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#BE GONE BAD CONFUSING NAUSEA
rocket-angel · 9 months
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flowercrowngods · 25 days
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something so monstrous pt.2
(in which kas feeds from steve and triggers a bad migraine pt.2)
🤍🌷 read part 1 here this part gets really intense on the migraine. descriptions of immense pain, fever dreams, and vomiting, some body horror imagery bc pain can be fun like that
Time and space lose all meaning as Steve remains on the precipice of something that is too violent to be called sleep, but not harsh enough yet to be unconsciousness. Real sensations evade him as everything turns into pain immediately. Even the twitch of his finger becomes a thundering blaze of blinding pain shooting through his body and settling behind his eye until he is sure he will wake up blind. 
The fear of that is everpresent, the blind spots too real to ignore every time it goes like this, and he imagines how they will grow. He imagines how they get worse every time until one day the pain inside his skull will be so immense it will take his eyesight in exchange for alleviation.
And even though it is unbearable, he opens his eyes whenever he can, just to make sure he can see still. It’s an added veil of terror that covers him whole and consumes him slowly but continually. 
At some point he notices something cold and wet being placed over his eyes, adding another layer of darkness that is welcome, even if it leaves an imprint of pressure and sensation on his forehead that makes his skin tear around it, his skull cracking and caving in beneath the touch. 
And still it helps a little, pulling him further toward consciousness but not further toward the pain itself. But Steve can only whimper weakly in response, six feet under a thick cloud of cotton-filled smog that even turns breathing into a chore, polluting his lungs with fear and horror and agony without compare.
He does fall into a fitful sleep at some point, grateful for the short reprieve, but it does nothing to alleviate his exhaustion. 
It feels like his eyeballs are being pushed into his skull for what must be hours upon hours, and the pain is so unbearable, so horrible, that he's not at all surprised when nausea rises in his chest, his body responding to its current state with confusion and a hard-reset. 
Steve keens, trying to roll onto his side, groaning at the flares of pain shooting up into his skull and down into his limbs. They only worsen the nausea and it's pure instinct that gives him the strength to sit up. 
"Kas?” he whispers, swallowing thickly against another wave. "Bathroom?” 
Instead of giving him directions or pulling him up to drag him there, Kas wastes no time. He gets up off the floor, approaching him with shuffling steps once more, and gently but quickly lifts Steve off the bed in a hold — firm, yet gentle — that brings another sting of tears to Steve's eyes. Pain and vulnerability and the need for everything to be over. That’s what makes him cry.
Still he manages to hold on, his head rolling onto Kas's shoulder, the skin of his neck blissfully cool against Steve’s overheated forehead pressing into him. 
Make it stop, he thinks. Longs. Aches. It’s supposed to be over. It’s all supposed to be over now. 
He whimpers again, and imagines that Kas is the one to softly shush him this time.
The coolness of Kas's neck is gone all too soon as the vampire sets Steve on the hard, uncomfortable bathroom floor. He doesn't go far, though, crouching down beside him and holding him up over the toilet. Steve can't see anything, but still he’s grateful that Kas left the lights off, the bathroom tinged in the same darkness as his bedroom. 
Pathetically, Steve rests his forehead on the toilet seat, chasing the coldness of it as pain and nausea reach their peak. It’s disgusting, but be’s not strong enough to care. A whine breaks from him, and he wishes Kas would leave. Even though the cold hand on his neck feels good, and even though he knows he wouldn't be able to hold himself up right now. 
I'm not weak, he wants to say. And maybe he does. But he can't recognise his own voice right now. 
"Not weak, maybe, but pathetic." 
No. 
"You know you are." 
Shut up. Go away. 
It doesn't make sense for Mr Munson to suddenly be here with them, to stand in the doorway and watch his nephew, who is more monster than human these days, holding up the pathetic form of Steve, who is more pain than human. More smoke than human. More vulnerable weakness than remotely human.
Go away. Eddie? I want him to go away. Tell— Go ‘way. 
The hand wanders, pulling Steve against cool skin again so his forehead rests against the toilet no longer, basking in the cold touch and the warmth of a body to hold him. 
"Safe," Kas says, and Steve wants to badly to believe him. Wants Wayne to leave, wants everyone to leave and just let him suffer in silence and solitude like always. 
Wayne starts talking again, but Steve can't hear him this time as he suddenly heaves and retches, throwing up what little he had to eat today. Over and over and over.
It goes like this for a long time. He has no idea how long. Has no idea where he even is anymore. 
The world tilts a few times when he loses his grip, his arms buckling, his hands spasming and giving out, and still he never falls. Only ever feels the cold, damp skin of Kas’s neck. 
Kas has to carry him to bed when he's done and on the brink of passing out again, and Steve doesn’t mind this time. Kas also hands him a glass of water or two before pushing him back to lie down again. That’s nice. 
The wet cloth returns, and Steve isn't aware of his surroundings for much more after that.
—— 
The next time Steve comes to, he feels like he was freshly dragged through Lover’s Lake until his lungs gave out. His head is pulsing violently, his senses are sluggish and everything feels foggy. He has no idea where he is, the room pitch black around him as he lifts a lukewarm damp cloth from his eyes. 
A soft groan falls from his lips as he stretches his aching, cramped limbs, rubbing his hands over his face and regaining the feeling in his body. Little pinpricks of phantom pain shoot through him, his mouth tastes like ash and his head protests rather violently against his pathetic attempt at sitting up. 
He is disoriented and something about his vision is still messed up, something in the depths of the room not quite right and leaving him with a dizziness he can’t quite shake, followed by a wave of anxiety that something’s wrong with his eyes. 
He blinks. Blinks again, finding more things in the strange room as he does, his sluggish brain slowly catching up and filling in the blanks.
It all comes back to him like a tidal wave when he suddenly finds himself blinking at a pair of red eyes, softly glowing and wide open. 
“Kas,” he croaks, his throat absolutely parched. 
One second he’s wincing at that, the next he finds a cool glass of water pressed into his hands before the eyes and the shadowy form they belong to retreat to the foot of the bed again. 
 “Thanks,” he murmurs, stalling as he takes a sip. Embarrassment rises in him, but he doesn’t want to apologise. The thought of that somehow makes the vulnerability that much worse, so he tries to ignore it. It’ll all be fine if they simply not acknowledge it. 
He wants to ask for the time instead, wants to know how much the migraine took from him this time, but he knows Kas doesn’t really understand the concept of it all, let alone know the numbers. 
A silence settles between them and it’s somewhere between welcome and uncomfortable. Just like everything that happens in Hawkins. It makes Steve feel like a ghost again, but this time he’s a ghost in the room, not just in his own head. He’s the one who’s out of place.
With a little sigh, he places the glass on the makeshift nightstand again and falls over onto his side. His head is mad at him for it, still feeling too fragile for sudden movements, but lying down feels better than sitting.
There’s a huff from Kas that sounds more amused than derisive, so Steve looks at him. Looks at the shimmer in those eyes before closing his own again, not wanting to be looked at right now. Not wanting to face it.
“You,” Kas says then, his voice quiet and without the edge of that animalistic growl. The sound of someone who’s not meant to speak at all. The souvenir of someone who was human once before Evil grabbed him and modified him to His liking. 
“Me,” Steve says, an automatic response, just as quiet. He’s listening. 
“How… How are…” Kas struggles, huffing in frustration at the words that refuse to come, but still it’s the most coherent Steve has ever heard him. It makes him sit up half way again; leaning his weight on one arm to focus all his foggy and cloudy attention on the vampire trying to ask him how he is feeling. 
No more words come, though, the question half finished in the air between them. But somehow it makes Steve smile. Just a little bit. This feels important. And huge.
“My head hurts,” he answers truthfully, amused when Kas’s eyes snap back to his. To search them. To communicate something.
“Hurts?” 
“Yeah. It will, for a while. Always does. Nothing to do about it, really.” He wishes he felt as indifferent to it as he sounds, but that’s just the tiredness clouding his tone. It’s fast approaching now that he knows he’s relatively safe. Now that he knows he can rest. His arm gives out and he slides, slowly this time, back to lie on the pillow. “But it’s not as bad. And the other pain is gone, so…” 
So. He could go home now. He should, probably. Ignoring the weakness in his bones and the exhaustion in his every fiber. If he closed his eyes again right now, he could fall asleep. Still, maybe he should—
“Stay,” Kas says again, and Steve really should have figured. He’s not quite well enough to really fight him on that, though, so he shrugs. 
“Fine,” he mumbles into the pillow, halfway back to slumberland already. 
There’s movement on the foot of the bed, and before he knows it Kas has tucked him in again, draped across the pillows as he is. It’s still unreal, that, but Steve won’t complain. What’s even more unreal, though, is the image Steve gets of Kas curling up by the foot of the bed in a similar position. As if he still means to keep watch. 
It’s ridiculous. A little weird. And sort of endearing.
——
The next time Steve wakes, everything around him is a little brighter, daylight fighting weakly to fill the room, but it stands no chance against the large wooden planks and thick curtains meant to block it out permanently. 
He blinks away the heaviness, taking stock of his body. There is a crick in his neck and burgeoning cramps in his side and hip from the position he’s still in, and this head still is a pulsing, aching mess — but no more than usual. 
He taps the pads of his fingers to his thumb before flexing his hands. Only then does he stretch the rest of his body and announce his wakefulness. 
Opposite him, at the foot of the bed, Kas is already awake and still in the same position that Steve saw him last. Did he even sleep? Does he need that? Or has he just been staring at Steve, watching him, ready to carry him to the bathroom again for round two. 
The thought of that makes his skin crawl.
“Hi,” he says to fill the silence that is all too inviting for his spiralling mind.
Kas grunts, but it sounds more like a hum. Sort of gentle around the edges. He doesn’t move, doesn’t seem at all fazed that they’re just kind of staring at each other. Steve swallows, not really sure how to go from here.
He fists the blanket and rubs the linen bedding between his fingers, feels the rough fabric catching on the callouses along his hands as uncomfortable seconds tick by. Still Kas doesn’t move. 
“Listen, man,” Steve says at last, thinking back to yesterday’s events and the vampire’s sudden care. “Thanks, alright? What you did, that was, uh. That was nice. You didn’t have to do any of that.” 
Another hum, and it occurs to Steve that Kas is back in his normal state, retreated back into his mind, hiding from the world himself now that it no longer needs him. It’s a strange thought, that Steve being hurt would be what brings him back. If at all. Maybe he’s reading it all wrong. Maybe it as just a coincidence, or maybe Kas tasted something in his blood that made him want to improve Steve’s physical state for selfish purposes. That’s probably more likely.
But it makes him feel even more wrong-footed than before, and it leaves him hyper-aware of the situation. Of their dynamic. Indifference and annoyance and… He doesn’t want it to change, doesn’t want some kind of debt between himself and Kas — especially not when Kas has no means to really settle it. But he also can’t feign some kind of gratitude when what he feels the most is mortification and embarrassment; and he sure as hell doesn’t want Kas to know that either. 
So he throws back the blanket and gets out of the bed, a little dizzy at first, but he doesn’t care as he slips into his shoes and hurries out of the room. 
He just wants to leave. Get out of here and go home, go back to bed and get over the mortification of having been seen like this. Of having been taken care of. By someone who doesn’t even like him. By someone who hissed and snapped at him one moment and then carried him to the bathroom the next. 
“It looks like there’s nothing human left in him, but we do have data that suggest otherwise.” Owens’s words echo through his mind as he crosses the living room. “It seems to be in hiding, the Munson part of him; that’s our hope at least. That you can get him back out one day, make him win over the vampire part. It could be like a self defence mechanism, I guess. We hope he can still be coaxed back into the land of the living. How, though, we don’t know.”
Was this what happened? Has Steve’s weakness triggered the human part of Kas’s tortured brain to take over? No, that can’t be. 
It seems unreal. Unlikely. Wayne telling him stories or Dustin talking about their campaign, that should have helped. Even Mike playing the guitar, or Robin rambling about something or other; all of that was much more close to who Munson was. Or used to be. Eddie Munson never struck Steve as someone who took care of people naturally. Someone who stepped in. He stepped up, sure, but only ever for the wrong reasons. 
It makes no sense. So it must be wrong; just Steve’s exhausted brain grasping at straws. It usually does that, anyway. Nobody knows if Eddie is even still in there. Part of Steve hopes he’s not. 
Just as he reaches for the front door, ready to just get out of here and pretend like nothing happened, he feels a presence behind him. Kas followed him out of the bedroom, standing in the doorway now with an unreadable expression. It's the blank one he usually takes on, but where before it was normal, it throws Steve off now. Maybe because he saw how Kas can look at him. How expressive his eyes can get.
He holds them, the red shimmer a little dimmer out here in the brighter living room. 
And maybe it's the blankness in those eyes, or the lack of judgment in Kas's every action, but whatever it is, it makes Steve let go of the door and turn to face Kas properly. 
"Why'd you do it?"
The vampire inclines his head. Listening. Always listening. Steve doesn't know how he never noticed that. It seemed so primitive before. Like how a dog will react to its owner speaking, but never process the words. Kas processes, though. So Steve keeps going.
"Why'd you... You kept saying that word. Safe. Do you, uh. Do you know what it means?" 
Slowly, his eyes growing a little less blank, Kas nods. 
Steve looks around the cabin, swallowing thickly, still feeling so out of place in here, still feeling the need to run and leave it far behind. But something makes him stay. Makes him want to understand. 
"You wanted me to feel safe?" Again, Kas nods. "Why?" 
There is hesitation there, and Steve wonders if it's because he doesn't want to tell him, if he doesn't know the answer, or if he doesn't know how to answer. It's a loaded question, maybe. 
"Pain," he says at last, his voice barely discernible from a growl, but somehow Steve seems attuned to it now. Maybe because he listens now. Because he wants to know. To understand. 
He waits, watching as Kas struggles for more words once more. Just like last night. 
"Know... Know... pain. Know.” He taps his temple with a clawed hand, and Steve's heart falls, his chest aching with realisation. 
Right. He would. He would know pain like that. If what the doc says is right, if what Vecna taunted them with is right, if every working theory the kids have is right, then… yeah. Kas would know. He’s know something about pain. More than any of them. Pain so intense it splits you apart from yourself. 
"Shit," Steve whispers more to himself than to the room, crossing his arms in front of his chest to hug himself and keep from digging deeper, keep his heart from falling further, and keep the horror at bay. 
He doesn't want to imagine the kind of torture Kas went through. Is still going through, if what the doctors say has even more truth to it. If Munson is still in there, still suffering because human minds have a way of holding on to pain — Steve knows soemthing about that, too. 
"I'm sorry," he offers. It's all he can offer. In the end, it’s all that’s left.
And still it's so lame. It's not enough. 
But Kas just nods again, a pained shadow of a smile appearing on his face. Something transpires between them in that moment, Steve can feel it, but he can't really define it. Maybe some kind of understanding. Some kind of safety. 
"I gotta..." he starts, motioning to the door behind him. "I gotta go. Will you be fine? Did you have enough, y'know, to drink?" 
Another nod, and the smile widens a little. Looks a little less pained this time. 
"Good," Steve says, stuffing his hands into his pockets, lifting his shoulders to his ears, trying and failing to seem casual in the face of those glowing eyes. "I’ll– I'll see you around, yeah?" 
And then he's out the door, his head spinning and aching, his steps heavy with the weight of whatever has changed between him and Kas in the past twenty-four hours. 
... sooo. part 3 anyone?
🤍 permanent tag list gang: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @stobin-cryptid @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 @madigoround @pukner @i-amthepizzaman @swimmingbirdrunningrock @hammity-hammer @stevesbipanic @bitchysunflower @estrellami-1 @finntheehumaneater @goodolefashionedloverboi (lmk if you want on or off, for this story or permanently) 🤍 tagging for this work only: @forestnymph-666 @little-trash-ghost @jupitersgonemissing
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intheorangebedroom · 7 days
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Tonight you belong to me, chapter 3
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Summary: He comes to you every Friday, in a shady motel on the outskirts of town.  What happens if you can't make it to the motel on Friday evening?
Pairing: Frankie Morales x fem!Reader (OFC)
Rating: Explicit 🔞 see series masterlist for extensive tw.
A/N: Happy Frankie Friday, Orange besties 🧡 @frannyzooey thank you for your help and beta reading, I fucking adore you so much it's downright obscene 🧡
Word count: 12.2k
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Chapter 3: The Man At The Frontier
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Make us come, baby. Make us come together. 
These words are yours. 
Even if you never see him again. Even if you lose him before having had the time to map the freckles on his skin. To sleep in his arms. To hear him repeat them. They’re yours to keep. 
He mouthed them against your skin, sunk them into your bloodstream in bright mahogany before coming undone, wrapped around your body. 
They’re yours, right? 
Even if you don’t get to see him ever again. 
It starts with the cramps. That’s how it usually goes. A myriad of microscopic pliers nipping at your intercostal muscles. 
Your eyes shoot open at the familiar ache. The early morning hues redefine the room in blue shadows. You blink your sleep-heavy eyelids a few times, confused, before your vision adjusts and you recognize the room around you. It’s your bedroom. Your nightstand, your lamp, your books. Your pills. Your tube of scented hand cream. The chair in the corner, that ugly, Louis XV style, transparent polycarbonate monstrosity by that French designer. The large windows. Those damn floor-to-ceiling windows that let in too much light, too much heat, too much open view. Nowhere to hide, in here. 
It has to be sometime between 4 and 5 am, you assume, before another cramp seizes you. You curl up into a tight ball on the edge of the bed, pulling the comforter to your chin.
Not today. Please. Not today.
Friday. 
Inside your abdomen, nausea streams densely, like liquid lead, from your ribs to your stomach, as cold shivers run up your spine. Sweat breaks on your forehead. You know only too well what’s happening, but it can’t be, there’s been no warning signs. No headache, no stabbing sensation in your lower belly, no spinning head. 
Today is Friday. 
You reject the obvious.
Were you so engrossed in the memory of him to pay attention? His hand wrapped around your nape, his forearm molded along your spine, pressing you into his chest, making you two as one. Closer.
Nausea is already lapping at your esophagus. The pliers bite harder at your ribcage and you know you have to move now if you want to make it to the bathroom before it happens. Shuddering, you push away the comforter, then get up and run.
Kneeled on all fours on the cool bathroom tiles, you dive headfirst into the toilet’s porcelain bowl as everything inside you collapses on itself, emptying the content of your stomach, mostly liquid. You should have eaten something last night. 
You know you’re not pregnant. For an infinity of reasons. 
Because you haven’t let Adrian fuck you in weeks. Because, when he does, he always wears protection. That’s your mutual, very tacit agreement. A silent understanding that you’re never the only woman, at any given moment. An unspoken confession on his behalf, implicit permission on yours. 
Because your contraceptive pill is the only one you’ll never stop popping. 
Because you’ve suffered through more stomach bugs than you care to count.
And of course, because Frankie won’t come inside you. 
You stand up on fawn-like legs and flush the toilet. 
You splash water on your face and grab your toothbrush with a trembling hand, shaking from head to toe. You know this is only the beginning, but it’s coming in strong. This one is most likely going to be a bad one. At least for now the pain is gone.
Above the sink, the woman in the mirror stares at you with unsettling, disproportionate glassy eyes. Her skin looks waxy, she scares you, and you have to lower your eyes. You brush your teeth as quickly as you can. 
You haven’t made it back to the bedroom when the second wave of cramps squeezes your abdomen. The pain folds you in half, and you let out a low whine. 
It echoes like distant thunder along the glass walls of the empty corridor. 
On Fridays, you count. You break down hours and minutes and steps and heartbeats into small, bearable quantities, so that you can live through them without going crazy. Today, however, you’re counting trips to the bathroom, and the time between two attacks from the cramps, like you’re readying yourself to give birth to a terrible monster, feeding off you from the inside of your quivering body. 
You’ve managed to spend most of the day hiding in your office, with the window cracked open, and the AC cranked up to the max. The clothes you wear are the same as yesterday. Your expensive formal blouse sticks to your sweaty skin in clammy patches. You’re cold, cold and hot all at once. In fact, you’re burning up, and a chill sweat has you shivering in the non-existent breeze. 
You haven’t gotten any work done, to state the obvious. You’re just dozing in and out of consciousness between two crises, head like a rock sinking onto your arms on top of your shiny glass desk. Its surface fogs with every one of your short breaths. You’re running out of toothpaste. 
Being the boss’ daughter has never granted you any particular privilege over your coworkers, except on days like this. At the first signs of sickness, you go home, or call in sick. Stay in bed for a couple of days, sleep it off, sip water tentatively every time you throw up until you can finally keep it down. No one has ever thought to comment on the frequency or duration of your sick leaves. Not even your father.
Kaytee has probably noticed something’s wrong with you. Her office is right by the bathroom, and you've run there seven times since you’ve arrived this morning, an hour late, which is uncommon, to boot. You look like a walking corpse, your eyes eating up half of your face and your lips pinched in a tight line. And surely, she will find a way to use this against you in the near or distant future. She’s been dying to take your place ever since she was recruited nearly two years ago, champing at the bit, waiting for you to slip so she can bury you. 
If she only knew. How you are dying to let her have it all. That you are convinced she’d be so much better at the job than you’ll ever try to be. 
With your last shred of energy, you push down the thought, like you push down the nausea and the shivers. On Fridays, everything that’s not him is irrelevant. At 6pm sharp, you’ll count your steps down to the parking garage and hop in your car. You’ll sit in traffic until you reach the 589 and you can finally cruise towards the motel in the protective semi-darkness of the Tampa suburbia. 
You haven’t yet considered what will happen beyond this point. When he steps into the room and finds you sitting there, looking like an undead version of yourself, reeking of stale bile, rancid sweat and toothpaste. 
All you have to do is make it there. You won’t give up, simple as that. You’ll suck it down. 
Demonstrating resolve you never knew you possessed, you make it to sundown. You hold out through the pain, through the cramps, through the soreness on your knees and the abrasion in your throat and the stabbing sensation behind your eyes and the pulling of your gums. 
At 6pm, you turn off the alarm of your phone and put it away in your purse. The room swirls around you the first time you try to get up. You wince, falling heavy on the simile leather chair you sweated on all day. You wipe your damp forehead and neck with a tissue, and you stand up again. 
All the blood in your body rushes to your feet. There’s not a drop of it left in your brain. You swallow hard against the bitter taste clinging to your tongue and palate and start counting your steps toward the elevator, only to lose track somewhere after 18.
Dark, green circles flash in rapid succession across your pupils, narrowing your vision. You grip the strap of your purse harder, and register you can’t feel your fingers. Something is wrong with your balance, your whole body slants to the left. You try to correct its trajectory but you can’t feel anything below your calves either. What you can feel is your forehead and your nape, defined by pain, burning hot and somehow also freezing where beads of sweat run down your skin.
You’ve made it to the lobby when everything fades to black. 
In your early 20s, you had genuinely tried to shake off the melancholia. An honest, hopeful attempt. You were away at college, and even though you didn’t get to choose your major, different and various paths seemed possible, within reach. A couple of years after graduation, when you had met Adrian, you had tried again, with renewed vigor and motivation. 
You did want to get better. 
You cut back considerably on hard liquor. You smiled broadly, at everyone. You said “please,” and “sorry.” Applied lipstick daily, polished your nails weekly. You went out to dinners and parties, wore high heels and interacted with strangers, drank wine in stem glasses and in reasonable quantities. 
On your mother’s advice, you went to “see someone.” As your father prescribed, you read the news and followed sports results. 
But the sadness kept settling down inside you, like the white particles inside a snowball. The vomiting spells became more frequent. Despite your willingness and earnest efforts, you kept falling short, and each fall hit you with increased brutality. 
For your mother, you were too much. For your father, never enough. For Adrian, you would soon come to realize, you were a commodity.
Trying to please them in turn, learning your cues, anticipating their needs and wills and whims, torn up between their contradicting desires and expectations, smiling pretty and meek, you completely lost track of what you liked and who you were. 
Anxious, confused, perpetually dissatisfied and unsatisfying, you withdrew within yourself. Hid away between the folds, detached and ready to flee, wishing for nothing more than to disappear. 
As Ava grew up, her loud and unapologetic personality compelling everyone’s attention, she provided you with a reprieve and, most importantly, a purpose. But a diffuse sense of guilt soon arose, as your little sister’s struggles could hardly be instrumental to your self-fulfillment.
Inside of you, isolation and loneliness grew solid, like a second skeleton, keeping you upright.  
Apathy soon took over. You resorted to medication to control it all. 
And when it was no longer enough, you found your way to the Hole in the Wall.
The smell of rubbing alcohol floats around you in the chilled darkness, its rough acetone accents abrading your nostrils. There’s an undertone to it. Rotting perfume and decaying bodies. A faint beeping sound tugs at your consciousness, and as you begin to come to, pain strikes you in multiple places. 
Something sharp stings the thin skin on the back of your right hand. Each one of your intercostal muscles is sore. Your throat is parched, rougher than sandpaper; your tongue too big for your mouth, stuck to your palate. Every single joint in your body is sensitive, but the worst, by far, is the piercing ache in your forehead. It glues your eyes closed. 
Panic floods your brain with static when you stir, wincing against the shooting pain, and you don’t recognize the motel’s mattress. The one you’re lying on is too hard, the linen covering you too starchy, the darkness is closing in on you, you need to open your eyes, fence off the pain, find Frankie…
Frankie. 
You never made it to the motel. Where the hell are you? When the hell are you?
“Ah. At long last, she wakes. How are you feeling, babe?”
Adrian’s honeyed voice hauls you through the darkness. Your eyelids flutter against the light until you open your eyes to a square room with a single, large window, blazing sun darting through. 
Adrian is sitting in the corner by the foot of the bed. A hospital bed, apparently. A narrow, dark blue mattress, unusually high, encased with rails on each side and at your feet. You’ve never been hospitalized before. 
He’s looking at you with a Cheshire cat grin stretching his thin lips, like he was just let in on a juicy secret. He’s dressed in his golf apparel. 
The violent luminosity intensifies the splitting sensation in your forehead, it vibrates to the back of your skull, from within, from the sides.  
Squinting, you turn your head to the side to take in your surroundings. On top of a beige, melamine nightstand are a black phone with a long twisted cord, an oval device with a red and a white buttons and another cord, and a metal kidney dish. 
There’s a tray table over your legs, with a jug standing next to a hard glass already filled with water, and some paper napkins. There’s a needle in your hand. A drip. With a cord. You flinch a little at the sight. A white rectangle eats up the tip of your index, a red light flashing from inside it. Another cord. It’s linked to the source of the beeping sound, a square monitor to your right, displaying wobbly lines of green. Another two cords are plugged in, you follow their sinuous lines to your bed, where they disappear under the sheet, and you take in the two round patches taped to your chest.
So many cords. Too many sensors. 
“Where’s my phone?” you mumble. 
Your tongue feels like a piece of carpet. You’re not sure whether it’s even your voice anymore. 
“You scared us this time,” Adrian says. His tone is cold, practiced, policed. 
You reach for the plastic glass and bring it to your chapped lips. The liquid flows down your throat like a waterfall; you wince again.
“Can you pull down the blinds, please? The light hurts.”
He lets a moment pass before he gets up, then circles the bed, unhurried, pacing toward the window, but instead of shutting the Venetian blinds, he sits by your side. The mattress dips under his weight. You hold your breath, anticipating a new jolt of pain. Behind him, the daylight forms a halo, blurring the outline of his silhouette. Your eyes water against the brightness. 
“What day is it?” you try again. 
“One thing we don’t understand is why you didn’t go home. You got us all worried, you know?”
The beeping picks up pace, imperceptibly. You wipe your eyes with the back of your hand. The one with no cords linked to it. You know this dance, he won’t cooperate until you ask the right questions, the ones he wants you to listen to him answer. Better to give him what he wants, for now.
“What happened?” 
“We don’t know exactly, that’s the thing. Well, you were sick, this you know,” he punctuates his words with a knowing grin and a wink, “but instead of coming home, you stayed at work, for some reason. We think you lost consciousness on your way out, and you hit your head on the elevator’s frame in your fall. We couldn’t help you right away because most employees had already left the floor. Jerry found you. He called your dad.”
You close your eyes, blocking the image of Jerry, of all people, finding you sprawled out and unconscious on the floor. And why would he call your father? Why not 911? You resent that collective we. Who the hell is we? Right about now, you could swear it’s the entire world versus you. 
Besides, you’re fairly certain Kaytee was still in her office at the time. She never leaves before 8pm at the earliest and makes sure everyone knows about it. 
“You split your forehead open. Apparently, you were running a pretty high fever, too. Oh, and you were critically dehydrated, according to the doctor I saw this morning,” he frames the words critically dehydrated in air quotes. “He also said something about a light concussion, I think.” 
You lift a heavy hand to your forehead, the tip of your fingers gingerly testing what they find there, a gauze dressing, held in place by medical tape. 
Having the clinical explanation behind the multiple aches throbbing inside your body somehow eases some of the pain.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” you say, unable to look him in the eyes with the harsh light behind him. “I need my phone. Can you give me my phone, please?”
“What do you need your phone for?” he asks casually, seemingly absorbed by something on his pants.
It’s a dare. You know that tone all too well. Today, however, you find that you don’t feel like playing. You want your goddamn phone.
Frankie cannot possibly have tried to reach you as you never exchanged numbers, but you want to call the motel. Find out if he came. What happened then. You want to know what time it is, what day, how much of him you’ve missed. You’re craving his touch, his skin between your parted lips, your heart pumping on empty, racing madly from the need for him, and of all the sensations making your body known to you, this one by far hurts the most. 
The beeping sound accelerates, drawing Adrian’s attention to the monitor, then to you. His cold blue gaze narrows on your face. You try to slow down your breathing, hoping it translates to your heart rate. 
“I need to call Ava. She must be worried.”
“Ah yes, your sister, of course,” he exclaims, feigning a bright mood, as if you’d just reminded him you’re traveling to Hawaii together next week. 
Getting up, he walks nonchalantly to the foot of the bed, leaning against the wall underneath the TV set, hands in his pockets. The black screen dwarfs his lean proportions. His red polo enhances his pallid complexion. You avert your gaze, lest the monitor picks up your disgust like it does your nervousness.  
“Yes, it’s true, she probably got very distressed, when you didn’t show up at all last night,” he agrees with affected concern.
There’s a foul taste in your mouth. Acid, rubbing alcohol, and something else. The glass is empty, but you don’t think you can lift that jug. Each one of your muscles is vibrating, waiting for the axe to fall. If only that fucking monitor could stop beeping. 
“Remember back in October, when Kenneth went to New York over the weekend for the symposium at NYU? Well you’ll never guess. He saw your sister there, in some uptown restaurant, making out with her…” his upper lip curls, “with this older woman, her girlfriend.”
So this is it. He knows. All this time, he’s known. Since October, practically since the beginning. And he let you believe you had him fooled, that you had the upper hand on the situation, that this part of your life was yours. He lured you into a false sense of safety, a deluded feeling of freedom. And all the while, he’s known. 
It’s really your fault, for forgetting that’s how things are with him. That nothing truly is what it seems. That he likes you scared, anxious. Perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. 
There’s no point in trying to control the beeping, now. In fact, given its cadence, you expect a nurse to barge in any minute. 
“Polly’s not old,” is your answer. 
“Yeah, whatever, they’re degenerates, both of them.”
“Where’s my goddamn phone, Adrian?”
“What do you want your phone for?” he barks.
The words are spat in your direction, and the sheer volume of his nasal voice startles you. Red blotches erupt on his cheeks and neck, his eyes are blazing with contempt. 
“You need to call your fucking dealer? Is that it? You think I haven’t noticed that you’re high half of the time?”
You remain perfectly still, holding your breath.You can feel your skin pulling at the medical tape in your hairline. 
He doesn’t know shit. In fact, he’s scared. He’s so, so small. 
“Listen, I don’t care what the fuck you do every Friday night, ok? But can you at least be fucking discreet about it?”
The poison in his tone and his words corrodes your confidence. 
“They will announce the senior partners in January, I cannot fucking lose your father’s business until it’s done, do you understand me? So whatever you do,” he points his index finger at you and stabs it through the air to accentuate each of his following words, “you be fucking discreet. More fucking discreet than that shitshow you pulled, do you get it? Do you understand what I’m saying?”
Should you nod? Is he waiting for you to manifest your understanding of the situation? 
You hate yourself for thinking, ever so briefly, that he might have been jealous, that he might have cared. Held down on this bed with all these cords, you feel like a butterfly pinned in a glass case, on display in a cabinet of curiosities, a mere object amidst a multitude of other trophies covered in dust and mold. You’ve always hated butterflies. They gross you out. 
You allow yourself to breathe again when his posture relaxes. Looking down at his feet, with his hands on his waist, he shakes his head and huffs. The stance reminds you of Frankie, the difference in their proportions almost comical, like a circus monkey aping the brawny horseman, the one who gets top billing in the show. 
Frankie had you pinned on a bed repeatedly, without ever making you feel like a study in entomology. 
“Your dad is waiting for me, I’m already late,” Adrian says, coming toward you, “I’d love to stay a little longer, but you know how he is about golfing. Don’t want to keep him waiting!” 
He pecks a kiss on the crown of your head. The pain darts through your skull in all directions, all the way down to your spine. 
“Where’s my phone, Adrian?” you call one last time as he strides toward the door.
“You don’t need your phone, babe. What you need is to rest. Get those magical hospital electrolytes. Doctor’s orders,” he adds with a wink. 
And he’s gone.
Furious tears hang from your lashes. You focus on the plastic box on the tip of your index, and you begin to inhale and exhale, as deeply and slowly as you can. It’s shaky at first, but you’re encouraged by the decreasing cadence of the beeping. 
Adrian and your father go golfing at 2pm on Saturday afternoons. Meaning you’ve been out for over fifteen hours. Without your phone, you have no means to assert the time. Your watch is nowhere in sight, neither are your clothes, shoes, jewelry, purse. 
The room has a phone, but you have no idea if it’s connected. You don’t know the number to the motel. Hell, you don’t even know its name, only its location. 
Frankie’s silhouette invades your thoughts, the size of him, the shape of him. His broad back, his strong shoulders, the line of his neck. The sensation of his hands grasping your waist. Their precision, their roughness. Their intent.
Is this how it ends?
Fresh tears swell under your eyelids. You quickly clench them close. 
You did everything wrong. What an appalling idiot. You should have acknowledged you’d never make it there, not in the state you were in. You should have called the motel to leave a message, explain your absence, and promise you’d be there again the following Friday. 
Now you have no means to reach him. You probably have lost him forever. The warm touch of his skin. His unique scent. His taste.
The beeping grows frantic. Heavy wet sobs heap up inside your chest. Your hand flies to cover your eyes. You anchor yourself to the throbbing pain in your skull and the prickling needle in your hand. To the faint clasp of the pulse oximeter on your index finger. Pursing your lips, you exhale.
Whether the phone is connected or not is just a detail. You can always signal someone with that little remote on the nightstand and have the option charged to the room. Ava’s phone number is the one you have memorized, she can come and get you, and when you manage to get out of here and get your phone back, you’ll replace Adrian’s contact info with hers as your ICE. 
The point is: you’re not trapped. You’re not a dead butterfly in a glass case. 
Your heart rate slows down. 
Between the cords and the hospital sheets, you look up at the white ceiling, and do what you do best: you check out, slip back between the cracks, disconnect.
The pain from your head injury is overwhelming. You’d ask for painkillers, but that collective we still haunts you. 
You expect Adrian to come back on Sunday. He doesn’t. Throughout the day, you fall in and out of sleep, a restless, feverish slumber crowded with violent dreams of flesh-eating monsters licking your bones clean.
On Monday morning, the doctor comes in to see you. A man in his early 60s with a thick mane of gray hair and a carefully trimmed beard, he calls you “sweetheart,” and when he raises his eyes from his tablet, he flashes you a perfunctory smile with blinding white veneers. He introduces himself as the head of the gastroenterology department. And a friend of Richard. He makes sure that you understand that his name on your chart is a favor to your father. His demeanor commands your respect, preferably by way of intimidation. 
Whatever he tells you, you’ve already learned from the nurses who waltzed in and out of your room in a brisk and constant ballet throughout the weekend, to check with skilled, professional movements the multiple cords and tubes pinning you to your bed. 
You suffered bacterial gastroenteritis, with severe dehydration, necessitating an antibiotic treatment, and, from your fainting spell, a minor concussion and a head injury. A thin split, on the right side of your forehead, perpendicular to your hairline.
You got sick. You fainted. You hurt your head.
After the doctor’s gone, you’re finally allowed to get up. Under the fluorescent ceiling light of the adjacent bathroom, you spend several minutes observing the seven stitches adorning your forehead. The thick black thread tied in neat little knots that look like dollhouse barbed wire. The visible indentation in your flesh underneath them. The kaleidoscopic and psychedelic coloration of your skin, spreading from your brow to your scalp.  
One of the nurses assures you the scar will quickly fade and disappear. Just like you. 
You find your belongings inside the narrow closet by the bathroom door. The slit of your pencil skirt is torn nearly up to the waist, and the blouse is bloodied. Your jewels are tucked inside your purse. You stand in front of the shelves, staring blankly at the black leather rectangle with the two gold C’s entwined on the front. One of the very first gifts you received from Adrian. You can’t remember if it was for Christmas, or your 30th birthday. Every Friday evening for the past three months, you’ve shoved it unceremoniously under your car seat. You hate that thing. It’s soulless, tacky, it begs for attention, it screams money.    
Later in the afternoon, your mother comes to visit. She brings you magazines, In Style, Elle, Southern Homes, Vogue … At first, she doesn’t look at your face, and when she does, she crumbles into tears. You comfort her. You watch her pad the corner of her fake lashes with a tissue she pulls out of her Birkin purse, and reapply lipstick.
Adrian comes back on Tuesday, with a large bouquet of roses, a box of imported Belgian chocolates you’re not allowed to eat, and your phone. He doesn’t stay long. Before he leaves, he presses an open-mouth kiss to your lips. You wait until he’s passed the door to spit into the kidney dish.
Your father calls within minutes of his departure, with an apology for not visiting. Work, he says, the magic word that justifies everything, from the clothes on your back to his shitty behavior. You tell him the doctor has advised to rest for the remainder of the week. 
In the evening, you finally text Ava. She calls you back immediately, which, beyond her audible concern, puts a lump in your throat. When she asks you how you’re feeling, it’s a minute before you can even speak. 
You’re discharged on Wednesday, with a tube of antibiotics, a short list of food to favor and a much longer one to avoid. 
Ava comes to pick you up. She brings you a change of clothes, a pair of baggy, distressed jeans and a white t-shirt that spells PRIDE in rainbow letters. You smile at your reflection in the bathroom mirror, and when you come out, she laughs like a child at her own joke. You laugh with her. It hurts a little, but the pain is worth it.
You’re still smiling when you ask her if you can keep the t-shirt, and her face drops. She hugs you, a bone-crushing hug with closed fists compressing your back, her face slotted into the crook of your neck. Her voice quivers when she answers that everything that is hers, is also yours. 
You stuff the pockets of your jeans full of your things and leave your purse in the closet. With a little bit of luck, the person who will find it can get a good price for it. 
On Friday morning, you drive back to the hospital to honor a 10:30 am appointment to remove your stitches. You’re led through a sprawling maze of corridors into a windowless room with baby blue walls, and instructed to undress to your underwear, which you don’t. Sitting on the examination couch, legs dangling in the air, palms rubbing on your jeans, you wait for the nurse to come in. 
She doesn’t remark on your defiance. In fact, she makes a point of soothing your nervousness, introducing herself as Diane, complimenting the color of your sneakers. She promises that you won’t feel a thing, and you believe her. When she smiles, her irises nearly entirely disappear, and a wide-spanning arch of wrinkles appears at the corner of her eyes, like sunbeams drawn by a happy child. 
While she prepares her utensils, she engages you in small talk, skillfully stirring the conversation toward the matter of your mental health and physical well-being. You’re well-trained too. You divert without shame or remorse. 
True to her word, she makes quick work of it, and when she’s done, she hands you a mirror framed in a blue, rubbery material. 
At first, you refuse to look, but she kindly insists. Her voice is gentle, angelical, her hands are warm when she lays them on your shoulders. She never once pronounces the word “scar.” She calls you “a beautiful and brave young woman.”
So you let her guide your hand upward until you’re faced with your image. 
“See? Barely visible. Once the ecchymosis has faded, you won’t even be able to notice it. Just something that happened.”
As she stands behind you, her warmth radiates through your cold bones, and she smiles broadly at your reflection. You blink back your tears. You want to commit her words to memory, uncorrupted by emotions. Just something that happened.
Out in the street, a strong wind blows in gusts from the east, in an overcast sky. The damp smell scrunches up your nose. Even without the sun, the air is too warm for the season. When you get into your car, the first thing you do is crank up the AC. 
That rotten hospital smell is still clinging to your skin and hair, you keep having these drops in blood sugar that leave you trembling like a willow tree and drenched in cold sweat. The whiplash from this morning’s anxiety does nothing to level your mood. 
You glance at your watch. 11:30. You let your head roll back on the headrest. You can’t remember a time in your life when you were not exhausted. 
You consider heading straight to the motel. Originally, you intended to go home first, change your clothes and apply some makeup. Cover up the giant bruise on your forehead, and do your best to look alive. It would be smart to put some food in you, too, and of course, to hydrate.
“Fuck it.”
You start the ignition, and merge into the midday traffic. 
The drive is excruciatingly long. A week from Christmas, the traffic is terrible. Getting out of Tampa takes over an hour. 
It’s the afternoon when you pull into the motel’s parking lot. Your eyesight’s unfocused, your nerves are raw, your shoulders pulled taut. 
Of the three other cars parked in the lot, none look like the one you’ve always assumed to be Raul’s, an ancient white Jeep Wagoneer with a rusty back bumper. 
As you try to ponder what to do next, the prickling of your healing tissues riles you up, convoking intrusive thoughts of your scarred reflection. The antibiotics drill a hole into your stomach, the discomfort creases your brow into a constant frown. Your right leg bounces continuously on the car floor. 
You’re running on empty. Pure, solid stress is what’s holding you up.
Once again trapped, this time inside the carbon fiber box of your car, while the outside world is defined in movements. The course of the overcast sun across the pearly gray sky, and the ever-changing shades of the clouds chased by the eastern winds. The occasional vehicle driving past the motel on the secondary road. The trembling of tree leaves, birds flying over, lonesome or in flocks. 
That decaying smell is everywhere in you, around you, but it might be your festering thoughts.
You’re too much, not enough, a disposable commodity. 
Is this how it ends?
Sometimes before 7pm, the white Wagoneer pulls into the parking lot, followed a few minutes later by a red sedan. Raul’s short, bespectacled figure is recognizable through the windshield of his Jeep. Then, it’s the familiar sight of his blue overall as he climbs the flight of stairs to the reception. You slide down on your seat, you don’t need him to see you already stationed here. 
Shortly after, a curvy young woman with a straight, blonde ponytail that goes down to her waist comes out and jogs to the red sedan. She gets in on the passenger side, and you wait until the car disappears on the horizon to exit yours. 
The short walk from your car to the office should be muscle memory. Only today, the gravel feels steady under the flat soles of your Van’s, and your jeans allow you to take actual, proper strides. Carried by the momentum, you march into the room, opening the door so wide it bangs on the door stopper with an ominous sound of shaking glass panes. 
Behind the desk, Raul lifts his head. It’s easy to tell by his puzzled expression that he doesn’t place you. And why would he? You look nothing like you usually do on every other Friday evening. Your clothes are casual, your face is bare, your features pulled taut by mental and physical exhaustion and an array of soreness and pains, your forehead shines in Technicolor, set off by a fresh, inch-long scar. 
“Good evening,” you start with a tight smile. “I—“
A whole week. Seven days, and you haven’t thought this through. The liability that is your impractical brain appalls you, exasperation heating your temples. In the silence that ensues, the droning of the AC unit seems to grow louder. You smile again. 
“I come in every week?” 
Jesus. 
“Oh yes,” he nods, his boot-button eyes boring into yours, “Friday nights, room number 2.”
“Yes,” you answer with a strained, cringy little chuckle, “room number 2. Is it–”
You wipe your sweaty palms on the sides of your jeans.  
“I was wondering if the room was booked last week?”
“Yes, last week room 2 was booked. But you didn’t come, last week.”
“Yes, no, I was held back,” you hear yourself say. You wince before you add, “And, the— the tall man— the tall man who joins me, did he come, last week?”
“Yes. He came. He waited, two, maybe three hours. You didn’t come, so he left. No refund.  Reservations paid in advance are not refundable unless canceled at least 48h—“
“Oh no, that’s fine,” you cut in, relieved he might have thought this embarrassing interaction was about money. “And is the room booked for tonight?”
Raul’s boot-button eyes linger on you for a beat before he lowers them to the computer screen on his left. The mouse clicks a few times, loud and suspenseful, as he operates the thing. You try to catch the reflection of something, anything in his round glasses. There are seven rooms, two cars beside his and yours in that parking, what can possibly take him so long? 
If the bacteria hasn't killed you, the wait surely will. 
“No,” he eventually declares, looking up at you, “it’s not booked for tonight.”
The answer falls on you like a guillotine. It rings out in your ears and you sway on your feet from the violence of the blow. You don’t know how to breathe. 
“Do you want to book it?”
You shake your head slowly.
“No. Thank you.”
Back outside, in the muggy semi-darkness, your wobbling legs find the way to your car on autopilot. 
He made no plans to come back. This time, he didn’t leave any note. This is how it ends. Between your lungs, the wild creature is bleeding. 
You should turn around, ask if they have his full name, bribe Raul into giving you his contact info. You never thought of memorizing his plates, but you could always drive back to the Hole in the Wall, see if he’s been there, if he came looking for you. 
You don’t. You won’t. You’re not entitled to any of it. He was never yours. Never yours to want, to long for, to miss, to hold.
All that’s left now is the abyss and the fear. You’re terrified. Of what lies ahead, the choices you’ll have to make, the answers you’ll have to give. The hollowness in your chest. The gap in your existence. The fracture in your years. 
The before and the after him. 
He has changed you. You changed yourself. You’ll never know if you changed him. 
Stunned, you stand still by your car, cloaked in the velvety night, frozen in space and time. Your hand petrified on the door handle. Unable and unwilling to leave. Eyes riveted to the brass number on the door, glinting with a blurry glow in the soft yellow hues of the porch lights. Moths flutter fuzzy and silent into the light beam, oblivious to the drama of your story. 
The rectangular window stands guard over your secret life. Behind the yellow curtains, your lonely silhouette awaits to come to life, poised and silent, seated on the edge of the bed. 
That woman, young and brave . Want has made her bold and determined. In just a few moments, her trained ears will pick up the sound of an old truck engine drawing near on the empty road. Her existence will come into focus with thrilled anticipation. She will bloom out of her restraints at the sound of tires on the gravel. 
“Oh god,” you whisper, whipping your head around, your grip on the handle white-knuckled as the red truck parks behind your sedan. 
His massive silhouette comes out, and you clasp your hand to your mouth to muffle a dry sob. 
It’s a trick of your overwrought brain. He’s wearing a pair of worn-out jeans and a suede jacket over a dark t-shirt. The brim of his hat casts a long shadow over his face, but he’s moving fast, and in a couple of strides, he’s standing before you, hands on his hips. He’s smiling, a broad and bright smile. You catch a glimpse of a dimple you’ve never seen. A trick of the mind. 
Oh but he’s here, in the flesh, your body knows before your brain comprehends his presence. The instant pull, the humming purr of the creature inside you, the blood level instinct.  
“Hey!” he calls. He sounds out of breath. Like he’s been running. Running to you. 
“I’m sorry,” you blurt out through your clenched fingers. 
“What?”
His smile drops when you take a step back. 
“I’m so sorry, I couldn’t make it, I thought I could, but I couldn’t make it, and then I couldn’t—“ 
Your throat closes around the memory and you swallow hard, eyelids weighed by stubborn tears that refuse to fall. 
He takes a step forward, tilting down his head. That scowl. That scowl, you know. You’re only too familiar with it.
“Then it was too late and I couldn’t reach you,” you finish.
“What happened to you?”
The low timbre of his voice reverberates inside your chest. His eyes flicker up to your forehead. Before you can think of anything to say, he cups your face with both hands and turns it to the side, towards the light. The whole sequence happens so fast that you trip on your feet and catch yourself on his forearms. 
“Who the fuck did that to you?” he grits, leaning so close his breath fans your forehead.
“I’m sorry,” you repeat in a whisper. 
“Did he do that to you?”
“What?”
“Your husband. Did he do that to you?” he asks again, louder, this time. Separating each syllable.
“Oh no! No, I fell.” You bring the tip of your fingers to the sensitive mark. “The nurse said it will fade.”
“How did you fall?” he presses. 
He doesn’t believe you. Like you could lie to him if you wanted to. 
The tension from his frame resonates through yours, where a week’s worth of suppressed emotions and tears are piled up, waiting for a detonator that will bring down the dam. You push away his hands, your frown mirroring his own. 
“I fell, ok? I’m here now, so let’s go inside.”
“I’m not– no,” he huffs, hands back on his hips, shaking his head. His boots scuff over the gravel, the grating sound loud in the empty lot, in the stifling night, and despite the dimness you can make out that scowl, ever present, splitting his gaze. 
“You can barely stand.”
However relevant, his rejection burns your cheeks. You raise your chin, leaning against the hood of the car for countenance. For balance.
“I’m fine. The room is free. Let’s go.” 
“I said no. I’m not fucking you. Look, I don’t know what happened to you, but you’re clearly not well enough–”
“You don’t fucking tell me what I’m well enough to do,” you snarl with your heartbeat in your throat, pushing away from the car, sustained by your last shred of strength. “Don’t assume you know what I’m capable of.”
He stands in front of you, seemingly unmoved, impossibly tall, infuriatingly silent. Stoic, and you’re thrumming with frustration, standing stubborn and brittle in front of him. He gives you none of the myriad of micro-expressions that usually play across his face, that you read instinctually. You feel ugly, exposed, but you withhold his gaze, jaw clenched, breathing heavy through your nose. You might faint again.
The silence drags on. It’s a minute before he moves again, crossing his arms over his chest. His voice is calm, when he speaks next, low and quiet, almost soothing. You don’t want it to be soothing. You don’t want to be soothed, you’re not done with your anger. He didn’t book the room, and now he doesn’t want to go in. You are a swappable vessel, after all. 
“I don’t. I don’t assume anything,” he says, “I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.”
“I told you already, you cannot hurt me,” you snap, impatient.
“Wanna bet?”
You don’t need to. You know he could. Just not in the way he thinks he would. He’s already marked you permanently, deeper than any injury, any wound ever could. 
“Listen,” he begins with a sigh. 
“No, I get it, I look like shit and you don’t want to fuck me—“
“Alright, that’s enough!” he silences you with his index finger pointed at you. His voice booms in the dim parking lot, and you avert your eyes. Weariness washes over you, you fall back against the hood of your car.
His shoulders sink just a bit, the slightest drop in the tension pulling them taut. He steps closer to you, leans down, seeking your gaze, searching your face in the semi-darkness. 
“Hey, why don’t we go for a drive?” he offers. “We can talk. Or not. We can listen to the radio. Or just drive in silence, if you want. Clear our minds. What do you think?”
Our minds. 
He’s so close you can smell the clean scent of his t-shirt and the musk of him underneath it; you can feel your skin reaching out for him in feverish little tendrils you cannot control. 
“Ok.”
“Ok?”
“Yes, ok.”
He smiles, a cautious, appraising smile. The light catches at the mahogany depth of his eyes. He reaches for you, placing a large hand in the small of your back, and whispers, “Alright, let’s go.”
— 
The cab of the truck feels almost sacred. For months, it’s been your favorite daydream. Picturing him alone in the only private space of his you’ve ever seen, driving to you. 
What are his thoughts, then? Are they of you? Are they happy? Are they hopeful?
On any other occasion, you’d relish the opportunity to be in here with him. You’d catalog and store up every tiny detail for future use in your fantasies of him. Instead, you’re sitting tight and rigid on the wide bench seat, pressed against the door, face turned toward the window, seeing absolutely nothing. 
You hate yourself for that, too. 
After a while, you risk a glance at the dashboard. 
Judging by the analog dials, the truck has some mileage, but it’s visibly been well maintained. There’s no visible spots, no dust, no dents, only the patina of time. The vinyl bench seat is upholstered with a soft fabric whose colors have fainted after too many years under the Florida sun. There’s a cassette player and a cigarette lighter. The windows are manual. 
The one on Frankie’s side is cracked open. The night air carries his scent over to your side of the cab. Leather, laundry, musk. You can’t escape it. 
“Hey. You ok there?”
In the moonless night, you can only make out the sharp lines of his profile against the outside darkness of the country road. 
“I’m sorry,” you mumble. 
He looks at you, brow pinched, but his expression is soft. Compassionate. 
“C’mere.”
The truck slows down to a snail pace, and he unbuckles your seatbelt. You scoot over near him. Without taking his eyes off the road, he reaches to your right and rolls out the middle seat belt across your lap, fastening it between your hip and his. 
The truck accelerates to a cruising speed, and he wraps his arm over your shoulders, drawing you closer. 
You let him, allow your body to slump against his, embrace his warmth, your cheek pressed against his chest. It’s solid and strong, a match for your skeleton of loneliness. The suede fabric of his jacket is smooth, worn in. You inhale him there. You rest a hand on his thigh, and slide the other under his jacket, to rest on his chest. It rises and falls with his breathing. If you lie real still, you can feel the steady thumping of his heart. 
“I’m not married.”
“Ok.”
The word is felt through your cheek as much as you hear it. 
“The man I live with. He’s not my husband.”
“Ok.”
The nodding motion of his head nudges you a bit. 
“And I really fell.”
He remains silent, adjusting his grip on the steering wheel. The leather lining creaks inside his fist. 
“I got sick, last Friday. I get these stomach bugs all the time, but this was a mean one. I tried to make it through the workday, but eventually I passed out. Like a corporate rendition of a Victorian damsel, or something.”
You chuckle, diverting the humiliating memory. Just something that happened. 
He tightens his embrace. 
“That when you hurt your head?”
“Yes. On the edge of the elevator’s frame. At work”
“Fuck. Did it hurt a lot?”
“Actually it didn’t? I was out. It hurt when I woke up later, in the hospital, though. I had this terrible headache. I didn’t know where I was, or when I was.”
You feel him shake his head as he asks, “Were you scared?”
How to put into words, that the only fear you’ve ever had, is to never see him again? 
“I survived,” you answer with a shrug and a little, empty laugh.
If you were brave enough, if you had some strength left, you’d ask. How did he feel, when he got to the motel and found the door to the room closed. Why he didn’t book the room again. Why he still came tonight. 
“Does it still hurt?” he asks. 
“No,” you lie. 
“Mmh. And for real?”
You rub your cheek against the smooth suede, imprinting your soft smile into it. And maybe some of your scent for him to keep. In case, just in case he does care.
“A little. I’ll be fine.”
The truck cruises over the black asphalt, between the straight, stretching yellow lines. 
Your next words come in quiet, but not hesitant.
“He wouldn’t hit me.”
“Ok.”
“That’s not what he does.”
He exhales slowly through his nose. 
“What does he do?”
You bite your cheeks, already regretting this moment of weakness. The treason. 
“He makes me doubt.”
“Him?”
“Myself. And him too.”
Your eyes clench shut. His chest flexes under your cheek as he hardens his grip on the wheel. 
The truck drives past a gas station, through a small town. Neatly delimited square lawns, white houses with flags hanging on their porches, Christmas lights blinking through square windows, and you tilt up your head to look at him in the streetlights. 
His outlined profile, his steady expression, everything about him feels safe and grounding. The beauty that radiates from him, from within him, sinks to your heart. It races madly, awakening the soreness in your bruised ribcage, and perhaps he can feel it, with the way you’re curled up into his side. Leaning down, he brushes a kiss to your forehead. You bunch up his T-shirt in your fist. 
Soon, the yellow lines unwinding endlessly in the truck’s headlights weigh down your eyelids. In the safety of Frankie’s hold, your mind and body slowly drift into a peaceful slumber. 
“You ok? Want me to close the window?”
His voice is a distant whisper skirting the edges of your consciousness. 
“No, ’m good,” you mumble. “Wanna stay like this forever.”
Under your palm, Frankie's heart thumps loud and heavy. 
When you wake up, the truck is still and silent. Engine cooled off, windows rolled up. The night is pitch dark. Frankie’s scent, heady, familiar, everywhere around you. Your cheek is resting on his lap, and his hand lies heavy on your waist. His breathing comes in even and slow. Both your seatbelts are unbuckled. Your feet are bare. 
Aside from your legs, sore from being crammed into the length of the seat bench, you feel better than you have in a week, with your headache finally gone. 
You sit up, take in your surroundings and his sleeping form, seated behind the wheel. He stirs, lifting an eyelid and glancing in your direction, the corner of his mouth tugged up into something that resembles a drowsy grin. 
At some point while you were asleep, he drove back to the motel. Parked the truck so that the cabin faces away from the only source of light. 
You stretch side by side, sleep-heavy limbs, comfortable silence. You watch him lift his hat and comb his fingers through his hair, a tender smile lifting the corner of your lips. You know the curls he hides there. 
Of course, it cannot last forever. Nothing ever does. In a couple of hours, it’ll be daybreak. He’s always gone, by then. 
You won’t make this uncomfortable or difficult for him. You slip your socks and shoes back on. You’re reaching for the handle when he stops you with a hand on your thigh. 
“Wait. I need to talk to you.”
His voice is low and husky from sleep. You realize you have never woken up next to him. Never slept with him through the night. Probably never will. 
You hum quietly, pivoting on the seat bench to face him. 
“I can’t come, next week,” he says, searching your eyes. 
Emotionless. That’s how you have to be. You know how to do this. Not when it comes to him, but you can try. You try your best, your very hardest. 
“I understand.”
“I imagine you can’t be here either.”
No, you can’t. Thanksgiving at your parents’, Christmas with Adrian’s family. Always. 
“No, I can’t.”
The following week, either. But you don’t share that.
This is when the two of you should discuss a practical means of communication. The awareness hangs between you, loud and unspoken. The consequences it would have on whatever it is that the two of you share. The shockwave, the shift in nature and intention. The names that exist to describe your situation, crass, overused, sordid. Tainted with lies and deception, secret texting, hushed phone calls, disgusting, undeniable guilt.
Frankie moves first, getting out of the truck and going round the hood to open the door for you. You slide out of the high cab into his arms, and when your feet touch the gravel, you wonder if this could be the last time he will ever hold you.
In the feeble porch lights, his face is a landscape of diffuse shadows. The dip in his collarbone draws you in, a beacon in a dark ocean. You nuzzle into it, inhaling his scent, taking in his fragrant warmth. You tuck your face in the crook of his neck, graze your cheek along his pebbled skin. What if you stayed there? Tucked away forever. Disappeared to the rest of the world. Would it matter? Would he let you? 
Your fists bunch the sides of his jacket. 
“Kiss me, Frankie, please.” 
“Yes.”
His first kiss is tentative, the plush cushion of his lips a soft press over yours, but they return immediately, hungry for a taste, for more, the tip of his tongue brushing against your parted lips. 
All that you crave, all that you need is here, in his embrace, between his arms and his hands tugging at your waist, beckoning your body closer to his. 
Your arms circle his neck, the tips of your fingers seeking his curls. His hand spans your back, finds your nape. He molds you into his chest, and with the way he’s pressing you against him, firm and commanding, you know this will be one of these moments that feed into your hopes. The delusion you’ve been nurturing since the first time you’ve faced him. The dream that he wants you to be his above anyone else. 
His third kiss opens you up, tongue swirling around yours, and you keen, rising to your tiptoes, angling your head to take more, more, more and he gives. Hands gripping, tongue licking, crushed lips and guttural moans, he gives you all that you need like he needs it too. 
You’re floating above the gravel, there’s no time, there’s no space, his body has no end and there’s no beginning to yours as he kisses away your fears, your doubts, your darkness. 
Together, you stand entwined between night and morning, linked by chance, need and hurt, bonded by will and desire. 
There’s no urgent hunger in the spanning of his splayed hands across your body, no rage in his kneading of the soft of your hips, or the swell of your breast. His grip is strong, but studious and thorough. He takes you in, your curves, your dips, the slopes and slants of your figure. Like he’s storing up the feelings and memories of you for when there will be no more, when you’re far and gone, away with your husband who is not your husband. There’s despair in his touch, but most of all, there’s foresight, and intent. 
He’s untucked your t-shirt, calloused hand skimming up to cup your breast, thumbing the hardening peak of your nipple.
Once again, you find yourself pressed against the hard, cool metal of the truck, and like the first time, you’re frantic in his hold, but he’s in control. His thick thigh parts your legs, offering friction to the coiling need between your hips, that fire pooling liquid down your core. You squirm against the firm muscles. 
“Want me to make you come, baby?”
He’s breathing into your mouth, and you whine in frustration. 
“No, I want you inside me.” 
“Shit, you sure?”
“I’m not made of glass, you’re not going to break me.” 
You push away to look at him, a demonstration of strength. All talk, but you’re that desperate. He pulls you back into him for another kiss, chuckling into your mouth. 
“You think I don’t know that?”
So many simple things you had never done with him before tonight, after months of lying bare and naked, to his gaze and his touch, inside and out. Driving, falling asleep, walking, his steadying hand nestled in the small of your back. 
Behind the reception desk, Raul seems unfazed by this new development. The drawing pad blackened in charcoal is back.
“Room number 2,” Frankie asks, “for the night.” 
It’s so wild to consider that the two men have never interacted, when Raul plays such an important part of your Friday ritual. You’d try to get Frankie’s full name, real name, perhaps, but Raul doesn’t ask. This is not that kind of place. 
“I can pay,” you whisper into Frankie’s shoulder, tucking your t-shirt back into your jeans. 
“I know you can.”
When he flips open his wallet, a small color picture pops out, next to his driver's license. The photo booth format is easily identifiable. In the snapshot, a bare-headed Frankie is holding a very young child. The picture is that of a moment, seized through movement, the kid holding the Standard Heating Oil hat in her chubby hands, likely mere seconds after having snatched it from Frankie’s head, who’s looking down at her, with a bemused grin, tousled hair. 
It’s him, his distinctive, sharp features unmistakable, only he hardly looks like the man you know. There’s no trace of the grief he carries like a cloak when he meets with you. No crease splitting his brow like when he looks at you. Instead, his eyes glint with pride, creasing with a smile that dimples his cheeks, large and genuine. And the child’s round, plump face is brightened by the same irresistible dimpled grin, the same head full of wild curls, the same mahogany eyes.   
You quickly avert your gaze, but you’ve seen enough. The guilt is physical, visceral, it squeezes your ribcage harder than the pliers. The pain has you wincing and you grip the reception desk for balance, but Frankie’s arm is already wrapped around your waist and he’s leading you outside. 
In a trance, you walk beside him to room number 2. Your room. That picture-perfect image of fatherly love dancing before your eyes. 
He’ll never be yours. The wild creature shivers between your lungs. The certitude shatters your heart. 
Stepping inside, you’re rooted to the floor. Limbs too heavy to lift. Your blood has turned into lead. The fire in your core is a pile of ashes. You can taste it on the back of your tongue. 
Frankie flicks up the toggle switch, and the room lights up in amber hues. It feels too big, the satin quilt, the brown carpet, the yellow curtains, everything is foreign and distant.
Behind you, he sets his hat on the desk, drapes his jacket on the back of the chair.
“You ok?”
His voice jolts you up. You turn around to face him, unshed tears hanging round and heavy from your lashes. After a beat, he takes a step towards you, and you feel that absolute pull tugging from behind your midriff. 
His gaze drifts up to your fresh scar, where your flesh is tender, swollen and bruised. Yours travel down along the pebbled skin of neck, to the dip between his collarbone. A firework of freckles springs from the V-shaped collar of his faded blue t-shirt.  
Carefully, he slides your t-shirt out of your jeans again. You lift your arms like a docile child, let him undress you. He places a hand, warm and calloused, beneath your sternum. His palm heats your skin, warmth seeping into you. It untangles something, there. Something you didn’t know was still bruised. You lean into it. 
He stays like that for a while. 
Then his hand skates up to the base of your throat. His cold hard stare finds your soft sad eyes. 
“Do you get wet, thinking I could hurt you?”  
“I trust you,” you answer, a nod contradicting your words. His gaze hardens.
“Why did you think I wouldn’t come tonight, then?”
You shake your head, blinking fast. You never mentioned that. How would he know your thoughts? 
“Don’t you know I would fuck you on my deathbed?” he grits.
But you don’t know. Of course you don’t know, and how could you? Nothing in your life has ever prepared you for him, for this, for the strength of that pull, inescapable, for this obsession that has uprooted your life, your body, your instincts. Nothing has prepared you for the magnetism of his skin, the things you’d do to be in his presence, to breathe the same air, what you’d risk for his touch, what you’d give up for his attention, what you’d destroy for his affection . Your comfort, your safety, your future, your health. Your family and his, nothing fucking matters compared to the insatiable hunger of this wild thing inside your chest and its incessant chant of him, him, him. 
Your chest heaves, but his grip is firm. He leans down, lowering his lips to your ear, where he whispers, “What’s your name?”
You close your eyes, the wild creature is gnawing at your chest, eating you raw from within. 
“I want you.”
His hand lingers, travelling higher, fingers splayed across the width of your throat in a loose grip. You hope he tightens it. Like he does sometimes when he’s inside you. Tune out your mind, toss you into white-hot pleasure. Into oblivion. 
He doesn’t. 
He’s never truly been gentle with you before. Tonight, his kisses are languid, his touch soft and slow along your ribs. Delicate, when he reaches the swell of your breasts and slides down the cup of your bra, replacing the fabric with the palms of his hands. When he leans down into you, wrapping his plush lips around your nipple, sucking in the peaked bud ever so lightly, flicking the flat of his hot wet tongue around it, lips pursed, suckling. 
Against your belly, you feel him harden. You shiver with arousal and anticipation, with exhaustion. With the weight of this week and the burden of your life. With pain, ache and soreness. With your empty body, and your empty cunt. With that creature in your chest that can’t be tamed or satisfied. Can’t even be named. 
You shiver in his hold, for fear that this’ll be the last time. For fear that he’ll never be yours, that he’ll never want you the way you want him, with determination, with madness, without a choice. 
“I want you inside me, Frankie please," you breathe out, and he backs you into the bed to lay you down on the quilt. 
The fabric is cold under your burning skin, you shudder at the contact. He takes off your shoes, rolls off your socks. He slides your jeans down and off your legs, then your panties. 
You sit up to watch him undress, his eyes of mahogany brown never once leaving your face. 
He stands before you, naked, erect, filling your vision with this breadth, and you want to rip your beating heart out of your aching chest. 
The bed dips and he’s crawling over you. Leaning down, he drags the crown of his head up along your belly, along the valley of your breasts, his hair a soft caress on your quivering skin. Your fingers twine in his curls, you get lost in the sensation. For weeks he has barely let you touch it, kept it out of your reach. Now the abundance feels decadent, your head sinks back into the mattress with a faint exhale. 
Cautiously, he parts your folds with two knuckles. You bite down a gasp, tensing up. You can’t shake off that chilling dread, the one that trickles inside you, cold and piercing, when you think you’re losing him. But your body knows better, that sticky wet slick pooled between your hips, the coiling heat at the center of you. 
“Stop me,” he breathes into the crook of your neck, “don’t let me hurt you.”
He inches the tip of his length inside you with a strained groan, hooking your legs around his waist. He tries to work you open with a few shallow thrusts, panting against your temple.
“Fuck you’re tight.”
“Please, Frankie–”
His frame tenses up under your palms.
“I’m trying, you’re too— fuck, you’re too tight. Let me eat you open.”
“No!”
That’s not what you want, not tonight when you have no strength to spare, no time to lose, no patience left out. 
“I can—“ You trip over your words. 
“What?”
“I can sit on it.”
Heat creeps up your neck, setting your cheeks ablaze. He gives you a quiet chuckles. 
“Yea. Yea you can.”
He grabs your wrists and lifts you with easy strength. A few swift movements and he’s lying on the bed underneath you, your folded knees a straddle across his lap. You feel dizzy, like your blood can’t course along your veins fast enough, like it’s no match for his strength, for your arousal. 
“Spit on it,” he says. 
You circle his cock, smooth, heavy. It throbs into your hand. You take it all in, with a trance-like gaze, the coarse curls at his base brushing your skin, the round head, an angry shade of red, the ridges and pumped up veins along the length, the tip of your fingers that don’t meet around it.  
“Come on, don’t be shy, spit on it.”
Bending down, you lick a broad stripe along the thick ridge of his underside, from his balls to the fat round tip, where the skin is smooth and his taste heady, and he hisses something you can’t make out. It shoots through you, his sound, his burning skin, his taste. The curled tip of your tongue slides inside the small leaking slit, collecting the pearly drops he gives you. Your eyes flutter shut. His hands grip your thighs above the knees as you take him into your mouth, his fingers digging, a bruising furrow, something desperate. 
“Fuck, fuck, fuck.”
Your lips slide along him, up and down, tongue wrapped around his girth. With hollowed cheeks, you take him deeper with each stroke until your head is spinning and you slip him out, rueful, glassy-eyed. 
His breathing comes in almost as heavy as yours. 
“Sit on it, now.”
His voice sounds wrecked, like you must look. 
“Yes,” you pant. 
Hands braced on Frankie’s chest, you’re not that flimsy, empty shell. You’re that fierce creature inside your chest, the one that claws and purrs and spits and demands. You tap into the bottomless pit of its life force, tap into the rumbling of Frankie’s ragged breathing under your palms, and you take.  
Eyes strained on the solid breadth of his chest, on the expanse of his amber skin and the darker circles of his nipples, on the constellation of soft brown freckles that turn your insides into a sticky leaking mess, you slide up his lap, part your folds with his hard cock, rub your clit over it.
“Fuck, you feel good,” he murmurs, not for you, not really. To himself. Like the memory comes back crushing. 
The bobbing of his throat, the low rasp of his voice, the wet sound of your slick smearing over his cock, it all builds up hot and prickly right under your navel. 
Sweat breaks on your forehead, along your spine, down in the bow shape of your arched back. 
You push away from the cradle of his hips, knees sinking into the creaking mattress. Raise yourself from his heat just enough to line him up, with his hands curled around your thighs, a steadying help. 
You’re tight, but wanton-wet. He’s a gliding stretch along your walls as you sink down on him with all your weight, your cunt ready to collapse, fluttering frantically. 
His thrashes back into the mattress, corded neck, strained muscles. Thick fingers bruising the tender flesh of your legs. 
“Fuck wait, don’t move, don’t move. Stop moving, shit!”
You still, not like you can move anyway, the pleasure-pain has you numbed out, limp, blinded. Your head lolls back, your eyes roll shut. Your lower lip twitches with the tension and the stretch. He’s so big you forget how to breathe but this is what you wanted, for him to annihilate all the other pains.
A sound comes out of your parted lips. A grating against your vocal cords, a primitive vibration of the air that’s punched out of your lungs. It’s not you, it’s the creature mewling.  
You can feel his cock pulsating hard and angry inside your belly. It’s a tidal ripple that travels up your chest. Your heart skips several beats. 
His hands cup roughly around your breasts. You lean forward into his hold, hips swaying, slack mouthed. You keep him inside you, a deep roll, hipbones to hipbones. The coarse black hair at his base a harsh scrape against your swollen clit. 
And suddenly, he fucks up into you. A hard shove, filling, merciless, into your cervix. You cry, nearly toppling backward and he sits up with a cinch, arms wrapping around your waist, catching you before you can fall. 
“Too much?”
“Oh god yes.”
You’re crying, at last. Big, hot beady tears of salt rolling down your cheeks. Full, fucked out, filled to the brim. Everything that’s not him obliterated. Thoughts, emotions, sensations.
“That’s what you wanted, right? You want too much, baby?”
His voice is quiet and soft like silk, teeth raking along your throat. It’s almost a bite but not quite, tongue tasting your sweat, lips wrapping around your pulse point, barely sucking in. You can’t speak, your nails dig into his arms, forming little pink crescents you’re not allowed to leave behind. 
You nod, you breathe out, “Yes, I want too much.” 
He straightens up, your breasts are pressed to his chest, sweats mingling. His scent is overwhelming. That musk he exudes, a leathery spice, whenever you’re fucking. The scent of his desire. 
His hand tangles in your hair. He makes sure you’re looking at him.
“Take it. Take what you want. Fuck, you’re beautiful, so fucking beautiful, you believe it, right?” 
You try to tilt your face down, hide your tears, hide your scar. He doesn’t let you. So you give in. Because, what if you are? 
“Say it again, please.” 
“Look what you do to me, baby. Can you feel what you do to me?”
His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your ass, and he grinds you onto his cock, a slow, thorough grind, splitting you deeper onto him. It’s coiling fast, hot and heavy, right at the center of you. 
“I’m gonna come, Frankie.”
“Do it. Come. Use me, make yourself come on my cock. Make yourself feel good. Take everything you need.” 
He talks you through your orgasm as you tremble and crumble in his hold. It’s a high that feels like a free-fall, like you’re unraveling, like you’re never landing. Like your skin’s burning and your mind is the horizon. 
You’re sobbing quietly when he carefully eases out of you, still hard. He carries you in his arms and you think you’re floating. You’re drained, boneless, falling asleep already. 
He lies you down under the covers, tucks you in. Places a glass of water on the nightstand. Folds your clothes on the desk. 
You don’t hear him dress up. You don’t hear him leave. 
And in a few hours, when room service wakes you up, barging into the room, you won’t remember his forehead kiss. 
****
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alexiela73 · 1 year
Note
ok so i was wondering if you could do something that evolves around the idea that the reader is pregant and genji or hanzo not knowing yet while the noodles find out and are more protective of her
Hell Yes. Someone even sent another request that feels like a great part 2 to this.
Genji:
Out of nowhere, you started to wake up with Soba standing over your pillow
The little green dragon usually preferred to sleep on her perch at the window, instead of watching with the usually intimate displays of affection in the bed- in fact, she avoided the bed altogether usually
At first you thought maybe you’d made a strange noise in your sleep and she was just worried
But more and more you’d wake to her eyes above you, staring intensely down at you from the headboard
One night Genji got home from a mission, and you woke to the sound of him yelling, and a rippling snarl coming from a growing dragon blocking the door out of the room
Genji was stuck in the hall, and for the life of you, neither of you could get Soba to change or stop her from preventing him from coming in your shared room
That next morning, a wave of nausea hit and you were sent to the bathroom in a great hurry. The nausea remained even as the contents of your stomach were emptied, and you sat beside the toilet, holding your hair back
A soft touch made you open your eyes- Soba was rubbing her little whiskers on your stomach, booping her nose above your belly button and purring
You stared down at her in confusion, before a thought hit you. When was your last period, you thought?
“Genji-,” you called. “I think we need to go to a doctors office!”
Soba sat smugly in your lap the entire way home from the doctors.
Hanzo:
In a way Hanzo described as disgraceful, the noodles always had an incredible soft spot for you
They adored you, and often left their spiritual tattoo to get snuggles in your arms and blem their little tongues out of their mouth
You spoiled them- how could you not? You’d never had a pet before, and you often liked to think that as they were a part of Hanzo, that maybe they were the physical form of his intense love for you
The noodles, as Hanzo begged you to stop calling them, usually weren’t so bad mannered as to not obey Hanzo when called- but for the first time, in the heat of battle no less, the dragons did not appear
Hanzo had no way of knowing that the noodles were following you throughout the day
You didn’t even know till the evening- they had snuck in your car and gone grocery shopping with you, had followed you into the bank and perhaps robbed a woman of their purse dog, and nearly made it through the day without you finding out
Until a loud dog across the street started barking. And when you looked, two dragons the size of cars were starting to walk across the street and snarl
“No! Guys, come here!” you called, a bit frantic.
Its like the two sensed your panic, instantly racing to you and becoming the side of german shepherds. The two wrapped around you, rubbing their cheeks on your sides
At first you thought Hanzo was home, but when you called he let out a loud, angry huff. “That’s where they are? Outrageous. I’m on my way home!” he had said.
You knew though something was up-the intensity in their gaze, the way they couldn’t look away from you...
“What’s up with you, guys?” you’d asked, and rubbed their snouts.
They just snorted, and when you finally went and sat they curled up on your lap.
It wasn’t for another two months almost before you found out you were pregnant- and suddenly, the noodles continuously odd and rather nerve-wracking behavior made sense
“They are protecting our family,” Hanzo had said softly, putting a hand over your stomach in awe. “Thank you....noodles,” he’d said.
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joekeeryswife · 1 month
Note
Dad!mason feeling kicking for the first time or dad!mason who helps reader with symptoms of pregnancy (nausea/back pain/etc)
baby bump - m.m
a/n: dad!mason makes my heart melt. short but sweet, i combined the two, hope this is okay! enjoy reading 🩰
also i have no mason requests so please send some through!! 🫶🏼
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you and Mason were sat on the sofa together watching some random tv program which you weren’t paying attention too, you had been feeling nauseous recently and you just wanted to be snuggled up with Mason now more than ever.
being seven months pregnant didn’t help, you felt like a whale sitting next to Mason. this seventh month had been really hard. you’d been nauseous, had awful back pain and your baby had decided to start kicking your insides constantly which was very uncomfortable.
funny thing was the baby only kicked when Mason was away from you. Mason had never felt her little kicks ever and he was annoyed that she would only kick when he was either at football or he had gone out with his mates. he tried to spend as much time at home as possible so he could be with you incase anything happened.
you were resting your head on his chest, eyes closed as you tried to rid the feeling of sickness. he had you bundled up in a blanket and his arms around you. his hand was resting on your stomach which was now protruding through the blanket. he loved it, it showed that your baby was grown which meant he was closer to meeting his little girl.
“how you feeling sweet girl?” he ran a hand through your hair, massaging your scalp softly as he tried to soothe the migraine you had. “i’m okay mase” his hand moved back to your belly rubbing small patterns all over it.
“do you want me to get you anything? some water with ice? food? anything at all” you just shook your head “no thanks baby, i just want to be next to you. please don’t get up” your eyes were still closed meaning you were practically sleep talking to him right now but he didn’t care, he wanted you to be okay.
“i won’t leave you honey, im not going anywhere” he kissed your forehead again. he had been so excited when you told him you were pregnant but now he couldn’t help feeling bad because you felt sick all the time. he just wanted to take the pain away from you and give it to himself so you would be okay.
you were on the brink of sleep, milliseconds away from falling into dream land when Mason shouted out making you jolt awake. “oh baby i’m sorry” you looked up at him confused as to why he just shouted out. “i forgot you were sleeping i’m sorry honey”
“why did you shout?” you croaked your eyes squinting as you adjusted to the lights. he kissed your forehead and smiled at you brightly. “the baby kicked, i felt her kick finally” your heart melted, he had never looked so excited. “aww mase, she kicked for you” he pulled you back into him, his hand never leaving your belly incase your daughter kicked for him again.
“if she kicks again i promise i wont shout, ill let you sleep honey i was just in shock” he kissed your forehead a few times as you got comfortable again so you could sleep. “it’s alright mase” you hugged him closer and closed your eyes, Masons hand rubbing circles on your belly.
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m-ayo-o · 3 months
Text
a surprise party for me? you shouldn't have~
21+ bf megumi fluff / crack
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You lead him, blindfolded, into your kitchen. Of course, he's in a huff. He didn't want any of this, so you're basically dragging him through to where everyone is waiting in silence.
All he can do is hold his breath and squeeze his eyes shut until you lift his blindfold and...
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY MEGUMI!!!"
Fuck. It's too loud.
He winces at their shrill voices and Gojo's face getting way too close. Dammit, he can basically smell his sugary breath from here, his nose is nearly touching his.
He inches back, still with your hand clasped tight. His palms are getting sweaty now- he feels a bit dizzy and overwhelmed, with all the party banners, music, balloons and streamers.
Now he can hear everyone start so sing...
"Happy birthday to you~"
And Yuji is stomping up to him with a cake, adorned with a depressing amount of candles, with a huge beaming smile on his face.
His mouth has gone dry. It feels like he's going to faint.
He looks to his side, at your pretty face, then back to the cake and hoards of friends, and they start to disappear, swirling away into a vortex of colour and shapes.
He's confused. Relieved.
And he feels his head spin, the nausea fading and he wakes in a cold sweat, clutching your body with his head in the crook of your neck.
His heavy breathing startles you awake. It's early, with light already filtering through the curtains.
"Mm- Megumi?"
You turn to him, your voice a little croaky, and find his eyes blinking open.
"Oh, good morning, birthday boy," you smile, pressing a kiss to his forehead, "are you okay?"
He just clings to you and pushes his body closer with a deep sigh.
"Yeah. Bad dream."
~
And you proceed to have a day- his birthday- filled with his favourite things.
Of course, he admits later that the dream was just a surprise party. He doesn't find them terrible. It's just, in his head, it felt nightmarish- as if his subconscious was dreading what you'd planned.
But really, he should give you more credit. You understand him better than he realises, and you take care of him better than he can himself.
You'll stay in bed for as long as you want, cook food together, go out for a frosty winter walk, admiring the Christmas decorations and lights in the city, then meet up with friends and exchange gifts.
Thanks to you, he's able to feel relaxed and calm on his birthday- like it's not a big deal, and simultaneously it feels so special, like he's the luckiest guy on the planet.
There's no stress or rigid structure to his day now that he has somebody to follow; somebody to trust. So he quiets his mind and goes with the flow, allowing you to guide him through the dreamiest day.
And of course, when you return home, his favourite part is yet to come. Now he has you to himself again, he lets his guard all the way down, feeling comfortable with the one he loves most.
You make everything so easy for him. You make him feel weightless, like he's falling for you a little more every day.
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megumi
264 notes · View notes
jtl-fics · 8 months
Text
Fluent Freshman - Part 34
PREV
Sometimes when you have bad anxiety it’s hard to judge how scary something actually is.
FF breaks into a cold sweat practicing his order in line at fast food places. FF shakes with nerves at the prospect of asking about where a certain building was on campus from a stranger. FF’s stomach twisted into knots when he thought Andrew was leading him to his death in the basement of Eden’s. It’s hard when everything in life feels like the scariest and most impossible thing you’ll ever have to deal with.
Still, FF had felt like he had been getting braver. Had felt like he might be getting just a bit better in regard to confronting his fears.
He’d been getting better.
He managed to laugh with the cashier when he ordered combo number two-teen instead of twelve before break. He had asked for directions to the nearest bathroom from a stranger when one of Kevin’s shakes had gone straight through him. He had even gone down into the basement with Andrew and realized he had friends.
Looking at Daniel makes that progress feel far away.
His stepbrother’s name tastes like ash in his mouth.
“I just want to talk.” Daniel says raising his hands up placatingly. “We’re family.” Daniel says pointing between himself and FF.
“We’re not family and I don’t want to talk.” FF says because they aren’t, and he doesn’t. Daniel is one of the top two people in the entire world he doesn’t want to talk to ever.
“There’s your answer, now leave.” Captain Neil dismisses Daniel who still has his hands up.
“C’mon talk to me. We’re brothers John.” Daniel says and FF feels his entire body tense at the name.
“John?” Nicky looks back at him in confusion.
“That’s not my name.” FF hears himself say more than he consciously says it. “It was never my name.” he swallows tart cherry flavored bile. It really was one of Kevin’s better smoothies and FF would feel terrible if he puked it up. The world sways as he tries to breathe through the nausea of hearing Daniel call him by that name again.
He changed it the second he turned 18 last March. He’d signed his contract as a Smith not a Stanton. He would never let someone take it from him again even if hearing his first name still made his heart ache.
He feels Kevin’s hand on the center of his back steadying him and maybe he is swaying and not the world. Kevin takes the smoothie out of his hands before he can drop it.
Nicky must see something too because his friend abandoned the front line to steady him with an arm around his shoulders. He thinks he sees Captain Neil take his place.
“Of course, it was! It’s the name our dad gave you.” Daniel says and FF’s stomach cramps at the thought. “He’s still hurt that you changed it and that you haven’t reached out. Do you know what it’s like to find out your brother was hurt during a press conference?” Daniel asks and FF can see how he’s going for the sympathy card here looking at the others.
It’s his usual tactic.
“Fred is not my dad. You, Lucas, and Greg are not my brothers.” FF can feel a headache coming on along with the stomach cramps. He wishes that Aaron had let him restock on Pepto because the tart cherries maybe aren’t the best thing at the moment.
Daniel has always been the worst part of his stepfamily.
Greg had been a physical bully. Lucas had always followed Greg’s lead. Fred hadn’t looked at him more than he had to from the very moment that FF had made it clear that he did not appreciate the 13th birthday gift of ‘a new name’ and still intended to spend time with his grandmother. His mother had been distant for ages, but he always felt her watchful gaze making sure he did not step out of line, did not give her an excuse to put him back on the medication that left him as a zombie.
Daniel was different.
Daniel wanted things to be a certain way, but he wasn’t like his father or his brothers. He didn’t force FF to change, didn’t bully him into accepting a name that he had never wanted, and never let on to the fact that he was watching.
They’re the same age. Daniel had come to him like he could be a friend something he had been in short supply of after his two years of being little more than a medicated zombie. Daniel had gotten close; Daniel had pretended to actually care and acted like he only wanted what was best for FF.
It might have even worked.
If FF wasn’t such a loyal grandson.
Daniel had tried to poison the well between him and Gran, had tried to tell him that he needed to leave her behind and be happy in his new family.
FF had been stalwart.
Then Daniel had gone after his Gran and FF dislocated his thumb punching him.
“You don’t touch her.” He had said seeing Daniel for what he was for the first time. He saw a monster where a friend used to be but he had told this monster all of his secrets, all of his weaknesses, and had given him ammo.
Daniel came off as sweet and caring. He was athletic. He was a good friend. He was smart.
He was just also evil and made sure that FF suffered every single day they lived together because FF saw that evil in him when no one else had.
More than anything FF had been happy to bid him farewell when he’d signed his legal name on the contract to Palmetto State University’s Exy Team.
Just the sight of him brought up bad memories.
“No brother here to talk to it seems.” Captain Neil says.
“Bye Daniel. Kevin and Aaron, you two can walk back.” Andrew says and FF feels hands on his shoulders and found himself being steered towards the Maserati and FF stiffened instantly at the sight of it. “Smith?” Andrew questions.
FF had been doing better.
Screaming and pointing.
A hand reaching.
A sharp swerve.
Blood in his eyes and smoke in his lungs.
“I’m scared.”
Tiny hands in his.
“It’s going to be okay; I promise.”
Waking up to his grandma holding his hand in the hospital.
He’d been getting better.
“See, you’re still upset over what that guy did. Why are you clinging to the last name of the guy that did this to you?” Daniel asks from behind him, “He almost killed mom and you. He did kill our two-“
“Stop.” FF hears himself say and he turns to Daniel. “Jay and Robin weren’t your little siblings, they were mine. I’m not your family, I never was and never will be. I’m not scared of cars anymore.” A lie mixed in with multiple truths.
Maybe it’ll make Daniel happy to see that FF still knows how to play all of his favorite games.
He turns to Andrew who is staring at him patiently, “I’m not feeling well.” He says.
Andrew looks at him and FF figures he probably looks as shitty as he feels, “Someone will have to sit on someone’s lap.” He says.
“Smithy, sit on my lap.” Nicky says and FF can’t help the way he leans into Nicky’s warmth as his friend guides him to around the car keeping himself between Daniel and FF. Nicky gets in first and FF doesn’t hesitate to crawl onto Nicky’s lap.
He thinks he hears Daniel start to say something, but Andrew slams the door shut on his way to the driver’s side. Andrew doesn’t move from the passenger door, blocking it with his body.
Nicky guides his face into his neck, “Can we buckle-up?” he asks, and Nicky almost dislodges him he’s so quick in his compliance.
“Of course.” Nicky says and there’s the feeling of the seatbelt and the click of it locking into place. Nicky’s hand was in his hair.
FF doesn’t know if it just took a while or if he was just drifting in his thoughts as Nicky stroked his hair. “Are you scared of cars?” he asks voice quiet.
“Yes.” FF answers because it’s Nicky. “I was in an accident.” He explains just as quietly as Nicky had asked.
“Siblings?” Nicky asks voice choking with emotion.
FF pressed his face into Nicky’s neck further and hopes the pressure will stop his eyes from watering. “Yes.” He says. “Younger.” He manages.
Nicky holds him tighter, and FF is glad Nicky doesn’t tell him it’ll be okay.
FF doesn’t know if he drifts or if the others are listening to Daniel’s poison and falling for it. He’s glad that at least he’ll still have Nicky.
Eventually, the doors open, and he thinks he hears Daniel’s voice, but all three doors shut quickly.
“What an asshole.” Aaron spits.
“That doesn’t necessarily disqualify him.” Kevin says.
“We’re not talking about this right now.” Captain Neil hisses, “Smith, we’re going to get you to Abby’s, okay?” he says but FF doesn’t really have the energy to do anything more than a thumbs up.
The car ride is smoother than usual. It’s also quiet other than Kevin reminding him that he’d sleep better if they’d stop by the store to grab more smoothie supplies, Aaron smacking him upside the head, and Andrew threatening to kill both of them if they got tart cherry and avocado smoothie on his interior.
By the time they’re at Abby’s FF is almost asleep in Nicky’s lap but he forces himself to wake up and climb out of the car when Andrew opens the passenger door for them. He finds it hard to look at any of them at the moment.
“Sorry about all of that.” He manages looking down at his feet. “You shouldn’t have had to see that.”
“Smith,” Captain Neil’s hand rests on his shoulder and FF startles slightly as he looks down into the blue eyes of his Captain, “if we got what we deserved, we wouldn’t be Foxes.” He says as FF takes a long and steadying breath. “You have a past and that’s what brought you here.” Captain Neil squeezes his shoulder.
“You’re one of us and we take care of our own.” Andrew says before pushing him towards Nicky, “Get him to bed.” He says.
Nicky didn’t need to be told twice. Abby and Grandma Smith were out checking out a restaurant after the game, the two having become good friends during their stay. FF was glad his Gran was somewhere else and didn’t have to see him like this. FF was even more glad for his friend’s help as Nicky dragged him through his bedtime routine. “Don’t expect this when we’re roomies.” Nicky teased as he helped FF change.
It was hardly five minutes between pulling up and Nicky tucking FF into bed. “We’ll be by tomorrow, call me if that asshole shows up, okay?” Nicky says pointing at him.
FF, still to tired, just gave a thumbs up and closed his eyes.
He just hoped he drank enough of the smoothie that he wouldn’t dream.
***
Nicky left Abby’s house and made sure to lock the door behind him after he had checked a grand total of three times that FF was asleep in the guest bedroom, he’d taken up residency in.
Siblings.
Nicky’s heart ached.
He found the rest of the Monsters loitering outside by the Maserati with Aaron pacing, Kevin wiping his tongue on his shirt, as Andrew and Neil sat on the hood sharing a cigarette.
“He’s asleep?” Andrew asks.
“Out like a light.” He looks over to Kevin, “What’s going on with Kevin?” he asks.
“He tried some of what was left of the Smoothie he gave to Smith.” Neil says with an amused laugh. “He didn’t like it.” He says.
“I’ve been aiming for nutritional, not delicious.” Kevin argues, “Smiths hasn’t complained.”
“Smith is a little too nice for his own good.” Aaron rolls his eyes, “Which is why we’re not letting that asshole get his way!” Aaron adds.
“Being an asshole doesn’t stop you from being good at Exy.” Kevin crosses his arms.
“Obviously!” Aaron returns gesturing at Neil, Andrew, and Kevin.
“I resent that.” Kevin and Neil said at the same time as Andrew just shrugged.
“Hey, what the hell are you guys talking about?” Nicky asks hating feeling locked out of the loop. He didn’t regret climbing in the car to hold FF but there’d been too much time between when he’d sat in the Maserati to when the rest had joined for there to have not been a conversation.
“You didn’t hear?” Aaron asks incredulous.
“I was busy.” Nicky hisses and at least Aaron has the good grace to blush.
“Daniel Stanton wants to try out for the open spot on our roster since Lisa decided to stay home.” Neil says through gritted teeth, “The University already approved that he can try out.” He adds.
“That asshole wants to be a Fox.” Andrew says.
There were many noise disturbance calls from the usually quiet neighborhood that night as Nicky Hemmick let his opinion on this be known to the world.
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MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU
NEXT
317 notes · View notes
igotanidea · 1 year
Text
Cheshire cat: Jason Todd x fem!reader
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It was bad.
It was really, really bad.
She was shaking, the whole world was spinning, her head was killing her and she had that clenching feeling in her heart telling her that something happened.
Jason Red Hood was on the undercover operation and she hadn’t seen him for almost three weeks and it was killing her. Quite literally. On the first week she fell sick, on the second twisted her ankle during training with Tim and on the third headaches and nausea started.
Of course, Dick and Tim were making sure she was doing fine. Even Damian took some interest in her well-being. Alfred was constantly checking up if she was all right and everyone were trying to convince her to move to the manor for some time, but even Bruce could not convince her to actually do it. She only felt at ease in her own apartment. In the Wayne household she would constantly stumble upon Jason’s stuff, his books and his old clothes and would spend the entire time in his old room which will only amplify the pain and fear for her. Besides, she had been through it once, when he was killed by Joker, and doing it again would definitely brake her. So she refused, staying in her own house, only meeting boys for patrols, when it was needed.
Y/N was a long-time friend of the family. Her father was one of Bruce’s most trusted RD employee, the very first to learn Wayne was actually Batman. Sad thing that this knowledge got him killed and the man left a daughter alone in the world. So, being chased by some slight guilt Bruce took her in, soon after he adopted Dick.  So at the point, instead of one sidekick he had two. Robin was mostly the second line of attack, but Y/N, who took vigilante’s name Cheshire was supposed to be the distraction. For some reason she was extremely good with playing with people’s mind and the silent words she used to make them confused and turn them into a bunch of sheep, lost in the dark was kind of her thing. Sure, she was capable of kicking asses but observing criminals losing their shit just because of well-chosen words was far more entertaining. She truly was like a Cheshire car in Alice in Wonderland, from whom the girl took the name.
And from the first time she was on patrol with Dick and Bruce the things started accelerating.
After a few years, Dick left, Jason came in and became Robin.
And then, despite clear potential for being more than friends with Y/N he was killed by Joker, leaving the only thing happening between them in the form of awkward flirting.
And then Tim came in. And Damian.
And then Jason came back to life. Only he was not the same.
She was the first person he showed himself to, not able to stay away. She was his anchor and he wanted her back, now truly ready to be more than friends. And he was willing to fight for her, to go through the desert, climb through the highest mountains, crawl the jungle and to do any crazy shit just to prove to her what she meant to him. Luckily, she let him in without such extreme display of affection, however making him work for it. She trusted him, even if his new alter ego, Red Hood was probably a bit too violent and angry, Y/N knew the motives behind that. And many, many times she had to remind him, she was in relationship with Jason Todd, not Red Hood when it was hard for him to differentiate and literally drop the mask when he was with her.  She knew it and never complained, because she loved him too. Sometimes, being with him was like living hell, but most of the times it was … peace. Knowing that no matter what will happen he was there, ready to protect, hold and love her. And she reciprocated it all. Just being there with her in their own bubble built in the shithole Gotham was.  She would never complain or ask him to stop his action, after all she was a vigilante herself so it was easier to understand.
But still, when he was gone for some business and she could not come the fear crept in. No message, text or anything for three weeks. That was the standard procedure to keep her safe (Jason’s words, not hers). But there was also one more rule. If a month came without any sign of being alive she was allowed to start one-person search party, without involving any of his brothers. She only had to go through one more freaking week.
***
Y/N knew the location of most of his safe houses, so when 4 extremely long weeks passed she dressed up in her Cheshire gear and started her solo mission. Much to her annoyance and unease he was nowhere. Even his best friend Roy, who she never get to meet before was not in any of the places. So there were two options: she could sleep in the place she found herself in at the moment and reopen the search next night or risk losing consciousness on the street due to tiredness. The choice was obvious and she just slumped onto the bed, drifting off instantly, still in her gear.  
***
“What the fuck are you doing here?!” a strong hand clasped around her wrist lifting her from the bed. The man who was brave enough to do it was taller than Y/N so her feet just dangled in the air for a second. “Are you trying to burn this place!?”
“Let. Go. Of. Me” she wriggled desperately kicking her legs and finally kicking the man in the groin.
“You little rascal! I’m gonna get you and ….” He reached for her again but she jumped away and crashed into someone else’s strong chest, immediately feeling a pair of arms encapsulating her and familiar scent became palpable.
“What the fuck Roy! What the hell were you doing?!” Jason held Y/N closer to his chest, shocked by his best friend behavior.
“She broke in! She put us at risk, Red! She should be…..”
“SHUT UP! Just shut up! So it happens, she is allowed to come here any time she wants. Unlike you, she can keep quiet.”
“Fuck, Jace. You are holding her like you know who….. oh…..” his eyes widened in realization “so, she’s the she.”
“Yes, Roy. She’s the she. It’s a shame you two met like this, truly.”
“Wait.” Y/N let go of Jace for a second and turned around to face the other guy. “You’re the Roy? The Arsenal?”
“I am.” He mumbled a bit embarrassed now “Sorry about that. I can be a bit…. Extreme when it comes to safety.”
“I can tell who taught you that” she smirked her gaze landing on Jace, who just shrugged. “Oliver send his regards, then. You know, despite everything you could let him know you are alive. Oh, and you should work on your grip, your hands got a bit sweaty when you were holding me making it so much easier to just slip away. Maybe some new gloves would help with that.”
“I see why you fell for her, Red. She’s a fast talker.”
“What were you expecting?” Jason smirked “She’s the Cheshire after all.”
“The real name’s Y/N. It’s only fair I tell you mine if I know yours.”
“Ok, if you two are done with your pleasantries, get the hell out Roy. I’d like to have some alone time with my girl.”
“For god’s sake just keep it quiet, will you? the walls are thin and I’m not a fan of hearing anything from what you two are going to do…..”
“GET OUT!” Jason yelled and seeing him shaking in rage Roy was quick to leave the room, moving to the bathroom.
“Y/N….” only now Jace took of his domino mask and his alerted gaze met hers
“Hi, Jay.” She whispered softly and just the sound of her voice made him relax “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s been four weeks, hasn’t it?” he sighed deeply and cupped her cheek caressing her skin with the thumb making her lean into the touch instantly.
“I’m sorry, baby. I’m so fucking sorry. I guess I lost track of time.”
‘I can see” she chucked pointing towards the pile of bottles in the corner of the room “bet it was quite a party here.”
“It’s not like that…..”
“Hey, relax, I’m joking. A bit.”
“Were you worried a lot?”
“Me? Worried?” she scoffed “Nope. Never.”
“Really?” she could be denying but he noticed her pale skin, bags under her eyes and how she was now shaking in the attempt to keep herself all together. He put her through it. What was worse, there was a eschar on her hairline, clear sign she was back at her poor habit of head scratching during stress. Extreme head scratching. Normally, he made sure she wasn’t hurting herself but for the last weeks he couldn’t and it was showing.
“Absolutely.”
“Then why are you here? You were clearly looking for me?”
“Sure. To kick your ass. Wait, did you think I was going to fall into your arms like a freaking Disney princess?”
“You got your name from Alice in Wonderland, so Disney it is.” He shrugged and she smacked his head playfully “but you act more like Rapunzel.” He grabbed her waist and pulled her into his chest delighting in her warmth, feeling her tensed shoulders and back relax a bit under his touch. “You’re only missing the pan.”
“I don’t need one” she muttered “I can still beat you with my bare hands” said hands were currently sneaking around his back.
“Sure you can, sweetie, sure you can. But definitely not now. You need rest. And so do I.”
“Jason.” she pulled away and looked into his eyes “are you ok? Seriously? Any injuries, bruises, broken bones?”
“Oh, you are worried….” He cooed grinning
“Once again, never. I’m only trying to assess the scope of damage I can cause you myself without breaking you.”
“there’s only one thing you can do to really break me.” He whispered leaning his forehead on hers
“and that being….?”
“breaking my heart. That’s one thing I don’t think I could recover from. “
“That’s one thing I’m not planning on doing.”
“Good.” He leaned forward and pressed his chapped lips onto hers. Just this second he realized how much he missed her. The way she always melted into him, locked her soft hands on his neck and let him kiss her. Never pushing away, not even when he was literally taking her breath away. “Needy, huh?” he smirked
“Shut up. It seems so me like you are far more excited to see me than the other way round. I can feel what’s going down there, you know.”
“Should I check your……?”
“Shut up!” she turned red instantly and tried to wriggle out of his embrace, but he did not let her.
“Sorry, sorry. I didn’t mean anything wrong. And you are right. I did miss you, all right? You can’t hold that against me….”
“I don’t Jace, I don’t.” she pecked his lips quickly “I know it’s hard for both of us.”
“But it’s worth it, right?” his voice was now unsure, all the vulnerability and fear that one day she will just leave him to live easier life creeping in “you won’t …..?”
“Of course I won’t. Come on, Jace. I love you, you know that. And you know too much about me and my alter ego to just let you walk away from me freely.”
“I love you too, you little pussycat.”
“Stop calling me that! God, Jace. Roy is next door! This is inappropriate….”
“What? You don’t want him to think you are turning into puddle because of me? That the famous Cheshire is not as tough as it seems?”
“I have my ways to compromise your Red Hood notoriety as well, honey” she stepped on her toes, hands moving up his chest painfully slowly and she whispered in his ear “I bought something new lately and so it happens I got it all underneath that skintight suit” he groaned and much to her delight tightened the grip on her hips “such a shame you will have to behave.”
“Y/N…..” he growled warningly
“Besides, now that I know you are safe I think I’m going to head home……”
“Forget it, you are not going anywhere and…..”
“Is it safe to enter? Are you two done now or do I have to keep my eyes covered?” obviously Roy chose this moment to interrupt them
“She’s staying the night.” Jason stated simply
‘Oh, Lord, why? I’m being tested right now.”
“You do realize what that means, don’t you?”
“That I’m about to be a witness to a show?”
“That you are taking the couch, you idiot!”
“Come on, that is unfair. She’s the guest and ……”
“Roy.”
“I hate you Todd. I really, really hate you. Do not expect me to cover your back again when we are patrolling.”
“I’m not worried about that. I’m pretty sure if I got deadly hurt, Y/N would find me, bring me back to life and then kill me for dying. Isn’t that right, love?”
‘Sure it is, Red. Sure it is.”
895 notes · View notes
avaixe · 1 year
Text
Best friends brother
neteyam (19) x reader (18)
warnings: aged up characters, mentions of sex, angst, fluff, not proof read.
synopsis: you and neteyam had a secret relationship behind your best friends back (lo'ak) knowing how angry he'd be when he found out. The night before neteyam left you mated, finding out later that he left a piece of himself behind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Neteyam had left two weeks ago whilst you were in heat, him being the love of your life you decided to finally mate with him. You were going to tell Lo'ak the next day but decided it would not be good for him to leave on bad terms with you, you would eventually see him again anyway.
Around a week ago you started throwing up and experiencing extreme nausea, it had been ongoing and at first you decided to just rest and wait for it to stop but it wouldn't, getting so bad that you went to see Mo'at who had let you stay home due to the 'bug'.
"Ah! Y/N, are you feeling better?" She said welcoming you into the healing tent.
"No, that is why I came to see you, it keeps getting worse and worse." You said clutching your stomach in pain.
Mo'at gave you a sceptical look before inviting you to lay down on the mat giving you a drink which tasted exactly like horse piss mixed with herbs but you drank it anyway. She then took out the little stick that she always kept tucked away and pricked the skin above your heart then tasting it. She hummed in confusion and then placed her hands on your stomach closing her eyes before letting out a smile.
"You are with child." She spoke softly while holding your hand reassuringly. Your breath hitched in your throat as you took in the new information. Mind going back to the night where you finally connected with Neteyam, being in heat you could bearly remember what happened but what you could remember was him knotting you, you also remember what Kiri had said about knotting while in heat.
"If someone knots you while you are in heat, it almost guarantees that you will become pregnant, only few have not had a child after being knotted in heat."
Your stomach dropped. Neteyam was Eywa knows where as he didn't even know where his family was leaving to. You knew you wouldn't see him for a while so you just had to adapt to your new conditions and take care of yourself.
~~~
The past couple of months had gone by slowly, a small bump had formed on your stomach, not too noticeable. You had spent most of your time with Mo'at in the tent, and if you weren't there you were helping Norm and Max in the lab with learning about plants, rocks, crystals and herbs. You were currently 3 months along with your pregnancy when Norm invited you out to the reefs to look at some of the different plants and life there.
The helicopter ride was long, distracting yourself with the various different sceneries below you. Eventually when you looked out the side of the helicopter you could see the reef, the smell almost intoxicating and beautiful. You smiled to yourself as you watched the clan you were arriving at get closer and closer.
When you landed you hopped out immediately taking in your surroundings smiling.
"Y/N?!" You heard a familiar voice yell, you turned your head and was met with Lo'ak who ran to you and embraced you in a hug, a Metkayina girl following close behind.
"Hi Lo'ak." You giggled hugging him back.
"Tsireya, this is my best friend Y/N, Y/N this is Tsireya."
"Hello." You greeted her with a smile.
"Hi, it's so nice to meet you." She smiled warmly before hugging you, taking you by surprise but you hugged back. She gasped before letting go of you and touching your stomach, she must've felt the small bump.
"Oh my Eywa, congratulations." She said smiling. Your face went deep blue. You met Lo'aks confused stare while pursing your lips. "When are you due?" She asked sweetly.
"A couple of months, maybe around 6 months." I said smiling back a bit uncomfortable with the subject.
"Who the fuck knocked you up." Lo'ak said with furrowed brows looking at you intensely.
"Um. I do not think you would want to know." You said while turning your face away from him scratching the back of your head.
"I deserve to know." He pushed on.
"I don't want you know." You said scowling at him.
Lo'ak was more than confused. He brows knitted together. Thinking about who could've done this. He left 3 months ago. So you must've had sex with someone 3 months ago while he was still in the forest. He then remembered the day before he left you had disappeared for a couple hours, as well as his brother. He then recalled when this had happened multiple times, you disappearing at the same time as his brother. His breath hitched realising that it most likely is his brothers kid.
"Neteyam?" He said backing away from you, your mates name made you look at him in disbelief how could he know. "Is that seriously why you brushed me off the day before we left? To fuck my brother!" He yelled at you. His tone and the look he had shook you to your core. Your mouth opened to speak "Is that who knocked you up? Neteyam?" He said softer. You looked away from him eyes welling with tears. "I can't believe you." He scoffed before turning around and walking away.
"Lo'ak!" The girl infront of you yelled for you but stayed by your side. "I am so sorry." She said looking at you, noticing the tears silently running down your face. She hugged you again and you latched yourself onto her, finding comfort in her embrace.
~~~
"NETEYAM!" Lo'ak screamed through the marui looking into the the small pod for his older brother.
"What Lo'ak?" Neteyam said while cleaning the messy pod from his little sister.
"When were you going to tell me that you fucked my best friend." Neteyam's ears went down as he slowly met Lo'aks angry gaze.
"How did you find out." He said standing tall.
"I just saw her." He said scoffing before turning. "Oh and congratulations, you're a father." He seethed while leaving. Neteyam stood still heart pounding in his chest. Father? Y/N is here? He quickly left the pod in search for you.
~~~
You had calmed down thanks to Tsireya and made your way to find Norm and Max who had left to go somewhere. You walked around looking until you heard their voices outside one of the pods.
"She should be alright, it might take her some time to recover but she will be ok." Looking around the corner you saw Jake, Norm and Max speaking to the Tsahik of their village as she had some sort of medicine in her hands.
Norm had noticed you and signalled you to come over. You smiled at Jake as you made your way over. Jake had always been like a second father to you, taking more care of you more than your actual father who was barely ever present.
"Hey kiddo." He spoke embracing you in a hug.
"Hey." You said leaning into the hug. "What is going on?" You spoke looking around at everyone.
"Kiri has had a seizure, she is awake now though. Would you like to see her?" Jake asked squeezing your arms. You nodded at him smiling before making your way into the hut.
"Kiri?" You said.
"Who is it?" She said frustrated.
"Ouch mean." I said laughing. She look up with wide eyes looking at me in disbelief before letting out a breathy laugh and putting her head back down.
"Did you come with Norm?" She asked as you placed her head in your lap softly running your hands through her hair.
"Yeah, how are you?"
"I am alright just a bit tired. I fe-" Kiri was cut off by a angry Lo'ak.
"Oh for fucks sake, why are you in here." He seethed at you.
"To see my friend Lo'ak." I said in a hiss.
"I swear to Eywa you are everywhere. Whatever, I'm leaving." He left, making sure to stomp.
"What was that about." Kiri said with a slight giggle at her brothers antics.
"He is angry with me."
"What for."
You thought for a moment before just saying it.
"Because I am with child." Kiri's eyes shot open and her mouth went slack as she moved to sit up, sitting with crossed legs in front of me.
"You are! Oh my that's amazing!" She said hugging me. "But why would he be mad about that."
I squinted my eyes and looked away trying to gain the courage and how to say it. Before I could stop myself I just blurted it out.
"Because it is 'teyam's." I said clenching my jaw waiting for her to yell as well.
"Seriously? He's mad about that. He already knew." She spoke as your head snapped to face her.
"What?"
"Yeah, everyone could tell. You really need to learn how to sneak around better. Even Tuk could tell." She giggled. "Does this mean you are finally mated before Eywa and I am your sister?" She said with a cheeky grin.
"Yes, you are my sister."
"Finally." She laughed while throwing herself on me laughing.
I sat speaking to Kiri for a while before Lo'ak came back and asked to speak to Kiri, not asking he basically yelled at you to leave until you actually did.
As you were on your way to find Norm and Max again with your head down you ran into a hard muscly chest. Looking up you saw the person you had been missing most for the past 3 months. Neteyam quickly placed his arms around your waist and hugged you tightly.
"I missed you so much." He spoke in a whisper.
"I missed you even more." You giggled. "I have something to tell you." You said breaking away from him and taking his hand in yours.
"You are with child." Neteyam answered.
"How did you know?"
"Lo'ak came and yelled at me." He said laughing. You giggle along as well. Going silent after realising that he might not want a kid yet.
"It's ok if you don't want it. I can look after it myself." You said with your head down.
"No." Neteyam lifted your chin for you to look at him. "I want it, so much. It's all I have ever wanted." He said smiling making your heart melt. This man was going to be the death of you.
"Really?" You breathed out.
"Really." He said hands cupping your cheeks. He slowly and sweetly captured your mouth in a kiss. You smiled into it, knowing that now Lo'ak knows and according to Kiri so does his entire family, that you can freely express your feelings for him.
~~~
"Hey Lo'ak." Kiri said inviting her brother to sit in front of her which he did.
"How are you feeling?" He said looking at her with worry.
"I am ok but I need to ask you something." She said looking at her, he nodded for her to continue. "Why are you angry with Y/N, like the actual reason."
"Because she mated with Neteyam." He grumbled.
"That isn't why you are mad, you always knew it would happen, you told me all the time. So why are you mad."
"I'm mad because she didn't tell me she mated with him. I'm mad that I had to find out months after. I'm mad that she couldn't trust me." He sulked.
"Then tell her that. Instead of yelling at her, try taking a gentle approach and she might tell you why. You haven't gotten answers because you have been using a bad tone with her. Be kind." She said placing a hand over her brothers heart. He nodded slowly and went on his way to find you.
~~~
You were sitting on some of the docks with your feet in the water with Neteyam, talking about everything and anything. You heard someone clear their throat and looked to the side to see Lo'ak.
"Can I please speak to you Y/N?" He said softly looking down. Looking back at Neteyam he nodded and gave your hand a squeeze before you got up. Lo'ak began to walk a little away with you following behind he suddenly stopped and spun around to face you.
"Why didn't you tell me." He said in an almost whisper.
"What?"
"Why didn't you tell me you mated with him?"
"I was scared. I love Neteyam and I see him and he sees me. But I also love you Lo'ak as a best friend. You have been by my side through everything. I didn't want to lose you. I know it was selfish and stupid because I could not hide it forever, but I am in love with Neteyam and have been for a while. And I hope you can come to accept that." You said looking at him with blurry eyes. He sighed before hugging your tightly.
"I just wished you told me." He said. "I always wanted you to be my sister anyway so I guess in a way you are now." You giggled into his chest and your sad tears turned into happy tears. "Also please name your kid after me I think you owe me that." He said stifling a laugh.
"Never. I would do anything but that." You said as you laughed together.
~~~
You decided you would stay in Awa'atlu with the Sullys. Neytiri and Jake were happy to have you finally officially in their family and tuk was ecstatic that you were now her sister. "Kiri was boring anyway." She kept saying as you laughed.
That night you laid on the mat in the marui, Neteyam on your stomach and between your legs.
"I cannot wait to have a family with you." He said softly as you played with his braids. "And I can't wait to treat you with so much love." He said turning his head as he kissed your stomach. He moved further up to lay next to you. You heart could be heard from miles away. He kissed your lips lightly and then moved you so you were laying on top of him. "And I can't wait to spend the rest of my life with you. Forever." He said kissing you again before hugging you closely. You fell asleep together, not once separating through the night.
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gaming-universe · 2 months
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Preference Catch-Up || König + Keegan
Authors Note: Here we are! Finally we have the König and Keegan catch-up. I really enjoyed writing these, and I hope you all enjoy. Gifs by @evilvvithin @yeyinde @samithemunchkin
How You Met
König
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When Laswell had informed you that she had hired KorTac, you were skeptical at first.
The 141's experience with Shadow Company had left a bad taste in your mouth, you weren't sure what to make of private military companies. Though both Laswell and Price had vouched for KorTac, and for the men who were now going to be permanently stationed on base, you told them that you would form your own judgement.
That was when you met him.
You had been walking through the halls towards the mess when a few rookies began to call out to you, saying some rather inappropriate things that should not be said to a superior officer. You paused in your stride, slowly turning to face the three young men leaning against the wall. You folded your arms across your chest, eyeing them individually which seemd to give them a surge of confidence.
"Do you want to repeat that, rookie?" You snapped, your voice low and annoyed. You wish you could wipe off the smirk that appeared on the young man's face, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he stepped forward, throwing a cocky look over each shoulder towards his friends.
"I'm just saying, you look like a lot of fun. What do you say you swing by my bunk tonight? I'm sure we'll have a good time."
An immense feeling of disgust formed in the pit of your stomach, nausea causing you to feel sick. You took a deep breath, trying to calm down that gross feeling before trying to speak.
As you opened your mouth to reply, the three boys before you suddenly turned white. So white in fact, that they looked just as sick as you felt. Their eyes widened in terror as they stumbled backward, mumbling quick and scared apologies before all three of them sprinted down the opposite end of the hall.
You stared after them in confusion, that was until you felt a large and menacing presence behind you.
Slowly turning around, you were met with a tall wall of solid muscle. He was incredibly tall, your head just barely reached his chest. The sniper hood he wore marked by red stripes was indeed intimidating, and his eyes...piercing blue, accentuated by the black smudges of paint around them.
A heavy silence passed between you as you both stared at each other. You didn't know what to say, you'd never had anyone intimidate three men like that for you before. All you could muster was a small breathless laugh, and an awkward "Uh...thank you."
Though you couldn't see his face, the man before you smirked beneath his sniper hood, nodding toward you silently before slowly turning away from you. You watched in awe as he turned into the mess, disappearing from your view. You couldn't move, still in complete awe of what just happened. Someone moved into your peripherals, someone shorter and more familiar.
"Who was that?" You mumbled somewhat incoherently, causing the man beside you yo chuckle.
"That was König..." Soap spoke softly, a slight teasing tone to his voice "and he's the head of the KorTac team here now."
Your gaze snapped towards the Scotsman, your eyes widening in shock whilst Soap snorted in laughter.
"Oh yeah, private military companies aren't so bad now when you get scary guard dog privilages-"
"How about you fuck off back to Simon?" You growled rhetorically, your eyes narrowed on the sargeant with a hot glare. Soap laughed loudly as he turned on his heel, sprinting away from you before you could likely punch him in the face.
You sighed heavily and rolled your eyes, your gaze once again briefly flickering back towards the doorway of the mess.
Keegan P. Russ
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You had met Keegan before briefly in passing, and even then he was very quiet.
Simon had introduced the two of you briefly before Keegan went away on a recon mission. He would be gone for months, behind enemy lines with little to no communication. Now Keegan was back, and Taskforce 141 was ecstatic.
He'd been making all the rounds saying hello to everyone, or so Soap had told you. You hadn't seen him yet, though you supposed that you didn't really know him that well, or he you.
You went about the rest of your day without a visit from him. You didn't know why you felt this way, but you were kind of upset that Keegan hadn't come to see you. You were part of the team, sure. The least he could do was let you know that he was alright.
Trudging through the halls on another sleepless night, you walked to the mess to make yourself a cup of tea. Tea was something that calmed you down most nights, but lately it felt like a habit than a remedy.
As you stepped into the mess, you expected it to be empty like it usually was. But this time you froze.
Keegan sat alone at one of the tables, staring blankly down at the cup of steaming tea before him. Though he still wore his mask, his eyes met yours with a stern stare. Your eyes held his gaze, despite the nerves now forming in your chest. You were the one to look away first, your eyes flickering between Keegan, the kitchen and the floor, unsure of where you should turn your attention.
"I uh...I just want to get some tea" You spoke softly, almost timidly. Wordlessly, Keegan nodded, watching your every move as you slowly made your way toward the kitchen. You could feel his eyes on you as you boiled the kettle, poured the water over the tea bag, and let it sit.
Every minute felt like an hour the longer you stared at your tea. After adding some milk and stirring your beverage, you took the cup in your hands and immediately made a beeline for the door. You didn't want to make things between you and Keegan awkward, so you thought that heading back to your room would have been the wiser choice.
So why did you stop in the doorway?
You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath as you turned on your heel to face him. Keegan was still watching you like a hawk when you spoke.
"I know we don't know each other that well, but I'm glad you're okay. The 141 missed you a lot you know."
You could have sworn that you saw his eyes softened slightly, but you played it off as nothing as you turned and left the mess.
As Keegan watched you leave, he couldn't help but sigh heavily. Sure, he wasn't the most socialable person on base, but he wasn't sure of he could trust you. Simon and Soap spoke highly of you, and so did Price. But he wanted to make his own opinion of you. He wanted to make sure thet he could trust you.
So, he would remain silent and observe. He would make sure that he could trust you, even if his silence pissed you off.
An Awkward Moment
König
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There was no doubt amongst the 141 that you were a capable soldier.
But sometimes you felt like your height was a disadvantage. Yes, you were significantly shorter than the rest of your colleagues, but you never let that stop you. However, sometimes you wished that you were taller.
You knew he was doing it on purpose, and you swore that you would punch Soap the next time you saw him. He had placed the coffee jar on top of the cabinets which were already high enough. You struggled to reach the top shelf anyway, but at this point it was getting ridiculous.
You groaned, staring up at the coffee jar in disdain and hatred. You were getting real tired of this, there were only so many times you could do this before Price caught you, your dignity was on the line.
It was early morning, so it was unlikely that anyone would see you doing this. However, you still turned to scan the mess to make sure that there was no one around. When the coast was clear, you began to climb the counter. No matter how many times you did this, it was still percarious. When you stood up straight you felt yourself wobble, and a sharp gasp escaped your lips as gravity came into effect. You felt yourself falling backward, your life flashing before your eyes as you squeezed them shut.
This is it. This is the end.
You were going to die in the mess, all because you were too stubbourn to wait for someone to get the coffee jar down for you.
As you waited to make contact with the hard concrete floor, you shrieked when you instead collided with something soft and...warm.
With your heart racing in your chest, you slowly opened your eyes and found yourself in a pair of strong arms, holding you securely and tightly against their frame. You followed those arms up to a broad chest, and from there you looked up to meet those familiar piercing blue eyes underneath that sniper hood. It then dawned on you...that you were in König's arms. König had caught you.
He chuckled lowly, staring down at you with an amused glint in his eye. "Perhaps next time, you should just ask for help hm?" He scolded, a warm feeling forming in his chest as he watched your face turn a bright red. You pouted up at the Austrian, "Maybe if Soap stopped putting the coffee up there on purpose, I wouldn't have to".
You saw König's eye twitch slightly at the mention of your colleague, but he shook his head whilst gently placing you down back on your feet. You folded your arms over your chest, lowering your gaze to the floor as your embaressment was becoming too much. You watched as König's index finger hooked underneath your chin, lifting your head upward so that your eyes met his once again.
Staring down at you sternly, you noticed that his gaze hardened before he spoke lowly. "I would prefer it if you didn't endanger yourself, mein liebling. Don't do that again."
You felt your heart skip a beat in your chest, your blood running hot as König waited expectantly for your answer. You nodded quickly and silently, worried that if you even tried to speak, your voice would betray you completely.
Seemingly satisfied with your answer, König released his hold on your chin and the both of you agreed to never speak of this again. After that morning however, the coffee jar always remained on the bottom counter where you could reach it. And every time König entered a room, Soap would always cower behind Simon, avoiding the Austrian's intimidating gaze.
It always made you smile.
Keegan P. Russ
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The mission had been a set up, no one saw it coming.
The intel had been wrong from the start, so no one really knew what to expect. Out of everyone else, you and Keegan had made it out in the worst state. There was no life-threatening injuries thankfully, however the bruises, cuts, scratches and dirt covering your bodies meant that you had been through hell to survive this botched mission.
The look on Simon and Soap's face looked like they had seen literal ghosts, neither of them expected either of you to make it out of that base alive.
You longed for a shower, so much so that the second the plane touched down on the runway back at base you made a beeline for your quarters. Quickly swiping a change of clothes from your room, consisting of a pair of exercise shorts and one of Simon's old shirts, you relished the thought of hot water against your skin.
Stepping into the adjoined bathroom in your quarters, you stripped off your gear and grimey clothes, turning on the shower and stepping inside.
A soft moan escaped you as the hot water relaxed your muscles, your shoulders slumping almost instinctively. But the pleasure was short-lived when an immense stinging pain took over your senses. The cuts and scratches screamed in protest at the hot water, but you ignored it. Washing the dirt and dried blood from your body, the pain eventually became nothing but a dull ache.
With your shower drowning out all other thoughts and the stress from the mission, you didn't hear the knock at your door.
Keegan couldn't stop thinking about you. When you both got trapped inside that base, stuck between never-ending gunfire and explosions, his only thought was to get you out alive. He'd thought he'd lost you a few times, after the two of you had become seperated on numerous occasions. Seeing you emerge through a haze of dust or return to his side after a rather dangerous encounter, a light feeling formed in his chest. Having been around you for the last month or so, Keegan had grown quite fond of you.
Seeing you covered in dirt, grime and dried blood did something to him. He didn't know what exactly, but something deep inside him spurred him towards you door. You had left the plane in quite a hurry, which wasn't unusual according to Price. But Keegan needed to know that you were okay.
And that's how he found himself here. He knocked on the door, but there was no answer. Probably against his better judgement, Keegan let himself in. Your room was much tidier than his, it appeared more homely and welcoming. He noticed the clothes on the bed, and the sound of running water coming from the next room. The bathroom door was slightly ajar, enough for some light to stream into the room. Then he realised, his eyes widening as his stomach backflipped.
Shit, you were in the shower. He definitely shouldn't be here right now.
As Keegan turned to leave, he suddenly felt a wave of nervousness wash over him as the water in the shower stopped running. Fuck. You would be out here any minute now, he had to get out. But of course, the universe had other plans.
The second Keegan spun around to leave, his foot caught on nothing. He cursed has he fell, smacking onto the concrete floor with a loud "Shit!"
He prayed to god that you didn't hear a thing, but the light that flooded the room told him otherwise. "What the fuck do you think you're doing!?"
You felt your face flush a bright red out of shock and anger as you watched Keegan roll over onto his side, his eyes meeting yours and going wide as saucers.
You knew that what he saw left little to the imagination. You were wearing nothing but a towel wrapped around your body, still soaking wet after leaping from the shower upon hearing a crash from your bedroom.
"I uh..." Keegan fumbled, searching for the right words to say.
Fuck. You were...fuck.
Your glare sent ice through his veins, your eyes narrowing dangerously on his form. "If you get out now, I will pretend this never happened. You have five seconds before I scream, and Simon is only just down the hall-"
Keegan jumped to his feet and raced out of your room before you could even finish your sentence. You watched as he scrambled for your door and disappeared down the hall, a nervous sigh leaving your lips.
You knew Keegan probably had the best intentions, but that didn't stop the embaressment of being caught in your towel from consuming you.
When he saw you the next morning, he apologised profusely, much to the confusion of Simon, Soap and Price. You accepted his apology, and told him that should he mention it again, you woud make sure he suffered a violent end.
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Heal - IV
Alpha!Bucky x Omega!Reader (female)
MASTERLIST
🫁 Summary: Your health is declining quickly, and only Bucky can save you. That is, if he can bring himself to.
Warnings: General sickness, vomit, seizure, hallucinations, angst, non-con, smut
Word count: 2,329
👣Part III
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Things were deteriorating quickly. At first, you knew night was coming as dusk settled through the window, but pretty soon after that you had no concept of time. Your brain ricochet around your skull and moving your head sent you spiralling into dizziness. The nausea was overpowering and at times you passed out because you just couldn't catch your breath between bouts of throwing up pure stomach bile. Other times it was the dreadful pain that tipped you over the edge into the blackness. It was as though you were void of all your internal organs, and the hole was growing larger and larger. Your body was begging to be taken care of, something which you couldn't even attempt to do yourself seeing as you were drained of all energy. Your pussy throbbed so bad it was over sensitive just to touch, and your thighs were starting to burn from the sheer volume of slick seeping into the skin. You knew this wasn't good, and you knew it wasn't going to get better on its own. Any idea that the bond would break itself without Bucky's pleasure had gone out the window and you were now starting to wonder that this was more a matter of life or death now.
At some point, light flooded the room, and you groaned as you pried your eyes open. The room was spinning and your mouth was dry but you still managed to call out to your alpha as a large figure loomed in the doorway. You reached for him with floppy arms, unable to focus but begging for his knot. Strong hands seized your arms to steady you, but you cried out as it stung your fevered skin. Someone was talking, but you couldn't make out who or what they were saying. In the haze of confusion, all you wondered was why wasn't your alpha helping you right now? Why was he just standing there above you, not touching you when you needed his touch so bad? A surge of pain exploded within you as the figure turned away and fled out the door, and you panted as you attempted to crawl after him before flopping onto the floor once again encased by unconsciousness.
-
Steve knew Nat had checked up on you earlier, but after his conversation with Bucky, he had to see you for himself. After checking the coast was clear to try and not rouse suspicion, he knocked gently on your door and called out to you.
He wasn't surprised when no one replied. As he cracked the door open, the could feel his heart thudding in his chest. The smell that hit him instantly was over powering and almost made him gag. It was the sour smell of vomit mixed with the bitter stench of sweat - but worst of all, it was the horrific, nauseating inhale of pain. The usual odour of an omega in heat was intense, but this was something else; it had gone further than that, past the point of needing to be sweet to attract an alpha. It smelt dangerously close to death.
Steve was by your side in an instance, reaching to your flailing arms. Your face was flushed a bright red and drenched in sweat, and the heat radiating off you even made him shy away for a second. You clearly had very little control over your body as you rolled around in your own vomit, pupils huge and unable to focus on him. But what made the colour drain from his face most was the way you cried out for Bucky, desperately reaching for relief in your delirious state.
"Bucky, please, oh god it hurts Bucky, fuck me Bucky please. You're here, Bucky, my alpha, you're here."
Steve looked around the room, desperate for something to help. "Y/N, it's me, it's Steve. You're hallucinating sweetheart, but I need you to focus on me. I'm going to get Bucky, it's going to be alright, I promise."
He left your side for a split second having spotted a towel you'd used to ease your fever in your brief coherent hours, ran it under cold water from your bathroom, snagged the thermometer from the side, and sprinted back to you.
"Here, sweet, this should help." You had grown slack as you briefly slipped into unconsciousness again, and he used the opportunity to run the towel across your body, feeling it warm up far too quickly, before steadying your face by cupping a hand against your jaw and softly guiding the thermometer into your mouth.
"Oh god..." whatever colour was left in Steve's face promptly left as he squinted at the reading.
"Alpha...Bucky..." you groaned again before gagging, the feeling of the item in your mouth triggering another bout of sickness which you barely reacted to as it spat from your mouth and trickled down your chin. In a hurry, Steve pushed you on your side to stop you from choking, shoving pillows behind your back.
"I'll be back in a second, sweetheart...just...just stay with me, okay? I'm going to get Bucky." Tears pricked his eyes as he left, running at light speed down the hallway, vaulting the stairs until he reached The Cube.
"Bucky," he panted, slamming his hands on the glass and making his friend's head snap up.
"What do you want, Steve. You gonna tell me I need to leave? That I need to get as far away from her as possible? Cause I know, man, and trust me, as soon as I can stop feeling her heat, I'm out of here."
"No, Buck. You need to listen to me. It's bad, it's really bad. Y/N needs you right now, because whatever you thought would happen to this bond, however you thought it would just go away, it isn't. She's sick, man. She's really sick, her temp is 106° right now, and she's barely conscious."
Bucky's face dropped and he froze. "No no it - it's just the bond disintegrating man..." He gulped as he really took in Steve's face. He trusted his friend, and this was a look of horror he'd never seen on him before.
"Bucky, it's not. You have to help her. She's going to die if you don't."
Bucky held his head in hands, shaking it back and forth as he gripped his hair. "I can't do anything Steve, I've already hurt her enough. Get Tony, or Bruce, or an actual doctor...I'll only make things worse -"
The thud against the glass as Steve threw his weight against it made Bucky jump.
"Barnes, you need to straighten up. You did this, you're the only one who can fix it. You have to save her."
Bucky had never experienced Steve's captain mode, at least not directly. But the way his best friend was standing over him, eyes wide, tone demanding, he knew this was an order. And if Bucky knew anything, it was when to obey an order. Only then did the seriousness of the situation really hit him. Yes, he had caused this pain, he had put you in this position. But it hurt even more to know that he would once again have to commit the same violation in order to take it away.
Any anger towards himself, any fear that he would hurt you further went out of the window the second he reached your room. All he felt was pain and protection, and the tremendous need to save you.
You were lying slumped on the floor at the side of the bed, tangled in soaking and soiled bedsheets. Bucky dropped to his knees in a heartbeat, scooping your limp body up and cradling your head.
"Hey, hey, wake up. Y/N, wake up, c'mon please." He brushed the hair from your forehead, fumbling with shaking hands to find a pulse. At the sound of his voice, your eyelids flickered.
"Al-alpha?"
The use of his title gave him some relief - at least you were accepting of him being there.
"I'm here, doll, I'm here. And I'm so, so sorry, for hurting you then, and for hurting you now...god doll, what do I do? How can I make this better?"
He knew, really, but he just didn't want to admit it.
"I need you, alpha...please..." Weakly, you gestured down below, and for the first time Bucky took in your naked body. Your breasts were swollen, your nipples cracked and tender. But your pussy, your beautiful, welcoming pussy was red raw from where you'd desperately tried to ease the need for attention. It shimmered with slick, and the sight of it all opened up and flowering had Bucky hard within an instant.
He felt the panic attack loom as conflicting feelings bombarded him. How could he be turned on by you in so much pain? You were practically dying and he was aroused? Plus, it was his horniness that had partly driven him to do this to you in the first place - had he not learned his lesson?
But at the same time, he knew why he was turned on. That was the whole point - you were dying because he had bonded with you, whether he meant to or not, and then he had abandoned you. Your survival was dependant on his horniness right now.
Bucky's thoughts were interrupted as he felt your slack body go rigid. As he whipped his head round to look at your face, his heart dropped as your eyes rolled back into your head and you grunted, your chest heaving and your back arching. Time was running out, and it was running out fast.
Careful not to hurt you further, he manoeuvred your seizing body onto the bed, constantly whispering words of reassurance to you.
"It's alright, sweetheart, I'm going to make it go away, I promise...doll I'm so sorry, but I have to do this...oh god, please forgive me."
Tears were streaming down his face as he cupped your cheek with his metal fingers and kissed your fevered forehead. Slowly, he reached down with his right hand and started to caress your begging hole, feeling your body tense as he circled your aching clit before starting to relax slightly. Although you'd stopped seizing, you were still unconscious, and Bucky wept as he used his fingers to prepare you for his knot. This was not about pleasure or enjoyment; he needed to get this over and done with and pray it saved you.
Bucky cried silent tears the whole time as he gently entered you, rocking slowly but with enough attention to satisfy you. His eyes stayed glued shut the whole time, and he relied on hovering above your chest to make sure he could still hear your heartbeat.
Within minutes, you had calmed down. The cramps seemed to have eased up, and you weren't fighting your own body anymore. But even as his knot tightened and you drank up his cum, without the renewal of the bond, Bucky couldn't be sure he had done enough.
"I'm sorry, doll. This isn't how it was supposed to be...I...I love you."
As he held your hair away, he lent over the marred scar on your neck and bit down again, feeling you shake slightly at the action. As he pulled away, he felt you shift beneath him with a groan as you started to come to.
"Bucky?" it was barely a whisper, and your eyes remained closed, but you found the energy to raise your arms slightly and feel his familiar body above yours. It was like coming up for air; everything was heavy and foggy and you couldn't feel your limbs, but the room was gradually starting to reemerge and your body didn't feel like it was spinning anymore.
"D-doll?" He wasn't sure what to do now. Would you hate him even more? Almost every fibre in his body was telling him to run, but there was something that told him he had to stay, that he needed to stay, that you needed him to stay.
Your eyes finally peeled open and you gave him a lopsided smile. "You-you came...my alpha..."
Bucky gulped and shook his head. "No I...I did this to you. I'm so sorry Y/N, I don't know what to say..."
"I love you too." Your fingers had found his jaw and started to stroke his overgrown stubble but Bucky pulled back.
"No, no doll you don't. Oh god what have I - no you don't love me, you can't love me, not after what I did..."
Your eyes falling shut again, you groaned without his touch and flailed to pull him in. As you managed to get a hold of his hair, you dragged his head down to yours, gathering just enough energy to mumble, "I loved you before that, Bucky. I've always loved you...just lie with me...please..." you gasped for air and he panicked, instantly getting closer to cradle your broken body.
"We can talk...tomorrow...please just...lie with me?"
He couldn't say no even if he wanted to. He knew he couldn't be forgiven, and he wouldn't accept it anyway, but it felt so right to lie there with you and keep you safe, even if that meant keeping you safe from himself.
So Bucky carefully manoeuvred you to the far side of the bed so he could slip in, tucking his flesh arm behind your head and guiding you as you nuzzled into his chest. He rested his metal hand on your forehead first, then in various places on your body to help reduce the fever quicker. He could hear your heartbeat start to settle, and your breathing became regular again as you drifted into the abyss.
Bucky didn't know what the morning would bring, but right now, he just wanted to stay up with you, making sure you were safe and feeling your body against his. And so no matter how tempting sleep seemed, he remained awake and alert through the rest of the night.
🪡 Part V
Bucky Taglist
@elliebee01 @littlemiss-yeehaw @lolitsthings @missvelvetsstuff @spnexploration @justlovelifeblog @1-800-call-a-milf @raajali3 @broadwaybabe18 @vicmc624 @gostodosopa @kjah97 @sageandravens @kaz11283 @bucksdonkey @alright-i-guess @eclecticpatrolroadlawyer @icequeen1371 @deandreamernp @almosttoopizza @maxsaturdayhatesnarwhals @lexikizerbarnes @lazycarolinamoment
To be added to my Bucky taglist, comment below
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agent-cupcake · 2 months
Text
Flashbang
Chapter 1 - Puppet Loosely Strung
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Pairing: One Piece Live Action Buggy x f! Reader
Synopsis: Running away to join the circus doesn’t go exactly as you hoped it would.
Warnings: Mentions of past abuse, murder, generally dark content
Word Count: 13.9k
Disclaimer: I don’t read the manga or watch the anime. This is based solely on OPLA Buggy because Jeff Ward.
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Some quick notes before we start: This is what I've been working on this since October. Originally it was going to be one really big one-shot posted at the same time, but it's big enough that I can justify posting it as a series. I'll add warnings as I go, but this is not a happy story and there will be explicit content later on. The reader character might not be somebody you see yourself in, I had a very specific image of what character I had in mind while writing. To me, reader fic is more of a sort of play acting rather than "oh that's literally me" but I know that's not everybody's cup of tea. A lot of this is cope fic and it shows. When times get rough the porn gets rougher, right?
I had help writing this from an individual who is very dear to me. Flashbang wouldn't exist without her, especially since she was the one who gave me the clown brain rot. And then there has been the hours of brainstorming and spitballing and watching Jeff Ward shows/movies as she continued to feed my addiction. Thank you, my love, and also damn you because this wasn't what I needed.
New chapter every Sunday. Enjoy~
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“Let me put myself in your shoes
As a puppet loosely strung
Around you, they were so confused
That a faulty man could have so much fun”
.
All it took was a little doubt. Through logic or confusion or wishful thinking, you could be convinced that the insignificant person who had parasitically driven you around for the past however many years was a stranger, and now they were gone. Everything that had ever happened fell into incomprehensible dust, and every thought you ever had belonged to somebody else. A cycle of a million memories you didn’t recognize spun through this foggy place, none of them real, none of them familiar. 
Logic, confusion, wishful thinking, or unconsciousness. An endless dream of nothing at all. But as soon as you became aware, it was awareness that those thoughts happened in the past tense, crushed inward by the unrelenting force of existence, and you were shoved back into a body. You—not the real you, the stranger you, the one made of heat and fury and pain, the one you couldn’t recognize—were gasping and thrashing in ignorant confusion, coughing out the sickening taste of blood in your throat. 
Everything, all of it, hurt. And that was all that existed. 
Until it wasn’t. 
Your panicked thrashing made you realize that you were upright, your body straining painfully against the various chains keeping you pinned against the wall in an X. The position put nearly all of your weight on your shoulders and left your head to sag heavily to the side, making the terrible, dizzying headache that much worse. Having suffered more than your fair share of them, you knew that this headache was from more than an uncomfortable position or your old injury. A hot throbbing pain radiated out from the back of your head, shooting little sparks down your spine. It hurt bad enough that nausea formed a tight, heavy ball in your stomach. Gritting your teeth, you forced your eye open, fighting the urge to cringe away from the light as it rolled this way and that. Colors and lights were nothing more than a nauseating smear, but at least you could see. 
Little by little, you became aware of yourself. From far away, you had a vague recollection of leaving, of nerves, excitement, and then of danger. But… no, why weren’t you at home? Doom settled in its rightful place as you realized exactly how little you remembered or knew, slotting into the spot of coherence and reason. Despite the pain, you fought against the shackles holding you in the uncomfortable position, irrationally desperate to be free of them. 
“There she is! Finally,” somebody said from your left. His voice hit like a hammer to the back of your aching head. You strained to look at the speaker, he sounded close, but you couldn’t turn your head far enough to make up for your limited vision. 
Luckily, he didn’t stay out of sight for long. The man’s boots were loud and deliberate as he slowly moved out of your literal blind spot. To your ill-adjusting eye, he was not much more than a blur of white and red and blue, his big smile smudged as you rapidly blinked to focus. A little shock of meaningless recognition in your brain saw the makeup and red nose and said ‘clown’, but the sheer ridiculousness of that made you even more sure that this wasn’t real. 
“Not a fun way to wake up, is it?” he asked. “Keep breathing, let it drain back and cough it out. Trust me, it’s over quicker that way.”
The question you tried to form was, “Who are you?” but all you could manage was a heavy groan followed by a fit of painful coughs, wheezing raggedly in between. Each desperate convulsion rattled the chains and caused the wood to creak, but did nothing to free your bound limbs. The man seemed bored by it, annoyed he had to wait for you to get ahold of yourself. 
Since he hadn’t immediately helped you down, you could only assume that he was the one who shackled you in the first place. Strung you up against a wooden board of some kind in a room you didn’t know. Cramped and windowless, it reeked of paint and sweat and sawdust and sweet salty rot—a unique smell that didn’t help your nausea. Clutter stacked up against the walls. Dense, humid air pressed against you like a heavy coat, paradoxically chilling. Probably because of the fever burning beneath your skin, slicking you up with sweat, soaking into your clothes and the bandana you kept wrapped around your head over the left eye.
Breathe. You focused on your breathing. Panic wouldn’t help you. 
“You done?” he asked. Without any other choices, you turned your head to shamefully wipe your face off on your sleeve before nodding. “Great. Well, now that you’re awake… Welcome!” He threw out his arms with the flamboyant manner of a showman with the greeting, but they wilted right after, his big smile dropping a bit. “Or, at least, that’s what I would say if you hadn’t let yourself in and stolen the opportunity from me.” 
That was bad. Very, very bad. You jerked in an awkward, uncoordinated burst, physically reacting to the danger he presented. 
“No, no, don’t leave on my account,” he said, waving his hands and getting closer as if to stop you. “Oh wait, you can’t! Hah! Yeah, ‘cause of the chains.” He smiled affably, like it was a harmless joke, standing close enough for his gloved fingers to skim along the chain wrapped around your neck. “I guess you’re not going anywhere, huh?” 
You didn’t respond, barely daring to breathe when he was so close. Smiles and melodrama aside, his blue eyes were oddly dead, fixed on you without the slightest bit of humor. And then it finally came back to you, the vital thing that you should have known, that you would have known if you weren’t strung up and suffering such a crippling headache. The makeup, the nose, the hat—
“You’re,” you began to say, but your voice was hoarse and weak, you could barely get it out when he was looking at you so closely, so intently. You cleared your throat, wincing at the metallic taste. “You’re the-that pirate captain Buggy, like on the-the poster?” Right! The clown guy, the red-nosed pirate. You were looking for him. So this was… good, wasn’t it? 
He gave you a flat look, clearly not sharing your weak enthusiasm. “Yes. I am that pirate captain. Buggy, the Genius Jester? The most feared pirate captain in all the East Blue?” He turned with a dramatic flick of his coat, messing with something that had to flash silver before you realized it was a knife. “The man destined to find the One Piece and become King of the Pirates. Yes. I am that pirate captain. And,” he paused, checking to make sure you were paying attention, “a very busy, very important man. I’ve got, oh, ten minutes or so for you to decide how this is gonna go. So let’s get straight to it.” He turned back, pointing the knife at you. “Who are you, and what are you after?”
The accusatory tone of his voice took you aback. “Nothing… I’m not anybody,” you stammered out. “And this… this isn’t what it looks like, I swear.”
Buggy, to your surprise, relented after a second of considering your appeal, nodding understandingly. 
There was no transition from his look of sympathy to raising the knife and aiming it at you. By the time you realized he meant to throw it, you barely had a chance to yelp. The blade took a loud, thumping bite into the wood beside you. On your left side, of course. Where you couldn’t see it. You could feel it, though. The air displacement ruffled the fine hairs around your ear. If you had flinched in that direction, it probably would be in your skull. With your dizzy head aching and confused, you had no regulation to your fear or discomfort, your breathing dangerously unsteady and tears pricking the corner of your eyes. 
“Let me try a different question,” Buggy said before you could collect yourself, pulling out another knife. “Who else knows about this place?”  
“Nobody! I swear, nobody else. I was just…” You didn’t know what to say. It was all you could do to breathe the thick, heavy air and fight down the tide of nausea.  
“Just what?” Buggy asked, leaning in with raised eyebrows to show that he was listening intently. You opened and closed your mouth, unable to come up with the right words. Thoughts churned through the thick sludge in your head, getting stuck or lost or confused. 
“I’m so sorry,” you said, the stumbling apology coming out more naturally than anything else, an attempt to buy time while you organized your thoughts. “Please doh-don’t…. I’m so ss-sorry.” 
Buggy sighed, standing up straight and raising his hand to aim. 
“Nonono, please d-” You yelped louder this time, flinching away as the knife streaked through the air and stuck not even an inch away from your right cheek. You exhaled a pathetic little sob, whatever you were bound to shaking with your body. 
“Listen, honey buns,” Buggy said. “Drop the act. Stop the whining. I caught you, red handed, sneaking into my lair.” He pulled something out of his pocket. Not another knife, but a piece of paper which he unfolded, holding it up for you to see. His wanted poster, creased into sixths from the way you folded it to keep it close, to keep it hidden. “I found this in your bag. You know who I am, and you know where you are. You have to, so let’s do away with all the theatrics, okay?” 
You swallowed hard, nodding quickly in the hope that it would appease him. 
“Right now, this is a conversation,” Buggy said, gesturing between the two of you. “A light interrogation, really. But if you keep being uncooperative and wasting my time, it’s gonna go from being interrogate-y to being torture-y real quick. You don’t want that, right?” Although he was unmistakably threatening you, Buggy’s tone was more natural than before. There was a bluntness to it, an honesty. Men like him didn’t idly use words like torture. 
You sniffed, trying very hard to calm yourself down. This was a misunderstanding, so you just had to convince him. Simple as that. He would understand. You would make him understand.
“Right,” you agreed. 
“Fantastic. So,” he loudly clapped his hands together, “who else knows about this place?”
“Nobody, I promise… I’m really sorry I broke in,” you told him, speaking slowly so your words didn’t catch. “I just wanted to meet with you.” 
Buggy’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, the hair hanging out from the sides of his hat swaying as his head tilted curiously. “You’re a fan?” he clarified. “That explains why you’re so pathetic. Well I hate to break it to you, but there’s a reason I only hold meet and greets after shows.” 
“No, that’s not why! I-I want to join your crew,” you said. “I came to ask you to let me join your crew.” 
He blinked twice, staring at you with obvious disbelief. “Excuse me, what?” 
“I want to be a pirate,” you told him, louder. “Please. Please let me join your crew.”
Buggy’s expression didn’t change, but you could see the rippling shift of incredulity, befuddlement, skepticism, and then amusement in his eyes. That emotion burst outward into a loud laugh, making you flinch. “That’s the best you can do?” he asked. “Ask to join my crew?” He looked at you again, laughing even harder. “I don’t know what’s funnier—that anybody would send you to spy on me, or that you’d think I would consider hiring you.” 
“I mean it!” you argued, humiliation and desperation seeping into the thousand other discomforts of your position. This wasn’t at all how you wanted this to go.
“Sweetheart,” Buggy said condescendingly, “even assuming I believe you, this is a pirate crew, not an afterschool club.”
“I know. I know what pirates do, I know what you do,” you told him. “I’ll do anything, whatever you want. Please, please, just give me a chance.”
He nodded, turning to pace as he thought about it. 
“Okay, let’s say that I buy this… this act of yours,” Buggy said. “Do you have any experience? Maintaining ships, reading maps, loading cannons. You know, basic stuff.”
There was a line you had prepared to answer this question, one that would paint you in the most charitable light. You remembered that, but you couldn’t remember the line. All you could give was the truth. “A little.”
He clicked his tongue disapprovingly. “Thought so. What about specialties? Unique skills? Any sort of talent that I can use in my show—anything at all. I mean other than,” he gestured vaguely in your direction, “that. We don’t need another one eyed midget. They’re surprisingly common.” 
“I’m not a midget,” you told him, nerves fading to incredulity. 
Buggy stepped back to size you up before seemingly conceding the point with a shrug. “And the eye?” He covered his left eye to illustrate. “Is that for a bit or something?” 
Your stomach twisted with a familiar lurch. Disgust. Shame. Phantom light in the dark. “It’s not.” 
“How’d you lose it?” 
“I didn’t… lose it.” 
“It’s still in there?” he asked excitedly, stepping forward and reaching to remove the bandana. “I have got to see this.” 
“No, please—please don’t,” you begged, trying to wriggle away from his hand. Pinned to the board with your hands bound above your head, there was nowhere to go. “Please don’t, please-” 
“Come on,” Buggy said, indifferent to your pleas as he pulled the sweat soaked fabric off of your left eye. “How bad could it be—AH!” He yelled in horror, jumping away as if you’d bitten him. 
The bandana hit the floor, leaving your ruined eye and its jagged scar exposed. You couldn’t hide. All you could do was flinch back, turning your head away. “I’m sorry,” you said, ready to continue apologizing before you realized that his shock had immediately dissolved into raucous laughter. “Why are you… why are you laughing?” you asked, pulling desperately against the chains. 
“I got you good,” Buggy said, his laughter subsiding. “The way you reacted, I thought that you’d be completely deformed. A real sideshow. But this…” He grabbed your chin, forcing it to the side so he could get a better look. “I couldn’t charge for this.”
“Please stop,” you begged, shaking off his grip and staring hard at his shoulder. 
“Ohhh. You’re really embarrassed about it.”
You didn’t say anything, focusing mostly on fighting the tears. 
“Okay, alright, yeah,” Buggy said, stepping back. “I think I’m starting to get why you would risk life and limb to beg me for a job. You grew up as a cute girl in a shithole town like this. A big fish in a little pond, as they say. Then, suddenly, BAM, you’re deformed, and, sure, they all say that it was tragic, but the truth is that they can’t stand to look at you. Even the people who loved you, the people you trusted, think you’re a freak. They abandoned you. So, without any other options, you come to me, pleading for me to give you a place amidst your fellow freaks. That about it?”
You didn’t say anything—what could you say to that?— which Buggy seemed to take as confirmation, nodding thoughtfully. 
“Well, go big or go home, right? As far as a starlet’s breakout role, you couldn’t go any bigger. Thing is, I’m not really looking for new acts. Not to mention your abysmal audition.” He sucked in a breath through his teeth, looking you up and down again. 
You could feel your chance slipping away. Just like that. Go big or go home, that’s what he said. 
“Please, Captain Buggy,” you begged, staring him in the eye despite how disquieting it was, despite how your skin crawled from exposing your left eye to somebody. Addressing him properly, at the very least, got his attention. “I promise that you won’t regret it. I’ll learn, I want to learn how to be a pirate, how to perform, all of it, everything. And if I can’t, I’ll do laundry and clean and cook, I have lots of experience with that. I don’t care what you ask me to do, if you let me join your crew, I’ll happily serve you for the rest of my life.”
Buggy didn’t respond right away. You thought—hoped—that it meant he understood how serious you were, but his expression gave you nothing. There wasn’t much light in the room in the first place, but somehow he found enough to shine unnervingly in his pale blue eyes. Somebody with a bright red clown nose shouldn’t have been able to look so intimidating, but the way he studied you burned with an uncomfortable intensity. It had been a while since anybody looked at you so frankly, so openly, without disgust or pity. 
“Why?” he finally asked. 
“Why…?” you repeated, confused.
“I get that you want to leave this place, and I even buy into your whole wanting to be a pirate thing, but, you know, aside from the obvious,” he gestured to himself, “why should I believe that you really want to serve me? You’re young and cute…ish, don’t you want freedom and empowerment and all those other things girls go on and on about?” 
Your eyebrows furrowed. “Why would I?” 
A moment of quiet that wasn’t quite silence but twice as heavy passed before a slow smile began to spread over Buggy’s face, and then—of all the bizarre, uncomfortable responses he could have—he laughed. “Oh, you’re broken, aren’t you?” he asked, clearly overjoyed by the revelation. “Well, I’m sold. I’ll have to start you on probation just in case you’re secretly up to no good. But, after that, you can audition for real. I’m sure I can find something you’ll be useful for.” 
His reaction gave you whiplash. The word ‘broken’ was obviously bad, but everything else was good. You had succeeded. Only, you didn’t know why. You were still trying to decide if being called cute-ish was a compliment or not. 
“Hey, just one more thing, okay?” Buggy asked, tapping your cheek. Standing mere inches away, he smiled a rictus grin. It wrinkled his eyes, but they were without life or pity or mercy. “If you’re lying to me about anything, I’ll carve some symmetry into your cute little face. You’ll thank me for it too. You won’t want to see what the guys will do to you after I toss you out there.”
“I’m not lying,” you said softly, shrinking back. “I promise.” 
“Great!” Buggy said, his demeanor immediately cheering up. “Let’s get you down.” He walked behind the board you were strung up on, and you let out a shaky exhale. “Brace yourself,” he called. You had no idea what that meant, or how you were supposed to brace yourself when there was nothing for you to brace yourself on. “Three… two…” 
He undid the lock, and the chains keeping you bound to the board went slack. You dropped hard, your limbs as heavy as lead. Luckily, your head was too light to feel anything when you hit the ground with a dull thump and the loud cacophony of rattling chains, spinning and blank and utterly empty. There was a suspended moment of floating, lighter than air itself. And then you were blinking rapidly and nauseous, pain shooting up your arms and knees. 
Buggy dropped a key in front of you, metal bouncing on the old concrete. 
“Unfortunately we didn’t bring any real props with us, so I had to improvise,” he said. With numb fingers, you grabbed the key and worked it into the locked cuff around your wrist. “You lucked out, if this were the real Wheel of Death, you’d be blowing chunks!” He paused, looking down at you. “Can you hurry this up?”
“Sorry,” you said. Your shaking hands kept missing the keyholes, but you finally got the last lock on your ankle open. The cuffs hadn’t broken skin, but your wrists and ankles were rubbed raw, ugly bruises already developing. You’d had worse.
“Alright, upsy daisy,” Buggy said, crouching down to take the key away and grab the only chain you hadn’t gotten out of—the one around your neck. 
It acted as a noose, giving you no other choice but to lurch upward with an unappealing choking sound, your head spinning all over again, the weightless itch tingling all the way down to the base of your spine. You stumbled forward, unintentionally falling against him. 
“Holy shit,” Buggy exclaimed, helping you stand up straight with a hand on your shoulder. “I didn’t know girls came in fun size. Legally, at least. Are you sure you’re not just like… the maxiest midget?” 
��‘m dizzy,” you muttered, swaying despite his support. 
“That’s not really… Ah, whatever. Hey, at least if you fall, you don’t have that far to go.”
“I’m… I’m okay,” you finally said, which was mostly true. Breathing slow, steady breaths helped, and then you shook your head a little. The bump on the back of it throbbed painfully, and you’d have bruises on your knees the size of apples, but you would survive. You were still trying to get control over your body. It was heavy and unwieldy, although part of that must have been the exhaustion. 
“If you need to vomit, make sure to aim away from me,” he said. That was about all the warning you got before he decided it was time to go, dragging you along behind him like a dog on a leash. 
You realized you were leaving your bandana behind, your left eye uncovered, and reared back, trying to stop him. “Wait, I have to grab my-” 
“No time,” he said, talking over you and tugging again at the chain. 
There was nothing you could do but stumble over your own feet to keep up with him as he led you through the cluttered and dark storage area. You felt a tiny bit of relief that you were still in the familiar decaying buildings northside. The old warehouses were dark, dank, and dingy. Easily defended and difficult to navigate, perfect for criminals to hide out in. You knew them very well, and that helped orient you.  
"As I’m sure you noticed, I’m running a bit of a skeleton crew here. The rest aren’t coming ‘til the grand finale,” Buggy said, leading you into the main warehouse space by the chain around your neck like it was completely normal. The awful smell of rot and decay was only compounded by a sickly sweet, chalky scent you didn’t recognize. Gray sunshine flooded in through the broken windows around the high ceilings, piercingly bright. “And after that, we’re gonna blow this town.”
You didn’t respond, growing even more skittish. The two of you drew the attention of the people scattered around. Some were lounging, others were training. All of them turned to look at you, watching with the dark, focused stare of hungry dogs. Colorfully dressed, very dangerous dogs. 
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have an introduction to make!” Buggy called in a loud enough voice to fill the large space. “Crew, new girl. New girl, crew. Make sure to give her a nice, warm welcome." None of them spoke or reacted, watching you with varying degrees of hostility. Buggy pulled you forward a few steps so he could whisper to you. “See that guy?” he asked, pointing to a bald man with square features and an especially dark glare. “That’s Ivo. He was the one who caught you. To be completely honest, I think he’s still a little angry that he didn't get to keep you. If I were you, I’d try to stay on his good side.”
“How?” you asked, your uneasy stomach sinking further, but Buggy was already preoccupied with something else. 
“Oh, hey-” he called, flagging down a woman who was leaning against one of the steel supports. You stumbled behind him, holding the chain around your neck to ease the pressure. “Crina, I have got a very important job for you.” 
The woman slowly looked from Buggy to you, giving you a weighty once-over with dark, kohl-lined eyes. Her clothes were different from the rest, draped with beads and loose and layered in shades of purple. Beneath the mystique, however, you felt the same hardness you recognized in all the pirate’s faces. “You want me to look after the little rat,” she said with an accent you didn’t recognize.
"God, it’s like you can read minds or something,” Buggy said, laughing. “Anyway, yes. Make sure she doesn’t get up to anything naughty while I’m gone. In fact, don’t let her out of your sight.” 
“With all due respect,” Crina said, “why not just kill her?” 
“Because I don’t want her dead,” Buggy snapped, suddenly irritated. If Crina was surprised or off put by the abrupt change of his mood, she didn’t show it. 
“Of course, captain.”  
“I thought I saw some cages over there,” Buggy said, gesturing vaguely and forcing the chain into Crina’s hand. “Stick her in one of those. In the back, away from any prying eyes.”  
“A cage?” you asked.
“As fun as it is to see you all chained up,” Buggy said. “I worry that it might send the wrong message. Out of sight, out of mind—I don’t need you distracting my crew. They’re planning a very big surprise party. If you behave, I might be able to find some time for you later. Sound good?” 
You nodded, almost surprised by how good that sounded. He ruffled your hair before turning away, barking orders to some of the men. 
“Let’s go,” Crina said, pulling your attention back to her. “We have our orders.”
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The cage Crina put you in, one out of several bolted to the floor in the corner out of the way from the main space, had just enough room for you to sit slouched, or lay curled on your side, meant for big dogs or small humans. There was a market for both, and you knew that this warehouse had likely housed both. 
The old, dilapidated buildings had been out of use for a long time, as long as you could remember. Barley Village had been originally built to be close to the mineral deposits, but as those dried up and industry trended towards the water, southward expansion left all of the old buildings empty and rotting. There was always talk about tearing them down, but it was only ever talk. One time you were told that some people wanted to keep the buildings available to people who wished for some privacy. But when you asked your dad if that was true, he got angry, telling you that was a lie, that he would never let that happen. He said it would just be too expensive to take them down, and that there was really no point in it.
But he also told you to never, ever spend time northside. Of all of the rules he gave you, that was the only one you ever truly disobeyed. You had no idea how many times you had gotten in trouble for playing here, climbing up rusted stairs and crossing the support beams up by the ceiling, using rocks to knock out the jagged edges of broken glass from the windows so you could go onto the rooftops. Your health problems made it difficult, and sometimes impossible, but you were patient. Plus, that had been before the accident, when your coordination was still good.
Back then, you didn’t worry about the many dangers that lurked here, and you certainly didn’t believe you could be hurt. You were too entranced by the world you created for yourself. The only thing you worried about was the beatings you earned when you got caught. Dad used to tell you that if you kept disobeying him by going northside, you’d wind up locked in one of these cages—or worse. It took you a while to think of the word, because it wasn’t funny, but it also was. Ironic. It was ironic.
You couldn’t even imagine what kind of reaction he would have to what you had done now, what punishment you would earn. It would be bad. You knew it would be very bad. 
Better not to think about it. Falling unconscious after being hit on the head was the most you had slept for the previous two days. It was the level of exhaustion that you could be staring down the business end of a sword with indifferent, sleepy eyes. Being locked up was bad, very bad, but you were content to lay listlessly on your side.
At some point, you must have fallen asleep because you weren’t entirely conscious when somebody kicked the front of your cage. “Hey, wake up.” Your physical response was to startle, jolting you awake enough to flinch away from the violence. But it was only Crina who crouched in front of the cage. “I have food for you. And medicine for the headache. I’m going let you out, and I suggest you don’t try to run. If the guys get a hold of you, I won’t stop them.”
“I won’t run,” you told her, your voice hoarse, your eyes fixed on what she had brought. A bowl of something that looked like stew and a bottle. More than food, you wanted water. Crina undid the lock and you shuffled out of the cage. Your head spun just as badly as it had when you dropped onto the floor earlier, your vision crawling with darkness and stomach heaving unhappily. She was right about the headache. It wasn’t a pain you ever got used to, no matter how many days you spent laid out from one. After an uneasy moment, you sat on the floor, grabbing the water and eagerly uncapping it. 
“Hand,” Crina said, holding out a glass bottle. You allowed her to shake two capsules into your palm, tossing them into your mouth before taking in a blessedly wet mouthful of water. It soothed your tongue and throat like a salve, although you knew your stomach wouldn’t be quite so happy to receive anything. The stew’s scent alone made your stomach clench and churn with equal parts hunger and nausea. Slow. You had to take it slow. 
“Thank you,” you told her, picking up the bowl. She’d brought a wrapped sailor’s biscuit to eat it with. Not very appetizing, but you hadn’t eaten much more than you slept. It could have been saw dust and you would have been grateful. 
“I have your bag,” she said to fill the silence as you ate, pushing the limp canvas towards you. “They took anything that looked valuable, but your clothes are all there. They need to be washed. I’ll lend you something to wear in the meantime.”
Since your mouth was full, you nodded your thanks.
“While you eat, I’m going to talk. You don’t have to say anything if you don’t want to,” Crina said. “You don’t strike me as the talkative type.”
She didn’t say that in an accusatory tone, but it still caused your heart to skip with anxiety. The fear had to be irrational, it wasn’t as if you had lied to Captain Buggy, so what did you have to worry about? Besides, only the guilty feared scrutiny, that was a favored line of your dad’s. 
“There’s a man in town asking if anyone has seen a girl. Petite. Missing an eye. Mentally unwell. He’s concerned that she might have gotten lost somewhere,” Crina told you. “From what I gather, her father is a pillar of the community. They’re all very worried.” 
You averted your gaze, anxiously pulling your hair to cover your left eye. Of course Randall would be looking for you, although you had hoped you would have more time before he noticed your absence. It didn’t matter that you left in such a way to raise as little suspicion as possible, or that you were an adult, or that you didn’t want to be found. Your dad asked him to be your keeper while he was gone, and Randall did as your father said. Everybody did. 
“Finish your food,” Crina prompted. “It’s worse when it’s cold.” 
Right. You started eating again, your movements mechanical. She said nothing, and you had nothing to say. 
“Everybody has their reasons for turning to piracy, and they’re not always pleasant,” Crina suddenly said. “Unless it interferes with my own business, I don’t care about who you were and why you ran away. It was a stupid choice, I think you know that. I won’t try and convince you to leave. Buggy seems to like you, so you wouldn’t be able to go anyway. But you need to understand that there will be consequences. The life you had before, no matter how terrible, did not prepare you for the life you’ve thrown yourself into.”
You stared hard at the bowl, thinking about that. It was true, you had to accept that you had blindly stumbled into a world you knew nothing about. But what choice did you have? The things that led you to this point were arranged like the rusty, creaky rungs of a ladder scaling the side of a building. Climbing up had always been the easy part, it was the inevitable descent that gave you trouble. You had to go slow, one rung at a time, blindly feeling with your toes, holding on with sweaty fingers, not looking up and not looking down because once you were on the ladder, you could only keep going. The first rung was spotting the Buggy Pirates, which you only did because you were sulking around the docks after seeing your father off on his trip. You only recognized the crew because your dad kept track of pirate captains with significant bounties. You only had the courage to sneak away from your house because dad was too far away to stop you. You only had the ability to scope out Buggy’s temporary hideout because of how much time you spent northside when you were younger. Those things all connected and followed so naturally and you didn’t know if fate existed, but you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t have wound up here on your own volition. It wasn’t a choice you made, it was the only way to get down from the roof that you had been stranded on for so long.
“I’ll give you some advice,” Crina continued, her tone lighter, “and I suggest you listen. You’re young and pretty, and you wouldn’t be the first to try and use that to get an advantage. It might work for a while, but men will get bored and your looks will fade. Before long you’ll be spat out into a cheap whorehouse with a couple of children you can’t afford and a hell of a rash.” 
The whiplash from your thoughts to the conclusion she had drawn made your stomach twist with disgust. “No,” you said. Was that what she thought of you? Even if the idea was utterly ridiculous, shame rolled uncomfortable through you. “I would never—I could never ever do that.” 
“Don’t be naive,” Crina said, rolling her eyes. “The boys you’re used to are disgusted by that scar, but the kind of men you’ll meet from now on won’t be. If your low self-esteem dictates who you let between your legs, you’ll find yourself in the gutter. I’m not saying that you shouldn’t sleep with men to get an advantage if that’s an option, only that you must be smart about it.” 
You pulled your hair forward again, shaking your head clear of what she was saying. She didn’t understand. It wasn’t the assumption that men would be repulsed by your scar—which they would be, you knew that—but that you didn’t have it in you to invite or manipulate male attention. In so many ways you were already ruined, but to stoop down to letting other men touch you would be too far, it would destroy you.
“Assuming you live past tomorrow night,” Crina continued, “get a knife and figure out how to use it. The men aren’t going to accept you as a member of the crew until you prove yourself. So if anybody gets too close, you prove yourself with blood.” 
“Do you think they’ll try to hurt me?” 
“I think you look like an easy target,” she said. “And I know you have no concept of self preservation or defense.”
“Yes, I do,” you said, frowning. You had made it this far, after all. That was more than anybody would have thought of you. 
“You don’t,” she said plainly. “The tablets I gave you are for treating pain, but imagine if they weren’t. You didn’t so much as ask me to clarify what they were.” 
You opened your mouth to argue, and closed it, shame squeezing your throat. You hadn’t even thought about that.
“It might not matter anyway,” she said, “depending on Buggy’s reasons for keeping you.”
“What do you mean?” 
Crina gave you a long, pitying look and you could tell there was something she wanted to say, something she was holding back. Eventually she shrugged. “That is between the two of you.”
You wanted to push for more, confused by the cryptic answer, but you didn’t. You could tell by the hard look on her face that she wouldn’t tell you anyway. 
“One more thing. The most important thing,” Crina told you, leaning close so she could whisper. “Never, ever mention the captain’s nose. In fact, never mention noses at all.” 
“His nose?” you repeated softly. “Is it… is it real?” 
“What did I just say?” she asked sharply. “He killed a few of the last new recruits for saying something that sounded like nose while he was in a bad mood.”
“He… killed them?” you asked. 
“Buggy is a very temperamental man,” she said, leaning back. “Try not to get on his bad side.”
“It sounds like you don’t like him.” 
“I do, actually. God knows why. Are you finished?” 
“Yes, thank you.” 
“Come on then,” Crina told you, getting to her feet and dusting herself off. “There’s running water on the other side. I’ll keep watch so you can clean up.”   
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Although birds called and the breeze carried all sorts of noises from Barley Village, none of it really reached the northside. A solemn graveyard hush settled heavy between the wreckage of ruined buildings, drafty even in broad daylight. No ghosts hid in the shadows, no historical tragedy marred its name, but there remained the haunted imprint of people who were no longer around. 
Before setting you on your task of the day, Crina had given you a dress of hers to wear while your own clothes dried in the sun. You swam in it, but a sash at the waist made the fit look somewhat intentional and the long sleeves hid the ugly bruises cuffing your wrists. That, combined with having slept the previous night and most of the day, left you feeling oddly refreshed. Sure, all of the sleep had been in a cage and the only ‘bath’ you had was a couple of minutes alone with a spout that spat freezing water and a washcloth, but it was better than yesterday. Better than the day before that too, save for the bruises and big goose egg bump on the back of your head.  
Despite the headache, you were glad to be given something to do. The task wasn’t difficult. Busywork that kept you out of the way. Checking to ensure that everything which would be loaded on the ship was documented, organized, and ready for transport. It wasn’t entirely unlike what you had done in the past and, you imagined, would be doing in the future. It was, however, the opposite way around. The goods were obviously looted, you were creating a list to know exactly what and how much of it had been stolen. 
Vinegar, oil, wax.
You used the end of the pen to scratch beneath your bandana, which Crina had kindly retrieved for you. Sometimes the scar got itchy, like it had when it was healing. 
Twine, needles, thread. 
There was a particular smell to supply crates like these. Something to do with the place they were stored, or where they were made. Even now, years since you had been on a ship, it was overwhelmingly familiar. It made your stomach ache and chest clench, although you weren’t sure which quality of the scent was so unsettling. 
You scratched the scar again.
Vinegar, oil- 
Wait, you had already done that. Annoyed, you crossed out those words and crouched down to get into the next crate. Rope. It was coiled in tight loops like a huge snake, coarse beneath your fingers. Anything that was strong enough to endure the fury of the sea had to be coarse. Good rope was vital on a ship, you knew that even with your limited experience. Touching it reminded you of the time your dad tried to show you how to tie knots, and then subsequently had to treat your rope burn.
What would he think when he returned? Retired Marine or not, he was deeply involved with northside business and law. Missing supplies, missing daughter. Sometimes you felt an acidic sort of pleasure when imagining his reaction to your absence, but usually it was just dread.
Or worse. Prickling paranoia. You could run, for a time. But that was all it was. Running. He used to be a Marine, it wouldn’t be difficult for him to find you. When you were younger, the thought gave you comfort. 
But you didn’t want to think about that. Not at all. Not ever again. You stared very hard at the rope, desperate to put those thoughts out of your mind. 
You stared and stared and stared and-
Somebody grabbed you around the bicep, dragging you to your feet and forcing you back to reality. Yelping in fear, you were nearly knocked back down from the bloodrush dizziness of standing up too fast, saved only by the crates. 
“Good god, girl,” the unfamiliar man said, taking a step back, clearly put off by your reaction. “Are you deaf or something? I hollered at you three or four times. Were you sleeping?” 
Putting a hand to your racing heart, you looked from him to the still open crate and the notepad you had abandoned mid-task. You had no idea how long you had been sitting there. Long enough for your foot to go numb, prickling with pins and needles now that you were standing up. 
“I’m sorry,” you told him.
“The captain wants to see you. It’s urgent,” he said. When you didn’t immediately respond, still orienting yourself, he sighed impatiently and grabbed your elbow, physically dragging you away. You stumbled to keep up, trying very hard to avoid falling. “If Buggy asks why you took so long, you better tell him it was your fault.”
“I will,” you said to appease him, attempting to shake off his hand before realizing that it was pointless. “Please slow down.” 
“Not my fault you’ve got stumpy legs,” he said. “Keep up.” 
The unfairness of that stung, but you didn’t have much choice. You had a feeling that he’d keep on pulling you along even if it meant dragging you across the ground. 
“Where are we going?” you asked, embarrassingly out of breath. 
“There,” he said, nodding to one of the waterfront buildings. At least it was close. You never strayed so close to the water, the buildings were too squat to make for fun exploration and too exposed to give cover. 
The pirate released you when you got to the door, leaving you winded and scared. You adjusted your bandana and tried to catch your breath. “Don’t forget to tell him it was your fault it took so long, not mine,” he said, opening the door.
“I won’t,” you promised, the words papery thin on your dry tongue.  
You were in trouble. You had no idea what you might have done, but there had to be something. Why would you be summoned like this otherwise? A very bad feeling pressed against your sternum, but you forced yourself to walk forward. The door shut behind you. Inside, the air was dark and cool and wet, sending a little shiver down your spine. 
Buggy stood in the middle of the room, the only place where the sun found its way between the mangled teeth of glass and steel that used to be windows, his own little spotlight amidst the ruins. There were three other men on the edges of the light, their backs to you. One of them was bound. You did not like this. 
“There she is!” Buggy exclaimed, inviting you forward with his arms spread wide. “Come on, don’t be shy. Especially not after keeping us waiting so long. Your friend over here could hardly handle the suspense. 
Rocks and broken glass crunched beneath your feet as you approached them. Once you got close enough, finally, you could see the faces of the other men. One was the square-featured, angry man Buggy called Ivo. Another, a man you didn’t know. And the third, the one bound with a busted lip and developing black eye—
Randall called your name, trying to escape and rush to your side. Ivo grabbed him, pressing the blade of his knife against his throat.
“See, I told you, they’re working together,” Ivo said, glaring at you. “She tipped him off. No doubt this place will be swarming with the law before long.”
You stood completely still, staring at Randall with the steadily rising tide of panic sloshing in your stomach. After everything you had done to misdirect him, the note you left to beg he didn’t follow, the trouble you had put yourself through to keep from being seen, he was still here. 
“Are you okay?” Randall asked, looking you up and down frantically, concerned in a way he never had looked before. “Did they hurt you?” 
“I told you, she’s fine,” Buggy said with a grin. “I mean, yeah, Ivo over there did give her a little knock on the ole noggin—a love tap, really—but the eye was already like that when we found her.” 
“I wasn’t asking you,” Randall said, glaring at Buggy. 
“Shut up,” Ivo said, pressing the knife close enough to Randall’s throat that it broke skin. 
“No, no, let him go,” Buggy ordered casually, waving his hand. “He’s not gonna do anything stupid.” He threw an arm around your shoulder. “Not when I’ve got her.” 
Ivo reluctantly complied, releasing Randall. He watched you intently, and you knew what he was thinking. How could he save you?  
“Ivo over there thinks that the two of you are working together,” Buggy told you, smiling. His arm was heavy around your shoulders, oppressively so. “He thinks that we should kill you both.” 
“I’m not—I wouldn’t,” you told him. 
“And see, I wanna believe you. I really do. But he’s not talking, and,” Buggy ran his finger over your right cheek, reminding you of his threat from yesterday, “I’m starting to worry you’ve been lying to me.”
“I’m not,” you said, ice cold dread dripping into your veins a drop at a time. You fought your discomfort and forced yourself to meet his eyes, hoping he could see your sincerity. “I promise I’m not.” 
“Then how did he find this place?” 
“I don’t… I don’t know…”
“She used to hide here when we were kids,” Randall answered. “I thought she ran away, not that you freaks had kidnapped her. If I had known I’d find pirates here, I would have come armed.”
“Is that true?” Buggy asked you, pulling you even closer. Close enough to be embarrassing, to give the wrong impression, especially when he was stroking your cheek with a sort of affection that didn’t mesh with the danger in his blue eyes.
“I told you it is. Let her go, clown!” Randall shouted. His voice was loud enough to echo, and harsh enough to make you wince. That sort of rage wasn’t one you expected from him, but it was familiar all the same. 
“Oh, wow,” Buggy said with a laugh, looking up at him. “Is that jealousy I hear? She didn’t tell me she was leaving behind a boyfriend.” 
“He’s not my boyfriend,” you said softly, your insides twisting at the thought. 
“Really?” Buggy asked. He shrugged, and looked at Randall. “If you’re not doing this because you want to have sex with her, why are you here?” 
“I am a dear friend—both to her and her dad,” Randall answered. “He asked me to look after her because she… She’s not in a sound state of mind. And she’s the only family he has left. Without her, he’ll have nothing.” He grit his teeth. “Take me, kill me if you’re that thirsty for blood, but let her go. Please.”
“You’re a real knight in shining armor. Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but she came here all on her own,” Buggy said, releasing you to approach him instead. “She begged to join my crew, got down on her knees and told me that she would be happy to serve me for the rest of her life. It was the most adorable thing.”
“No,” Randall said, his face twisting with disgust. “You’re lying. She wouldn’t do that.”
“Ask her yourself,” Buggy invited, stepping aside and sweeping out his arm. All eyes landed on you like a spotlight. Blood rushed in your ears, and you felt dizzy with it, ready to pass out on the spot. When you looked at Buggy, he smiled and nodded encouragingly. 
“It’s true,” you said.
“No. That is impossible,” Randall said. “This is insane. You are mad, you cannot make decisions like this for yourself.” You stared at his feet, your hands balled into fists. You were not crazy. You were not. That had to be true. “Whatever hysterics brought you here, give it up. These are pirates.”
“I’m a pirate too,” you declared, your hands forming fists at your sides. You weren’t crazy, or mad. You were thinking very clearly, more than you had in a while. 
“No, you are your father’s daughter,” Randall insisted, loud enough to make you flinch. “Can you imagine the agony he would feel hearing you say that?”
Your breathing was too fast, rapid enough to make your head spin. You kept shaking your head, tears flying off of your cheek, but you couldn’t recall when you had begun to cry. “I don’t care.” 
“Don’t care…? This bastard has already gotten into your head,” Randall said. “He has poisoned your broken mind with his lies and manipulations, please don’t let this go any further.”
You shook your head again, but there was nothing you could think of to say. You didn’t want to talk anymore, you just wanted this to be over. 
“Believe me, as much as I would love to claim otherwise, I had nothing to do with this,” Buggy said, raising his hands innocently. “You’ve got no one to blame but yourself. Think about what would drive a girl like this into the arms of a pirate. A broken heart, maybe? Was that your doing, lover boy? Did you break her heart? Make her feel like she wasn’t good enough?” 
“Keep your big goddamned nose out of our business, clown,” Randall said. 
The other pirates audibly gasped, and you could feel the sudden zap of tension in the air. Buggy’s taunting smile froze in place, his posture icing over like a statue. And then, a second later, he was rushing at Randall, burying his fist in the other man’s stomach. Randall crumpled onto his knees with a heavy grunt and you waited for something else, something worse. Crina said that Buggy had killed over jokes about his nose, and, right then, you believed it.
Nothing happened. You watched, frozen, as Buggy breathed in deeply, his shoulders rising and falling with it, and then he raised a hand.  
“New girl,” he called, snapping to beckon you closer. You obliged, rushing to his side. He didn’t look angry, not like you feared he would. Instead, he smiled. It was a mean smile, a frightening one. But a smile all the same. “Are you ready for your big moment?”   
“What?” 
“Your audition! I thought of the perfect act for you. Kill him.” 
You looked down at Randall, he was clearly still in pain, his eyes watering as he looked up at you. “I can’t,” you whispered, shaking your head again.  
“You can and will. Assuming you want to remain on my crew. Otherwise I’ll kill him and you’ll have to explain to daddy why prince charming was here in the first place.” He held out his hand towards Ivo. “Knife.” When he got it, Buggy flipped the knife handle first, holding it to you with a flourish. “You’re up, babydoll.”
“She won’t do it, clown,” Randall said through grit teeth. 
“Of course she will,” Buggy said. “For me.” 
As if moving through the dusky haze of a dream, you took the knife, wrapping your sweaty hand around the grip. The way Buggy smiled in response made your heart flutter, something to cling to amidst the horror and disgust. It didn’t feel real anymore. How could it be real? 
“I don’t know what to do.” Were those your words? Your voice?
Buggy laughed. “Of course you don’t,” he said, circling behind Randall. “C’mere, I’ll help you.” 
Randall was shouting and pleading, but Buggy had grabbed a fistfull of his hair to keep him from escaping. 
“You’ve gotta hold him still,” Buggy told you. “Like this, see?”  
“-don’t do this, please. You can’t… I love you!” 
You got a fistful of Randall’s hair, making him cry out in pain. There was no pleasure in the sound, only a roiling sense of disgust. It would be better when he was dead, and then he wouldn’t be in pain. 
“God you’re short,” Buggy said as he adjusted you into place, right between him and Randall. “You’ll be better off going for their ankles.” He wrapped his hand around yours, getting a good grip on the knife and holding it still. 
“-when he gets bored of fucking you. That’s all pirates do, rape and murder. You’ll never be one of them, you’ll just-”
“Start on one side and move to the other, easy as that,” Buggy said comfortingly, resting his chin against the side of your head. 
“-he doesn’t kill you, your dad will. Do you really think you’ll ever be able to hide from him?” 
Moving slowly, through a dream, you put the knife on the left side of Randall’s neck. It was no different from what a butcher did, really. 
Breath in. Pull. You instinctively locked up at the sound of Randall’s screams and the resistance of his flesh, but Buggy forced your hand, pulling the blade deep into his neck and then fast to the side. The knife got caught part way through, stuck in something hard. You tried to saw through it and Randall made an inhuman noise of agony. Buggy had to help you unstick it, to follow through until the knife slashed that horrifying scream short and then there was just a sort of gurgling sound and you didn’t know if it was because he was still alive or if it was an automatic process. 
There was so much blood, and it was hot, burning you. For some reason, you hadn’t anticipated the messy scarlet spray. From the deep slice came more blood. More, and more still. Randall’s heavy, limp body dropped onto the floor into a puddle of it, although you weren’t sure when you let go of his hair. Buggy released your hand, but you didn’t drop the knife, holding it in a death grip as blood streamed like red veins down your hand and wrist, down the blade and all the way to its tip before dripping to the dirty floor. The tang of iron filled your lungs. You shook all over, all the way down inside, your bones and organs shivering. It was your heart. It pounded frantically, like butterfly wings. And your breathing. Wheezing, gasping, gurgling like Randall’s had before he fell.
Your mouth opened to exhale, but there was nothing there. No air, no words. Nothing. Your cold gaze turned to look at Buggy, confused as to what you were supposed to do next. He had led you this far, but now you were lost. He smiled, and laughed, and took the knife away from you, tossing it to the side where it clanged and slid away. 
And then he folded you into his arms, your head pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was firm and steady, and he was so warm. He smelled of gunpowder and salty sea air and greasepaint and the natural warm scent of his skin. You clung to that, breathing in deep to excise the scent of blood. 
“Congratulations, babydoll,” Buggy told you. “Looks like you just got the part.” 
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The first firecracker went off not long after the sun had gone down, kicking off the surprise party with an especially loud zip and then a bang and a bursting sizzle. “It’s a surprise party,” Buggy told you, his face illuminated by the flash of red. “As in, the people who live here are going to be so surprised by the party I’m throwing for my crew. Get it?” 
A chain of firecrackers followed the first, a show that the pirates set off amidst a barrage of explosions, lighting up the sky with brilliant colors and smoke, making the earth tremble beneath your feet. They acted as distraction and lure, drawing people further into the town and inviting the ship that had been lurking nearby to enter the harbor. 
And after that came the chaos. 
Many things happened that you were aware of, if only passively. Leaving the northside and then Barley Village, waiting at the dock, and then boarding the ship as men and women in colorful attire flooded the yard, overtaking the few armed guards. You were told to sit on the deck and wait, so you did. Aware of it all—noxious sulfur and smoke filling the air, thunderous claps of explosives, popping gunshots, screaming voices, roaring fires—but uninvolved. There was a sense of great quiet. Not outside where things were loud and violent and scary, but inside. You were very quiet on the inside. Far away from everything and everyone else. 
Blood flaked off of your skin, caking beneath the nails when you scratched your arm. It would have been nice to wash it off, but you didn’t know where you would go for that, and you didn’t want to get up.
“Yoo-hoo, is anybody in there?” 
A gloved hand waved in front of your face. 
You let out a hoarse scream, nearly tipping backwards from how violently you startled. It didn’t take long for you to realize how overblown the reaction was, Buggy’s laughter made the point quite clearly. 
“What was that?” he asked, almost laughing too hard to get the words out. He stood above you without his coat and hat, although he kept the striped headscarf, and a bottle tucked under his arm. 
“You scared me,” you told him, a hand on your racing heart.
“That noise you just made though,” he said, still laughing. “It sounded like one of those scream-y fireworks.”
“I didn’t know you were there.”
“Your fault, not mine. I was trying to talk to you, but you just sat there. I thought it was your eye that didn’t work, not your ears.”
“I guess I… zoned out a little.” 
“No shit. Ah, that was good,” Buggy said as his laughter subsided. “I had no idea human beings could even make sounds like that.” Letting out a big breath to settle himself, he sat down next to you. Very close, far closer than you would have, almost touching. “Kinda makes me wonder what other kinds of sounds you can make.” 
“I know, it’s annoying,” you said, staring hard at the deck. “I’m sorry.” 
Buggy laughed at that too, shaking his head. “You really have no clue, do you?” he asked. “Is it weird that I’m into it?” 
“Into what?” you asked. “I’m sorry, I… don’t understand.” 
“I know you don’t, and that’s okay,” he said with a mocking sort of indulgence, patting your head. “Anyway, I had a little business in town and snagged this from some rich guy’s house.” He held up a bottle by the neck and swished its contents a little for effect. “We’re going to celebrate.” 
“Wouldn’t you rather be out there?” you asked, the first coherent question that came to your mind as it scrambled to make sense of what he had just said. 
“Between you and me, this,” Buggy said with a confidential hush, gesturing to your burning town, “isn’t my thing. It’s a reward for my freaks, gives ‘em an outlet to express themselves artistically. I prefer a more… performative platform. True art deserves a spotlight and an audience.” He waved that away, smiling. “But this isn’t about me, it’s about you.” 
“Me?”
“You really impressed me earlier. I mean, yeah, your technique needs polish, and you’ve got no stage presence to speak of, but you displayed raw talent. I really think you have a shot at success, sweetheart. Stick with me, and I’ll make something out of you yet.” 
“Thank you,” you said softly, shying away from thinking about earlier. The praise though, that was heady. That made you feel warm. 
Buggy popped the cork off the bottle, taking a drink straight from it and smacking his lips appreciatively. “You like sweet things, right?” 
“I-” 
“You’ll love this then. Here, try it.” 
You eyed the bottle he was proffering to you warily. Alcohol was something you were familiar with, but you could count on your fingers the number of times you had actually tasted it. “I don’t know…” you said, trying to think of ways to reject drinking without seeming ungrateful.   
“You’re a pirate now, so you’ve gotta learn to drink like one,” Buggy told you, pushing it into your hand. “What’s the worst that could happen?” 
You sniffed the open lip, surprised by the sweetness. It didn’t smell as strongly of alcohol as you feared. Not like what your father drank. Maybe it would be okay. Trying to avoid embarrassing yourself, you tipped the bottle back just like he had. That was a mistake. It didn’t smell like alcohol, but you could taste it—feel it, even. Panicked by your body’s natural response to expel it, you swallowed as much as you could, coughing out the rest. Red liquid drooled down your chin, staining the dress that was already ruined with dried blood. Buggy laughed. A little at first, and then a lot. 
Flushing, you wiped your mouth.
“Oh, don’t be like that. That was hilarious,” Buggy told you. You looked away, even more embarrassed. “Your face was priceless. You threw that back with the confidence of a real fire-hazard, saggy skinned, dead eyed alcoholic. You were so serious about it too, and then… Good lord.”
“I didn’t know!” you said, trying and failing not to sound shrill. 
“It’s okay, you’ve got me to help you now. Try it again, but don’t be so greedy. Baby sips.” 
“No, thank you,” you said, holding the bottle back to him. 
“Drink. That’s an order,” he said, pushing it back to you. 
That gave you pause. “Do you mean that?” you asked. 
He nodded, urging you on. 
Your shoulders drooped in defeat. Trepidatiously, you took a small sip. At least you didn’t hack it back up this time. While the taste was sweet, the burn was not. It rose up like smoke into your head, you could feel it.  
“What if I get drunk?” you asked. 
“Oh, you’re going to get drunk, captain’s orders,” Buggy said with a grin. “I can’t stand watching you sit around moping about killing that guy. Besides, you’re a pirate now.”
The little ball of anxiety deep in your gut doubled. This was wrong, you knew it was. Or maybe you were wrong, and Buggy was right. You didn’t know. 
“I don’t want to embarrass myself,” you muttered.
“As long as you don’t jump into the water or shit yourself, you’ll be fine…” You looked at him, horrified. “Joking! C’mon, I’ve taken good care of you so far, haven’t I? You’ll be fine.”
The way he laughed made you want to believe him. He was your captain now. You nodded seriously and, steeling yourself, took another drink. And another. 
“See? It’s good, right?” Buggy asked, holding out his hand for the bottle. 
You licked your lips, cleaning up the lingering sweetness. “It is. Thank you,” you said, unable to keep yourself from admiring the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the view unfortunately obscured by his cravat. 
The perverse thought took you by surprise. Was it the alcohol? Already, your head was spinning, your thoughts a little more disorganized. It wasn’t like the quiet, empty feeling of before. It was warm and distant, it made your shoulders relax, the anxiety and uncertainty of before fading. This was a good idea, you already felt so much better. When he passed the bottle back, you didn’t have to be prompted to imbibe, chasing that feeling.   
“I don’t mean to pry, but when that guy back there mentioned your dad, it really seemed to get to you,” Buggy said. “What, did daddy not love you? Or maybe he loved you a little too much.”
You didn’t want to talk about that. You didn’t want to think about it. You took another big drink. 
On the horizon, the town was utterly ablaze. As the night grew darker, the flames rose higher. Which building was burning so brightly? It belched thick, black smoke into the night sky. Who was in it? Anybody you knew?
“Don’t wanna talk about it, hm? That’s fine,” Buggy said, stealing the bottle back. “With any luck, my freaks’ll kill him tonight, eh? Then you’ll really be free.” 
“He’s gone right now,” you said, your words soft and slurring together. “Out of town.” What would he think of the smoldering ashes? Would he believe you had perished in the flame? Somehow, you doubted that. He would know what you had done. There was no chance of freedom, not for you. 
“That’s even better,” Buggy said.  
Your eyebrows furrowed as you turned to him, both in confusion and disbelief. “How?” 
“Because, babydoll,” Buggy told you, shaking your shoulder to make sure you were paying attention. “It’s good to have somebody to hate—somebody to prove wrong. He tried to convince you that you’re crazy, he tried to keep you from ever being yourself. That pain and anger made you weak. But you’re not weak anymore. Tonight, I showed you how to be strong. It’s not enough to tell those assholes that they’re wrong, you have to prove it to them. That’s what tonight was about, right? You proved to your dad, to everybody, that you’re stronger than they thought. And, hey, you proved it to me, too. I wasn’t sure about you at first, but I changed my mind.” He threw an arm around you, pulling you close. “I like you, kiddo. A lot.” 
“I like you too,” you said, relaxing into the little side hug, very aware of every place his bare arm met your bare shoulders and neck. The alcohol had stoked a nice blaze in your stomach and chest, making your head spin in a way you didn’t mind that much. Smoothing the colors, softening the air, making you want to lean into his touch, made you crave more of it. 
Buggy pulled away, leaving the bottle in your hands. You felt a little cold without him.  
“You know,” he said, smiling at you. The far off flames glinted mischievously in his eyes. The flaring reds and oranges highlighted his cheekbones too, defined the sharpness of his jaw. You were caught off guard by how viscerally you reacted to the thought that he was handsome, your filterless mind caught in an endless loop of focusing on the fact. “Burning down this shithole is nothing compared to what I will do. The towns I’ll raze to the ground, the treasure I’ll steal, the shows I’ll put on. Now that I’ve got a crew, I’m gonna put on a show like nobody’s ever seen. The biggest, flashiest, greatest show ever. Everybody will be screaming my name, recognize my face. I’ll shine so bright that they’ll have no choice but to love me. ” 
Buggy’s intensity made you smile, you couldn’t help it. Alcohol had created a cloudy burst of affection within you, or maybe it was just the floodgates of tension finally collapsing, letting out something that would have otherwise been smothered. Either way, it was as intoxicating as the drink itself. 
“Are you laughing at me?” Buggy asked, his tone filled with steel. You looked to see his dark expression, his narrowed eyes. 
“I’m not,” you said, confused by his rapid shift in demeanor. “I’m… I’m happy. I’ll do anything to help you.” 
He relaxed. “Well, you’d better start working on your act.” 
That made you laugh, a dizzy, bubbly sound. “I can’t do an act. I wouldn’t know what to do.” 
“There has to be something. Let me think… Can you sing?”
“I used to, a little. But not for a really long time.” 
“Come on, let me hear it.”
You were drunk, you knew that for a fact because in no state of sobriety would you offer to sing in front of another person. But, right then, bubbling with alcohol and protected by the darkness of the smoky night sky, you felt invincible. 
“Oh, what do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor? What do you do with a drunken sailor, early in the morning? Slash his…um… something, something, captain’s daughter. Toss him in… to… the dirty water…” Whatever coherence you held onto unraveled into a fit of drunken laughter at the awful rhyme. “I’m sorry, I think… I think I forgot some of the words.”  
“Seems like you forgot the tune too,” Buggy said, wincing dramatically. All that did was make you laugh harder. “Hold on a second, let me wipe the blood out of my ears.” 
You swatted his shoulder, although your attempted indignance probably wasn’t very convincing when you were still smiling. “Don’t be mean!”
“That’s a bold way to treat your captain,” he told you, but he was smiling too. 
“Please don’t be mean to me, Captain Buggy,” you said, speaking slowly to emphasize how serious you were. 
“Beg me again.” 
You blinked. “What?” 
“Nothing,” he said, waving it off in a way that made you think he was making fun of you. “Anyway, I’m being nice right now, especially after that performance. The critics would eat you alive for that one. So, singing is out. Clearly. What else have you got?”
“Oh! I know a, um, a rhyme. A joke.” 
He looked at you skeptically. “Really?” 
“What is that s’posed to mean?” you asked.
“You don’t strike me as somebody with… How should I put this… A sense of humor?” 
You frowned. 
“Alright, alright, quit pouting and tell me,” Buggy said impatiently, waving you to continue. 
You cleared your throat very theatrically, sitting up as straight as you could manage. 
“There was a young lass who thought
Very little but thought it a lot.
Then at long last she knew
What she wanted to do,
But before she could start, she forgot.”
Deflating, you laughed, surprised at how clearly you had delivered the words. Especially considering how long it had been since you heard them. 
Buggy didn’t look nearly as impressed. “You know, I don’t think I’ve ever heard a clean limerick before,” he said. “And now I know why. I mean, what’s the point of limerick without the ick.”
You blew a raspberry at him. “Fine, you do one.”
“Okay, but you have to prepare yourself,” Buggy said. You nodded encouragingly.
“There was a young plumber named Lee
Who was plumbing his girl by the sea.
She said, ‘Stop your plumbing,
There's somebody coming’
Said the plumber, still plumbing, ‘It's me.’"
Belatedly, you gasped, your hands covering your mouth. That shock dissolved into giggles. “That’s, oh, that’s… that’s dirty.”
“Aw, was it too much for your delicate sensibilities? Now that you’re a pirate, you’re gonna hear a lot worse than that. A looooooooot worse. I hope your unspoiled ears can handle it.”  
“I can!” you insisted, taking a big drink to steel yourself before setting the bottle aside. If you were going to be a pirate, you had to stop getting so flustered. “More. Please.” 
“Okay, okay…” Buggy cleared his throat. “A hooker roaming the East Blue, 
Once filled her vagina with glue, 
She said, with a grin, ‘Well, they paid to get in, 
And they’ll damn sure pay to get out, too.’”
You laughed loudly, as much at the joke as the taboo nature of it. You laughed, and then giggled in a bubbly, drunken way that you knew was too loud and embarrassing. “That is icky,” you told him. “Jeez, that’s…” Your faux seriousness dissolved into a fit of giggles again and you leaned against him for stability. “What would you even do?” 
“Yeah, I don’t know. It sounds like a sticky situation,” he said, nudging you with his elbow. That, of course, sent you into another fit of giggles. 
“I’m sorry, I’m…” you said. “I think I’m drunk.” You looked behind yourself at the town, the glittery haze of joy buzzing in your head fading at the sight. It was horrific, wasn’t it? And here you were, laughing like a fool. You couldn’t really comprehend the magnitude of it all, even if you could acknowledge that it was terrible. “Is it okay?” you asked, looking back at him imploringly. “Everything that happened tonight… I thought I would feel very different after, but I don’t. It almost feels like it’s not even real. You ever get that? When things happen but they feel so impossible that you get confused?”
“If you can think that clearly,” Buggy said, “then you’re not drunk enough. Bottoms up, babydoll.” You smiled at his use of the pet name and the fluttery feeling it gave you. What else could you do but oblige, tipping the bottle back like before. Only, unlike before, you kept it all down. There wasn’t any real burn, just more sweetness, more warmth. 
And then there was nothing left. 
“Woah,” you said, lowering the empty bottle and wiping your mouth. “‘s all gone.”
“And how do you feel?” he asked. 
You opened your mouth to respond, but all that came out was a dizzy sort of laugh. “I dunno…” you said, closing your eye, trying to collect your thoughts. “I’m…” Already things were getting even more fuzzy and foggy. Fabric stuck to your flushed skin, the salty air drying across your chest and cheeks. “I feel… very…”
Making an upset noise in the back of your throat, you pushed your hair back, catching the bandana and pulling it off so you could feel the breeze on your whole face. That helped. Drawing in a deep breath, you looked at him, trying to focus. Only, the second you saw him, all you could do was smile. His eyes were greedy about the light, sparkling with it. Even with the nose, Buggy was handsome. That was not something you could tell him though, not at all ever. Unfortunately you had forgotten what you were saying in the first place. 
“Very… what?” Buggy asked. “‘Cause if you keep trying to be a buzzkill, I’ll give you something to laugh about.”
Were you a buzzkill? You couldn’t remember what you had said or done to earn that title. It was hard enough to comprehend what was happening in the moment. “Like what?” you asked.
“Like… this!” Buggy said, using the sash around your waist to pull you closer so he could tickle your sides. You jumped and squealed, the bottle rolling out of your hands as you tried to fight him off. 
“No no no, don’t,” you cried, trying to escape. You were being too loud, moving too much, acting like an idiot, but you didn’t have enough control to stop. 
“Why not?” he asked. “You’re laughing, aren’t you?” 
It was true, you couldn’t stop yourself from laughing, letting it out in panicked little bursts. Time had a bizarre elasticity to it, everything hitting you at once and fading just as fast. Laughing, sobbing, begging him to stop. It was easy to catch and hold onto one of his hands, but that left the other one free. And if you tried to catch that one instead, you had to release the first. There must have been a better way to do it, but you felt as if, bit by bit, particle by particle, the world was separating, the hot and humid air splitting, your limbs becoming loose, your capacity for rational thought dissipating like mist. 
Lacking any sort of control and with a completely undeserved sense of invulnerability, you tackled him. Buggy let it happen, still laughing. At least he had stopped. 
“God, it’s like being attacked by a drunk, one-eyed toddler,” he said. “What are you gonna do, whine me into submission?” 
“Don’t be mean,” you said seriously, your words ruined by something wavering between a laugh and a sob, or maybe it was just the drunken slur. 
“You attacked me. If anything, I'm the victim here.” 
“No! You started it!” 
“Hold on, are you… crying?” Buggy asked incredulously. “Aw, you poor thing. I mean, you were laughing so much, how could I have known you didn’t like it?” 
“I don’t!” you insisted. 
“To be clear,” he said. “You don’t like this?” He attacked your sides, not tickling so much as just teasing, but to the same effect. You yelped and sat up squirm away, swatting at his hands. 
Rather than laugh like before, Buggy groaned, his hips bucking up against you. A loud, harsh gasp left your mouth, your entire body going rigid from the liquid heat of friction, your thighs squeezing around him. At some point, your skirt had ridden up, your panties being the only barrier left. You didn’t think you had ever been as acutely aware of how achingly empty, electrically tingly, as you were right then. 
Bad. Very bad.
“Oh, there’s another fun noise,” Buggy said, laughing as he propped himself upright with his arms. “I can’t believe that got you.” 
“No,” you said quickly, dizzy from the intensity of your reaction and how close the two of you were. You could smell him, the sweat, the musk, the salt, the greasepaint, the gunpowder. You could see the glitter in his makeup, the fire catching in his eyes. “It jus’... surprised me.” 
“Is that why you’re shaking?” Buggy asked, rubbing your exposed thigh, the fabric of his glove catching the sensitive skin. 
“I’m… um…” Your eyebrows furrowed as you tried to organize the drunken slush of your brain. Being so close to him, feeling his body against yours, sent deviously tantalizing tingling sparks through you. And guilt. It was wrong, he wasn’t doing anything to invite those feelings, you were just being weird and drunk and embarrassing and you couldn’t stop thinking about what it would be like to kiss him. You’d have to tilt your head a lot, although the stubble would be more hazardous than his nose. The last time you kissed someone, you were both young enough that you didn’t have to navigate facial hair. And then there was the matter of the makeup. You tried to imagine what you might look like after, the slash of red and imprint of white. Maybe they’d mix into pink. You tried to force yourself to focus on something else, but you couldn’t meet his eyes either. Nervous and confused and filled with a million different feelings you had no name for, you squirmed again, thoughtlessly adding to the anxious feedback loop of heat and need and intoxicated emptiness. 
“You know, sweetheart, this reminds me,” Buggy said, “there’s still the matter of your physical. It’s standard procedure for new crew. We could get that over and done with while you’re… lubricated.”
“What’re you… talking about?”  
“I’ve gotta make sure you’re fit, healthy… Clean of anything you could pass on to the forty or so people you’re gonna be stuck with in an enclosed space for weeks at a time.”
“How d’you do that?” 
“You’ve been to a doctor, right? It’s kinda like that. I know it can feel a little invasive, so it might be better to do it while you’re drunk.”
“What…” you started to ask, but then Buggy shifted, his hips pushing up against you. The fresh wash of warmth it sent into your core scattered your mind, and you lost the already tenuous thread of thought. Your eyelashes fluttered, although you weren’t sure when you had closed your eye. “Umm…”
“Well, first,” he said, answering the question you hadn’t asked, “you’d have to take off your clothes. Then relax while I have a little look-see. It’s important that you stay as still as possible. I’ll have a hard time finishing if you can’t stop squirming around the whole time.” 
“Do you really have to?” you asked, your brow furrowing. It sounded embarrassing. But maybe if it was him, you didn’t mind? Your dad did all of your past medical check-ups so it wasn’t inherently wrong. But the thought of Buggy seeing you without clothes wasn’t exactly nice, you could only imagine his disgust. That was bad. 
“Depends on if you’re serious about being a pirate or not,” Buggy said.   
“I am serious!” you exclaimed. Your hands went to the sash around your waist to pull the bow free. If you did it quickly, you wouldn’t be as embarrassed. 
“Woah, wait. Holy shit,” Buggy said, “are you seriously—” He cracked up laughing, making you freeze. “I didn’t think you’d actually fall for that.”
“You’re… laughing,” you said, your fingers falling with the slow sink of humiliation. 
“You really were going to strip for me, out in the open and everything.” Buggy laughed harder, rocking forward. “I didn’t expect you to be so eager. Hey, if you really wanna get naked, I’m not going to stop you.” 
“I don’t, I just… I thought…” you said, pulling away from him and trying to get onto your feet to get away, embarrassment lighting the worst sort of fire within you.  
“Woah, calm down, it was just a joke,” Buggy said, his laughter fading. “You’re absolutely plastered, if you stand up, you’re gonna fall right back down.” You didn’t stop, resolute to get onto your feet and put some distance between you and him. “I won’t catch you.” 
“’m fine,” you told him. 
You finally got your footing and braced against your knee to lurch upright. For a second, you were standing up and weightless. And then you were nothing.
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femmedesyeuxnoirs · 9 months
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Yeah
Have u ever been so sleep deprived that ur flesh starts feeling wavy. But anyways i just had the most fucked up manic episode, bender and subsequent panic attack marathon ive ever had in my entire life. I did ket, blow, xan, like 100 cigarettes, and so much fucking alcohol, jumped off of this random girls roof into her pool while i had a busted leg, then injured my other leg when i landed, and when i got out of the water i stepped on a live wire. That is probably the dumbest thing ive ever done actually. I could not make this shit up if i tried.
Oh and i almost had 3 threesomes in like a span of 2 days. And one of those was with my dj crush’s (yeah u know the one who is twice my age who was like an acidhead raver in the 90s) Not him, but his roommate who is literaly an adonis hes so beautiful and fucks good hes my age too so its like not weird. and its so messy but i cant stop thinking about having a threesome witb tje both of them. Fuck my whole life.
Also ive been staying downtown at my friends place but the building is really confusing and i also lost my phone so i got lost in that stupid fucking huge building wandering around for like hours until someone saw me crying running down the street with a limp and called my friend.
I can hardlt describe in words the terror i felt when i finally got into my friends apartment only to find that they were gone and since this place has the ceiling to floor windows and its empty bc hes moving out, i looked at the view of the entirety of downtown phoenix and got a sudden wave of intense nausea, followed by several hours of panic symptoms until my friends got back. I truly thought i was going to die. God how the fuck have i not died at this point.
Ok so let me just say that i need money bad, and being a dancer is beginning to be too traumatizing and dehumanizing for me to continue. I dont want to rely on the kindness of strangers just to be allowed to exist but i dont have a lot of options. I know there are many kind people here that are willing to help, as long as you have the means i would appreciate if anyone wants to help me out after this nightmare
https://venmo.com/u/twoheavens
https://www.paypal.me/boilingpond?locale.x=en_US
https://cash.app/$sabinesix
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Baby Spider Part 2 (Marvel WOSO AU)
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You heard a beeping sound. You felt so tired and sore, You were lying down and felt the fabric that layed on you. You were in a bed and by the sounds of the beeping, You were in a hospital, You then started to feel fear, if your in a public hospital, your secret will get out. You groggily opened you eyes only to be met with confusion. you were in your room.
You felt slightly dizzy and a really, really bad headache, You groaned and raised your hand to your head "Oh thank god, Your awake" you heard your mother's voice, You opened your eyes and saw Lucy. you immediately wanted to latch onto Lucy and have her hold you but you felt nauseous when you tried to move to her. You felt her hand cup your cheek, You looked at her, bags around her eyes. Her hair was down which was rare. You felt your heart ache, you were scared on what she was going through and what she felt. "Don't move much or sudden movements. You have a concussion darling" that explains the headache and nausea
You looked at her "I-im sorry mum, i- i" you tried to finish your sentence but just broke down unable to fight back the fear and sadness in your stomach. You felt lucys strong arms wrapped around your head and pull you towards her chest and rest her chin in top of your head. "Sshh it's ok babe, everything is ok" She said softly as she patted you back. You fought through the tears "I'm so-rry i didn't t-tell you" You took a deep breath controlling your breath "I wanted to but I knew you would s-stop me a-a" you broke and just cried as your mother held you. "Just breathe babyboy/Girl." She started to hum a melody, her soft voice and her heartbeat comforted you. It felt like you were there forever.
You finally broke apart, your mother layed you back "I'm so proud of you" You looked wide eyed at your mother "I mean kid, your La araña. You saved countless life's and more. You think I would hate you for that" you looked down, wiping away the tears that were running down your cheeks "You brilliant, stupid boy" you mother said making you smile whilst you looked down and fidgeting if your fingers. "Sorry for hitting you" You said sheepishly. You felt your mother eye roll. "I mean i did start it, so my fault" You looked at her, Lucy now had her hand on your arm "You do pack a punch lad. But i'm not the one with the broken nose" You grimaced and started to fear about your mother Alexia. You felt her grip softly tighten, You looked at Lucy. "She is ok, Its just" She sighed
"Your mother, she is taken this very hard." You looked down at the words " All of this is a lot for her. Seeing you in that state shook us both but we also caused it. Its still" She stopped for a moment before sighing, She started to hold your hand "Its still hard for both of us and you being La araña. You are my Son/Daughter, i know you can handle yourself and you have shown the world what La araña can do. But this effected her a lot." You sighed deeply, wiping your tears "I need to talk to her" Lucy smiled sadly. You will you just need to take it slow. You...Abilities have heal your body fast but still not 100%. Which reminds me after this is all said and done. We are gonna have a long talk about your vigilante shenanigans" Lucy said as she patted your hands as she walked away "Oh and Alexia will also get a talking to" Your eyes widen "She called through your suit's ear piece. Don't worry she is ok" You felt slightly better knowing she would not worry about you. You notice your mother was gone and you presumed to go get Alexia.
You sat there twiddling your thumbs before you leaned back and started to think about how that convo would go. You heard a creak. You looked at the door and saw Alexia standing there. with a bandage on her nose, slight bruises and a cut lip healing. She slowly walked towards with a sad look. You looked down, She was so quiet and you hated it, You could feel the dissapointed eyes burning into your soul. She sat down next to you, You also heard Lucy sit on the other side of the bed. You stayed there as Lucy touched your arm to reassure you. It felt like forever you stayed like that, Anxiety building, tears threating to come out. Untill you felt Alexia lightly touch the bottom of your chin and made you look at her. Her eyes were starring into yours. "You could of been killed doing this....this charade Y/N. Her voice was stern "We could of....." She started to breathe and control her anger. "You have your whole life ahead of you! why would you throw that away. What fool voluntary pu-"
"You"
She grew quiet, Her? what did you mean "You joined the army as soon as you could" Lucy looked at Alexia with a 'They are right' look "But i had people around me who knew and helped me. What if you needed help or what if Alessia got taken by being involved with you"
"YOU ARENT EVERYWHERE" Your mum's eye's both widen at the outburst. "S-sorry." You said before continuing "But when you guys are away on these Avenger level threats. Who looks after Barcelona. Who looks out for the neighbourhood." You looked at Alexia, who was looking at you dissapointed but her eyes betrayed her Her eyes looked at you with slight pride in her eyes. Lucy had a full on grin. "That who i am, I am the one who looks after Barcalona and Spain whilst you are gone. Being La araña is what i want to be." You said defiantly. Alexia leaned back placing her mouth over her mouth and looked at you with a unreadable expressions. You couldnt help but feel tears fall from your eyes and down your cheek. Alexia leaned forward and wiped away your tears "My Hija/hijo" She said nothing else as you embraced her, her holding you tight. You felt Lucy's hand on your back.
It felt like forever as she held you, she held you, You cried into your mother's shoulder, Feeling love and protection wash over you. But it had to eventually break by a Alexia looking at you sternly. "We will let you continue to be La araña IF you follow the rules we give" You smiled and nodded as you wiped your tears "Firstly you will train on your combat with me, Kerr and Leon." You were excited but also grimaced at the fact of training with Hawkeye and Black Widow. Then lucy cleared her throat
"And there is no way, None, nadda, not a chance I am having my child swinging around in plain spandex. We got a." She held up your ripped suit with her thumb and finger with a disgusted look. "A lot of work to do" You gave a offended look "In the suit lab" You went wide eyed. The suit lab, where mum kept all her iron suits. You NEVER got to go there ever since you were 8. Lucy loved to let you play there and show off but then you got burnt on the arm by one of the blasters miss firing when you touched it. That resulted in a 4 month separation of your parents but that was a long time ago.
*Belly grumble*
You and your mother's looked down at your belly.
"Let's get you something t-oof" "LET ME THROUGH" You went tensed up as you saw a Millie Bright flying at you and engulfing you in a hug. "Thank goodness your ok!!" Lucy recovered and crossed her arms and laughed at the sight. Whilst Alexia smiled but it faltered at the idea that her Son/Daughter still being La Araña.
Next telling the Avangers
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katyawriteswhump · 2 months
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the power of love part 2 (new steddie, stobin, steve whump fic)
Steve has a habit of surviving near death experiences then getting sick for no reason. And Eddie and those fatal bat bites? After an impossible feat of mouth-to-mouth resuscitation from Steve, he’s mysteriously fixed. So, Eddie’s back to being banished, this time with Steve and Robin in tow. Eddie’s healing, but Steve isn’t… and life gets even more confusing, when Eddie develops feelings for Steve, which aren’t entirely unrequited.
Part one here Also on AO3 (where it's tragically in need of some love *sobs*) Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14
Chapter Two
Steve POV
Steve blinks his eyes open. Fear lurches then fades. Leaning over him, kinda blurry, are… Robin? Munson!?! He’s at home. Lying on the couch in his parents’ living room, to be precise.
“Steve? You back with us?” Robin appears wild-eyed, spooked out. She’s holding a bloodied cloth over his bat bites, which stab like new again.
Steve presses the heel of his hand to his brow, disguising his pained whimper with a shaky, “Yeeeeah.”
“Phew! Not delirious? Only a bit woozy, huh?”
“You seriously still shitting yourself about rabies?”
“To be honest, no. That’s slithered so far down my list of things to lose my mind over, I’d forgotten. Trust me, he’s as likely to have it as you now.”
Eddie, who hovers at her shoulder, pokes out his tongue, kinda jokey. The rest of Eddie’s face is still slightly blood-smeared. Haunted. His hair is a mad mess, his bandana repurposed as a bandage about his elbow. Steve glances down his own aching body, which is damp, vaguely shivery. Near naked, in fact, with a towel tucked around his waist.
Oh yeah. He went for a swim, and then… 
“Shit! Are you seriously mopping my blood with Mom’s linen napkins?” Steve tries to push himself up, and flops back down, humiliatingly fast. On top of that, his head throbs—when does it not, these days? He makes a more concerted effort to sit, forcing himself through a wave of nausea and dizziness, then notices: “Shit, shit, SHIT! I’ve bled on the couch—this cost a thousand bucks!”
“I knew there was a reason Wayne avoided white faux leather,” says Eddie, as he and Robin share a look. “Oh, and a Munson never splashes less than fifteen-hundred bucks on soft furnishings.”
“You’re hilarious,” mutters Steve.
“Your Pops can chew my head off,” says Eddie. “Some of that blood is yours truly’s. I mean, I got got bad. Really bad. And theeeeen… I got better.” He narrows his eyes to inquisitorial slits, which bewilder Steve, given how rough he feels.
Robin lifts the ruined napkin. “You’re bleeding like before Wheeler first bandaged you up. It makes no sense.”
“Nothing’s made sense for about two and a half years,” Steve points out. Actually, scratch that. Little of his life has made much sense. “There’s a first aid kit in the kitchen, with proper bandages. Where did you think I got the Hibistat towelettes from? Didn’t you morons think to look?”
Robin hurries off. Eddie takes over holding the now thoroughly disgusting napkin over Steve’s bites. “Woah, he’s not lying,” she calls. “His parents keep an actual first aid kit with actual useful crap in it.”
“Yeah, in case you forgot in the last thirty seconds,” says Steve, “the Harrington family bleed.”
“It doesn’t even come out green,” Eddie says. “Totally destroys your ‘rich folk are aliens’ theory, Buckley.”
“Haha,” snarks Steve.
“This might take a minute,” calls Robin. “I had no idea there were so many sorts of dressings. We don’t want a triangle one, huh?”
Left alone, Eddie doesn’t seem able to look Steve in the eye. He’s giving off such awkward vibes that Steve takes pity, nudges Eddie’s hand away, holds the napkin himself.
“I guess this is where I thank you for saving my life,” says Eddie.
“From what I could gather from Dustin, you’d only gone and done the same for us. Not a hero? Total bull.”
“Those weren’t normal circumstances.” 
Eddie’s so squirmy, Steve flinches away too. He’s felt drawn to Eddie for some time. He likes the guy way more than he’d expected, finds he likes looking��at him too, crazy rocker tresses and all, but… Jesus Christ! Talk about shitty timing.
It’s not the first time Steve’s been blindsided by a crush on a guy. Plus, he knows Eddie is queer; he’s one of the few other friends that Robin’s lately ‘come out’ to. However, Steve’s simply not gotten the energy to figure out if the weird fizzle of chemistry he feels is all in his head. What he really wants is to stagger upstairs to bed and sleep for a week. No time for that, though. He groans, threads the fingers of his free hand through his damp hair.
 “We need to take advantage of this earthquake chaos. Get you outta town right now before somebody comes looking.”
“Yeah. I figured as much.” Eddie sighs hard. “No more facing down ferocious monsters. I return to being Eddie the Banished.”
“Not much choice, man. Look, we can bring bedding, whatever supplies we need from here. Take one of Dad’s cars and find a place to lay low till we know what’s happening and what the next plan of attack is.”
“You were worried about the couch and now you’re suggesting we jack your Pop’s wheels?”
“I don’t give a crap about the furniture—it was a dumb knee jerk reaction. I mean, things change. People change. Last time I looked, we weren’t exactly bestest buds.”
Now we’re off saving each other’s lives.
A loud crash from the kitchen slices between them. “Sorry!” yells Robin. “Kinda dropped… everything.”
“Need some help there, Rob?” Steve tries to push himself to his feet. His head rush is instant and epic; his vision blacks out, nearly taking his entire consciousness with it.
“Easy, easy!” Eddie’s arms are around him, clumsily guiding him back down. Steve whimpers before he can stop himself; his stomach churns and he feels painfully sick. Eddie wedges a cushion beneath Steve’s head, presses the cloth back to Steve’s bleeding side. “Robin’s right. You need those injuries looked at. I go alone.”
“No.” Steve snatches a shaky breath. “Way I see it, we’re both deep in the shit."
“I’m the one with the murder rap snapping at my butt, Harrington.”
“And I’m the one who’s been harbouring a known fugitive, stealing Winnebagos, and Christ knows what else. Crap, I bet they’ll blame me for Nance’s sawn-off shotgun. While the rest of those underage brats get off light, I’ll be dragged to jail as sure as you.”
“Your daddy can afford a lawyer, man.” At least Eddie’s looking at Steve now. His words still feel like a punch in Steve’s already bleeding gut—with those knuckle dusters that’d gotten lost somewhere on the ride.
Steve retaliates with as daggers a glare as he can conjure: “You wanna thank me for saving your life, Munson? Then stop trying to ditch me.”
Part 3
Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13
...
tags: @estrellami-1 (thank you, thank you, thank you!) If anybody else would like to be tagged on this fic or any of my writing, I would probably cry... in a good way, honest! Reblogs, comments and likes also very much appreciated :)
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heliads · 1 year
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Hello, glad I can submit this request then, I barely find any Luke Castellan fics he needs more love 😭
Anyways, I just wanted to request something small like headcannons on what it would be like at the aftermath of the Battle of Manhattan if Luke didn't die, what would he be like and how the reader would help him overcome his trauma or problems ? Just pure fluff is what I'm trying to say ;_;
Sorry if that doesn't make any sense... Please let me know if you don't understand me XD
But thank you so much if you write this <3
i see that you have asked for headcanons but i am so delighted by this request that you get a full fic instead (ily)
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Luke Castellan is not sure what to do with the fact that he did not die. It would have made for a better ending, he thinks. It was the logical conclusion. He tried to make a better world, and when that failed, he could have been terminated along with that last dream. It is what most people would have decided was best.
Yet Luke opens his eyes– his eyes, not someone else’s, not that awful feeling of having his body belong to some being that was not even human, let alone not him– and he is alive. Luke is not sure yet whether this is good or bad. He’s not sure that anything in this world could remotely fit into those categories anymore.
He stares up at a blank ceiling above, which confuses him. Last time he checked, Luke was dying on the ruined floor of the gods’ throne room. There had still been a roof over his head, but Luke swore that he could see a sky of the deepest blue. Luke had felt himself fall into that wondrous lapis void, and then he had felt nothing at all.
That was supposed to be dying. It was more peaceful than most people would say he deserved, given all the hell Luke wreaked on the world by allying with Kronos. Luke’s supposed ending had certainly not been pretty:  a dagger in his hand, stabbed into the one place the immortal waters of the River Styx hadn’t protected him. Achilles’ curse had lifted, and Luke was free of the Titan that had been consuming his body whole.
Yet Luke is staring up at a room that is neither burned nor broken. At first, he wonders if this is what death is like, but he’s heard enough stories of the Underworld to know that it would never be this simplistic. No, this isn’t Death; Luke sits up slowly and manages to fight nausea long enough to realize that he’s back in Camp Half-Blood. Back home, his mind tells him, and Luke has to remind himself that’s not true anymore. He has no home. He has no people, he left them all a very long time ago.
A voice to his side makes Luke whip around.
“I’d sit down if I were you.”
Luke trains his eyes until they slowly, begrudgingly focus on an orange-shirted figure seated next to him. At last, he realizes he recognizes the guy. Will Solace, one of Apollo’s kids. He must have been in charge of bringing Luke back from the dead. 
Luke is baffled by the fact that Will is perched here and not Michael Yew, current head of the Apollo cabin, until it occurs to him that Michael is likely dead. That explains the hollows under Will’s eyes, at least, and the undercurrent of hate that Will only barely keeps at bay. Such strong emotions for a boy who’s usually so cheerful. Luke supposes he only has himself to blame for that.
Will may despise Luke all he wishes, but he’s still a doctor at heart. The blond gestures for Luke to lean back down. “If you rip out your stitches and make my work worthless, I’ll kill you myself.” Will says.
Luke arches a brow. “How do I know you won’t do that anyway?”
“I’m still debating,” Will replies pleasantly.
Someone laughs next to him. “Try to stay civil, Solace. Our time for killing is over.”
A camper takes a seat on Luke’s other side. After a few moments of recollection, his addled head realizes that he knows them. That’s Y/N L/N, they’ve been in the Hermes cabin for the longest time, not one of Luke’s half siblings on the godly side but yet another demigod gone unclaimed for years. They used to complain about that to him. He doubts they would repeat the same sentiments now.
Will groans. “Let me at least try to be intimidating, L/N. I only get to do it so often.”
Y/N cracks a grin, then turns to Luke. “I imagine you must have a lot of questions.”
Luke narrows his eyes at them. “Why aren’t I dead?”
Y/N does a superb job of ignoring Will’s clear sentiment that he’d like an answer to that as well, keeping their gaze firmly trained on Luke. “You tried to stop Kronos in the end. Chiron decided that, seeing as you did all that in an effort to protect unclaimed kids and demigods who were ignored by their godly parents, you deserved a second chance.”
“Does anyone other than Chiron actually believe that?” Luke asks pointedly.
Y/N shrugs. “Depends on what you do when you get out of here.”
Will jumps up. “That’s my cue to check on the rest of my suffering patients. You know, the ones that didn’t try to betray us.”
Y/N watches him go. “Ignore him. He’s–”
Luke cuts her off. “Mad that I tried to kill everyone here? I can’t blame him.”
“So you regret what you did?” Y/N questions slowly.
“I don’t regret trying to do something,” Luke says, “only that the gods weren’t as hurt as the demigods. I didn’t want to hurt us, just them. Olympus could use a good scare.”
Thunder rumbles overhead, loud and overbearing. Luke imagines it’s a warning to him:  he’s treading on thin ice by staying alive, he’d better not press his luck by insulting the gods anymore.
Y/N sighs, evidently thinking the same thing. “You wouldn’t be the only one to want the world to change.”
Luke glances over at them. Obviously, he hasn’t seen Y/N since he switched sides, but he had forgotten that they used to be friends. Good friends, too. It’s nice to have at least that back to normal.
“You haven’t been claimed in the last while, have you?” He asks, changing the subject away from more dangerous waters.
Y/N smiles. “Actually, I have. Percy made the gods swear to start claiming more of their kids. I found out about my parentage a few days ago.”
Luke nods solemnly, but doesn’t ask for further details. He made a point of prioritizing the demigod over their godly parent when he was recruiting for Kronos during the war, and he supposes that habit has stuck. It makes him wonder how many more traits of the enemy he won’t ever be able to shake.
“So when do I get out of here?”
Y/N folds their arms across their chest. “Depends on what you mean by getting out of here. You’ll get a clean bill of health within the next day or two, most likely. You won’t be leaving the camp for months, though, if ever.”
The implications of that don’t have to be spoken aloud. Luke messed up, obviously, and so he’ll be on house arrest until the end of time. If he can prove that he’s worth the effort of saving, maybe they’ll let him live his life, but until then he’ll be monitored around the clock.
It’s more than he expected, at any rate. Part of Luke thought that he’d be handed over to some sort of trial once he healed up, made to face his crimes and be overly punished accordingly. That way, the gods could point to him in the decades and centuries to come as proof of why half-bloods should never reach for more than they deserve.
But no, he’ll be living. That’s certainly something. Luke leans back slowly against his cot and ponders this. “Do I get a personal guard or something?”
Y/N lifts a shoulder. “Kind of. You get me. I’m supposed to follow you around and make sure you don’t try to escape.”
Luke snorts. “How’d you get stuck with that job?”
“I asked for it,” Y/N says coolly.
Luke is taken aback. “Why’d you do that?” He can’t imagine anyone in this camp actively trying to bond with him, let alone someone he knew as well as Y/N. Wouldn’t they hate him for betraying them?
They might be just as surprised about it as he is. “I’m not entirely sure. Guess I thought I was the only one who wouldn’t actively try to kill you in your sleep.”
They’re brutal about it, but it’s kind of nice. Honesty is the only sort of medicine that Luke feels like he can stomach right now. Mollycoddling and sugarcoating just serve to waste time.
He half expects Y/N to back out of it, but no, when Luke is declared medically sound and all but forced out of the hospital wing by swordpoint, they’re waiting for him by the door. Luke staggers out into the bright sunlight and looks around like he’s in a dream. The camp has changed since he last saw it. Cabins have sprung up like wildflowers and more are being constructed by the moment.
Y/N notices him staring and gestures towards the new buildings. “See, that’s your doing, even if no one wants to admit it. A ton of new kids have been claimed. Hermes cabin has never been so empty.”
Bitterness surges through Luke’s throat before he can stop it. “I thought that was Percy’s idea.”
Y/N shakes their head. “Percy only got the idea from you. You can make yourself a villain if you want, but you weren’t entirely heartless. You got my godly parent to claim me, and that’s worth a lot.”
Luke smiles to himself as they go. Y/N leads him to the door of their cabin. It’s still cavernously empty compared to the close quarters Luke remembers in Hermes, and he only notices one bunk with belongings on it.
“You’re the only one here?” He asks.
Y/N nods. “So far, at least. I’ve got you now, though. Just as a warning, I will be claiming cabin counselor privileges and there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
Luke grins before he realizes it. The expression makes his scar ache, but he finds he doesn’t mind it quite so much as before. “I won’t fight you on that.”
He pulls himself onto the top bunk of one of the many empty rows and surveys his new domain. “Do you think it was worth it? Figuring out who your godly parent was just for them to leave you like this?”
After all, what a life. An empty cabin already collecting dust. It’s cold in here without bodies inside to warm it up. The walls are barren of personal touches. Y/N knows their heritage, yes, and is able to move out of a cabin that was never theirs, but this doesn’t seem like much of a blessing.
Y/N lingers by the foot of Luke’s bunk, and he gestures for them to climb up and join him. They do so in a heartbeat, and then they’re sitting opposite each other, gazes locked and breathing steady.
“It can be lonely,” they admit, “but it’s not so bad. You have hope that it won’t always be this way. Maybe someone will come. Maybe someone already has.”
Luke swallows harshly. “I missed you.”
He blurts it out, hardly aware of what he’s saying. He missed a hell of a lot. Y/N. Laughing at midnight, their whispered words covered up by the sounds of dozens of campers sleeping shoulder to shoulder. Training during the day, the clash of celestial bronze. Orange shirts burning like beacons against their backs. Being able to wear his beaded necklace without feeling like a traitor, even if that’s what he is and always will be.
Y/N leans forward. “I missed you too. I kept hearing about you, which is more than you got of me, but it didn’t feel right. I don’t know where the boy I knew is, if he even exists anymore, but I’d like to try and find him again.”
“I’d like to find him again too,” Luke whispers.
It is the dream of a broken boy bleeding out in the palace of the gods. At this moment, Luke isn’t entirely sure that he didn’t die there in the Olympian throne room. If someone told him that this is what dying is like, conjuring up a vision of what he wishes he could have most of all, Luke would have believed them.
In the end, Luke has no idea if this is real or not. All he can do is keep going, keep waking up each morning to see if he is still in the hazy aftermath of a second chance or finally locked down below in the Underworld. Luke always wanted to try for the Isles of the Blest anyway. Maybe this is just his second life, his second attempt at getting there.
He reaches out on impulse and takes Y/N’s hand. He can feel the blood pumping through their veins, the same certainty as being able to press his fingers against a locked door and know exactly how to break in. This is Luke’s next great trick, but he thinks he’d like to do it right.
“Alright, then,” Luke says at last, “Let’s try again.”
pjo taglist: @w1shes43
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