomate hasn't said a word, which, while it did sting, Armin was very thankful for.

The next day seemed like a good day; Armin had obtained some alone time to practice, (since all his friends were avoiding him,) and it seemed to him that he was really getting the hang of it; he could make a small wand out of ice and manipulate it, then melt it when he was done. It felt almost..natural now. He couldn't believe it. He will survive!

It was a good day, that is until Commander Erwin gathered them and announced another expedition. His hand grabbed into the table a bit too hard. It was about time, wasn't it? Then why was he so scared? Why was his heart beating so fast at the thought of leaving the walls?

He shook those feelings away, and listened to the Commader's plan, and left when all was dismissed. Hange made a quick tour of the table, and held back one of the cadets and asked, just to double check : "Who was sitting over there? At the seat that's in the middle?"

When the cadet in question answered "Armin Arlert", their doubts were confirmed. They dismissed him as they looked at the small shards of ice under the table, right in front of Arlert's seat.

Over the next couple of days, Armin further practised using his power. He could now make various shapes out of ice and manipulate them as he wished. He felt he could defend himself now against the zombies, instead of relying on his stronger friends as usual.

The day of the expedition came way sooner than he'd liked, and on his horse, next to the rest of cadets, and Hange, who was the one assigned to them, behind them, he and everyone else followed their commander into the dangerous lands.

Their first dozen minutes were calm, as they haven't yet entered the zone where the zombies were most prominent, so Captain Hange saw fit to use these few moments to chat, and rely important news too.

"I hope you all kids know how much this disease, despite being terrifying to all of you, interests me. Especially the first stages; powers! Fascinating, almost magical, no?" They prompted, studying the cadets' expressions. "I'd give anything to be able to experience that kind of rush, you know, of having the ability to do such grand things, even if its not controllable."

Armin started sweating. He did not like where this was going. In fact, he was about to hate it even more.

"You know kids, Commander Erwin and I made an interesting discovery this week." She prompted. "We found out that someone among us has been infected."

Armin felt his heart almost stop.

"They have ice powers, This person who was infected. Commander Erwin found an icy handprint on his door the other day. Now, I'd like to think that this person doesn't know aboit their infection, but it seems to me that they've tried to turn themselves in but backed out at the last moment, for obvious reasons."

Armin felt his breathing get heavier, and a familiar rush go through his limbs. "No, no, no, please, not now,' he thought.

But it was too late. Ice had started covering not only the saddle he had been holding, but also his horse's side. Pained, the animal threw Armin off it's back, bringing all attention to him.

Hange took out her gun and pointed it at him. The one they use to fight the zombies, the people infected beyond any help. The closest corporals surrounded him, their weapons out. The rest looked at him in disbelief. So did his friends. He couldn't meet their eyes.

"Call Commander Erwin," Hange commanded one of her soldiers. "Tell him we've found the infected; it's Armin Arlert."

"Is it true Armin? Is this what you've been hiding from us?" Eren shouted in shock.

"L-Listen, I can explain.."

Hange, not waiting for an explanation, cocked her gun. Mikass yelled and charged at her, dropping her in the ground. Corporal Levi cocked his and fired at him.

Armin luckily heard Levi's gun, and as he raised his hands protectively, a wall of ice rose from the ground between him and the shooter, and the bullet was stuck between the ice. Snapping out of his shock, Armin realised the gravity of the situation, and the urgency by which he had to explain himself.

"Get away! He'll freeze you to death!" All the soldiers backed up, all except Eren, Mikasa who was still hand wrestling with Hange, and the rest of his friends.

"No! I won't! I swear"  Armin replied. "Listen to me, I know I should've reported myself, but I have reasons."

"I truely believe that these powers are controllable. If I do get the hang on them, it will be a huge advantage to humanity, and advantage you can't pass up!"

"And what makes you believe that you, out of all these people zombified, will manage to control your powers and escape that fate?" Commander Erwin inquired, interested.

"Commander, we can't possibly.."

"Cases of people controlling their powers may be rare, but not impossible. Sir, this wall of ice that I generated is proof to you, as we all know the infected's powers always act on the offense, never on the defense." Armin explained passionately. "Besides, I've found myself to be able to hold my powers back whenever necessary, and while in this aspect I still need some refinement, but the progress I've made is very impressive considering the history of the disease."

"And last, I implore you again to think of the advantage that my powers could give to humanity. With enough training and refinement, I might be able to seal the wall Maria, permanently, since the ice I make cannot be melted unless I choose to. All I want, is humanity's best, and if you see that killing me would be the most beneficial choice to humanity, then I implore you to do it!"

Commander Erwin retreated, and soldiers surrounded Armin with their rifles drawn, waiting for their superior's orders. Mikasa broke free from the soldiers holding her away from Hange and ran towards Armin. Eren followed her.

"Armin, are you hurt?" She attempted to hold his hand but he shoved it away silently. She understood why now. He shook his head. "Was this.. Was this what you've been hiding from us?"

He nodded silently. He still couldn't bring himself to look at either of his friends. Why didn't he report himself earlier? At least then he would've been executed with dignity.

"Armin, how much of your power can you control? We need to get you out of here, fast." Eren said, looking around him. They could hear snippets of the commader's discussion with the rest of the captains.

"Eren.." Armin said firmly. "It's fine. I'm fine with whatever decision they come up with. You just take Mikasa out of here, they're pointing guns at us."

Eren looked away, then hugged both Armin and Mikasa. Armin slid his hands into his sleeves and returned the hug.

Soon the Commader Erwin made up his decision, and started directing the formation to return to the walls.

He then announced their final decisions : Armin would be locked out of the walls, but with enough provisions to last him a week and his weapons. He was to stay outside the walls for a week, to make sure he won't be turning, and by the end of the week, Armin was to use his powers to climb to wall, as a test for his control over them.

The trio sighed in relief. They hugged each other tighter as the rest of their friends joined the hug. Sasha was barely holding back her tears, as she yelled at Armin for scaring them.

But eventually the moment came, where they had to leave him, alone, for a whole week, in the zombie infested wasteland.

It was going to be a long week.

#attack on titan #armin arlert #shingeki no kyojin #snk #aot #attack on titan au #attack on titan fic #laughing S og post

[sunflowerfromthefog]

The Trapper’s Pet (Trapper x fem!reader)

Warnings: Rape/Noncon, Dubcon, sexual assault.

Summary: Last in the trial, you find yourself stuck at the gas station, and the Trapper is more than happy to take advantage of the situation.

A/N: Apologies if the Trapper seems out of character. Originally I was going to have him be silent the entire time, but I couldn't resist the master/pet kink I have deep within my heart.

You can also read it on AO3!

There was nobody left but you and him.  And he made it very hard to run for your life when you had no idea where his traps may be.  Evan, also known as The Trapper, was on your tail and you had to be careful where you stepped.  Who knew how many bear traps were on this property?

You gulped, the sound of your heartbeat loud in your ears.  He was too close, you realized as you glanced over your shoulder.  His grinning mask was visible in far too much detail, so you took a quick right into the gas station.  Broken shelves and limited exits at least made it so you might be able to loop around him and get some distance.

The bell outside rang as the Trapper stepped on the hose, signalling his entrance.  The floorboards creaked beneath his weight as you ducked down behind the counter.  Not the best hiding spot, but it gave you some time.  You heard the familiar squeak of rusty hinges as your attacker began to search through lockers.  You peeked over the counter, ignoring the trail of bloody handprints you saw there and watched as the Trapper went into the garage and out of sight.

You stood on shaky legs, holding your breath as you looked left and right for the best escape.  There was a trap at both doors, impossible to get by without alerting him.  The window to the outside was too close to the garage, he would definitely see you even as he checked more lockers.  Another door slammed shut, his annoyance obvious.

That left one very small option.  On your left was a boarded up window, but it had a small hole you might be able to fit through.  You tiptoed over, keeping yourself low to the ground.  Once you were sure you have a few more seconds as the Trapper checked another locker you stuck one arm through the hole.  Then your head, shuffling your other shoulder through.  God, it was tighter than you had thought, and once you managed to wriggle your waist through you learned that despite never eating in the fog, your hips had remained too large to fit through.

“No,” you whispered as you planted your hands on the wood and pushed as hard as you could.  No movement.  “No, no, no…”

You tried to back out, but it was useless.  Stuck.  With the Trapper right behind you and about to come out of the garage.  There was a moment you had actually thought he might not notice your ass and legs sticking out the window, but that was short lived.  Footsteps thumped as they moved towards you, his breathing getting louder with his approach.

You looked behind you as best you could, and through the boarded up window, a small gap between the wood and glass, you saw him.  The Trapper.

You wanted to yell at him.  Tell him to just kill you already but all that came out was a gasp.  His eyes seemed to watch you through the gap before flitting down to your predicament.  His head tilted to the left, watching as you wiggled in a thin attempt to escape.  You gulped, preparing for the pain of being ripped out of the hole and thrown over his shoulder.  But that didn’t happen.

Instead you heard something heavy and metal hit the floor.  The bear trap he’d been carrying?  And then something lighter fell after.  His blade?  You struggled harder, hoping to get a glimpse of what he was doing but he was gone from the gap.

Rough fingers grabbed your calves, thumbs rubbing over your skin as if to relax you.

“Hey, what the hell are you--” you began but you were cut off when you felt him shove his face into the crotch of your shorts.  His hands pulled your legs wide, allowing him to press against you unencumbered.  It was then that you realized he had taken his mask off; you could feel his nose prod against the seam of the jean shorts, and his tongue stuck out to lick at you.  You let out a half squeal half scream before quickly covering your mouth.  Your skin tingled as he rubbed his face against your ass.  He even let out moans as he did, so hard they vibrated through you.  You didn’t want to admit it, but the lewd sounds were enough to give your body a jolt of excitement, travelling from your core to your fingertips to the ends of your toes.  You struggled your legs against his hold, but it was no use; he had you trapped.

The Trappers tongue found the hole in your shorts, just beside your entrance, and he tasted your skin.  Feeling him swipe it across your inner thigh, so close to your lips was torturous in more ways than one.

“Stop,” you begged.  You tried to squeeze your legs closed again, but it only made him move his hands higher to your thighs, pushing them harder and squeezer tighter.  “This isn’t how this is supposed to go!”

He didn’t speak.  He didn’t need to, you guessed.  His hand released your right thigh and just when you thought he might have changed his mind his finger replaced his tongue.  It hooked into the hole and pulled, with too much ease, and ripped apart your shorts.  Now the only thing between him and his apparent goal were your black panties.

You started to flail, but even when he wasn’t holding your legs apart you couldn’t do anything.  Your thigh came in contact with his shoulder, feeling the rough skin and metal pieces there; it actually made you stop as one of the pieces cut into you.  

Like before, the Trapper pressed his face against your crotch.  Without the protection of the jeans you could feel him more than before, and this time when his tongue struck out it managed to wriggle between your lips.  It found your clit with surprising ease, sliding over it again and again as you held back your sounds.  Both hands covered your mouth, but it was pointless; you couldn’t hide the fact that your body was reacting to his rough treatment.  

“Hmm,” he hummed against you.  It was the closest thing to a word you’d ever heard from him.  His voice had a gravelly tone to it, deep and...inviting.  “My pup knows it’s master.”

You stilled completely hearing him talk.  While you stayed frozen in the window the Trapper hooked a finger in your panties and pulled them down, stretching them to your knees before he stood, and to your best guess, stepped on them to take them off completely.

You listened as he picked something up, turning to see through the gap as he held his blade.   A huge machete, coated in blood and you didn’t want to think about what he was going to do with it.  His mask was back on.

You let out a strangled, “M-Master?”

He gave a slow nod, eyeing the blade.  With a fast movement he lifted it over his head and swung.  You turned away with a shriek, expecting him to impale you then and there but you felt nothing.  You only heard the metal pierce into the floorboards, right between your legs.  There was a shuffle of movement as the Trapper lifted your hips up, the squeak of steel pushing against wood, and then he gently let you go.  You felt the handle of the blade rub against your center, right against your most sensitive part.  The Trapper stood, and his footsteps faded as he left.

You tried to move, to get rid of the opposing things causing you brief shocks of pleasure as well as to see where the man had gone.  No matter what way you moved your hips or your legs, that thing stayed against your clit.

“Hah,” you breathed just as you heard the Trapper step on a stray stick and snap it in half.  He’d come outside, and now stood right in front of you, his erection obvious in his overalls.  It bulged out, an obvious hint to its size as he stood directly in front of your face.  One large hand came on top of your head, his finger entwining in your hair.  “Say it again.”

You looked up at him as best you could with wide eyes.  All you really saw was his wrist and arm, and beyond that only a hint of his mask.  You kept your hands flat against the wood that kept you prisoner, knowing fighting him wasn’t going to do anything.  “What?  N-No!  You’re not my master, and I’m not some dog--!”

He yanked on your hair.  “Say it again.”

The pain in your scalp wasn’t horrendous, but the pull did make you struggle against the blade on the other side of the wall.  It slid around your clit, making your thighs squeeze and tighten, which only enhanced it’s effect.  You tried to shake your head but with him holding you it was impossible.

The Trapper knelt down, just barely coming to eye level with you.  You tried not to look at him, but when he spoke it felt impossible to look away.  “Good pups get treats.  Allow me to demonstrate.”

He released your hair, bringing both hands to the thin straps of your tank top and pulling it down.  Within a single moment he had exposed your breasts, your shirt and bra now pushed against the wooden frame at your waist.  You quickly tried to cover yourself, but he easily caught both your hands and locked them behind your back.  You fought a bit, but each time you did that damn handle rubbed you in just the right way to make you squeak.

With his free hand, the Trapper grabbed one breast and began to knead.  You gulped, trying to hide the blush that was darkening your cheeks by looking away.  His cock twitched beneath his overalls as his head tilted to follow your face.  His rough kneading was getting to you, and you felt more slick than before.

You pressed your thighs together tightly when he pinched at your nipple, and then swapped to the other, giving it the same treatment.

Then, he did something you hadn’t expected.  He sat down below you, his legs crossed and released your arms.  You went to hit at him, even if it wouldn’t do a thing, when you inched closer to you.  He lifted his mask as he forced your head to rest beside his, his hands then going to your waist.  There was a moment he took a deep inhale of your hair, nuzzling his nose into your neck and giving you a small nip.  The cold metal of the mask gave you chills, and it was oddly smooth against your skin.

You couldn’t do anything but hold onto his arms, feeling the strong, thick muscles beneath your fingertips.  You thought of pulling on one of the pieces of metal, but didn’t once he started to shift you.  

The little room that you had to move between your waist and hips was just enough for him to slide you back and forth along the blades handle.  After a few gentle thrusts his right arm wrapped around your middle, his other going to the side of your face.  A whine was starting to fall from your lips as he held you intimately, and you hated how good it felt.  Not just the stimulation, but the kindness--how long had it been since another person held you?  Since you held them?  You couldn’t remember, and before you knew what your body was doing, you wrapped your arms behind his neck and pulled him even closer.

“See how good it is?” he asked.  “See how nice it is to know your place?”

You shook your head, burying it into his neck as he did the same to you.  

“Nng,” you groaned, your walls starting to reflexively clench with your coming high.  

“Say it,” the Trapper whispered.

When you shook your head again, still unwilling to give up that much power, he stopped moving you.  Your breathing was heavy when he pulled away and stood, staring down at you behind the mask.

“Then bad pups don’t get treats.”  The Trapper unhooked his overalls and let them fall to his hips, pushing them to his thick thighs and letting his cock spring free.  While it wasn’t overly long, it was thick.  Your eyes widened as you saw he already had precum dripping from the tip, and a vein running down the underside.

As you were about to curse at him he took the easy opportunity to shove his hips forward and fill your mouth.  You weren’t giving him what he wanted with it, so he’ll just take something else.

You tried to scream as you felt the vein run along your tongue.  The Trapper gripped your hair, holding you in place as your throat convulsed around him.  Eyes watering, your beat your hands on high thighs in a feeble attempt at freedom, focusing your breathing through your nose.  

He kept a tight hold on your head and hair, pulling his hips back a bit to allow you to breath.  His dick never left your mouth, and the stretch was already starting to hurt your jaw.  He began to use you, just like that.  Each thrust made you jolt back on the handle, ensuring that even while he was punishing you you got some pleasure out of it.  Tears fell easily from your eyes, and eventually your beating hands stopped and just hold onto his thighs for a bit of balance.  You hoped you could stop your hips from moving, but with the Trappers hard pace it was impossible.

The taste of salt was on your tongue, and when you learned that you weren’t going to get anywhere fighting, you started to give up.  Let him use you, you thought, let him have his way and then be on it.  He’s just going to kill you after this anyway, right?

You swiped your tongue along the underside of his dick, making him slow his pace.  When he finally did you tried to say the word he wanted, though it was incomprehensible with him in your mouth.

Knowing this, he pulled out.  “What was that?”

“M...Master,” you whispered, barely audible even to yourself.

He knelt in front of you, mask half raised to show his scarred lips.  “Louder, pet.”

“Master.”  You licked your lips, sniffling as you tried to stop your tears from falling.  The Trapped loosened his grip on your hair and pressed his lips to yours, forcing his tongue past your lips and tasting himself on you.  You let out a gasp at the sudden intrusion, not expecting something as intimate as a kiss from the monster.  

When he pulled away you were left gasping for air.  While you sputtered and struggled to catch your breath you opened your eyes to find him gone.  The floorboards creaked behind you, making you still.

Flecks of wood smacked against your skin as the blade was ripped from between your legs.  A scream bubbled past your lips at the sudden loss of friction, and the thought that you were about to get a knife in your back.  But instead the blade clattered to the floor again and two warm hands gripped your hips.  

“What are you doing?” you asked.  As if you had to ask.  You felt his hands knead your ass, digging his thumbs deep into your flesh until it hurt.  You tried to squeeze your legs together but felt your knees only grind against his thighs.  With the handle no longer giving you any kind of stimulation you were unfortunately eager to get it back.  

“I’m giving my good girl her treat.”  

The shiver that ran up your spine was partly from the dark tone of his voice and partly from the tip of his cock pressing into your entrance.  The wetness was enough for him to slide in, but your walls were unprepared for the sudden thrust he gave, sheathing himself inside you with a delicious burn.  You gave another scream at the intrusion.

While this was your “treat”, it didn’t feel like one at first.  The Trapper began a strong pace, forcing himself into you until his hips were flush with yours, only to pull out and shove back in.  You braced yourself as best you could, hands flat on the wood beneath you for support.  

The Trapper held your hips, tilting them up as he thrust hard into you and making your walls tighten around him.  He grunted at the reaction, a chuckle running through him.  The wet squelching that was coming from your bodies entwining made your heart race even harder, the heat building higher.

You groaned as he went on, his strong hands keeping you steady.  Splinters were digging into your stomach, the pain going ignored with the pleasure between your legs taking over.  You let out more breathy moans, thinking of how you had never felt as helpless as you did now.  Through all the trials, all the hatchets in your back and Hag traps you’d set off...it was nothing compared to now.  Being used and abused, degraded to the roll of the Trapper’s pet apparently...something about it was making you feel even hotter.  Your walls started to clench harder, chasing after the coming orgasm.

“That’s it,” the Trapper’s voice rumbled, “be a good girl now.”  One hand ran up your hips and across what little part of your waist was on his side of the wall, massaging his fingers into your skin.  

“You make me feel good, pet.”  His hand slid down, going between your legs and finding your clit.  He rubbed it hard with three fingers, never stopping his pace.  “You’ve always made me feel so good.”  The stretch he gave you was more than enough to make the heat in your core erupt and spread through your body.  As the orgasm hit you your walls spasmed and wrapped tightly around the Trappers cock.  He grunted with it, still rubbing your clit throughout.  Even as you began to calm down from your high he kept going, and soon enough he was pulling another orgasm out of you.  It almost began to hurt until you finally felt his cock twitch.  Body weakening, you began to lose the strength in your arms.  With another thrust the Trapper sheathed in you fully one last time, and found his release, filling you.  It was hot as it spread throughout your lower half, the Trapper grinding against your backside as he finished himself off.  With a grunt, he pulled out, and his semen started to drip down your thighs.  His breathing was heavier than normal.  You found yourself too weak to even turn and look over your shoulder at him, body twitching with aftershocks.

You felt the pressure on your stomach release as the Trapper lifted the wooden boards that kept you in place.  WIth his other hand he pulled you back gently, wrapping an arm around your waist and hauling you up.  He let the boards drop back and lifted you onto his shoulder as he did the others in the trial.  You started to kick and beat against his back, thinking he was really going to put you on the hook now.  He knelt down and picked up his blade.

“No!” you shouted as he started to leave the gas station.  “No!”

“We’re going home,” the Trapper said.  “You don’t belong to it anymore.”

#Evan macmillan x reader #Evan macmillan imagine #the trapper imagine #the trapper x reader #dead by daylight x reader #dead by daylight imagine

[thebeethathums]

Observers - 48

Pairing: Sherlock Holmes x Reader

A/N: Annnnddd Sherly ruins the moment unintentionally... because he's Sherly.

The bed seemed terribly empty when Sherlock woke up and you were missing, for a while by the coolness of the bedding next to him. He rolled out of it to find all his clothes except for his shirt neatly folded on the bedside table and pulled them on before wandering out to the living room. He couldn’t help but grin when he saw you in front of your easel fully dressed in the clothes from the night before, your hair pulled back, and a fat brush in hand. He watched you work on your new painting, sitting down in your chair since you didn’t seem aware of the fact that he was awake. It was the same canvas from the night before but you had incorporated both his and your handprints from his experiment into it, making it more abstract than it had been originally. From the amount of work you’d done at this level of concentration, you had to have been up at least a few hours if not longer, meaning his experiment was a success. You reached for a tube of paint absentmindedly, having used all that you’d set out of that color, and sighed when you found it empty. You scrunched up your face as you turned with the intent to see if you had another tube stashed away somewhere and startled when you saw Sherlock in your chair, offering him a small nervous smile, “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I didn’t notice you were up… about your shirt… I don’t think I’ll be able to get the paint out. I’ll replace it, but you should probably go put on another before John gets home.” He could tell something was off but not what, so he simply stated, “You’re painting again.” You didn’t even bother to scold him for pointing out the obvious, turning to look at your painting with a tiny smile, “Yes. I just woke up and felt like doing so… That hasn’t happened in a while.”

Sherlock got the smuggest of smug looks on his face, “My experiment was a success. The minds of average people are so easily distracted by the physical.” You froze in your examination of your painting, an unsettling chill running through you, “What?” Overly proud of himself and cocky as all hell, he missed the slight hint of unease in your voice, “I hypothesized that reassociating the act of painting with something of a positive nature that overloaded the senses would override the negative effects of your past experiences. From your success this morning, the intense physical contact of an affirming nature overruled the issues plaguing you before- in effect resetting your simplistic mind to allow you to paint again. I suppose there are benefits to having a normal brain.” “So this was all part of your experiment?” you queried, your voice dangerously quiet. “Of course.”   Your face fell for a moment before you composed yourself and then announced, “You should go. John will be back from Amy’s soon.”

It was more evident that something was wrong now given the demanding edge to your voice but, as usual, that was as far as he got- if you didn’t want him to know your thoughts then he wouldn’t know them. It bothered him that he could only ascertain that you were upset but not why and since it obviously wasn’t over being able to paint again, as that was a good thing, he decided it must be about your friend. Of course, he was wrong but what can you do? He got up to leave because you were right- John would be home soon- and he still didn’t do the whole comforting thing, especially not when you wanted him out. You moved back to your painting, distracting yourself by working on one of the more detailed corners as you mumbled, “Don’t forget your violin.” Once he'd gone, you stopped, your jaw clenching in thought, and decided to try and clear your head by taking a shower to get rid of the paint on your skin reminding you of the night before. When you’d woken up that morning you weren’t sure how to act, you felt guilty about his ruined shirt, and then you began to question the whole thing. You’d distracted yourself by painting since that was what had woken you up in the first place but when he’d got up and said what he said- all the doubts came rushing back. You scolded yourself as the water ran down your skin, you knew he was just curious and that it wouldn’t be anything more. He’d been using you to figure out another aspect of human behavior, it was your fault for getting caught up in it since you’d know that from the start. You could hardly be mad at him for suddenly catching more feelings than either of your intended. You hadn’t even wanted a relationship… when had that changed? When did you start wanting more? You considered it for a moment, it wasn’t as though he didn’t care… he had helped you with your painting even if the how hadn’t been exactly what you’d expected. But then again, it may have been just so that he didn’t have to go through the tedious task of getting you out of work every time he wanted something from you. Maybe John had been right- you weren’t an experiment and letting him treat you as such was messing you up. Clean and dressed, you looked over your apartment, entirely conflicted, and debated what you should do next. You could lie on the floor and think but that didn’t sound appealing at all- your thoughts were too jumbled. You could let the need to be destructive that was creeping into your chest take over but that was hardly productive or helpful- not to mention you’d have to clean up later. There was only one other option and out of the three it seemed the best- you could paint and lose yourself in it... might as well put the results of Sherlock’s ‘experiment’ to good use. You cranked up some music on your stereo system to a ‘don’t disturb me’ level, a painting playlist of random unrelated songs that you liked, set up a new palette after washing your brushes and getting new water, and then set aside the painting you’d been working on in favor of a blank white canvas. Best not to think about how that one was made, you reasoned as you mixed a starting color. You let yourself get lost in the action, spreading bold strokes of reds and yellows over the surface as you let out all the emotions you’d been holding inside for so long. John broke into a wide grin when he came home and heard your odd choice in music, knowing it meant you were painting again as he climbed the stairs to his flat. Sherlock was spread out on the couch as usual, deep in thought, and John rolled his eyes as he went into the kitchen. Your music shut off just before noon, when your alarm went off the remind you that you had to go to work, and John came down to see how you were doing just as you were locking the door to your flat, “How’s the painting going, Squeak?” You sighed, “Good I suppose. Certainly better then it has been.” He stopped you when you went to leave, pushing the hair escaping your bun behind your ear, “What’s the matter, (F/n)? That’s a good thing, isn’t it? You should be happy.” You forced a small grin, “I am, Johnny. I’ve just got a lot on my mind is all.” “Like what?” You chuckled, removing yourself from his grasp, “Like work. I’ve gotta go.” He frowned as you left, you should have been ecstatic about being able to paint again...what was so pressing in your mind that it had stolen the wind from your sails? Climbing the stairs again, he went to see if Sherlock knew anything, reaching for the half-full mug of coffee next to him to get his attention. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open to glare at him for trying to touch his mug, effectively halting John's advance, “What?” “Do you have any idea what’s got (F/n) looking so troubled?” “Not in the slightest.” John huffed, unconvinced but unwilling to press, and plopped down in his chair as Sherlock went back to thinking. He’d enjoyed the night before, snippets of it kept replaying in his mind, and he’d never slept better but, for some reason, he couldn’t shake what had happened when he’d woken up. Social conventions and his study of human behavior on the subject told him that the thoughtless masses determined the morning after to be a complex moment. He didn’t understand why. It seemed to him that it could go one of two ways: your partner could slip away before it was light and never call or they could remain and continue the relationship. He’d stayed. Simple. So why had you been so nervous? He supposed it had something to do with your past as you were displaying signs of distress over something as unimportant as the state of his shirt but then you’d also told him to leave- a complete turn around from the night before when you suggested he shower with you. He’d done everything right and yet something was wrong. He was missing something… it had to be some odd facet of human behavior that he hadn’t considered. The only question was which one…

Tags <3:

@team-free-sherlock @multifandom-ramblings @madshelily @severusminerva @yes-but-theyre-my-dorks @smitemewiththysherlock @not-fandom-addicted @unknownwonder @deducingdevil @aviien @mrsfrankensteinsworld​ @lolamurphy @bakerstreethound @musical-doll-x @protectteamfreewill @delightful-pirate @lilcutekittykat @broke-and-overwhelmed @adri1ii @turtle-at-the-disco @fanfictionsilove @chasedbyhowlingwolves @thorkyrie-rights

#sherlock x reader #Sherlock Holmes x Reader #BBC Sherlock #reader insert #Watson!Reader #sherlock holmes #Sherlock #John Watson #reader #sibling!reader #artist reader #slow burn #sherlock is a bit dense #x reader #fanfic #fan ficton #thebeethathums #Observers

[words-and-knives-leave-scars]

Self Harm: A Journey.

tw: self-harm.

i’m trying to remember the first time, and the why of it.

it was in the bottom of a shower, and i think i searched til I found the sharpest thing at arms-length: i think it was the bottom edge of a conditioner bottle - the kind you get from a hair-dye box.

i can’t remember what i thought, exactly - i feel like it was along the lines of: ‘why not?’. i scratched and scratched til it hurt, til it grazed, but i don’t think the blood came. but it hurt. and that felt good.

i graduated after that to something sharp - a needle i got from a doctor for one reason or the next. in the science classroom there were a pile of proper razor-blades but i was too scared at the time - it was too sharp, too serious. i stuck to the scratching on my right thigh. i think i used tweezers once or twice.

at some point i used those tweezers to take out a thin blade from a razor and i think that was when the satisfaction began its transition from pain to blood.

‘patches of filth’ i called them. i stuck to my right thigh at first, and then slowly spread - my left thigh, my left shoulder, my ankles. i didn’t touch my arms - i was too scared, they were too obvious, too cliche. then, at some point, i did.

i stayed away from my wrists at first, mid-arm, and light. light enough that the therapist shrugged it off and told me to ‘get a handle on that’, dismissively as she wrote on her clipboard.

the blood flow increased, steadily. i was content with the small red beads - more and more of them. i used them to paint a series of pictures in my art diary. i still look at it sometimes, and the words i wrote over the blood are sad and hopeful, and miserable and still true.

the number of cuts increased - and the depth of the cuts increased; the beads began to run together; enough to smear across my arm but not yet to drip.

i told my mother, showed her the scars. ‘there’s nothing there’, she said, dismissively. ‘it’s not enough; it’s not bad enough’ - i thought. i slashed at my skin, over and over and over: “cross-hatch, warm bath, holiday inn after dark.”

when there was no blades, I used my nails to scratch and scratch and scratch at my thigh; at my arms, where i wanted the cuts to be. i disliked the skin beneath my nails, the ripped skin; ugly and torn and deeply grazed: primitive. but the pain came rough and appeasing enough.

i went through multiple skinny razor blades over many years until finally, for whatever reason at whatever time, i finally procured those blades i had been too scared to take from the classroom all those years before.

they are smooth and shiny and easy to handle; easy to control, clean: the slice, the cut, the scratch - all number of options and ways to hurt.

when the thought to harm comes, i obey it with only minor hesitation at first; but i retrieve the blade and take it to the bathroom and sit it on the counter beside. i shower - wash my hair, shave and exfoliate: completely clean. then i sit in the bottom of the shower and stare at it, in its little casing, and I consider, without thought - it’s a feeling.

then, if the urge is still there, I take it from its case and pick it up; look at it, see the water droplets on its shining silver face. if it’s been a while, i hesitate then - it will hurt, it will bleed: the consequences: i will have to wear long sleeves, I will have to hide it from the people who know, i will have to hope it heals quickly so i don’t have to stick band-aids up and down: they’re too obvious, too noticeable.

- there are times when the feeling is a scream, and all is overwhelming and i scream at myself not to do it, not to give them the satisfaction: but no, this is for me: i do this on my own terms -

if the urge is still there, i choose a number: a number for the number of letters in a relevant word, or the number of words in a relevant sentence, or just a number between 1 and 10. with this goal, this step, this focus; i make the first cut.

and then another and another and joy fills my soul: a dark, fucked-up thrill of seeing the blade flash, the skin part, the moments it takes before the blood reacts and rises from the depths. i cut and cut and cut, horizontal from just above my wrist to just below my elbow, and then i fill the gaps; make sure the cuts are deep enough: bad enough; satisfying–

the pain is like an orgasm; toe-curling, breath-taking, back-arching… it’s a delight; it’s a relief - the afterglow: the blood dripping heavy, swirling, congealing; rolling cold against my throbbing skin.

‘my other arm has to match. i wouldn’t want it to feel left out.’ depending on the satisfaction of the left, the right might be less or equal.

once both arms were slashed from wrist to shoulder.

the sight of my own bloody handprint on the white tiled wall makes me smile.

my friend, who pains herself time and again, once told me i never had to hide my scars from her. i took off my jumper, damp with sweat in the summer heat, and i saw her stare. her scars are valid - i don’t want to compare - but though she cuts, hers are not filled with such vigour and fury and determination as my own. at least the ones i have seen. i don’t mean to compare. her pain is as valid as my own. but she stared. and was quiet. i couldn’t meet her eye.

but i don’t really feel shame. though it is a secret i vehemently hide, it’s more because it is a personal affair: my pain is my own - it’s private and its mine.

i’m not crying for help. i’m medicated and treated and it has been years since i was carrying the blade in my pocket to uni and having anxiety attacks on the bus because all i wanted to do was hurt myself - years since i stained the sheets red and left beads to dry on the bathroom wall. back then i suppose i wanted not to tell someone, but for someone to notice.

no one did.

cutting is for special occasions now: an argument with a friend, an encounter with a despised family member, a reminder that my parents could not give less of a shit about me. holidays: my birthday.

but sometimes it happens on those especially bad days when my mind is filled with hate and hopelessness, and i just think, ‘why not?’.

the reason i self harm is the reason a great many others do: the pain is a relief; the wound is proof of inner agony - for many it is a cry for help.

for me it’s like getting off: things build up - things are stressful, i deserve it, i can’t cope with what has just happened - and I need a release and the blood and the pain give me that. it’s deeper than a sexual orgasm - no one else will ever be able to give me the relief and the pleasure and the control that it gives.

i don’t do it cause i’m happy. self-harm is a dark and a twisted and a terrible thing, I know this. i wouldn’t suggest or wish anyone to hurt themselves the way myself and many others do. but i’ve been self-harming for more than 4 years now and the instances have massively decreased since i’ve made several hugely positive life choices. and i know now how to cleanly and efficiently achieve what i want to achieve - ways that satisfy more and for longer.

the circumstances around cutting are always majorly fucked up - after the release, i don’t just get up and walk around happily like everything is fine: once that afterglow wears off it’s very obvious that nothing has changed except now i have to clean up, wait for the veins and capillaries to clot, dry the blade so it doesn’t rust and give me tetanus, and hide it all from the world.

the skin where i bleed is layered with years’ worth of scars. they heal to red, then pink and after a few months they finally fade to appear as simple lines on my skin: but in certain lights and from certain angles, you can see the sharp dip of every old scarred cut.

i’ve normalised this. i know it’s not normal, and that many people i know and love would be horrified. but it’s my normal and i can’t imagine that ever changing. it would have to be organic - maybe that urge will just never arise again and i’ll forget the fucked-up relief and i’ll have only the scars to remind me. who knows.

#cutting #cut #self-harm #self harm #self injury #self-injury #trigger warning #tw: cutting #tw: self harm #tw: violence #tw: mutilation #depression #manic depression #tw: blood #hurt #pain #depressed

[roswelldetails]

Episode 104: Where Have All the Cowboys Gone - theories

Some of these theories are totally obvious, some are just further observations based on what we definitely know. Some are just straight-up guesses! (for fun!) And some are questions because there’s always plenty of those. :)

The blackout blew out cell service and every transformer in town, leaving lightning marks on them.

Then why is Cam so shocked to see lightning marks on the hospital panel after Max restarts it? Shouldn’t she just assume it had one already from the blackout? 

I suspect this is just angst created for the sake of the plot.

Max says, “I don’t know how she found out, but she knows. She knows that Rosa was killed by an alien.”

Max (and his siblings) already knew that Rosa had been killed by an alien, but we can’t be sure if they know about the handprints because Max doesn’t know how Liz found out. It’s possible they weren’t aware of the handprints (and didn’t cause them), or they just aren’t aware that Liz got a copy of the original autopsy.

Then Max says, “She already thinks I did it, and if she keeps digging eventually she’s going to learn everything. I am out of options here.”

So at least in Max’s opinion, there’s enough evidence out there somewhere for Liz to figure this out without their help. And for some reason, he’s really scared of her knowing the full truth.

Is he afraid of what she’d think of him? OR, is he afraid she’ll put herself in danger digging up something that they’ve buried and been afraid to touch for ten years?

Grant Green has probably seen something legit alien in town at some point, starting him down the path of crazy conspiracies. I think most of what he actually says is total BS though. 

According to Federico, Rosa was trying to stay clean in the weeks before her death - he hadn't even seen her, and he’d been in the bad crowd she’d do those things with.

According to Rosa in the flashback, she was doing better.

In Maria’s memory, Rosa didn’t even appear drunk or high when she saw Maria in the bar that night she died. She did grab some alcohol on her way out, but she definitely wasn’t wasted.

Maybe Rosa being wasted was a lie to cover up what really happened that night, or maybe she went to go see those other two girls on her last night in town, and they got wasted together.

Manes tells the Sheriff: “Actually, given Jim’s struggles at the end of his term, I was expecting you to make different choices.”

He was likely the cause of whatever problems Jim was having - and the Sheriff knows it, but probably can’t prove it.

It’s possible that Jim’s sickness was caused somehow by Manes. To get rid of him for his lack of cooperation. 

100% Kyle’s mom knows about the aliens and what Manes is doing in his bunker. She’s been invited to the party and has refused so far because she disagrees with what Manes is doing. She’s never wanted Kyle to look into his dad’s past because she doesn’t want him sucked in to Mane’s schemes.

Isobel describes using her power as “a place where I have ultimate power”, but not so much, eh, Isobel?

Theory: Isobel was much more liberal in the use of her powers when she was younger. She was a self-described “mean girl.” She was probably much stronger back then.

Whatever happened ten years ago may have involved Isobel’s powers in some way (or maybe not), but either way it freaked her out so bad that she pretty much stopped using them during the past 10 years. So now, when she wants to make Liz leave (again?), she’s not strong enough anymore.

Max asks about Isobel’s powers because he wants to know exactly what’s going to happen to Liz. He isn’t sure he wants Isobel to violate Liz’s mind until Michael suggests that it might help Liz move on. 

Which means he probably doesn’t know that Isobel did something to Liz’s mind ten years ago.

He doesn’t want Liz gone but he says “What I want stopped mattering a lot time ago.” and then tells Isobel to get inside her head and send her away.

Sanders Auto was looted during the blackout. Where Michael lives? And he didn’t notice? Or was he the cause?

Maybe Michael went home and started throwing things around and Sanders assumed it was looters. :/

Maria’s intuition is a real thing - this has been confirmed in interviews. So it’s probably true that Noah wants babies and Isobel is too afraid of what might happen if they made a hybrid. 

Liz is done being logical and seems to be running on pure emotion now as she learns more about Rosa’s last days.

She assumes the note and the bus ticket came from the same person even though there’s no evidence of that.

She assumes that the note was written by Jim Valenti, even though there’s only flimsy evidence of that.

She assumes that Jim Valenti was sleeping with Rosa even though there’s ZERO evidence of that, and the note isn’t even mildly sexual. (Honestly, I have grocery lists hotter than that note.)

At this point, we don’t know enough to figure out the purpose of the note or why Rosa was headed to Los Alamos. 

Maybe she was going to go to a treatment center for her addiction - “The first step is the hardest. I’ll always be by your side.” sounds like a 12 step sponsor.

Maybe she was going to go look for her mother - which would explain why she didn’t tell anyone. According to Liz, Rosa and her mother shared mental illness in common. Maybe Rosa thought she could find someone who understands - or maybe she felt like she understood why her mom left and wanted to get in touch. Liz and Papa Ortecho would’ve freaked out, so she wouldn’t have told them anything.

For that matter, maybe Mama Ortecho was mixed up in something having to do with the aliens and it’s the real reason she left town. And maybe Rosa was trying to figure it out and track her down. That could be why Rosa was killed - she got too close to whatever her Mom had been up to.

The alien trio is super rattled about their secrets coming out. Whatever happened, it was ten years ago when they were 17 - they were just kids.

When Michael says, “Liz Ortecho’s looking for a murderer. Let’s give her one.” It doesn’t necessarily mean that he murdered Rosa and the girls with her. Michael may have accidentally killed someone in the past, and he may see himself as a murderer, but that doesn’t mean it was Rosa.

“After all, I’m the one that killed those girls.” - Michael

“Those girls” could be any girls, not necessarily Rosa and friends.

Or, he could simply feel directly responsible for whatever happened that night.

HE DID NOT MURDER THOSE GIRLS. There is no way Max would be looking at him in sympathy and putting a hand on his shoulder if Michael had literally murdered Liz’s sister.

Wild theory: Michael did something that night to attract someone’s attention (probably accidentally), then hid himself. That someone came looking for the source of what happened out in the desert, found Rosa and her friends, and killed them. Now, Michael feels like he got them killed. And now all three of them have been terrified for that last ten years to use their powers or do anything to attract attention to themselves. 

Except Michael who’s been feeling self-destructive since it happened.

And whatever it was, Max is afraid that it’ll come back on Liz and that’s why he’d rather have her leave town than keep digging.

Michael’s hand was not burned - this was confirmed by Carina on twitter. I don’t think it was his handprint on Rosa either - at least not the one on her mouth. That doesn’t look like a life-saving place to put your hand.

I think one of Michael’s foster parents beat the crap out of him and broke up his hand so he couldn’t play guitar anymore. And I think for whatever reason, Michael thought the situation might be dangerous for Alex so he started giving Alex the cold shoulder so he’s stay safe.

When the town lights come on and we see the alien symbol hidden within the lights...

We can assume it’s not an accident, and it wasn’t done by the trio.

There’s another alien out there that’s been around for a long time. Maybe more than one. And they’ve made the town lights capable of doing that to serve as some kind of a signal.

#roswell new mexico #roswell nm #roswell cw #max evans #isobel evans #michael guerin #liz ortecho #episode 104 #theories #kyle valenti #roswell nm season 1

[steven-grandpa-rogers]

More Than Anything

summary:

while on a mission, you need steve to help you come back down to earth; confessions are made along the way

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 3.5k

request: here

warnings: marvel-typical violence, smut, rough sex, mentions of anxiety, unprotected sex bc i can’t write anything else, choking if you squint

The tension mounted over the course of weeks, months, even years. It was obvious to anyone who bothered to look; the lingering glances, the small smiles, the too-long touches. But when you were asked, of course, you would vehemently reject any assumptions.

You and Steve Rogers were just friends. Friends who routinely slept in the same bed, who chose each other over anyone else, who would follow the other to the ends of the earth and beyond. Neither of you ever really bothered to question that.

This mission was changing things. You weren’t sure what it was; with anyone else, you might have chalked it up to the close quarters. Sharing a room - sharing a bed, no less - was something that may trigger some awkwardness. But sharing a bed was something you and Steve did often, so it couldn’t have been that.

You wondered if his job was simply starting to take a toll on him. Maybe it was time for him to get out of the field. Of course, you would never suggest this, but it was possible.

This was your train of thought as you sat on the balcony of your hotel room, feet propped up on the railing and your drink of choice held in your hand. It had been a productive day, if not particularly interesting; you were undercover in a corporation that was suspected of working with HYDRA, among other things. While the intel was fantastic, it was, at its core, a desk job. Really, this entire mission was training for Steve; he was a great soldier, a master tactician, but not so much of a spy. You, meanwhile, were as good as spies got.

At least when Natasha was busy.

You were drawn from your musings when the sliding door opened to reveal a very shirtless Steve looking down at you with exhausted eyes. “Are you coming to bed?” He asked, and you were struck by how profoundly domestic the question was.

“Soon,” you replied, taking a sip of your drink. “I’m just thinking.”

He leaned against the doorframe. He looked tired, he looked worn down. You wanted to go to him, hold him, give him some of his energy back. You wanted to make him feel new again. Your heart hurt to look at the man so exhausted. “What are you thinkin’ about?”

You shrugged. “Nothing in particular.”

You didn’t normally lie to Steve, and the feeling of it was… not fantastic. The words felt heavy on your tongue. You recoiled at the sound of them. Funny, you thought; you lied - easily, even enjoyably - for a living, but you couldn’t lie to Steve.

If he saw through your words (and you suspected he did, if the way he pursed his lips and raised his brows was any evidence) he didn’t choose to comment. Instead, he nodded, mumbled a goodnight, and shut the door behind him.

You finished off your drink and stared at the city skyline, contemplating until you fell asleep in the only-somewhat-comfortable deck chair. Steve found you early the next morning and carried you inside. You stirred just enough as he laid you out in the bed to feel him press a kiss to your temple before he left for his morning jog.

In your early morning drowsiness, all you could think was oh. shit. before sleep overtook you once more.

***

The mission took a turn for the worst pretty fast, if you said so yourself. One minute, you and Steve were gathering information at your desks; the next, you were being called into your boss’ office for a meeting.

The alarm in your head started going off when he locked the door behind you both. When you raised an eyebrow at the sound of it, your boss shrugged. “Just so that we won’t be disturbed. You understand. Please, take a seat.”

Steve moved first, lowering himself cautiously into one of the seats opposite your boss. You followed, hesitantly, hand itching to pull the gun on the inside of your blazer. Though you expressed complete nonchalance outwardly, you were currently going over every microinteraction you’d had at the company. Had something you’d said raised a red flag? Something you’d done?

“I wanted to speak to you both about your real intentions here,” your boss said. You swallowed hard. Shit.

Steve shifted beside you and you could practically smell the panic on him. You wanted to tell him to relax; visibly freaking out wasn’t helping either of your cases. Instead, you looked straight ahead and offered your boss and easy-going smile. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sir.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t lie to me.”

You felt your heart rate accelerate, but you put on a mask of shock and disappointment. “Sir, I’m not lying. I made my intentions at this company clear to you during my interview; I wanted experience in my chosen field, and I -”

“Cut the shit, Y/L/N!” His voice dropped an octave and he rose from his seat, staring down at you with something cruel in his eyes.

Your face morphed into fear and you worked on summoning tears; if you could just act your way out of this, you’d be fine. “Sir, please sit down. You’re scaring me.”

“C’mon, man,” Steve’s voice surprised you. “We just -”

“Please, Captain,” your boss switched his attention to Steve and you knew you were fucked. It was all over. “Spare me.”

You made an executive decision and stood quickly from your seat. Before your mark could react, your gun was pointed directly at his face. “Okay, new plan,” you said. The fake fear was gone, replaced with confidence and power. “You’re gonna sit down and chill the fuck out. We’re gonna take the intel we need and take this company down. Then we’re gonna slap some handcuffs on you and you’re gonna get what you deserve. Or I can pull the trigger, get the intel we need, take this company down, and leave you to bleed out. It’s your choice.”

In a flash, he was reaching out and pressing a button under his desk. You weren’t sure what it would do, but you knew it couldn’t have been good. As he pressed the button, you squeezed the trigger and watched him crumple to the floor.

By this point, Steve was standing as well. You looked at him and nodded to the door before moving to grab your boss’ key card from his jacket. This would give you access to the information you needed. “I don’t know what he did, but we need to get those files and get the fuck out.”

He nodded and followed you. This wasn’t ideal; you were wearing a blouse and dress pants, neither of which would offer much protection against weaponry, especially bullets, and Steve was most certainly without his shield. Hopefully whatever that button meant would take a while. You hid your gun under your blazer as you made your way through the office. If anyone had heard the gunshot, they certainly didn’t give any indication of it. “His office must have been soundproofed,” you observed, making sure only Steve could hear you. “That’s good.”

You reached the elevator and boarded, happy to see that no one else was present. In an instant, you had swiped your boss’ key card and entered the password that you’d been working on stealing for days. As a new set of buttons appeared, you found yourself profoundly grateful that you’d worked out the password on time.

“They keep all their information on a set of sublevels,” you said, scanning the new buttons and finally selecting one. “If our intel is correct, it should be here.”

You shot down to the correct level and unboarded the elevator. It felt like you had entered a high tech parking garage; the walls of the room that you entered were made of concrete, but the wall opposite the elevator was layered with all manner of security measures. Praying to God you were right about what you were about to do, you marched over and shot out the handprint scanner. The doors slid open.

“How did you know to do that?” Steve asked as he followed you into the maze of files.

You shrugged, drawing your gun once more just in case you encountered someone. “It worked in Star Wars.”

In a few minutes, you managed to track down the right filing cabinet. Thank God for organization systems. You browsed through the files inside and handed the ones you would need off to Steve. “Alright, let’s get the hell out of here.”

It seemed like you were in the clear, until you made your way back to the room with the elevator. As you re-entered the room, the doors opened to reveal a group of men that were definitely not your friends. You shot at one without thinking, only to discover he was definitely wearing bulletproof armor. “Okay, I guess we do this the old fashioned way.”

Steve kicked the files behind the two of you, to be retrieved after you’d finished kicking these guys’ asses.

The enemies converged in a swarm; you hit the first in the face with the butt of your gun, sending him sprawling to the ground. The second came at you faster than you were expecting and managed to grab your gun hand. Without really thinking, you pivoted and shoved your knee right into his balls. He sunk to his knees in front of you, so you ripped his helmet off and sent a bullet right through his skull. This may have been a bit excessive, but you hadn’t been trained for subtlety or grace. You just needed to get the job done.

You worked your way through the crowd until it was just you, Steve, and the last few enemies.

The last one that you faced was a doozy; he went for your legs and you landed hard on your back. As you grimaced and breathed hard, he took the opportunity to step over you and aim his gun right at your head. Letting out a savage growl, you reached up, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him down to the ground with you. It was risky, considering a bullet through your forehead wasn’t great for your health, but you didn’t have many options.

With him sprawled out next to you, you climbed on top of him and pinned his wrists with your knees. You shot him quick and dirty and rose to your feet, surveying the incapacitated men around you. “That was annoying,” you said, and Steve laughed as he retrieved the files.

Aside from the fact that you were covered in blood and panting, you managed to get yourselves together enough to walk out of the building without rousing too much suspicion. If anyone noticed the dishevelment, at least, they didn’t make any comments.

***

By the time you and Steve made it back to the hotel, your adrenaline had only diminished somewhat. The fact that you had made it back without anymore trouble did nothing to ease your nerves; if anything, it only put you on even higher alert. That was too easy, you kept thinking; this couldn’t have been over.

You put the files in your bag and sat out on the balcony, not bothering to remove any of your bloodied clothes or fix your appearance. You were too on edge. You fully expected more HYDRA agents to come through the door at any second.

As minutes ticked by, you prayed that maybe it was over. Maybe you could call it and go home. But still, the anxiety in your chest wasn’t easing up; the more it seemed that you were truly safe, the more your skin buzzed with nerves.

Finally, you decided enough was enough. Rationally, it was clear that you were no longer in danger; but your fight or flight instinct was still strong. You headed inside before you could change your mind. Your plan for easing some of this anxiety was something you were unsure about, something that could be easily rejected, but you needed a tether to reality.

You could only hope that Steve would be willing to provide that.

He was reclined on the bed, nose in a book. His hair was somewhat damp and he was no longer bloody. He looked up as you entered and, seeing the look on your face, immediately put the book to the side. But he didn’t speak. He’d let you do that on your own time.

“Steve…” you didn’t know where to begin. This was ridiculous. You took a deep breath. “I can’t wind down. Fighting is your thing, I’m… I’m more suited for the spy work. You know that. Whenever we fight, you know I get anxious. But it’s not going away this time.”

“Okay,” he replied, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head. “What do you need, doll?”

“I need…” your words died in your throat and you bit your lip. And then, in an instant, a levy broke. Fuck it.  “Steve, I need you.”

His brow furrowed, and then he smiled. He thought you wanted to be held, to be comforted. He clearly didn��t realize that that was the farthest thing from your mind. “You know you don’t have to ask about that. C’mere, we can -”

“No.” You drew his attention with just one word. His eyes widened as your blazer hit the ground, and then your pants, leaving you in just a blouse and underwear. “Steve, I need you to fuck me.”

“Y/N…” you could see the conflict in his eyes; the professional in him wanted to say no, but the part of him that wanted you - that loved you - was dying to say yes. You watched him mull it over, watched as he nodded and said, “okay, if you’re sure.”

You felt relief rush through your system. Before you could think about what to do next, you went to the bed and climbed onto it. You moved so you were straddling him and brought him into a deep kiss. His hands found your hips, lips moving against yours.

Yeah, you definitely should have done this sooner.

“Stevie, please,” your voice bordered on a whine as you pulled back just slightly from the kiss. Your hands were cupping his face, fingers digging into his temples. “Ruin me.”

These words stirred something deep within Steve. He let out a growl and you found yourself on your back with him hovering over you. His lips found their way to your neck and he sucked hickies around your jaw and collarbone, clearly marking you no matter what clothes you might wear to attempt to cover them. The thought of it drew a long moan from you, and you felt his hips stutter forward at the sound.

“I love you,” you heard him say, “I’ve loved you for so long.”

You carded your hands through his hair and drew him back up to your lips, reveling in the feeling of your tongues meeting, exploring. The kiss was charged with passion and one monumental realization:

You and Steve Rogers were most certainly not just friends.

His touch was working wonders to calm your nerves. The adrenaline and paranoia was melting away beneath him, but you needed more. You needed to be grounded, tethered to reality; to Steve.

You wrapped your legs around him and rolled your hips up into his, hoping he’d get the message. He rose up on his knees to, quite literally, rip your blouse off; buttons flew everywhere before he threw the fabric over his shoulder. Your eyes widened at his actions. That was, without a doubt, the single hottest thing you’d ever seen.

The next to go were your panties and bra, which shared a similar fate. You pawed at Steve’s shirt until he got the message and threw it off, along with the boxers that you assumed he’d been planning to wear to bed. As his lips returned to your neck and trailed down to your breast, you toyed with the thoughts in your head about how exactly you wanted this to go.

His lips curled perfectly around one of your nipples and you decided to make your request. If his needy actions and quick pace were any indication, you figured he’d be alright with what you needed.

“Steve,” you said, though it came out as more of a moan as he chose that moment to roll your other nipple between his fingers. He hummed in reply, obviously sensing you had something to say. Your words came out as a desperate gasp: “don’t be gentle.”

You felt Steve smirk against you and then he was tugging your nipple between his teeth. Instantly, your back arched and your hands flew to his head, fingers curling in his hair and pulling.

“My girl likes it rough,” he mused, and then he began kissing down your stomach. On occasion, he’d nip at your skin, sending shockwaves down your back and goosebumps down your arm. “I can work with that.”

Before you could really process, his hands found your hips and flipped you onto your stomach. You felt his hands trail down your back, path punctuated by a slap to your ass once he had reached it. You cried out and prayed to God the hotel had thick walls; this was going to be a loud night.

Steve’s fingers trailed over your slit, exploring you leisurely, keeping a close eye on your reactions. He watched the way you moaned when he flicked the pad of his thumb over your clit; the way you pushed back against him when just the tip of his finger pressed into your opening. He slapped your ass again and you made a sound that was somewhere between pleasure and frustration.

“Steve, please,” you said, rocking your hips back against him. The noise he made was something feral and deep; you looked over your shoulder to see his eyes absolutely burning with lust. His hand found his cock, hard against his stomach, and gave it a few pumps, obviously seeking to alleviate some tension. Channeling your best porn star moan, you met his eyes and said, “please, fuck me.”

He ran the tip of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your juices. You clenched around nothing, throbbing with even the idea of having him inside of you. As his dick slid inside of you, you let out a harsh moan and focused on relaxing for him. He was big, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

It only took a few seconds after he bottomed out for you to start begging him to move. With that go ahead, Steve set a punishing pace; his hips hit yours so hard and fast that, within minutes, the only sounds in the room were skin on skin and various moans, grunts, and growls.

Steve’s hand found your throat and pulled you flush against his chest. The new angle gave him access to even deeper parts of you and you squeezed your eyes shut, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. This was better than you’d ever thought it would be.

Your release approached quickly. You were chanting his name like a prayer, eyes still shut tight. One of your hands found his, the one that wasn’t holding you up, and this moment of tenderness in an otherwise feral fucking communicated things that you didn’t think words ever could. Steve buried his head in your neck just as you came, the pulsing of your cunt sending him over the edge.

You stayed like that for a minute, one of his hands in yours and the other curled around your neck, moving through the aftershocks together. As you came down from your highs, Steve gently pulled out and turned you so that you laid on your back. He then fell onto his side next to you and pulled you into his arms. You felt far more contented than you had before, your adrenaline rush finally dying down. You felt at peace.

“Thank you,” you murmured, head buried in his chest. When he chuckled, you felt the vibration of it pass through him.

“For what?”

“For calming me down. Sometimes you’re the only one who knows how.” This got no response, though you knew he was smiling that soft, dopey grin. You felt his fingers in your hair after a minute or so, felt him begin humming a soft, unfamiliar tune. And then something he had said in the heat of the moment struck you. “Did you mean it when you said you loved me?”

His fingers stilled and you felt him tense. “I…” you couldn’t tell what he was struggling with, but you knew in your soul that the answer was yes. Maybe it was the work boundary, or your individual traumas, or some other unseen conflict. Still, you knew the answer was yes. It had to be yes.

“Because I love you,” you pulled back so you could look at him, flashing him a small smile. “I think I always have.”

The relief in his face shattered your heart a bit; had he been worried that you wouldn’t feel the same? His next words, however, put your heart back together and then some.

“Yeah, doll. I love you. More than anything.”

#marvel #marvel one shot #marvel imagine #marvel smut #steve rogers #steve rogers one shot #steve rogers imagine #steve rogers x reader #steve rogers smut #i had a really good time writing this ngl #i love my Son so #and missions/spy shit are always fun to write

[kiruuuuu]

Tachanka/Vigil oneshot in which Tachanka is sensible and an upstanding member of society. (Rating E, filth and depravity, dubcon, humiliation? all the good stuff basically, ~3.2k words) - written for @blitznbandit  IN EXCHANGE FOR THIS BEAUTY

.

Tachanka is a reasonable man. He knows what to expect from life, knows his limits and knows how to stay in control – of himself, his temper, most situations. He’s practical, independent, realistic and doesn’t give a damn about what people think; he’s being paid to protect civilians, not to care. Some people give him shit for it, most don’t dare, it’s all the same to him. He values loyalty higher than friendship because friends might still stab you in the back, though a mix is unsurprisingly ideal: people who will protect him with their lives despite what they think of him are good company though his boys are the best company, sticking to him like glue and family and blood brothers for no other reason than they belong. The blind devotion is not something he could explain.

Regardless, he’s not a passionate man. Overwhelming emotions are biased and justice needs to be devoid of emotions, objective, neutral or else it’s not fair, cannot claim to be just. It’s a principle that follows him throughout his life, guides his social interactions and colours his relationships that have always been benefit-oriented, pragmatic, sensible. Mind games are not for him, he’s brutally honest to a fault and makes his intentions clear. The ones who can appreciate that in him have proven excellent partners.

And then there’s this young Korean with his nervous smiles and restless hands and he fucking pisses Tachanka off. It’s like he was raised in a barn, never learned to speak up, make eye contact or behave like a goddamn normal human being. Just seeing him in the first week after he joins Rainbow is enough to spark Tachanka's anger and during a briefing, he snaps, has had enough of Vigil hovering uncertainly in the background and barks at him to sit the fuck down and not be such a nuisance. Oh, and how he comes to regret this loss of composure the very next second.

Because Vigil’s eyes go wide, he freezes for a heartbeat before almost throwing himself onto the next available chair, visibly shaken and intimidated, avoids looking at Tachanka and oh.

That’s interesting. The boy is scared of him.

The realisation is too delicious to ignore. Vigil probably dreads interacting with most of the other operators, that much is clear, yet Tachanka has never seen him react this fast or obey without question. He decides to test his theory by snapping at him a few more times, giving more and more ridiculous orders that the boy carries out quietly and without even telling on him and it’s… he can’t lie to himself, it gives him ideas. If he’s very honest, he wants to hold him down and fuck him until he can’t walk and this is surprising. Because Tachanka is not a passionate man. He doesn’t let himself be swayed by whimsical notions, flights of fancy.

Tachanka is a reasonable man. He’s a generous lover and demands explicit consent. He’s not lacking in options usually, so why attempt to take what isn’t his? He has a type: self-sufficient, confident, preferably his age, composed and experienced in bed. He rarely strays from the tried and tested formula, everything else just begs for trouble.

So why is he grabbing this infuriating Korean boy by the collar and stuffing him into the supply closet again? He really should stop this before it gets out of hand. “You’d look so pretty gagging on my cock”, he tells Vigil without meaning to and no, who is he kidding, the sight would be delectable.

And then the moment of truth happens. Because while Vigil still looks terrified, he sinks down to his knees and puts his hands on Tachanka's belt, biting his lip and eyelids fluttering nervously. Tachanka has trouble believing what he sees but he’s not one to look a gift horse in the mouth.

The whole affair is messy, Vigil has really no idea of what he’s doing, drools all over himself and chokes repeatedly yet he’s astonishingly determined, uses his hands and tries to swallow as much of Tachanka's dick as he can, allows him to push his head forwards, at some point just grips Tachanka's thighs and holds on for dear life as he thrusts into his mouth not as deeply as he’d like to. Tachanka comes with a loud groan, unloading first down Vigil’s throat and then on his face while he’s coughing. He was right though. He does look extremely pretty.

“What am I supposed to do with you?”, he grumbles, wipes some of his come off Vigil’s brow and pushes his finger between the wet and swollen lips. The young man merely sucks on it, looks up at him, wordless yet calmer than Tachanka has ever seen him outside of a mission. He makes a decision. This lost soul needs guidance.

.

Two fingers hooked into the already tight collar, ready to pull if necessary, Tachanka muses on how quickly his pet has improved. He’s sitting on his bed, Vigil on the floor between his legs, obediently lapping and sucking at him, still struggling to fit all of Tachanka's length into his throat but a sharp tug on the leather between his fingers convinces Vigil to at least try. His mouth is a wet heat of which Tachanka can’t get enough, his lips silky and his chokes music to his ears. “You’re such an eager little slut”, he murmurs because Vigil is and in response the young man glances up at him, perpetually worrying about whether he’s doing it right, some pride sneaking in whenever Tachanka lets out a pleased groan. “Go deeper. You know how I like it.”

He couldn’t even say how often they’ve done this by now, Tachanka dragging the Korean to his room at the end of the day, demanding things some of which worry even him in quiet moments and Vigil obeying for reasons unknown, ready to learn and readier to hand himself over to Tachanka completely. The power his words and gestures hold is intoxicating, the rush he feels when Vigil silently obliges addicting – he can’t get enough of the shy gazes, the occasional hesitation, the complete and utter submission. A tongue slides over the underside of his cock and he growls, so Vigil does it again and holds his breath when Tachanka pulls him in and holds him there, enjoying the tight heat of the Korean’s throat working around him as Vigil tries to swallow.

This is one of his favourite parts, together with the way Vigil shudders around his thick fingers on the occasions Tachanka feels generous enough and preps him himself: he can see tears forming in the corners of Vigil’s eyes, desperation seeping in as the need for air increases and yet he keeps perfectly still, for some reason trusting Tachanka not to go overboard. “You’re the perfect plaything”, Tachanka says, “you wouldn’t even care if you passed out, eh? Die happily as long as my dick’s anywhere inside you.”

For obvious reasons, Vigil doesn’t answer but Tachanka notices movement in his peripheral vision where there should be none. Mercilessly, he drags Vigil off his length and barks at him while he’s gasping and gulping in air: “Who told you you could touch yourself?” He kicks the offending hand away from the Korean’s crotch, earns a whine and presses his sole against the weeping erection, makes Vigil’s eyes widen and his hips actually buck into Tachanka's foot even though the pressure can’t be comfortable. “Keep your fucking hands off your useless dick, it’s not like you’re ever going to fuck anything with it anymore.”

Vigil is too far gone already, there’s this reckless glint in his eyes that means Tachanka can basically do whatever he wants, say whatever comes to mind – in this state, he’s malleable, gives himself up completely and Tachanka has to admit he capitalises on this. The first few times, it took a while for the younger man to reach this state, nowadays his own fingers up his ass and Tachanka's cock down his throat already do the trick. With reddened cheeks, he pulls his fingers out and uses that hand to support himself, leans back while the other wraps around Tachanka's foot, keeping it in place as he grinds his hips against it, moaning wantonly. He reminds Tachanka of a dog in heat, desperate for any stimulation, begging to be allowed to mate.

His toes push against the dark head and Vigil’s breath hitches. His lips are shiny from spit and precum, the black collar a tasteful contrast to his pale skin and Tachanka wants to destroy him. He never stopped irritating the Russian, his social skills have barely improved over time and he steadfastly refuses to open up about his demons. Still. They don’t need to talk while Tachanka fucks him.

“Get on the bed”, he orders with a last push of his foot before he withdraws it and Vigil scrambles to do so, crawls onto the sheets on his hands and knees, grips the fabric in anticipation but Tachanka is not having it. He’s used to Vigil’s habit of trying to conceal his face, so he kneels behind him, takes a moment to appreciate the view of his inviting hole, his erection pointing down, his strong legs and muscled back before he brings down his hand on one of the round buttocks forcefully and with a loud smack that makes Vigil jolt, gasp and look back at him hurt and confused. “Turn around, you’re not going to hide from me. I want to see what a whore you are.”

The Korean’s expression turns conflicted and he even starts to protest: “But – I don’t –”

Another slap, this one harder and leaving behind an extremely satisfying red handprint. Tachanka knows that the younger man likes the pain, sometimes is even sloppy in his preparation on purpose so he can feel it more keenly; Tachanka always notices and never holds back. “Don’t make me punish you.” Predictably, Vigil chews on his lower lip a little longer so Tachanka spanks him another time, hitting the same patch of skin that must be tender by now but at least it convinces Vigil to lie down on his back, legs spread and visibly embarrassed. “I’m not going to hold back for you.”

The younger man nods, the blush deepening, so Tachanka lubes up his throbbing cock, scoots closer and hooks Vigil’s legs over his shoulders unceremoniously. He knows Vigil hates this position, feels exposed, he reads it in the way he avoids eye contact and tenses up. Tachanka guides his tip with one hand, lines it up and pushes into the waiting ring of muscle, increases the force when he feels resistance, hears Vigil utter a strangled moan. His limbs relax, his face goes slack and he’s utterly lost now, drowning under Tachanka and revelling in the feeling of being filled. Tachanka is familiar with it, has seen it countless times before and never gets tired of it, just like he never tires of the tightness that encompasses him right now, clenches around him and soothes his need.

Once he’s bottomed out, he pauses to examine the Korean under him, cheeks pink and a thin sheen of sweat covering his body, returning his gaze dazedly. “I wonder what that colleague of yours would say if she saw you like this”, he ponders out loud and though most of his words are lost on Vigil in this state, these ones penetrate the fog in his mind, induce a slight panic Tachanka whole-heartedly enjoys. “Impaled on my cock, begging for it, shameless. Hm? What do you think she’d say?”

He doesn’t give Vigil any opportunity to answer, instead pulls out almost all the way and slams back in, forcing another moan out of Vigil’s abused throat that he likes so much he does it again straight away. The walls of Vigil’s insides accommodate him effortlessly, he was thorough today, probably anticipating Tachanka's impatience and urge to inflict discomfort – Vigil is not bad at reading his moods. Maybe he should really keep him.

The pace he sets is brutal but nothing the younger man can’t handle, his nails digging into creamy thighs as his hips snap forward again and again, his shaft driving into the willing body that’s really quite pleasing to look at, Tachanka has to admit. Vigil’s got a lot going for him. Most of all he’s tight and compliant, allows himself to be bossed around and Tachanka finds himself wondering how far he’ll actually go. “You think I should invite someone to watch?”, he grunts, his words emphasised by hard thrusts, the sounds of skin slapping against skin filling the space between them, “I bet my boys would appreciate the sight.”

He can feel Vigil clench around him, added stimulation to the already heady sensation of shagging him raw that’s starting to cloud his mind, lust pulsing through his body. He indulges in the fantasy, imagines Kapkan lazily jerking off to the two of them, egging Tachanka on, Fuze impatiently grabbing one of Vigil’s hands so he can fuck his fist. On a whim, he stops, pulls out his cock and forces Vigil’s knees almost down to his head, displaying his hungry entrance for his viewing pleasure and teases the rim with the tip of his erection, the touch electrifying and the effect on the younger man just as intended.

Vigil’s eyes are wide and wild and almost black, mouth gaping open in shock, his hands scrabbling for purchase, digging into Tachanka's hips, trying to get him to continue, despairing and frantic and oh so lovely. “What do you want? Use your words, kid.” He drags his shaft along the entrance and can’t suppress a smirk at how the Korean trembles at the feeling.

“I need –” He’s gasping like a fish out of water, usually Tachanka doesn’t stop once he’s started the merciless pummelling, only today he craves seeing Vigil squirm. “Please, please, just –” A helpless groan claws its way out of his throat as Tachanka forces his thick head back inside, feeling the sphincter contract around him, only to withdraw yet again. “Tachanka”, Vigil whines and he almost can’t resist the sudden urge to slam back home upon hearing his name, instead he keeps dipping his tip in slowly.

“We could share you”, he continues and watches the Korean writhe under him, roll his hips into nothing, his neglected penis dripping precum, “your hole can take a beating. The boys can pass you around and you’d still be gagging for my cock, even filled with their cum you’d come begging.” The friction is overwhelming, his control waning. He can’t keep this up for much longer but he wants to hear Vigil admit to how much he’s come to rely on Tachanka.

“Yes”, Vigil whispers and nods his head eagerly, “yes, please.”

“Please what?” The younger man is conflicted, embarrassed, so Tachanka unhurriedly slides in all the way, forcing him to inhale deeply and stretch uncomfortably, still folded in half. “Look at me, you dirty slut.”

The younger man struggles to oblige and shudders as Tachanka pulls out once more, leaving him empty and gaping. “Tachanka.” His voice is quiet, broken, pleading. “Take me. I need you.”

It’s good enough. He growls and snaps his hips forward, breaching him and reaching deep into Vigil’s insides, satisfying the primal desire pulsing in his groin. Again his thrusts are merciless, his mind still toying with the idea of whoring Vigil out, watching idly as his boys stuff him on both ends, culminating in him dominating the younger man, using their cum as lube and marking him with his teeth, scratching him up so he doesn’t forget to whom he belongs, at whose mercy he ultimately is.

His hips are moving on their own, fast and so hard Vigil has to relinquish his hold on the bedsheets to grip the headboard, moaning in ecstasy and sinking deep into his almost spiritual state of pleasure with which Tachanka is intimately familiar. He himself makes no attempts to suppress any noises either, grunting and groaning at the feel of velvety heat around his cock, muscles convulsing around him, pleasure building up with each sharp thrust.

“Don’t come before I do”, he pants and Vigil understands, wraps a hand around his twitching shaft and pumps himself in time with Tachanka's thrusts, aiming to time his orgasm to the one that’s fast approaching in the Russian, inevitable and quicker than usual, a result of the mental image of Kapkan humping Vigil with a blissful look on his face while Glaz kneels over his face and feeds a blushing Vigil his cock in small movements. He could probably genuinely convince Kapkan to join them – Vigil himself needs no coercion, Tachanka's word alone is enough. That, or he just jams his fingers up his ass and massages him until the Korean doesn’t care about anything anymore.

The tightness is becoming too much: now that Vigil’s jerking himself, he contracts even more around Tachanka's girth, sucking him in greedily. Tachanka decides he doesn’t look out of it enough and adjusts the angle, points his thrusts upwards and drags his cock over Vigil’s prostate which earns him a strangled gasp and an even tighter passageway, so he keeps at it, making the Korean tremble and keen, hears himself moan at the increased friction.

He is pushed over the edge when Vigil cries his name, his actual name, the syllables foreign on his tongue and the pronunciation wrong but Tachanka's dick quite obviously doesn’t care. With a last thrust, he slams into the Korean and stays there, shoots his sperm into his guts and feels Vigil come around him, clamp down in waves as he shivers and spurts come all over himself, both of them lost in their own orgasm. Tachanka feels pure bliss, all tension and stress drained out of him, sweet relief the only thing that remains. He lets Vigil’s insides milk him, extract every last bit of viscous liquid out of him, then he withdraws.

For a few moments, he basks in the afterglow, relaxes his limbs and admires the utterly fucked out mess before him. Vigil is still catching his breath, avoiding Tachanka's gaze and trying to cross his legs to hide his shame but Tachanka spreads them, strokes his thigh with one hand and touches the pad of a finger on the other to the abused hole, making Vigil jump. Curiously, he pushes in, feels the muscle grip it tightly, feels his own warm semen inside, swats Vigil’s hand away as he tries to interfere, discomfort written clearly in his expression. It’s tempting.

“Maybe I should really get someone else to fuck you before I do”, he muses. Surprisingly, it’s not all trepidation on the Korean’s face at this, he believes to have spotted something else too. Excitement.

Thinking about it, maybe he shouldn’t share Vigil after all. Others might want to corrupt him, he should protect him from possibly negative influences. After all, Tachanka is a reasonable man.

#rainbow six siege #tachanka #vigil #tachanka/vigil #fanfic #oneshot #spetsnaz boys #I'm sorry and not sorry at the same time

[scarletsxwrites]

More Than Anything

summary:

while on a mission, you need steve to help you come back down to earth; confessions are made along the way

pairing: steve rogers x reader

word count: 3.5k

request: here

warnings: marvel-typical violence, smut, rough sex, mentions of anxiety, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), choking if you squint

The tension mounted over the course of weeks, months, even years. It was obvious to anyone who bothered to look; the lingering glances, the small smiles, the too-long touches. But when you were asked, of course, you would vehemently reject any assumptions.

You and Steve Rogers were just friends. Friends who routinely slept in the same bed, who chose each other over anyone else, who would follow the other to the ends of the earth and beyond. Neither of you ever really bothered to question that.

This mission was changing things. You weren’t sure what it was; with anyone else, you might have chalked it up to the close quarters. Sharing a room - sharing a bed, no less - was something that may trigger some awkwardness. But sharing a bed was something you and Steve did often, so it couldn’t have been that.

You wondered if his job was simply starting to take a toll on him. Maybe it was time for him to get out of the field. Of course, you would never suggest this, but it was possible.

This was your train of thought as you sat on the balcony of your hotel room, feet propped up on the railing and your drink of choice held in your hand. It had been a productive day, if not particularly interesting; you were undercover in a corporation that was suspected of working with HYDRA, among other things. While the intel was fantastic, it was, at its core, a desk job. Really, this entire mission was training for Steve; he was a great soldier, a master tactician, but not so much of a spy. You, meanwhile, were as good as spies got.

At least when Natasha was busy.

You were drawn from your musings when the sliding door opened to reveal a very shirtless Steve looking down at you with exhausted eyes. “Are you coming to bed?” He asked, and you were struck by how profoundly domestic the question was.

“Soon,” you replied, taking a sip of your drink. “I’m just thinking.”

He leaned against the doorframe. He looked tired, he looked worn down. You wanted to go to him, hold him, give him some of his energy back. You wanted to make him feel new again. Your heart hurt to look at the man so exhausted. “What are you thinkin’ about?”

You shrugged. “Nothing in particular.”

You didn’t normally lie to Steve, and the feeling of it was… not fantastic. The words felt heavy on your tongue. You recoiled at the sound of them. Funny, you thought; you lied - easily, even enjoyably - for a living, but you couldn’t lie to Steve.

If he saw through your words (and you suspected he did, if the way he pursed his lips and raised his brows was any evidence) he didn’t choose to comment. Instead, he nodded, mumbled a goodnight, and shut the door behind him.

You finished off your drink and stared at the city skyline, contemplating until you fell asleep in the only-somewhat-comfortable deck chair. Steve found you early the next morning and carried you inside. You stirred just enough as he laid you out in the bed to feel him press a kiss to your temple before he left for his morning jog.

In your early morning drowsiness, all you could think was oh. shit. before sleep overtook you once more.

***

The mission took a turn for the worst pretty fast, if you said so yourself. One minute, you and Steve were gathering information at your desks; the next, you were being called into your boss’ office for a meeting.

The alarm in your head started going off when he locked the door behind you both. When you raised an eyebrow at the sound of it, your boss shrugged. “Just so that we won’t be disturbed. You understand. Please, take a seat.”

Steve moved first, lowering himself cautiously into one of the seats opposite your boss. You followed, hesitantly, hand itching to pull the gun on the inside of your blazer. Though you expressed complete nonchalance outwardly, you were currently going over every microinteraction you’d had at the company. Had something you’d said raised a red flag? Something you’d done?

“I wanted to speak to you both about your real intentions here,” your boss said. You swallowed hard. Shit.

Steve shifted beside you and you could practically smell the panic on him. You wanted to tell him to relax; visibly freaking out wasn’t helping either of your cases. Instead, you looked straight ahead and offered your boss and easy-going smile. “I’m not sure what you’re talking about, sir.”

His jaw tightened. “Don’t lie to me.”

You felt your heart rate accelerate, but you put on a mask of shock and disappointment. “Sir, I’m not lying. I made my intentions at this company clear to you during my interview; I wanted experience in my chosen field, and I -”

“Cut the shit, Y/L/N!” His voice dropped an octave and he rose from his seat, staring down at you with something cruel in his eyes.

Your face morphed into fear and you worked on summoning tears; if you could just act your way out of this, you’d be fine. “Sir, please sit down. You’re scaring me.”

“C’mon, man,” Steve’s voice surprised you. “We just -”

“Please, Captain,” your boss switched his attention to Steve and you knew you were fucked. It was all over. “Spare me.”

You made an executive decision and stood quickly from your seat. Before your mark could react, your gun was pointed directly at his face. “Okay, new plan,” you said. The fake fear was gone, replaced with confidence and power. “You’re gonna sit down and chill the fuck out. We’re gonna take the intel we need and take this company down. Then we’re gonna slap some handcuffs on you and you’re gonna get what you deserve. Or I can pull the trigger, get the intel we need, take this company down, and leave you to bleed out. It’s your choice.”

In a flash, he was reaching out and pressing a button under his desk. You weren’t sure what it would do, but you knew it couldn’t have been good. As he pressed the button, you squeezed the trigger and watched him crumple to the floor.

By this point, Steve was standing as well. You looked at him and nodded to the door before moving to grab your boss’ key card from his jacket. This would give you access to the information you needed. “I don’t know what he did, but we need to get those files and get the fuck out.”

He nodded and followed you. This wasn’t ideal; you were wearing a blouse and dress pants, neither of which would offer much protection against weaponry, especially bullets, and Steve was most certainly without his shield. Hopefully whatever that button meant would take a while. You hid your gun under your blazer as you made your way through the office. If anyone had heard the gunshot, they certainly didn’t give any indication of it. “His office must have been soundproofed,” you observed, making sure only Steve could hear you. “That’s good.”

You reached the elevator and boarded, happy to see that no one else was present. In an instant, you had swiped your boss’ key card and entered the password that you’d been working on stealing for days. As a new set of buttons appeared, you found yourself profoundly grateful that you’d worked out the password on time.

“They keep all their information on a set of sublevels,” you said, scanning the new buttons and finally selecting one. “If our intel is correct, it should be here.”

You shot down to the correct level and unboarded the elevator. It felt like you had entered a high tech parking garage; the walls of the room that you entered were made of concrete, but the wall opposite the elevator was layered with all manner of security measures. Praying to God you were right about what you were about to do, you marched over and shot out the handprint scanner. The doors slid open.

“How did you know to do that?” Steve asked as he followed you into the maze of files.

You shrugged, drawing your gun once more just in case you encountered someone. “It worked in Star Wars.”

In a few minutes, you managed to track down the right filing cabinet. Thank God for organization systems. You browsed through the files inside and handed the ones you would need off to Steve. “Alright, let’s get the hell out of here.”

It seemed like you were in the clear, until you made your way back to the room with the elevator. As you re-entered the room, the doors opened to reveal a group of men that were definitely not your friends. You shot at one without thinking, only to discover he was definitely wearing bulletproof armor. “Okay, I guess we do this the old fashioned way.”

Steve kicked the files behind the two of you, to be retrieved after you’d finished kicking these guys’ asses.

The enemies converged in a swarm; you hit the first in the face with the butt of your gun, sending him sprawling to the ground. The second came at you faster than you were expecting and managed to grab your gun hand. Without really thinking, you pivoted and shoved your knee right into his balls. He sunk to his knees in front of you, so you ripped his helmet off and sent a bullet right through his skull. This may have been a bit excessive, but you hadn’t been trained for subtlety or grace. You just needed to get the job done.

You worked your way through the crowd until it was just you, Steve, and the last few enemies.

The last one that you faced was a doozy; he went for your legs and you landed hard on your back. As you grimaced and breathed hard, he took the opportunity to step over you and aim his gun right at your head. Letting out a savage growl, you reached up, grabbed his wrist, and dragged him down to the ground with you. It was risky, considering a bullet through your forehead wasn’t great for your health, but you didn’t have many options.

With him sprawled out next to you, you climbed on top of him and pinned his wrists with your knees. You shot him quick and dirty and rose to your feet, surveying the incapacitated men around you. “That was annoying,” you said, and Steve laughed as he retrieved the files.

Aside from the fact that you were covered in blood and panting, you managed to get yourselves together enough to walk out of the building without rousing too much suspicion. If anyone noticed the dishevelment, at least, they didn’t make any comments.

***

By the time you and Steve made it back to the hotel, your adrenaline had only diminished somewhat. The fact that you had made it back without anymore trouble did nothing to ease your nerves; if anything, it only put you on even higher alert. That was too easy, you kept thinking; this couldn’t have been over.

You put the files in your bag and sat out on the balcony, not bothering to remove any of your bloodied clothes or fix your appearance. You were too on edge. You fully expected more HYDRA agents to come through the door at any second.

As minutes ticked by, you prayed that maybe it was over. Maybe you could call it and go home. But still, the anxiety in your chest wasn’t easing up; the more it seemed that you were truly safe, the more your skin buzzed with nerves.

Finally, you decided enough was enough. Rationally, it was clear that you were no longer in danger; but your fight or flight instinct was still strong. You headed inside before you could change your mind. Your plan for easing some of this anxiety was something you were unsure about, something that could be easily rejected, but you needed a tether to reality.

You could only hope that Steve would be willing to provide that.

He was reclined on the bed, nose in a book. His hair was somewhat damp and he was no longer bloody. He looked up as you entered and, seeing the look on your face, immediately put the book to the side. But he didn’t speak. He’d let you do that on your own time.

“Steve…” you didn’t know where to begin. This was ridiculous. You took a deep breath. “I can’t wind down. Fighting is your thing, I’m… I’m more suited for the spy work. You know that. Whenever we fight, you know I get anxious. But it’s not going away this time.”

“Okay,” he replied, and you could practically see the gears turning in his head. “What do you need, doll?”

“I need…” your words died in your throat and you bit your lip. And then, in an instant, a levy broke. Fuck it.  “Steve, I need you.”

His brow furrowed, and then he smiled. He thought you wanted to be held, to be comforted. He clearly didn’t realize that that was the farthest thing from your mind. “You know you don’t have to ask about that. C’mere, we can -”

“No.” You drew his attention with just one word. His eyes widened as your blazer hit the ground, and then your pants, leaving you in just a blouse and underwear. “Steve, I need you to fuck me.”

“Y/N…” you could see the conflict in his eyes; the professional in him wanted to say no, but the part of him that wanted you - that loved you - was dying to say yes. You watched him mull it over, watched as he nodded and said, “okay, if you’re sure.”

You felt relief rush through your system. Before you could think about what to do next, you went to the bed and climbed onto it. You moved so you were straddling him and brought him into a deep kiss. His hands found your hips, lips moving against yours.

Yeah, you definitely should have done this sooner.

“Stevie, please,” your voice bordered on a whine as you pulled back just slightly from the kiss. Your hands were cupping his face, fingers digging into his temples. “Ruin me.”

These words stirred something deep within Steve. He let out a growl and you found yourself on your back with him hovering over you. His lips found their way to your neck and he sucked hickies around your jaw and collarbone, clearly marking you no matter what clothes you might wear to attempt to cover them. The thought of it drew a long moan from you, and you felt his hips stutter forward at the sound.

“I love you,” you heard him say, “I’ve loved you for so long.”

You carded your hands through his hair and drew him back up to your lips, reveling in the feeling of your tongues meeting, exploring. The kiss was charged with passion and one monumental realization:

You and Steve Rogers were most certainly not just friends.

His touch was working wonders to calm your nerves. The adrenaline and paranoia was melting away beneath him, but you needed more. You needed to be grounded, tethered to reality; to Steve.

You wrapped your legs around him and rolled your hips up into his, hoping he’d get the message. He rose up on his knees to, quite literally, rip your blouse off; buttons flew everywhere before he threw the fabric over his shoulder. Your eyes widened at his actions. That was, without a doubt, the single hottest thing you’d ever seen.

The next to go were your panties and bra, which shared a similar fate. You pawed at Steve’s shirt until he got the message and threw it off, along with the boxers that you assumed he’d been planning to wear to bed. As his lips returned to your neck and trailed down to your breast, you toyed with the thoughts in your head about how exactly you wanted this to go.

His lips curled perfectly around one of your nipples and you decided to make your request. If his needy actions and quick pace were any indication, you figured he’d be alright with what you needed.

“Steve,” you said, though it came out as more of a moan as he chose that moment to roll your other nipple between his fingers. He hummed in reply, obviously sensing you had something to say. Your words came out as a desperate gasp: “don’t be gentle.”

You felt Steve smirk against you and then he was tugging your nipple between his teeth. Instantly, your back arched and your hands flew to his head, fingers curling in his hair and pulling.

“My girl likes it rough,” he mused, and then he began kissing down your stomach. On occasion, he’d nip at your skin, sending shockwaves down your back and goosebumps down your arm. “I can work with that.”

Before you could really process, his hands found your hips and flipped you onto your stomach. You felt his hands trail down your back, path punctuated by a slap to your ass once he had reached it. You cried out and prayed to God the hotel had thick walls; this was going to be a loud night.

Steve’s fingers trailed over your slit, exploring you leisurely, keeping a close eye on your reactions. He watched the way you moaned when he flicked the pad of his thumb over your clit; the way you pushed back against him when just the tip of his finger pressed into your opening. He slapped your ass again and you made a sound that was somewhere between pleasure and frustration.

“Steve, please,” you said, rocking your hips back against him. The noise he made was something feral and deep; you looked over your shoulder to see his eyes absolutely burning with lust. His hand found his cock, hard against his stomach, and gave it a few pumps, obviously seeking to alleviate some tension. Channeling your best porn star moan, you met his eyes and said, “please, fuck me.”

He ran the tip of his cock along your slit, coating himself in your juices. You clenched around nothing, throbbing with even the idea of having him inside of you. As his dick slid inside of you, you let out a harsh moan and focused on relaxing for him. He was big, but nothing you couldn’t handle.

It only took a few seconds after he bottomed out for you to start begging him to move. With that go ahead, Steve set a punishing pace; his hips hit yours so hard and fast that, within minutes, the only sounds in the room were skin on skin and various moans, grunts, and growls.

Steve’s hand found your throat and pulled you flush against his chest. The new angle gave him access to even deeper parts of you and you squeezed your eyes shut, mouth hanging open in a silent scream. This was better than you’d ever thought it would be.

Your release approached quickly. You were chanting his name like a prayer, eyes still shut tight. One of your hands found his, the one that wasn’t holding you up, and this moment of tenderness in an otherwise feral fucking communicated things that you didn’t think words ever could. Steve buried his head in your neck just as you came, the pulsing of your cunt sending him over the edge.

You stayed like that for a minute, one of his hands in yours and the other curled around your neck, moving through the aftershocks together. As you came down from your highs, Steve gently pulled out and turned you so that you laid on your back. He then fell onto his side next to you and pulled you into his arms. You felt far more contented than you had before, your adrenaline rush finally dying down. You felt at peace.

“Thank you,” you murmured, head buried in his chest. When he chuckled, you felt the vibration of it pass through him.

“For what?”

“For calming me down. Sometimes you’re the only one who knows how.” This got no response, though you knew he was smiling that soft, dopey grin. You felt his fingers in your hair after a minute or so, felt him begin humming a soft, unfamiliar tune. And then something he had said in the heat of the moment struck you. “Did you mean it when you said you loved me?”

His fingers stilled and you felt him tense. “I…” you couldn’t tell what he was struggling with, but you knew in your soul that the answer was yes. Maybe it was the work boundary, or your individual traumas, or some other unseen conflict. Still, you knew the answer was yes. It had to be yes.

“Because I love you,” you pulled back so you could look at him, flashing him a small smile. “I think I always have.”

The relief in his face shattered your heart a bit; had he been worried that you wouldn’t feel the same? His next words, however, put your heart back together and then some.

“Yeah, doll. I love you. More than anything.”

#reader insert #steve rogers #marvel

[ladylynse]

The Trouble with Ghosts (Part II): Lancer hadn’t realized how closely young Mr. Fenton’s school troubles–and the secrets he surely wasn’t telling his parents–were tied to ghosts until after that encounter with Phantom. 

<<  <  Part II  >  

Running hurt. A lot. And it reminded Danny that he didn’t have a lot of energy right now. He didn’t make it very far. No invisibility, no intangibility, no healing powers…. He considered himself lucky that he’d gotten into an as of yet unlocked classroom—in this case, the chemistry lab. It had been hard pulling off the ‘I’m not hurt as badly as you think I am’ act with Mr. Lancer, and he appreciated his concern, he really did, but he needed help from someone who knew the whole story.

He didn’t know what Valerie had hit him with, but if he had to guess, he’d say it was related to the Plasmius Maximus. With any luck, it would wear off in three hours. With his luck, it probably wouldn’t.

“Running was a bad idea,” Danny groaned, clutching the edges of a desk in the first row to steady himself. The room refused to stop spinning, and he was pretty sure he’d cracked at least one rib. He was also pretty sure that, however many times he’d gotten thrown into things and cut up and just generally beaten up, with or without breaking a few bones in the process, this hurt the worst. “Ow….”

Danny sunk to the floor. The classroom wasn’t safe. At the very least, he needed to get away from the door. But it was a slow crawl to the back of the lab, even as he eyed the built-in tables and cupboards that were his goal. He might be able to shift around the Bunsen burners and hide in one of the cupboards….

Danny made it about a quarter of the way to the back before stopping and glancing back. The gauze taped onto his side had soaked through and was threatening to fall off—and if the damp feeling on his head was anything to go by, the same was true of that bandage—and he could see a slight green sheen on the floor from the smears that had come off of his clothes. Off of him.

No point in hiding when he’d be leaving a trail that led straight to him anyway.

“I can’t stay here like this,” Danny whispered.

Ow, ow, ow. How come breathing had to hurt so much? Ghost mode or not, the quick, shallow breaths he was taking weren’t enough.

Okay, he had to think this through. No powers in ghost mode. No easy escape if he needed one. Lancer was right; he was a sitting duck waiting so patiently for the hunter to come along and destroy him. And that…would be very bad.

Maybe, if he changed back to Fenton, his parents would patch him up? That would invite a million questions, but he might be able to talk his way out of a hospital visit if he was careful. He could be sort of honest with them, after all. He could say that he was beaten up. He could pretend it was solely the work of a ghost. It shouldn’t be that much of a stretch for them to believe that he could be targeted, and they’d be much more inclined to care for him at home if they suspected he might have been exposed to some ecto-disease in the process.

It wasn’t a great option, especially since it depended heavily on Jazz screening out any suspicious results they might find from some of their tests, but it was better than being found now as Phantom. After all, without his powers, there was no guarantee that Sam, Tucker, or Jazz could sneak him out of here undetected.

“Please let this work,” Danny muttered, squeezing his eyes shut. He knew it had worked, that whatever had been done to him didn’t stop him from changing forms. He felt it. Aside from the normal feeling of slipping back into human form, there was a brief, miraculous, pain-free second.

And then the pain hit full force, easily feeling twice as bad as before.

“Bad idea,” Danny muttered as blood started seeping through his shirt. He’d thought the bandages would transfer when he shifted forms, but they hadn’t. He hadn’t put enough concentration into it to force them to. And now his shirt was sticking to his cut and when he moved, it burned. Add that to the aching, stabbing pains he felt about everywhere else, and he wasn’t in good condition by anyone’s standards.

Even his hair hurt.

Although, that imagined pain could be explained by the head wound that was starting to drip blood into his eyes….

He needed to get out of here.

“Just take it slowly and it’ll be fine,” Danny whispered, wiping the blood out of his eyes with his free hand. His other still clutched his side, blood seeping between his fingers. Shouldn’t it be clotting by now? The blood was running like the wounds were fresh. And the smell…. It didn’t normally bother him, but this time, when the scent of blood filled his nostrils and he could taste iron in his mouth and his hands were sticky with red….

What had he been hit with? Last he’d checked, Vlad didn’t actually want him dead. Just subservient and faithful and….

Okay, normally he’d say he’d rather be dead, but he’d almost rather be in that situation and plotting revenge against Vlad than actually gone, because then Vlad would be one step closer to his family and accomplishing his sick goals.

Using a desk as a crutch, he pulled himself up into the chair. The blood smeared across the desk surface, the chair seat, the metal bar connecting the two…. This would take some cleaning up. Maybe…. He’d have to call Jazz. He’d never hear the end of it from her, but Tucker didn’t do blood too well, not when it was like this, and Sam…. He couldn’t bear the thought of seeing the look on Sam’s face when she saw him like this. It had to be Jazz.

But his cell phone was in his locker.

Crud.

He wasn’t sure he could make it that far.

His head hurt so much….

Scratch that. Everything hurt. The pounding in his head just made it hard to think. And kinda hard to see. Swirls of black dots were swarming on the edge of his vision, creeping in closer with every second. It was moving rather quickly this time. Already his vision was black. Eyes wide open saw nothing, not even vague shadowy shapes. Not a good sign. Not when he needed to get out of here. Not when…when….

“The Chrysalids! Mr. Fenton!”

Mr. Lancer wasn’t sure what to think.

He’d thought, if Danny Phantom had been telling him the truth, that he wouldn’t be able to get far. That he truly needed help, despite his protests. So Lancer had done what he’d felt was the right thing: he’d gone after the boy.

Ghost or not, he was still a child. And when he was that beaten up, that worn down, he needed the help of an adult, however stubborn he acted. And Lancer was not one to refuse to give help to anyone who needed it.

So, he’d started checking the rooms in the school. He knew he’d arrived at the right one before opening it when he saw a green smear on the handle and a smudge vaguely recognizable as a handprint on the door. He’d been expecting to find Danny Phantom there, nursing his wounds while trying to figure out where to hide. He hadn’t been expecting to see Danny Fenton.

Even if he had, on some level, expected to find the boy who was supposed to be serving detention with him, he wouldn’t have expected to find him in the condition he was in. Bleeding, bruising, unconscious at a desk….

This was far beyond high school bullying. This…who would have done this to him? Who could have done this to him? Mr. Baxter had never struck him as someone who could….

He nearly slipped as he came closer and looked down to see a sickly green slime on the floor. Ectoplasm. Of course. Phantom had been here. But the only one here now was young Danny Fenton.

Lancer reached out slowly and shook him gently. “Mr. Fenton?”

Nothing.

“I need to get him to the hospital,” Lancer muttered, immediately reaching for his cell phone.

It wasn’t there. He’d dropped it, he now remembered, after the fight that had sent Phantom flying into his classroom. When he’d been about to phone the Fentons to tell them about Danny. But what could Danny have been—

“The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde,” Lancer breathed. “That’s what you’ve been up to.” He couldn’t believe he hadn’t seen it before.

All the unexplained absences. The flimsy excuses. The incomplete homework and obviously sleepless nights. He should have seen it before.

Danny Fenton was hunting ghosts.

For a split second, Lancer couldn’t understand why Danny wouldn’t tell his parents. Surely they’d be proud of the boy. He knew as well as anyone that Jack Fenton, at the very least, tried to get both his children to hunt ghosts. Then again, he also knew Maddie Fenton. She was protective of her children. If Danny was doing this alone, it was easy to construe it as dangerous.

The reason why was right in front of him.

He knew Jack’s and Maddie’s opinion of Phantom, but from the state of the boy in front of him, he doubted Danny shared it.

He doubted Phantom could have done much in the state he was in, and Lancer was willing to bet his retirement fund on the fact that Danny Fenton would do everything he could to protect Danny Phantom. He clearly had—and paid the price.

“Lord of the Flies, Mr. Fenton,” Lancer murmured, his eyes lingering on the boy’s still-bleeding head wound. “How did this happen to you?”

The answer was obvious, of course. This was Amity Park. The majority of their troubles stemmed from one problem and one problem only: ghosts. Young Mr. Fenton was the child of ghost hunters, and if he had tried to hunt them on his own, if he had managed it for quite some time, he would have made himself into an ideal target.

The main target, this time, might have been Phantom, but if Danny fiercely believed that Phantom was doing what he was trying to do—protect people—then he would have defended him upon realizing that Phantom was unable to do so himself.

The other ghost—it had to be another ghost to get in and out of the classroom without disturbing anything—must have gone for Phantom, been attacked by Danny, retaliated in kind, grabbed Phantom, and left Danny in the sorry state he was in.

“Mr. Fenton?” Lancer tried again, tapping the boy sharply on his shoulder. “Danny?”

This time, he was rewarded with a faint groan.

“Danny, you’re hurt,” Lancer said. “Don’t try to move.”

“Mr. Lancer?” Danny mumbled, ignoring his teacher’s command and sitting up. “What are you…?” He trailed off, hissing. “Ow….”

“You’re hurt,” Lancer repeated. “Do you remember? You were hurt in a ghost fight.”

Instant fear, on the boy’s face and in his eyes. “What?” Then, “You know?” By this point, Danny had managed to marginally school his expression, but he still bore the look of one who had been caught out.

Mr. Lancer’s expression softened. “I know,” he said. “When the pieces were right in front of me, it wasn’t hard to figure out. Look, Danny, don’t move. I’m going to get some supplies from the nurse’s office, all right? We need to stop the bleeding.”

Danny glanced down at his stained hands. The next words he spoke were nearly too quiet to hear. “You won’t…tell, will you?”

“We need to stop the bleeding,” Lancer said, well aware that he was dodging the question. “You might be going into shock. Just hold on. I’ll be right back.”

Danny nodded mutely, and Lancer lost no time in making good on his word. Once he had Danny putting pressure on his wounds, he would phone the hospital and the Fentons. Not fifteen minutes earlier, he’d been happy that this wing was mostly unused for after school activities on this day of the week. Now, he would have been grateful to send someone else on those errands.

Even seeing the damage, he found it hard to believe that Danny Fenton was fighting ghosts. Oh, it would explain a few things—to begin with, his quick reflexes when he was awake—but the thought that Danny Fenton had worked so hard to keep this a secret…. Lancer couldn’t help but wonder if it was worth the cost.

This had been going on for a while. Lancer had no doubt about that. He was also very sure that Mr. Foley and Miss Manson were well aware of Mr. Fenton’s moonlighting. Danny must have miraculously escaped getting injured so badly before now or he was sure the silence would have been broken. Loyalty born of friendship, in his experience, didn’t extend to allowing one’s friend to nearly kill himself.

When Lancer returned with an armful of first aid supplies, Danny looked unfocused and bleary-eyed. He knew he had to act quickly and get him to the hospital. “Stay with me, Danny,” Lancer said. “You’re going to be fine.” He held out a wad of gauze. “Can you hold this to your head?”

Bloodied fingers accepted it. “You don’t have to do this, Mr. Lancer,” Danny mumbled. “I’m gonna be fine.”

“Of course you are,” Lancer said soothingly, setting out the rest of the supplies. The boy had various cuts and bruises, but the next worst injury beyond the questionable head wound was undoubtedly the cut on his side that he was instinctively clutching. The same side, Lancer noted absently, where Phantom had been hurt. One fight with a determined ghost, and poor Danny Fenton was already hurt more than the one he’d been trying to protect.

Once he was sure Danny would be able to do the rest himself, Lancer knew he needed to phone the boy’s parents. He shouldn’t have put it off for this long, really, but without another helping hand, he’d needed to stem the bleeding first. “I’m going to make a few phone calls and get you to the hospital, all right? Just keep pressure on your wounds.”

“Not the first time I’ve done this,” Danny muttered. “Don’t need to go to the hospital.”

“Nonsense, Mr. Fenton. You need stitches at the very least, and you may have a concussion. I’ll be as quick as I can. Just wait here.”

He heard a mumble from Danny, which Lancer took to be his agreement. He hated seeing one of his students in such horrific condition. He should have tried intervening earlier. He may not have been able to talk sense into the boy, gotten him to stop risking his life, but he may have been able to get Danny to be more cautious. To remember that, teenager or not, he was not invincible. Now….

It might be too late now.

The office had the closest phone. He’d inform the Fentons that he was taking Danny to the hospital, that they should meet him there. That he’d explain when they arrived. That he would do everything in his power to make sure that Danny was all right. That Danny would come through this.

“Hello?”

Jazz. Oh, he’d hoped that she wouldn’t be the one to answer the phone. He’d been hoping to get Maddie. She, he felt, would be able to keep a more level head in this situation. When it came to Danny, Jazz had always been more prone to panic. “Jasmine, it’s Mr. Lancer,” he said slowly. “It’s about your brother.”

Silence for a second, then, “Do you want me to get Mom? She and Dad are just in the lab.”

“That won’t be necessary, Miss Fenton. Just…. Please inform them that I am taking Danny to the hospital. I’d like them to meet me there.”

“The hospital?” Jazz squeaked. “What happened?”

“I’ll explain what I know when I see you. Please, Jazz.”

“I…. Of course. I’ll tell Mom and Dad. We’ll be there.”

The line went dead, and Lancer hung up the phone. He dreaded having to make calls like that. It was not an aspect of the job he liked, but this was a school and, moreover, it was a school which saw near-daily ghost attacks. Injuries were to be expected.

Injuries beyond their capabilities at the nurse’s office, however….

Mr. Lancer sighed. If he had been able to convince Danny to open up to him earlier today, he might have been able to prevent this. Point out that there were other able ghost hunters. That there was no need for his show of anonymous heroism. That his parents would be overjoyed that he was taking an interest in their work and that he shouldn’t be doing this prior to proper tutoring with them. That he didn’t need to do this to prove his worth.

“I’m going to take you to the hospital now, Danny,” Lancer said as he entered the classroom. “Just try to—” He broke off, the rest of his sentence—keep pressure on your wounds—dying on his lips.

Danny Fenton was gone.

All that remained of him now was a staggered trail of blood, a smear of red across a few of the desks, and the slowly drying stain on the door.

Next 

#danny phantom #fanfiction #phanfiction #dp fanfiction #tw blood #danny fenton #mr lancer #my writing #snippets #ladylynse #text #long post #also not really edited #dp snippet

[mm-mendell]

You sign the contract in crayon and pray that you haven’t already made a mess of things.

"Oh, c'mon," the demon grins, teeth sharp— as much a promise as a threat. "Don't look so glum! We're both getting what we want, isn't that right? I get your soul, and you get your sister. It seems like the perfect trade to me."

You can't put a price on a person, you want to scream, but there's no point. It's too late now. And however much you hate it, this is your only option. Sitting in the children's ward of the hospital with a bright red crayon clutched in your hand, you know it.

And for Sammy, you'd do anything. Even sell your soul.

"Are you okay?"

Of course that's the first thing she asks you.

"I'm fine," You chuckle, and you can almost make yourself believe it. "As long as you're okay, I'll be just fine."

Sammy smiles, and even with her cheekbones practically cutting into her cheeks, it's still the best thing you've ever seen. "Don't worry about me! The doctor said that if I keep recovering at this rate, I'll be out of here in a week!"

You let out a shaky breath and clutch at her hand, so bony and thin. "Thank you. Thank you."

"Why are you thanking me?" Sammy pouts, though she still squeezes your hand in comfort.

"Well, who else am I supposed to thank?" You joke, and it makes her laugh.

That sound... that's why you did this. That's why it's worth it.

"Look, look!" Sammy squeals, running down the stairs in her new dress. Your heart practically jumps out of your throat when she trips, barely able to calm down when she rights herself easily.

"You look great!" You say, though the sound is strangled by the near heart-attack you just suffered.

And it does look good. It's puffy and lined with lace, a real princess dress. It's also a deep, vibrant shade of red.

"I'm so excited for the party!" she chatters, scurrying over to grab your hand. "It was so nice of everyone to do this. I never expected Aunt Gina to organize something like this to welcome be home!"

Your smile tightens. You'd been the one to organize the party, actually. But as per usual, Aunt Gina wants to save face by pretending to care about her ward's well-being. Of course, you weren't going to say anything. That wouldn't be fair to Sammy, and you didn't want to start any conflicts now.

Not when you weren't sure how much time you had left.

You close your eyes, letting the sounds of the party wash over you. Children playing, people conversing in their small groups, the church bell chiming—

Your eyes fly open. The bell? You quickly look at your phone, and around you many other people do the same.

"Wait a second, it's only 1:23," Rick says, brow furrowing in confusion. "Why's the bell going off now?"

Murmurs grow discontent, everyone shooting theories back and forth. You put your cup back on the table, and see that your hand is shaking.

You can't be the only one to feel that uneasy pressure in the air.

Suddenly, the pressure increases to a frightening degree. Your hands fly up, choked sounds escaping your throat as you claw desperately for air.

Sammy screams, but all you can see is red red red.

"Someone, HELP!"

She's by your side now, helpless and sobbing as you cough against the sin lodged in your throat.

In front of you, there's a terrible ripping sound, like someone tearing a hole in the fabric of existence.

"Time's up," the demon says, and its red eyes glitter with greed. It reaches for you, and Sammy screams again.

Everyone else is frozen, and they just watch, horror-struck. Aunt Gina has her hands at her throat, watching you with something you can't identify. She is not choking, simply staring, waiting. The demon doesn't acknowledge her.

"You can't!" Sammy breaks the spell, and when she rushes to push the demon away, the partygoers move.

Rick lets out a roar of anger, charging the hunched creature with obvious intent. Morgan— single mother of three, likes to play the piano, and once threw a robber out of her house with only a frying pan— screeches, puffing up like some kind of bird and pulls her sons behind her. Somehow, her nails seem sharper than before.

Taken off guard, the demon gets yanked back by Rick— is he more buff, or are you just imagining things?— and Aunt Gina lunges forward.

She pulls your hands away, wincing at the damage you've done to your neck, and then looks you right in the eye.

"I need you to breathe," she says seriously, and you would laugh if you had the energy for it. Does it look like you're doing this on purpose? "I can get rid of it, but you need to breathe. You need to want it!"

You're still choking, and your vision is going black. What the hell is that supposed to mean? What are you supposed to do?

Sammy wraps her arms around you, crying onto your shoulder. "Please! Please breathe!"

That's what does it. You start sucking in deep breaths, the air sweeter than anything you'd ever tasted before. When Aunt Gina pulls away, there are red handprints on your neck, streaks of blood from where you'd been clawing at your skin.

Rick is holding the struggling demon, and it hisses at you when it sees that you've started to recover.

"Don't think this is the end," the demon vows, staring at you nastily, a curled lip revealing its tiny, sharp teeth. "Maybe I won't get you today, but you won't always have these freaks around to protect you. We made a deal, remember? I'll get you, one way or another."

Then it's gone, vanished in a cloud of red smoke and the smell of brimstone.

Aunt Gina steps back, giving you some space. Sammy is letting out deep, wracking sobs— of relief, this time, and you hold her hand in a desperate grip.

This isn't what you wanted.

"Now, tell me," Aunt Gina says, and the whole neighborhood is standing behind her, all staring at you with that same serious look. "What did you promise?"

Next to you, Sammy looks up, eyes wide. You glance down at her, and both of you know the truth. She yanks her hand away, and the betrayed expression on her face is worse than anything that demon could've done to you

"My soul," you say wearily. "I promised my soul."

Aunt Gina rolls her eyes, flicking a piece of curly hair back with a huff. "Of course you did. Well, I can work with that."

This time, you're the one staring. "What?"

It all comes back to you now, since the world had stopped spinning and the dots were leaving your vision.

What the hell had just happened? Since when was Aunt Gina even remotely competent?

"Looks like I have a lot to tell you two," she sighs, scrubbing at her forehead. "C'mon, let's go back inside. Might as well get it over with."

She turns, and Sammy runs after her. She doesn't look back. You're left there by yourself, in a slowly emptying street, and you feel like you've lost something bigger than just your soul.

Above you, the sun starts going down. The sky is stained with red.

—notes:

Wow, second one of the day! Again, this is for @caffeinewitchcraft‘s ‘Caffeine Challenge’ (seriously, if you haven't checked her out yet I demand that you do it immediately). I'm really happy I had the time to do these!! I'm really happy with what I've come up with so far, so I hope y'all enjoyed too!

#caffeine challenge #mendell writes

[inklingpost]

5 Years after my Daughters death—The Great March of January 21st

January 19th was the 5 year anniversary of our daughter’s death. I had plans for it. I had plans to get her footprint tattooed on my body. I had plans of lighting a candle. Plans of talking with Preston about it. But nothing this week really played out the way I originally had thought it might.

Because it was also the day the Obama’s were saying goodbye to the White House. A presidency that gave me health insurance despite preexisting conditions. Which saved us financially when everything went wrong in my pregnancy, and we were forced to face death. It gave us access to some of the best doctors I could have asked for. It fought for equality for our LGBTQ family. It was a presidency that met humans on a humane level and fought for us to be seen and treated as such, and tried to break down the process of dehumanization that has rooted itself in certain corners of our world. And we will be forever grateful to him for it.

And then, the next day he handed the White House over to Trump. Someone who wants to strip all of that good progress. Someone who has been dishonest regularly, loves to obfuscate stories, creates delusional realities that dehumanize almost everyone. Knows nothing about the circumstances of abortion, yet spreads lies about it anyway to prey on the uneducated. And worse, he’s given a voice to the bullies, the white nationalists, and he has incited violence, hate, and anger, racism, and disrespect for women. He encourages the divide, and has no plans to heal it.

“If you aren’t outraged, then you aren’t paying attention,” someone posted a photo of a sign that said this, and it perfectly sums up how I’ve felt for years.

The Trump presidency wants to get rid of Planned Parenthood. They make up new requirements for building codes and practice requirements just so they can shut them down and say they aren’t up to code, without even giving them a chance to adjust to the ridiculous codes.  And by eliminating these resources for men and women, families like my husband and me, who may receive the worst news of their lives, that their baby they wanted so badly, who was a planned pregnancy, isn’t compatible with life, and that the mother’s life could be at risk too—those families may be at a loss for healthy care. For those who need Planned Parenthood when they don’t have good health insurance, they will either be stripped the resources they need or in a best case scenario, we will fight for their resources, but they may have to travel really far to get what they need.  

Here’s the thing that gets me riled up about laws on abortion now that I didn’t understand before we were faced with having to foresee terminating a pregnancy in our second trimester: you interfere with our personal grief process. And the reason I never saw it before was because that is not the conversation people focus on. It’s much easier to dehumanize the experience, cling to simple stories of possible regret, or seeing termination as a form of birth control (which even if that is the case, it’s still none of our business as a country intervention). People love that. They love to feel self righteous and exclude the majority and cling to a minority of tales to reinforce their own discomfort. The stories that should be shared are the personal ones. The ones shared by people who actually go through it in real life.

I remember after our loss, I was grateful to have worked with one of the kindest souls I’ve ever encountered who happened to be our doctor. I was grateful that we had insurance that covered him and the hospital. My cousin shared a story about a friend of hers who miscarried, and she and her husband went to a Planned Parenthood for the d&c, and they had to walk through protesters who yelled at them that they were baby killers. Their baby had already died! And then they had to deal with these hateful, ignorant words being thrust upon them. No one should have to go through that. Ever. Words of judgement and hate will not accomplish anything but more wounds.

A lot of what we went through is really personal, and I don’t necessarily want to keep sharing it or rehashing it. But when we lost our daughter, we made vows to each other that we would live our lives for her because she couldn’t live. And that includes sharing her story and helping change the conversation to help other families like ours who find themselves in very unexpected life changing events. And with Trump as president, who wants to endanger the lives of other mothers, possibly leaving husbands and children without wives and mommas, it is personal, and we have to fight for what is right…because that is the world we would have wanted her to live in, and it is the world we want our son to live in.

When we sat down with our doctor, he was gentle. He said, “I’m one of 2 doctors in LA who does this, and I know it’s not something just anyone can do, and I feel a duty to help because I can. I know this is the worst moment of your lives, and hopefully ever that you will experience, so I’ll be upfront about everything and answer all your questions.” He understood us. He saw this was a very raw human experience, and he handled us with respect, gentleness, and grace. When we asked for her footprint and handprint, he ordered a kit right away to have waiting for him at the hospital. He said no one had ever asked for that, and I’m not surprised because you are in such shock, you don’t know what you might want. But I do hope that because of us, he will offer it to more couples. He saw us as humans, as parents trying to do our best, and he knew his work with us would always be remembered.

Our main question was, why weren’t the signs noticed sooner? Why had we been told it was the perfect pregnancy up until now, and then crushed with a laundry list of everything that is actually wrong? If a doctor sees ultrasounds every day all day long for his whole career, why wouldn’t he notice sooner something obvious like a hole in her heart, or concern about the due date changing because of lack of growth? If I barely had enough amniotic fluid, why didn’t that get noticed? If her limbs were freezing up, why didn’t he notice the movement was abnormal? Why weren’t we sent to a perinatologist until the window of 18-20 weeks of pregnancy…why is that the normal practice? Why is that the normal practice, and then by law you can’t terminate a pregnancy past say, 21 weeks or 24 weeks? It’s such a small window to be hit with tons of information, of crushing your dreams, PTSD, and tearing your heart apart. You face instant grief, shock, and then have to navigate this unknown space that turns your world upside down. You wait as the weeks go by, you wait for more tests, and then test results, and see your child die a slow death as you wait, while limbs freeze up until she can’t move. You live with fear that any day your body could fail you. That it feels like it already did fail you. That there is absolutely nothing in your human power that you can do to save your baby, and it feels wretched.

We took time to say our good byes, taking trips to all our favorite places in town that we knew we wouldn’t get to take her since her only time with us would be in utero. And sometimes the only way to ensure a possible healthy next child, or ensure your own health and life, is to say goodbye to this being you’ve grown to love so much, but you hate to see her suffer any longer because of your selfish longings to keep her around. And it is your only real option—because the only thing that is certain is death…you just get to choose which option of death you want.

And it breaks you. It breaks your spirit. It breaks your heart. It feels like it breaks your body. It’s like you wake up, see your face in the mirror and you think you recognize the person you see, but then it shatters, explodes, and at the end of that same day you can’t ever find all the pieces to put it back together again…no amount of glue can help, some pieces just end up in the waste basket, and when you look again, you aren’t sure if you recognize the person reflected back anymore.  

Our doctor couldn’t really speak for the other 2 physicians we’d seen, but essentially offered up that general practice for regular gynecologists is to do the routine visits by the book, and assume all is fine until otherwise stated.

This is personal. Laws should not interfere with your grief. They should not interfere with your emotional ranges of PTSD when facing circumstances like this. If we had wanted to take one more week with our daughter to travel a little longer, if my body was holding up ok under surveillance, it shouldn’t be dictated by random dates selected by congress determining our time frame for ending a pregnancy. And if couples are facing these same terms and risks and are forced to rely on illegal practices to fit their emotional needs for their state of grief, then it becomes even more dangerous. Making laws about termination of pregnancies should never happen. It should be left up to professional doctors who are well versed in all issues, who can work with patients who are experiencing something very traumatic. It should be a customized treatment plan between patient and doctor—because every single case, even if a similar diagnosis, is very, very different and should be treated for the human experience that it is. Any other practice is harmful, and offensive, and an unnecessary argument to be having. Stop wasting everyone’s energy trying to control people, and start assuming we are all adults who can make well educated adult decisions for ourselves about our health care. People love criticizing the helicopter parent…but that’s what our government is trying to be right now.

So, my grief feels heavier this week. 5 years feels like forever ago, but it also feels like a really fresh wound too at times…especially times like this that make us relive the hateful words we experienced around our daughter’s death. The words we had to deal with when all we wanted to face were our facts of circumstances, and our limited days with our daughter while we still had her to say our good byes. Words that stole so much from us that we will never get back. Ever. Words that still rear their ugly heads, and that I know are cancerous, and that I know I’m not alone in hearing. Words that are naive, harmful, dangerous, pompous, condescending, uneducated, and foolish. But mostly, the common denominator I see is this: they are rooted in disconnection.

Words like, “have you tried prayer?” “Doctors can be wrong” second hand tales of “We wish she’d carry out the pregnancy” (even though they knew nothing of our circumstances), “Mother’s do not let other people harm their children,” “It would be a disservice if I did not say this”  “Do not do evil unto others,” “I know what you are going through, I miscarried at 7 weeks.” “You will regret this in a year,” “I hope you aren’t mad at me for saying this.”

Yes, I am mad at you for saying these things.

Once uttered, they reveal the inability to empathize. They reveal the lack of life experience. The show a discomfort with real life events when the shit hits the fan, and they cower behind known phrases to comfort themselves, not me—the hurting person—and in just a couple seconds they disconnect, offer no opening of the heart, and off they go, a distance in their voice, you hear them leave their soul.

For the record, a perfect response would be, “I don’t know what you are going through, but it must be awful. Can I just sit with you, we don’t have to talk, and if you aren’t ready to sit with a friend, can I check in later to see if you are ready as the months go by?”

People really fear feeling uncomfortable. And death is certainly not a normal place for comfort, so they go through life, disconnecting from it, and then dehumanizing the experience to create a story in their heads that makes them feel better about justifying that discomfort. And rather than getting to know that discomfort by interacting with people in the thick of it…they go preach their false stories to gain traction and community with their falsehoods. And when it gets out of control, and real life repeatedly tugs at them that they might be wrong, that they might not know…they double down and try to make laws with the false justifications. All in an effort to stay disconnected and attempt to comfort themselves when they see their reflection in the eyes and stories of others.

The best advice we got after our daughter’s death was from my brother in law, Michael. He said it simply, “Don’t tell yourself things that aren’t true.”

The lack of support we received when we faced the worst days of our lives was truly astounding. There was a handful of people who were truly amazing as well, and we always talk about their kindness and try to remember that association with her death as much as possible. But what shocked us was that no one from any church reached out and went out of their way to say, hey, those unkind hateful words said to you were outrageous, appalling, and fucked up…I hope you know your emotions are safe around me even though I go to church.

Instead, there was a lot of silence, and when there were words, we were met with things like, “People have experienced worse” “At least you are young” “You can try again” “We are praying for you” “Everything has a purpose…things happen for a reason,” “One day you will look back and laugh at all this” (Actual last words said by my gynecologist).

I looked him square in the eyes, “I will NEVER laugh about any of this.”

The lack of outrage that we saw then when we experienced these cruel words, we see now too as the same people seem complacent about the new Trump presidency. More than ever, you need to reveal yourself if you are safe. Because if you aren’t outspoken about it, and especially if you are part of a church (because the church has been a huge vehicle for the poison, and are the least compassionate group I’ve ever encountered despite their talk of compassion and the message of Jesus), we can’t assume you are safe. If you are ok with this presidency or voted for it, this is a problem. You are helping endanger lives.

And it is unacceptable.

The 21st of January, men, woman and children globally marched in protest for humanity.

I had friends marching in Sweden, Canada, and across America in various states.

They marched for women, sure, but they marched for human decency for all. But on a very personal level, they marched for me, for my husband, for our daughter, and our son. And they publicly stood up with outrage to the rest of America, the rest of the world, the leaders of churches, the extended family who voted for this man of hate, or who at least didn’t vote against it. They stood up for us when we couldn’t, they stood beside us in the millions and said, we see you, we love you, and we will not accept this. We will fight beside you.

And I’m so forever grateful and moved by the numbers of all who gathered to stand up for families like mine. When all I could do was cry at home watching a live feed from my phone with my grief and trauma, I felt completely inspired, and strengthened by your embodiment. You stood for what is right, showing the human experience as raw and complicated, and it varies among individuals. You showed that connectedness is what will bring humanity back from this dark place. You spread your light and walked in the cold to bring warmth in numbers. And for the first time, I got to really see how not alone we really are. What a gift this march was for us this week. Seeing how many people will fight alongside us for what is good and what is right.

We thank you from the deepest parts of our wounded hearts. Thank you for showing us how many safe people there are in America and around the world. Thank you for the connectedness.

#prochoice #nastywoman #stillwithher #notmypresident #plannedparenthood #womansmarch #whyimarch #yolo #pregnancyloss #babyloss #womensrights #imwithher #feminist #feminism