#cabin fever fics

[hearts-hunger]

affection || jake kiszka x reader

Read on AO3 | Masterlist | Standalone in the Cabin Fever universe

Summary: Nothing hurts when you're with Jake.

Pairings: Jake x Reader | Genre: fluff, hurt/comfort, non-graphic smut | Word Count: 1k | Warnings: light talk of depression, non-graphic smut (minors begone!)

A/N: My very first standalone fic for Jake and Sparrow! I hope you like it! ♡

Tick, tick, tick. 

In the darkness of your bedroom, you listened to the quiet sound of Jake’s pocket watch and tried to settle your breathing to the rhythm of it. Usually the sound was soothing, a reminder of the way Jake had filled up the quiet parts of your life and your home with a heartbeat of dependability and comfort. You tried to remind yourself of that now as you listened to the soft coppery music of it, but even its steadiness didn't help quiet the knot of sadness and anxiety in your chest.

You didn't know why you felt like this. Sometimes it just crept up on you, a tangle of feelings that had no explanation or obvious cure. They’d come less frequently with Jake, but nothing could stop them completely; you just had to ride it out, hanging on to what you knew was true, letting it wash over you until it was through.

You turned towards Jake, saw the soft curve of his bare shoulder in the moonlight filtering though the curtains. You didn’t want to wake him; you knew he was tired from a long day at the studio, and he needed his rest. You moved close to him, pressing against his back, wrapping an arm around his waist as you tried to get warm against him.

He moved his hand to rest over yours, holding you securely against him. Even in sleep, he was attuned to you; you felt a sob catch in your chest and rested your head against his back.

“Sparrow.” His voice was gravelly with sleep, soft and soothing. He drew your hand up to rest near his heart.

“Sorry,” you said softly, even as you felt the sting of tears. “I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

He turned his head towards you a little. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you lied. “Go back to sleep, honey.”

“Are you sick?” he asked. “Bad dream?”

You shook your head. “Just...” You felt so guilty for waking him, for not even having an explanation when you did. 

“I don’t know,” you said brokenly. “I don’t know what’s wrong.”

He turned to face you then, pulling you close, tangling his legs with yours under the blanket.

“You’re crying,” he said, brushing tears from your face. “Are you sad?”

“I guess,” you said, your voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t feel good, Jake.”

He hummed and brushed your hair back from your face. “In your body? Or in your heart?”

You couldn’t help a wobbly little smile, endeared to the simplicity of his questions while he was still half-asleep.

“In my heart,” you said. “I can’t sleep. I’m sorry I woke you.”

He didn't say anything for a few moments, and you’d thought he’d gone back to sleep. You didn’t hold it against him; you knew he was tired, and you knew this didn’t constitute a real crisis that he needed to be awake for. 

Then, with a sleepy sigh, he pulled you close and hugged you tight.

“I think you need a hug, sparrow,” he said softly.

“Yeah,” you agreed, moving close to him.

You were a little surprised when he pulled away then, and you were confused when he sat up and started to pull up the hem of your sleep shirt.

“It’s like that kangaroo thing,” he said. “We should try that.”

Bemused, you let him ease your shirt off until both of you were in nothing but your underwear.

“What kangaroo thing?” you asked, wondering if he was maybe still asleep.

He lay back next to you and drew you as close as he could, your bare chest against his. His skin was warm and soft, and just the contact made you feel better.

“You know how they do for babies right after they’re born,” he said, running his hand up and down your back. “I think it’s called kangaroo care. Skin-to-skin contact.”

You gave a soft laugh, finally understanding. “Oh. Yeah, I guess you're right.”

“I’m always right,” he said. He kissed your face. “Is it helping?”

You nodded. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, sweetheart.”

You lay like that for a while, chest to chest, listening to the rhythm of each other’s breathing in the quiet of your bedroom. It was intimate, tender, patient; as he knew it would be, it was exactly what you needed. Gentle touches started to wander, and you eventually felt him warm to your touch.

“Jake,” you said mildly.

“Yeah, I know,” he said with a slight grimace. “Sorry. Ignore it.”

You smiled. “What if I don’t want to ignore it?”

You drew your leg over his thigh and heard his sharp intake of breath.

“We don’t have to,” he said, and you knew he meant it. “I wasn’t trying to get frisky when I started this. I just wanted to help.”

“It is helping,” you said softly, pressing your mouth to his in a gentle kiss. It wasn’t what you’d planned either, and you knew his intentions had been innocent, but you couldn’t think of anything you wanted more than to be as close to him as you could.

His hands moved lower on your back, trailing between your legs, slow and patient. 

“We can stop any time you want,” he reminded you. “Really, sparrow.”

You kissed him again. “I know. I don’t want you to stop.”

You enjoyed long moments of his touch, warming to your desire, comforted and soothed by the tenderness with which he traced you like a beloved thing. When both of you were completely bare and vulnerable to the other, he moved to hover over you, cradling you close with one hand on the small of your back, tucking you into the protective lee of his body.

“Go slow,” you said.

“Of course, my love.”

He eased into you slowly, patiently, never thinking of himself as he filled you and held you close. You breathed a sigh of relief as he settled, awash in the comfort and familiarity of the feeling of him inside and out.

“Thank you,” you said. You held him close. “I needed this. I needed you.”

He kissed you. “My sweet sparrow. You always have me, you know that.”

He kept you there for a while, waiting patiently for you, telling you how much he loved you, his voice a lullaby. 

“Beautiful,” he said softly, peppering your face with gentle kisses. “You’re so beautiful. I love you, Sparrow.”

“I love you,” you said. You started to move against him, and you loved the way his breath caught.

It was slow and soft and gentle, pleasure cresting with all the tenderness of a wave against a shore. You felt tears come again, your chest tight with love for him, and he brushed them away with a soft touch.

“Don’t cry, sparrow,” he said, his voice soft with compassion. “Are you alright?”

You kissed him, trying to tell him in more than words how much you loved him, how thankful you were for him.

“I’m perfect,” you said. “Thank you for loving me like you do.”

He sighed, relieved and tender for you, kissing you with every gentleness, and his touch eased every bit of the tangle in your chest until all you felt was warmth and safety.

“I love you, Jake,” you said softly.

He kissed you again.

“I love you too, sparrow. More than I could ever tell you.”

(i'll reblog with the taglist tomorrow bc it's late and i'm lazy! <3)

#i've had this idea in my head forever and i liked how it turned out and i hope you do too!! #i like how i always write jake and sparrow being so soft and tender with each other :') #jake kiszka x reader #jake kiszk fluff #jake kiszka fanfiction #gvf fanfiction #greta van fleet fanfiction #jake x sparrow #cabin fever fics #maddie writes stuff!

[moondirti]

𝐂𝐀𝐁𝐈𝐍 𝐅𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑 [18+]

familiar! ghost × witch! reader

you are a witch trapped at home by a devastating blizzard. ghost is the demon that answers your call. ( PART 1 of 2 )

DEAD DOVE. RATED R. HORROR/SMUT. 6k. – AO3

please please please read the warnings under the cut before reading. this is leagues darker than my usual work. it is a dark fic, and you know your limits better than i do.

warnings: discussed cannibalism. graphic depictions of gore. vomiting. killing/butchering animals. violent thoughts. malnutrition. alienation/isolation. manipulation. corruption. mentions of somnophilia. dark!ghost – i.e. simon does not conform to human morality. afab reader using she/her pronouns.

inclusivity note: the reader is described as smaller than simon, but he stands at 250 cm in his true form (8"2), so i assumed everyone – if not, most – would fit that category. she's also malnourished/sick at the start and so there are some references to unhealthy weight loss

Situated between a dense network of ancient oaks, a lesser demon would have mistaken the cottage for a boulder had they spawned further than ten metres away. Save for the warm orange glow illuminating its arched windows, the home married perfectly to its surroundings – disfigured and hideous, walls warped by unevenly stacked stone and a roof bowed under a thick blanket of snow. Overgrown bushes stick out from under its gnarled fence, dead branches desperately reaching, and the ivy he assumes was once adhered to its front has since been ripped out by the storm, whipping in the howling wind. 

But Ghost is no lesser demon; in fact, he’s far above this whole affair. Something of his rank answering the summons of a novice who could offer no more than sheep’s liver buried in their front yard was an occurrence practically unheard of. For good reason, too. He’s dangerous in the right hands, willing to resort to lengths that even the devil wouldn’t dream of so long as he receives proper payment. Most power-hungry neophytes would slaughter, have slaughtered, to have him as their familiar. Even then, he is above their grovelling. 

So, to be lured out of respite by sheep’s liver, of all things… 

He supposes he has no excuse for it, not that he has to explain himself to anyone. Perhaps he’s here only to satisfy his curiosity. The call hadn’t come from the lips of someone who’d been practising – sharp and sure, roused by a brand of audacity special to cocksure practitioners – but from someone softer. More sceptical. It’s unusual that an occultist would have both knowledge and skill to summon a familiar, yet still be suspicious as to whether they even exist at all. He’s not so much offended, then, as he is morbidly interested in what reaction his appearance would incur.

Disgust. Terror. Reverence. 

Warmth pools in his belly, blood oozing in fat globs to fuel the flame that compels him to head into the small home. It’s hard to make out what’s inside merely by looking through the windows; the glass has glazed over from the contesting temperatures on either side of it, painting a bleary picture of a fire silhouetting vague shapes. The doorstep creaks under his heavy foot, but nothing – from what he can see – moves in response to the disturbance. It’s late, he knows. If it weren’t for the thick clouds shrouding the sky, he would see the moon sinking towards the west horizon. Anyone with any sense in this world knows to be asleep during witching hour.

The doorknob is round. Brass. Worn by a hand that’s gotten very good at grasping it in the same manner every time. Ghost takes a moment to digest what that tells him about his new client before turning it and ducking inside. He was right to assume it’d be unlocked. While he’d have been able to find a way in otherwise, the silly little oversight manages to elicit more excitement in him than necessary. Their mistake is added to his quickly growing character evaluation. A routineer. Garden-variety mortal, too naive for their own good. Someone isolated. Someone– 

Small. 

Size has always been relative for something of his stature. At two and a half metres, he’s able to tower over even his own. But it truly hits him, right there, how long it’s been since he last encountered a human. He tries to tally the decades in his head, only to fail and fail again by fault of distraction. It shouldn’t hit him as hard as it does. She fulfils every bit of what he expected, after all; plain, though younger than the typical practitioner of familiar-summoning ability. Fast asleep on a threadbare couch. Drowned in clothing, skin dewy with sweat. A book abandoned, open on her chest, stuffed with spare pieces of parchment and illegible annotations. Ink-stained fingertips.

But his hand could crush her head if he was truly compelled to do so. He could scoop the bare ankles currently peeking out of her quilt and throw her over his shoulder like wild game, skinned and simple to carry back to hell. He remembers the fallow deer he’d feasted on just last week, belly soft as he sunk his teeth into it, and considers letting his appetite get the best of him with the one that’s unwittingly made herself available tonight. Crack open her ribcage to gorge on the gooey insides that no doubt taste like honey to a monster with his appetite. Bury his snout into her sweet-scented neck and get a sense for prey that can fight back, if just barely. 

But the moment passes. In her slumber, she shifts to lay on her side, spooning the grimoire closer. The minor hint of life reawakens another, more primaeval urge in him, last felt aeons ago when he was a younger fiend and the world had been a much more vulnerable place.

(The urge to take, to bend and break to fit his fancy. Chewing on cartilage until it smacks like gum between his maw, flossing the foul curl of his canines. To sink his claws into tender calves and carve an irreversible Ghost-shaped hole in her home, a haunting so stubborn she’ll turn to a fake God to try and expel him.)

And it’s violent. A rather restive longing. But placed next to the patience he’s learnt in the centuries since, he makes his choice. A natural conclusion to a creature who’s always gotten what he’s wanted.

Yes, he’ll stay. Be here when she wakes and revel when those eyes widen at the sight of him, darkening the corner of her room. He’ll stay; trail around and observe as she tries to make sense of her routine in light of the beast looming over her shoulder. He’ll stay, maybe ravage what's between her legs, devastate her sense of preservation and instead make her beg for the damage. Fall short on his duties as a familiar. Stay until he gets bored, when he’s had his fill of the crying and the quaint box she calls home. When playing with his food any more will lay the morsel to waste. Only then will he finally tear into the temptingly delicious meal in front of him.

For now, though, his neck aches from having to stoop under such a low roof. He resorts to a bygone human form instead, one he consumed ages ago – bones snapping, flesh dimpling, folding, morphing into a much smaller thing, a man – and waits.

Morning finds you doubling over the side of your couch to retch up what little food you had scavenged the previous evening. 

The loss is sore. Your stomach protests as the stale bread and water emulsion punches up your throat, emptying out onto the hardwood floor. Acrid. Bitter on the back of your tongue, sharp like the cramps that erupt in your abdomen once you lay back down. Sweat plasters baby hairs to your forehead, crawling down your back and pooling underneath your bandaged breasts. You wipe it off with trembling hands, kicking the suffocating quilt until it slouches off the armrest on which your feet lay. 

Last night’s fire is little more than smouldering ash. Still, the cottage maintains a pervasive heat, the air buzzing with an unnamed vigour. It’s unlikely that the blizzard has ceased long enough for the snow blanketing your home to melt – and given the walls’ remarkable ability to release warmth faster than they absorb it, the current temperature is enough to confound you. 

Likely a fever, you think, pressing knuckles to your temple. The timing is unfortunate enough, though something about your conclusion falls apart when tested against the churning of your gut. You’re clearly unwell, that much is apparent by the bile spoiling your floor, but you’d be a fool to miss the supernatural root of it. Like a perpetual tremor, never waning despite the way your muscles flare. A delirium that unfurls from your nape to slowly embrace your ears. You blink, trying to make sense of the queasiness that continues to wrack you. 

You’d run out of herbs two days after the blizzard snowed you in, the remaining potions lining your pantry ones best left untouched. It couldn’t have been anything you took, then. Nor was it a spell; the last one you’d cast was an ignition charm you’ve performed so often you know its effects like the planes of your cheeks. You cycle through yesterday's happenings with febrile imprecision, sipping long gulps of oxygen to tame the queasiness lapping up your chest. Like bailing water out of a quickly sinking raft. Cupping it in your palms and throwing what you can overboard. You get nowhere, and your nausea only worsens.

You’d gone to sleep with your grimoire in hand. Had you cast something while in a hypnagogic state? Possible, though rather uncharacteristic. Your fingers dig into the cushion gutters, poking for any sign of the thick book. As a migraine begins to tear at your skull, your search borders on unhinged. Pillows fly across the room, cushions following suit. The quilt billows as you air it several times over, providing some fleeting – yet much needed – airflow. 

You’re so focused on finding it that you almost miss the fact that the charred voice behind you is not your panic made material. Not the voice inside your head.

“Under the couch.”

This one is hoarse. Deep. It almost instantaneously shatters the heavy atmosphere cloaked over your shoulders, breaking your pyrexia with a sharp shiver down your spine. Pure ozone injected into the bubble you’ve made for yourself, the one you thought was so secure. Where the knife you taped to the underside of your table has remained untouched in the years since you moved in, unneeded. Hunched the way you are now, you can see it. Glinting as a mocking smile does; all teeth. Too far for you to retrieve without alerting your intruder. Too far for it to be an option. Your instincts rear.

Slowly, you crouch lower, hand skimming under the couch. Your pinkie grazes the well-loved leather of your grimoire’s cover. It manages to ground you to the situation at hand, though the reality is far more horrifying than what you could’ve conjured on your own. Distorted still, rippling with the impact of your fear. Paralysis battles adrenaline – your mind freezes with the shock of drowning, your body championing for survival. It doesn’t give you time to catch up.

Wood splinters under your heel as you twist, springing in the general direction of the voice. Heavy book in both hands. Your shoulders square, steadying as hinges to your attack. The figure is just visible; you barely make out the silhouette of its head before you aim for it.

But it grabs your wrist and flings your grimoire across the room in a fraction of the time, the spine splaying open onto an adjacent wall. Your stomach capsizes. The raft tips, flips, sends you crashing into frothing waves. Migraine blinding you for a brief, horrifying moment; one where you can’t see the thing shackling your wrist, or anticipate the hard kick it gives to your ankles. You buckle with the pain, held up by one heavy paw. A low whine syphons from your chest.

“Enough of tha’, now.”

Your vision comes into focus several seconds later. Still watery, brine spooling over your eyes, readying them for pruning, but clear enough to make out the depth of this ravine you’ve shipwrecked over. And it’s–

Uncanny. Teetering the thread between jarring and inhumane. Nothing about it – you’ve a hard time believing the moniker of ‘man’ – strikes you as superficial. Nothing skin-deep. Like a mountain seen breaking the horizon line from continents away, its rocks humming a song too closely resembling a banshee’s shriek for it to be alluring. Something concealed within its caves; underground, bubbling, molten. An impetus for myths, undiluted by tired parents using it to scare their children into bed. Still crowned by its original savagery, conceptualised centuries ago by a peasant who made the mistake of getting too close.

But it isn’t a concept, you quiver. It’s here – fleshly, corporeal. And it's even made an attempt to look human. As if you wouldn’t feel it itching to burst out of this skin, suffocated by too small constraints. Over six feet and then some, shoulders doubling yours and fingers that stretch a bit too long, a bit too thick. No face: everything but its eyes covered in knitted headwear, framing the pair of pale pupils, shadowed by a heavy brow.

 Some suicidal, hare-brained part of you wonders what would happen if you were to lift the bottom of its mask. (What you would see. How it would react.) But the compulsion is quickly stifled by another wave of gagging, empty stomach looking for anything to regurgitate. The thing masquerading as a man catches on fast, flipping you so your back tucks against its chest. You end up projecting water over the carpet, coughing until your head pounds like a ripe bruise. It’s then that you realise your condition has everything to do with its presence, souring now that you’re practically nestled against its abdomen.

“What…” You question between dry heaves. “What are– What do y-you want with me?”

“Better question ‘s, wha’ do you want?” It murmurs back, rumbling too close to your ear. Rot thickens its breath, potent enough that it draws the tears already dotting your lash line. No doubt a corpse remains stuck somewhere down its gullet, stored away for later. No doubt you’ll join it soon, gnawed on until your flesh falls off the bone. The perfect victim; all alone, the town pariah. A witch by the common man’s standards. Cast out to a dismal forest to die.

“I don- I don’t–”

“Summoned me, didn’ you? Dug a nice little hole and all. Well,” His hand shifts, clasping tighter around your struggling arms. “I’m ‘ere now. ‘Bout wha’ you expected?”

You use your retching as an excuse to play a game of catch up, squeezing the last of your tears out. Your memories bleed into one another, ink on wet parchment. Summoned. Dug a… hole, to call on this thing of supernatural proportions currently occupying your home. Why would you want that? What have you done? The past year has been marked by loneliness of a drastic degree, certainly, yet–

And then it comes flooding back to you.

(Washing the salt off of preserved sheep’s liver. Fastening it to a bouquet garni with twine. Folding the modest sacrifice under layers of earth. Pouring milk onto the upturned dirt.)

“Aren’t you supposed to be an– an animal… Or something.” You choke.

(You never thought it’d work: this magic amateurishly scribbled onto the back of your book by a hand long necrotized. The runes had been difficult to fathom on their own. And the way the spell had sounded on your clumsy tongue made you sure you’d done it wrong. It was purely a pursuit of curiosity. Something to keep you occupied, for lack of anything else to do.)

“Or something.” It answers.

A familiar. Yours, to be precise. In service to you since it took the offering you fashioned. Or, of greater import, one that can’t do anything to you lest you ask for it.

(Foolish to think you can clamp a collar on a feral beast and expect it to heel.)

The girl has a harder time adjusting than his original estimate.

Of course, there’s the illness. The affliction that plagues all mortals who come in contact with a demon for the first time. She’s violently sick for days, verging on the full first week of his arrival. Constantly bent over herself, holding a metal pail close for the inevitable purge of bile, that which her liver overproduces to compensate for a lack of food. Her under eyes blacken five shades darker. Her cheekbones grow more pronounced. Ghost watches it all with a macabre sort of interest, unable to take much satisfaction in the affair as his meal withers away before his very eyes. Wrists thinning into willow branches. Lips flaking like dead bark.

He's almost tempted to do something before she begins to recover herself. Gets more used to his unnatural presence, it seems. Gradually. Slow.

It starts when she wakes up one morning, having slept in later than he’s known her to, hiccupping but otherwise solid. After laying on the couch for an hour, she limps off with dwindling energy to fry a batch of velvet shank for breakfast. The meal is hardly enough for one, yet she plates two-thirds of it for Ghost and places the dish on the table he’s commandeered for his own. It’s a kind gesture; he doesn’t have it in him to be kind about it, though. Yet before he can criticise her efforts, she waddles off to pry a window open. Frigid winds encroach on her sheltered home at once, snow flurrying in, but she braves the cold until a crow lands on the windowsill. 

“Hello.” She croons, smoothing a knuckle across its crown. “Sorry I’ve been away. Here,” Digging into her breast pocket, she pulls out a handful of chokecherries and feeds them to the bird. “make them last. Supply is low.” 

The crow merely picks them off her palm, coos lost in the roaring storm that batters at the door. For the first time since his arrival, Ghost is tempted to bleed into the shadows. The affair he’s made voyeur to is delicate, an understated glimpse into a life entirely foreign to him. It aches when he can’t piece together why she would give up her food for nothing in return, or why she treats him the same way she does a feral bird. He thinks it must be ego, this snarling anger in his chest. 

So when the crow flies off with a final farewell pet down its back, he hardens into a nastier version of himself. Ghost still hasn’t touched the paltry breakfast when she turns her attention back to him, a fact she meets with a gingerly raised eyebrow. 

“’Fraid I won’t eat tha’, pet.”

She takes a moment to process his epithet of choice, eyes narrowing in an almost comical turnaround of her previous gentle expression.

“Wouldn’t it be the other way around?” She scoffs.

The indignation alone should be enough to incense him further, never mind the apathy she adopts when she shucks the contents of his plate onto her own and marches back to the couch. It doesn’t. If anything, he calms a little at her willingness to take away what she so graciously offered. The cat does have claws, then. Albeit petty, piddling little claws – like the runt of a litter who’s learnt to bite back at anything that gets too close – but a fire, nonetheless. He appreciates that, perhaps more than he assumed he would. 

Her sickness, he finds, is not the only issue.

Ghost lacks context for her situation – why she lives alone when the closest towns are just bordering the forest, or why no one ever seeks her out – but it does not escape him that the girl isn’t properly socialised.

In the centuries since they first emerged, he’s absorbed a keen sense for mortal behaviour. Credit to their alarming predictability, pattern recognition has halved the effort needed for his hunts. Not that he pretends to be at one with their psychology, but it’s easy to pin just where exactly she deviates from the norm when his strategy for ravaging her depends on it. More than once, he finds himself inexplicably engrossed in her habits.

Given her home is limited to the living room, kitchen, and washroom, she struggles to find a space where she can escape his oppressive presence. Ghost does not make it easy for her, either. He could choose to blend into the darker corners of her cottage, embodying the moniker he’d been given all those years ago and disappear almost completely – or enough to give her a mental break. But the mood strikes him more often than not, and he’ll loom over her like a spectral shadow, looking to provoke the grave mood swings that seize her like Satan does his miscreants. By far the most entertaining outcome had been when overstimulation trounced her usual level of tolerance and she pulled a knife on him, zeroed in on his jugular. He’d managed to scruff her by the nape until she wore herself out – which isn’t to say she didn’t put up quite a fuss. 

Since then, she has yet to lash out to such an extreme, instead locking herself in the washroom when her temper skyrockets. Ghost is almost disappointed. 

That’s his pet at her worst. At her best, she opts for quiet coexistence, either whispering to the crow who visits daily and appears to be her only friend, or cradling that ugly book in both hands. The back of the couch where she lounges most often obscures his view of her, but he’ll get the occasional vision when she pokes her eyes above the top to check on him. He maintains eye-contact – the heavy, uncomfortable kind that engenders pure humiliation and pummels her back into place, eyebrows furrowed and contentment spoiled – until the boredom gets to him.

The next time she sneaks a peek, then, he effects a gruff “Still ‘ere.”

She keeps to herself after that, nose buried in her grimoire like a chastened fawn. 

It takes three weeks for her to settle into normalcy. By that time, Ghost’s patience has already started to wear thin.  

The girl operates under the impression that he can’t do anything unless she orders it of him. He doesn’t blame her, credulous thing that she is. The notion is generally accepted by most of her grade, propagated by some text meant for beginners, written by a man who lacked the subtlety to discern between rules and good form. It’s true that familiar’s tend to only perform feats their counterparts ask for, but only because to do otherwise is bad practice. What else motivates a symbiotic relationship if not trust? Dependency? 

Of course, that’s if a demon has anything to gain that a human can provide. He’s always found it to be a little more than pathetic. Reared to hunt, formidable in his thaumaturgic ability – Ghost has lasted centuries by remaining self-sufficient, unwilling to lean on the inferior class of rational beings. Unwilling to do their dirty work in exchange for blood he could obtain very well on his own. At least, that had been the conviction when he’d answered her graceless summons, bent on killing both his curiosity and hunger with one stone. 

But something about her had made him glad to abide by the niceties. Had soothed the spring of his haunches as he prepared to pounce, or otherwise convinced him to play passive until golden opportunity struck. He’d wanted her to have as much a hand in her own unravelling, like a frog brought to a boil, entirely oblivious of its impending death until much too late. Her erroneous understanding of their dynamic, then, had paired nicely with his purposes. So he led her on to believe it, wasted most of his days amenable at the dining table as if waiting for instruction. As if she was the one in control, buzzing to shatter the perception when she inevitably asks something of him. 

What he’s found, unsurprisingly, is that she’s blossomed under the reassurance. The initial fear that gripped her once she realised he wouldn’t be going away has since watered down to a weak, background agitation. He tastes it in the air; the mild unease as she flits about her cottage, the first thing to go when something else captures her attention. The way she hardly takes note of him anymore, waking up or retiring to sleep with nothing but covert glances to where he monopolises space. 

So that feeling of frothing irritation returns at her docility, only more powerful than it had been when she’d offered her last chokecherries to the crow. No witch or wizard of her acumen has ever been so lacking in spite – and from what little she’s allowed him to see of her outbursts, he knows she isn’t short of it either. Yet she’d given up so quickly. Forfeited her home and comfort to a monster she hasn’t attempted to make any use of. And fuck– if that isn’t what he’d wanted. He needed her secure in him, pretty and soft enough that she’d be tempted to trade him for favours, for little feats of magic or the completion of chores she no longer has to worry about now that she doesn’t live alone. 

Nevermind the detail that she refuses to ask anything of him; it still claws at him the wrong way, razor-sharp and deadly as it tears up his throat. This anger on her behalf. A compensation for the response she should be having. It stirs him when he realises that, for all intents and purposes, what he feels is pity. Perilous, committed sympathy. 

There’s a reason he steers clear of it, too. Quick to snowball. He already feels it growing, avalanching into the hollow recess where he’d suppressed the soul of his first meal. Something shifts, then. He can’t place it. Just knows that the outcome he’d envisioned – where her bones serve to pick his teeth of the soft flesh from her thigh – is no longer a viable option. Just knows that his intentions with her mutate into something perhaps more dangerous, a little more unhinged. To weed out the wickedness he’s only seen in flashes. To see her corrupted into a far worse version of herself. 

It’s late into his twentieth night when Ghost decides to do something about it. 

He wedges back into her cottage when dawn splinters over the virgin snow. If he were a passionate man – not this hellhound trailing blood behind him like breadcrumbs – he’d remark on the way the tepid sunlight stains the forest in shades of peach and lurid blue. But the crow between his teeth hangs limp, and he’s hurried for the best way to present his gift, too absorbed in the task at hand to pay much mind to scenery. 

The house is as tranquil as it always is at this time. Suspended in amber, a fossilised quaintness he’s grown used to. Golden, almost sticky slow. She’s still fast asleep on the couch, soft snores whistling from underneath a patchwork quilt (which smells so much like her that, to his mutt senses, they’re one-in-the-same form.) Despite the precarity of the moment, he makes no effort to keep quiet. His natural disposition isn’t prone to making any unintentional noise though, and so the only thing he disturbs are the dust motes bobbing in suspended animation. 

Ghost places the dead bird on the table. It won’t be long before the blood drains from the punctures in its neck, and he prefers his meat iron-rich and wet, so he makes quick work of morphing back into his human form and washing his muzzle clean. There’s a sick thrill that curls in his gut; something like adrenaline, ozone-rich. Ruthless. He holds a crystalline picture of her reaction to the slaughtered friend he dragged into her home; angry, doe eyes glazed with tears as she yells at him for acting against her best wishes. Bad dog. Perhaps she’ll pull the dagger she keeps taped to the bottom of the table to indulge a sense of security. Perhaps she’ll drive it into his chest. That’s for hoping. 

Standing over her now, he imagines the way her serene face morphs into something foul when she’s pushed to her limits. His cock twitches at the mental picture, aching behind the confines of his pants. A heavy hand moves to adjust it, stilling once it cups his balls to consider whether it’d be overkill to tug it over her face while she remains nice and still like this. It would be – not anything he’s above, granted, but excessive nonetheless. Besides, she’ll have plenty of time to accept the attention. Learn to love it, even.

When she wakes, Ghost has already plucked the crow. The feathers pile in the centre of her round dining table – distinctive even when detached from a body, meant for her to draw parallels to the game he currently masticates. Yet she hardly notes his presence at all. Instead, the unsuspecting thing merely clears the sleep from her bleary eyes, weighed down by a heavy cloak of sloth, more focused on wiping the drool off her chin than him. If she had been, perhaps the pieces would fall that much faster; at least, that’s what the quick-tick rap of his pulse insists upon. 

But he’s no over-eager brute. He can wait. 

Yet he is tense when she shuffles to and from the bathroom, bare feet padding along hardwood. Like a flood, his body grapples against the tidal urge to grab her jaw and force her gaze upon his bloody teeth, sharpened and marred behind the mouth of his true form.  Look at me. Have you no survival instinct? There is a threat in your home and you parade in front of it, blind as a mole. You’ll get eaten like this. You’ll be condemned to hell between the jowls of horrible men.

(More monster than ever, really. Even like this, bound by his approximation of what a mortal man looks like, his face remains stuck to its original construction. The knitted mask he wears is more for her sake than his; he’s never been able to replicate the particulars of humanity. The delicate planes of their lips or the angles their noses protrude at. Better not to try, then. Better to hide it all away.)

It’s as she scrounges for breakfast that she finally heeds the pinpricks of blood dotting the floor. Fat, dark splotches draw a clear line from the doorway to a very calm Ghost, sat with his thighs spread over her too-tiny chair. He’s yet to finish his meagre meal – each bite seasoned with a satisfaction that bloats heavy in his stomach – hence the evidence of his crime still paints the corner red. A violent picture. Distressing, if he were to interpret the way her brows knit tight. 

Crimson meat marbled ivory. Wings pried off a picked apart ribcage, shanks sucked clean of slightly tougher muscle. Still intact are the heart, tongue, liver – their membranes dissolving to soak into the table. The smell of death will be hard to rid of, he’s sure, much like the inedible parts of the bird that scatter carefully in front of him. Its glossy black talons. That tell-tale beak. Feathers on which her eyes linger, like she recognises the sheen but is too upset to connect it to the crow she fed daily. Her only friend. 

She steps closer. Ghost devours every minute expression that flits upon her face. For the expressiveness of her pupils – contracted, small like organic pearls – she doesn’t portray much externally. Her fingers wring her skirt, twisting and twisting until it wrinkles in the impression of her thumb. Her lips purse into a thin line. But as far as his sharp observation goes; no tears. No ugly rage rippling her cheeks. 

“What is this?” She asks in a small voice. 

“Breakfast.” He says. It isn’t the response she’s looking for, and a frown tugs at her mouth. Not necessarily sad. Her hands release to clench at her sides. He smiles behind the mask. He can’t help himself. 

“I didn’t tell you to do this.” 

The smile breaks into a low chuckle. “No?” 

“No.” Shaking her head, emotion surges up her throat. It bubbles thick and forces her to adopt a higher pitch to overpower it. “You brute. I-If you could’ve done whatever… whatever you wanted t-the whole time–”

“C’mere.” His hand snakes around her wrist, using it to wrench her closer. He consciously keeps his grip light – too much force and he could easily shatter bone – but the girl does not share his concern. She pulls and fights and stubbornly protests his direction.

“No! Get the fuck off! Get out!” She heaves. Seethes. Spittle launches from her tirade, her nails digging into his palm. She looks for blood but he won’t give it to her. She’s doing well, but not well enough. Eventually, he is able to pull her onto his lap, locking thick arms around her squirming form. “You bastard. You monster! I’ll fucking kill you. I’ll murder you in your sleep and feed your rotten insides to the maggots. Let me go!” 

He’s blood-filled in his trousers. The hefty bulge knocks the small of her back and of all things, that’s what gets her to suddenly slacken. Though her chin tips to rest between her collarbones, lashes deliberately cast down. Refusing to meet his eye for all she’s worth. Good, he thinks, a warmth blossoming in his chest. 

“You ough’ to know your friend didn’ put up a fight.” He starts, nosing the part in her hair. Despite his knitted mask serving as a direct barrier between them, he can smell the pine and juniper berry soap she uses to wash up. Sharp. Sweet. Particularly potent behind her ear, where he considers her lobes like low-hanging fruit. 

“Shut up.” 

“Need to hear this, pet.” She doesn’t listen, naturally, hips bucking wildly the instant he loosens his hold. His fingers bruise when he readjusts her on his thighs. “Need to know it was your fault as much as i’ was mine. Yeah? Y’let it grow too comfortable. Fed it daily and robbed i’ of its ingrained fear of strangers. In the end, it got much too friendly. Didn’ have the sense to fly away when I approached it.” Her breath pinches into a piercing whine. Ghost likens it to the kettle she keeps over her stove, waiting for steam to burst out of her ears. 

It does not come. Instead, she cries. Beads of brine break her waterline, streaking miserable paths down her cheeks. He’ll grant her this: she does not sob unreasonably. Her hiccups are limited to if and when the air hardens in her lungs. He lets her have a moment before continuing. 

“S’what happens, see. You get complacent, ‘n’ next thing you know, you’re meeting your God. Tell me, pet: do you think the afterlife would be pleasant to a witch?” 

When she doesn’t respond, he bounces a knee to knock some sense back into her. Her weeping starts anew, only this time accompanied by a stuttered acknowledgement. 

“Hm?” 

“N-No.” 

“No. ‘Course I could ‘ave told you that much, but it’s importan’ you come to the moral of the story yourself. Fight, or die.” Ghost strokes the goosepocked flesh of her upper arm, voice softening to deliver the final part of speech. It’s treacherously low, ultimatum like powdered ash cushioning the roughness in his throat. “And believe me when I say, dying ain’ the better option. There are far worse fates than me in Hell.” 

He does not know whether it lands like he wants it to. If it accomplishes anything at all. But she doesn’t attempt to peel herself off him in the aftermath. Instead, she mourns herself dry for the next hour, snivelling wretchedly on his lap. 

When her crying stops, the air is still laden with something. Hesitation rolls off her in waves, dense with the renewal of fear. He supposes it must be hypocritical of him, to both strike her with terror and expect her to overcome it, but he hums anyway, nudging her temple off his shoulder in an appeal to state what’s on her mind.  

What comes instead is a deceptively simple question. 

“What’s your name?” She asks. Doesn’t demand of him to tell her. Doesn’t set up grounds for him to ask for something in return. He can either answer, or not. She leaves the choice up to him. Clever girl. 

He grapples with it a moment too long. A long dead man beats at his ribcage and demands to be heard. A meal he never managed to digest. Hissing. Snarling. S-Si-Si–

“Ghost.”

i do not have a taglist. to be alerted when i update, please follow @moondirti-archive and turn on post notifs.

#simon ‘ghost’ riley #simon 'ghost' riley x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #simon riley #ghost #call of duty #fanfiction #fanfic #modern warfare #cod mw2 #simon 'ghost' riley x you #ghost x you #simon riley x you #simon ‘ghost’ riley x female reader #x female reader #xf!reader #dead dove #dark fic #fic ༄ cabin fever

[2docked]

We sail today

Tears will drown in the wake of delight

There's nothing like this built today

You'll never see a finer ship in your life

#my stuff #2doc #studoc #gorillaz #murdoc niccals #stuart pot #2d #if i were good i would write a fic with this #love the ocean. the hypnotic effect it can have on some drawing it towards it #if you look inside it for too long you might go insane #murdoc losing his marbles at sea and making 2d play out his nautical fantasy seacaptain #2d is also losing his mind at sea but in the i'm going to fuckinh kill you murdoc ship-cabin-fever way

[deliciouskeys]

What do you think of Hughie x Homelander?

It might be my favorite crackship for HL.

It's surprisingly touchy feely lol:

I can't locate the original artist but I love this:

#hughlander? #homie? #I call it cabin fever for the seminal Bottom the Homelander tagged fic on AO3 #hughie campbell #homelander #lol #the boys #the boys tv #thanks for the ask!

[bug-decal-kissing]

Hey friends!

Come Earn a Place in My Heart, by biteof22, was updated today, with 4/? Chapters released! It has a rating of Teen And Up Audiences and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Slow Burn, Unresolved Tension, Denial of Feelings, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Office, Mutual Pining, Auditor!Prismo tomfooleries, i pre-wrote this fic a month ago so posting is easier. i swear i'm not doing magic."

You can read it here:

Scarab's denial of his own feelings is going to give me rabies/silly. 'I'm not in love with Prismo,' he says as he goes into his car and went to a cafe and fell asleep in front of him literally yesterday and/j. COSMIC OWL APPEARANCE WAHOOO !!!

Light! Camera! Action!, by Zalupa2005, was updated today, with 2/? Chapters released! It is Not Rated and Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, with additional tags "Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Deviates From Canon, Homophobia, Falling In Love, Hurt/Comfort, Flashbacks, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, Idiots in Love, Humor, all people, overtime, Office, Friends to Enemies, Enemies to Lovers"

You can read it here:

Scarab his own office now as he deserves <3. Seeing a normal-looking and acting Golb gave me whiplash he's not supposed to be normal!!!/j I love Prismo asking if Scarab hates him and Scarab not giving a direct answer it's very 👀 do you have something you want to share with the rest of the class, Scarab?/silly

Wrath of the Wishmaster, by Void_Ink_Studios, was updated today, with 7/? Chapters released! It has a rating of Teen And Up Audiences and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Scarab has identity issues, Orbo is the worst, Prismo gets mad, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, Chronic Pain, Scarab has Chronic Pain, Established Relationship, Reminiscing, Backstory, Filling in gaps in the worldbuilding, Worldbuilding, Head cannon nonsense: GO!"

You can read it here:

FUCK ORBO ALL MY HOMIES HATE ORBO!!! Beloved Nightmo appearance as well, I think Prismo should get angry more often, defend his boyfriend :]. I love Scarab going to calm him down; I don't care if the 'cooldown hug' trope is overused I LOVE IT !!!!

This chapter is also on Tumblr !! You can find it here :].

NSFW works are below the cut :].

A new work, Cabin Fever by phoenixash234flames was published today, with 1/1 Chapters released! It has a rating of Explicit and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Established Relationship, Hand Jobs, Rimmingits hard to describe with these two"

You can read it here:

They're universe travelling together <333333 They're so happy and soft together it's making me want to cRY/pos. I feel like we need to come up with a new word for having sex with a wall sticker when you're a 3-Dimensional being/j. I LOVE THEM TRAVELLING THROUGH THE MULTIVERSE DOING IN-LOVE THINGS IT BRINGS ME JOY !!!!!

A new work, Blackened Heart, Blackened Soul by Rachrar was published today, woth 1/? Chapters released! It has a rating of Explicit and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Alternate Universe - Human, Priest/Demon AU, Priest Scarab, Demon Prismo, Catholicism Religious Guilt Slow Burn Anal Sex, Anal Fingering, Cock Piercing, Dacryphilia, Virginity, I tagged the kinks even though it might be a bit until they happen so nobody is surprised, More may be added however"

You can read it here:

THE DEMON/PRIEST AU HAS A FIC NOW WAHOO !! I know therapy wasn't a thing in this setting but Scarab needs therapy. Prismo is Doing Things to him and it's making me go heeheeheehee.

A new work, Boys Will Be Bugs by NeilEatsRaccoons was published today, with 1/1 Chapters released! It has a rating of Explicit and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Post-Series: Adventure Time: Fionna and Cake, Vaginal Sex, Vaginal Fingering, Top Prismo, Bottom Scarab (Adventure Time), Light Dom/sub, Dom Prismo, Scarab is a hermaphrodite, Hermaphrodites, Body Horror, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Smut, Gay Sex, Bug anatomy, Anatomy Lessons, Prismo and scarab are in physical forms for the duration of this fanficWings, erotic wing touching, Wing Kink? - Freeform, Adventure Time - Freeform, your honor theyre gay, The story has nothing to do with the cave town song I just couldn’t think of a title, Penis In Vagina Sex, Penis Licking, Tentacle Dick, Sub scarab, Dom/sub Undertones, Healthy Relationships, scarabs kinda mean but it’s jokey, Consensual Sex, Light Petting, Kissing, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, he/him scarab, Bug Scarab"

Prismo and Scarab have so much potential for their anatomy, it's always cool to see what people do with it. Like yeah, they're not gonna have normal genitalia they've been around since before genitalia was even a thing/j. Fellas is it gay to confess your love only after you've fucked?/j

A new work, Stab Me Gently by Thehyperfixationking was published today, with 1/1 Chapters released! It has a rating of Explicit and No Archive Warnings Apply, with additional tags "Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Somnophilia, Blanket Permission, blanket consent, Tentacle Dick, I'm so sorry, Spreader Bars, Sex Toys, Vibrators, Cock Rings, I had a vison so bad that god should take my sight away, Overstimulation, Multiple Orgasms, Voyeurism, kinda sorta, Prismos kinda a freak ngl, The Author Regrets Everything, I Can't Believe I Wrote This"

You can read it here:

PRISMO GOT HORNY AGAIN :(/j. I wanna see Scarab's reaction it would be funny; jumpscare!! now you're horny :-)/j.

#prohibitedwish #prohibitedwish fics #cabin fever #come earn a place in my heart #blackened heart blackened soul #boys will be bugs #light! camera! action! #stab me gently #wrath of the wishmaster

[randomingoftherandomness]

🏘️ could we have a sick fic? 💕

🏘️ Cabin fever (literally) 

There’s sweat beading on the back of Yuanzhi’s neck. It darkens the fine hairs on his nape and sticks the collar of his loose sleep shirt to his skin. The skin is a little flush, probably from Yuanzhi’s fever that has yet to break.

Shangjue leans in. Carefully rearranging Yuanzhi’s hair so that it isn’t liable to be tugged on and pulled. It’s been two days like this.

“Don’t—“

He dips his hands under Yuanzhi’s shoulders and the backs of his knees, hauling him up to a seated position. With patient tenderness, he starts to help Yuanzhi undress.

“You can leave this for the maids,” Yuanzhi croaks, swaying in his arms. Blinking mulishly, he weakly holds on to the cotton sleeve of Shangjue’s blue robe. “Aren’t you bored of being stuck in the room with me? This isn’t something you should be doing for me.”

His breath is heavy with the scent of medicine and not for the first time since he’d been told by one of the Zhi residence’s Jade Guardians that Yuanzhi had collapsed in his lab, he wonders how stupid his beloved Didi can be.

“I want to,” Shangjue says. “I am willing.”

Carefully untying the knot that keeps the front together, he has Yuanzhi lean against him while he strips him of his shirt. With deft hands, he gently wipes Yuanzhi clean — armpits, inside his elbows, torso, his neck — and not so subtly takes his pulse and checking the way he breathes a little rasping on the exhale as he redresses him in a fresh new shirt. Shangjue is not half the medically gifted his Didi and Elder Yue is, but he can manage when he has to.

Then with some well-practised manoeuvres, and not a small amount of whining from Yuanzhi that is quickly quelled by a glare, he has his trousers off to do very much the same. Wiping down his legs, hips all the way down to toes. Running the damp cloth over the soft skin of his inner thigh, smirking a little when it makes his Didi shiver.

“Get better first. Then I’ll let you do whatever you want, you brat.” Shangjue laughs, moving quickly to dress him again.

“Ge...”

Shangjue focuses first on switching out the basin of water for another one with water that is a little cooler from being left out. With a fresh cloth, he dampens it and starts to wipe at Yuanzhi’s face. Brows, eyelids, cheeks. Down the line of his nose. The backs of his ears, then back to his temple.

“Gege…”

“Hm?” Shangjue answers, looking into Yuanzhi’s eyes. He smiles when he sees the flush on his cheeks that has decidedly nothing to do with his fever.

“Thank you, Gege,” Yuanzhi mumbles. It’s adorable when he gets all shy like this and the knowledge that he is and will always be the only privileged enough to see this doesn’t escape him.

Wrapping him up in his arms, he moves Yuanzhi back while he strips their bed and lays a new sheet. Dumping all the water into a bucket and gathering all the laundry in another, he sets them by the door for the maids to come collect.

Climbing back onto the side of the bed, he helps Yuanzhi lie down, brushing a kiss over the crown of his head.

“I wouldn’t have trusted anyone else to do this for you,” He starts. “No one could have taken care of you as well as I can.”

Yuanzhi scrunches his face at that. Shangjue has to laugh.

“Too cheesy…”

#my journey to you #my journey to you fic #gong shangjue x gong yuanzhi #shangzhi #juezhi #gab writes stuff #Istg I KNOW what cabin fever means

[radioactivepeasant]

Fic Prompts: Cabin Fever Monday

less fic, more of a long ramble, but it's an idea that's been kicking around since the last time I watched a playthrough of Jak 2

(Don't judge me, I don't have a PS2, let alone money for any kind of PS and games lol this is as close as I get)

So in the game, when Jak and company go to Mar's Tomb (and the Precursor validates Jak's "you're sending the four year old in there over my dead body" stance) and then The Baron Mysteriously Knows When And Where To Strike, surprisingly little is said about the fact that Torn sold them out.

Or that Torn was willing to endanger the lives of Jak, Daxter, Kor, young Samos, and the preschooler heir to the throne over the Baron threatening Ashelin. He gets so mad earlier in the game over Jak doing something that threatens to compromise other members of the resistance, but then sacrifices the only other leaders of the Underground? Like he actually thinks Ashelin would let herself get killed????

Yes, I know, that's a pretty typical Jak and Daxter plot hole as plot holes go. But it does get a body thinking.

Supposing Jak, who has Very Noticeable Trust Issues in this game, doesn't just accept what Torn did and move on. He sympathizes with the man, in his way. Jak won't lie and say he might not do the same if someone credibly threatened Daxter or Keira. Nevertheless, now his quest for vengeance is compromised if he can't trust Torn not to leak info back to the Baron. How did the Baron even know where to find Torn, he wonders, and has this happened before?

So Jak starts playing his cards even closer to his chest. Any info he and Dax pick up between them and Vin, they keep to themselves. Any Metalhead nests they report to Torn, but weaknesses in the Crimson Guard to exploit they handle quietly. When they rescue their friends, Daxter breaks it to Tess that Torn was the one who got them arrested. And Tess takes that remarkably well.

If by "remarkably well" you mean "didn't immediately put a hit out on Torn".

Once she's had time to process everything, Tess gets straight down to business. She knows Torn still desperately wants to protect Haven from Praxis, but she also knows that for better or worse he's compromised now. HQ probably isn't safe either. So on the spot she organizes an Underground-within-the-Underground in order to compartmentalize information, with herself as de facto leader because when she suggested that Jak lead he answered with sheer panic and six swear words she'd never even heard before, and it would've been mean to make him lead after that.

They don't know who else is compromised. They don't know where The Kid is. They don't have the Precursor Stone. All they can do is try to muddle along the best they can and deal with each new threat as it emerges. This would be easier if Jak wasn't simultaneously processing the idea of time travel and the suggestion that two Samos's means that his Samos may have known what was going to happen to him.

It isn't a nice thought.

They still keep Torn updated on anything to do with Metalheads, because those are everyone's concern. But when Vin comes up with the idea to just wholesale take over the weapons factory, they don't even tell Kor. (Which, unbeknownst to them, was the best course of action they could have possibly taken.) Torn doesn't hear about it until after Jak has cleared out the whole factory so that Vin can reprogram everything to make it their new HQ. (Errol consequently has a conniption fit that was, by all reports, extremely amusing to watch).

Daxter has a lot of shiny new toys that explode and letting him have his own mech suit was probably a Mistake, but Jak and Daxter enable each other so despite Tess's best efforts, The Daxterminator exists and is painted the most hideous neon orange you have ever seen. Despite its retina-burning qualities, the Daxterminator plus Daxter's gift of gab turn out to be pretty decent recruitment material, and Jak discovers that he is not very good at finding living quarters for people in the weapons factory. No, Jak, they can't just "sleep wherever" like you do. That's not healthy, Jak.

The Baron is furious at the loss of his weapons factory, but it's kind of hard to take it back when, y'know, the majority of the ammo is inside. He plans to use the race to draw out Jak, knowing Krew has been using him as his primary driver. Jak's become something of a symbol to the people, and if he can get him killed on the racetrack, that will quiet some of those rebellious whispers for a while -- and deprive the Underground of their tank.

Tess knows when something is fishy, she figures its a setup. Jak probably knows, but he definitely doesn't care. It's a race, he's certain he'll win, and the prize is a security pass into the palace. Worth the risk in his book. It's Sig, having been bribed into being a "freelance consultant" with a weapons mod, who suggests capitalizing on it being a trap. If the Baron wants attention on Jak, why not use it as a distraction? If there's anything big they need to do, now would be the time to get it done.

Such as breaking into the palace to steal back the Precursor Stone.

They have enough people in their cell of the resistance now that through enough "friend of a friend" connections they can ambush some Guards and steal their armor and passkeys. They just need Jak to keep Errol and the Baron's attention until they can find the Stone. Jak is more than ready to oblige.

Meanwhile Sig is sending reports back to Damas like "yo you're not gonna believe the nonsense that's been going on out here."

#cabin fever monday #free day monday #fic prompts #writing prompts #jak and daxter #jak and daxter au #jak 2 renegade #jak and daxter torn #jak and daxter tess #tess had so much unused potential #also torn made some really bad calls and ashelin would probably have been ticked to find out #in which jak and friends commandeer an entire factory and the surrounding neighborhoods #in which kor is starting to sweat because this wasn't the plan #in which Daxter is. predictably. A Menace #splinter cell au

[mountain-in-springtime]

might celebrate the end of the week tomorrow by rereading cabin fever <3

#all time favorite fic #reading cabin fever was literally a formative event in my life #i cannot express how obsessed i was when i was reading it #literally reading it in class constantly checking for updates i was obsessed #it’s so special to me #thanks for writing cabin fever maddie ily

[s0livagant]

Hmmmm perhaps it’s time to reread one of my josh comfort fics

#should I go cabin fever or brightest blue? it’s been a long while for both of them #Greta van fleet #mine #comfort fics bc I could use some comfort and they’re so good :’))

[hearts-hunger]

a sure and steady hand

Read on AO3 | Masterlist | Standalone in the Cabin Fever universe

Summary: Josh comes home sick, and you take good care of him.

Pairings: Josh x Reader | Genre: fluff, sickfic | Word Count: 2k | Warnings: none!

A/N: More Josh and Baby! Thanks to everyone who shared their cuddly Josh pics today — they were my "research" for this fic :3 I hope you like it! ♡

You woke to a tangle of blankets and a very warm boyfriend. 

Propping yourself up on the pillows, you did your best not to wake him as you gently tried to disentangle yourself from him. He was snuggled so close that he was practically on top of you, and while you didn’t mind his closeness, he was awfully warm to the touch. You brushed his soft curls back from his face and weren’t surprised to see how flushed his cheeks were. 

Josh was always been a furnace, no matter the weather, and you felt that it suited him: it seemed like the light and comfort of his personality couldn’t help but show in rosy cheeks and warm, gentle hands. During the winter months, he was always happy to share a little of his warmth with you, and you’d fallen asleep in his arms the night before, thankful for the heat radiating from him as you pressed close under the covers. 

His temperature now, though, was starting to feel more like a fever. It was especially noticeable with the snow falling gently outside the window, highlighting the chill of your bedroom in your beautiful old house and the warmth of Josh’s face pressed against your neck.

You brushed your thumb over his cheek. “Joshy.”

He only cuddled closer to you. “Five more minutes,” he mumbled.

You smiled. “It’s okay, honey,” you said softly. “You need to sleep. Do you want me to call the boys and let them know?”

His expression scrunched then, and he lifted his head just enough to give you a sleepy, confused look.

“Let them know what?” he asked. His voice was gravelly, and he cleared his throat. “Am I late? What time is it?”

Without waiting for an answer, he reached over you to grab his phone from the nightstand.

“Might as well get up,” he said, giving you a wry smile. “Unless you want to try and squeeze some more sleep out of the seven minutes we have until my alarm goes off.”

You touched a hand to his back when he sat up. “Do you feel okay?”

He looked over his shoulder, a little distracted. “Yeah. Why?”

“You feel warm.” You touched your hand to the back of his neck, and a sweet little giggle bubbled out of him as he moved away from your hand.

“Quit that,” he laughed, and it quickly dissolved into a few crackly coughs. “Your fingers are freezing, baby.”

“Sorry,” you said. You sat up next to him. “I think you should stay home.”

He smiled. “Why, because you want me to stay in bed with you all day?”

You couldn’t say the thought hadn’t crossed your mind, but mostly you felt like he should stay home to rest.

“Let me take your temperature,” you said, getting out of bed to get the thermometer. He followed you to the bathroom, and you thought he was coming willingly to get his temperature checked until he started to brush his teeth. You looked around in the drawers for your thermometer gun but couldn’t find it.

“What’re you looking for?” he asked around his toothbrush.

“Thermometer,” you answered.

He rinsed his mouth out. “I don’t have a fever, baby. I told you I feel fine.”

You abandoned your search for the thermometer and put a hand to his forehead. “But you’re really warm, honey.”

“I run hot, you know that.” He pulled your hand down and kissed your palm. “I promise I feel fine, sweetheart. Thank you for worrying, but you don’t have to.”

He went to get dressed, sifting through his wardrobe for a few moments only to pick his trusty white sweatshirt and khakis. He shivered when he took his pajama shirt off and replaced it quickly with his sweatshirt.

“This house is like a meat locker,” he said, coming over to you to give you a hug. “I kinda wish I was staying home with you and snuggling all day.”

You put your arms around his neck and rested your cheek against his shoulder, watching the snow collect on the windowsill. He still felt overly warm, but you knew there was no use trying to get him to stay home. Josh was nothing if not dedicated to his work, and you knew that him admitting to wanting to stay home was a gentle reminder to you that he was still going to work but was thankful for your worry.

You kissed his cheek. “Come home if you start to feel bad, okay?” you asked. “Promise.”

“I promise, baby.” He gave you a tight squeeze. “I’ll see you after a while. I love you.”

You gave him a gentle smile. “Love you too.”

Snow continued to fall all day, piling up in a beautiful powder across your yard; you ventured out to turn on your Christmas lights when it started to get dark, and your house looked like a gingerbread house bedecked in candy and frosting at the end of your long driveway. Though the snow kept you inside most of the day, you did run to the store to stock up on cough drops, NyQuil, and Josh’s favorite tea. You made soup for dinner, knowing it would be the perfect meal for such a cold night and still convinced that Josh would need some homespun doctoring when he got home from work.

You saw you were right as soon as he came in from the car. You opened the door and meant to greet him when he came up, but he stopped at the top of the porch stairs; after a moment, he ducked his head with a harsh sneeze, and a fine dusting of snow fell from his curls with the movement.

“Goodness, bless you,” you said. "Come inside, honey. You’re covered in snow.”

“Sorry,” he croaked, his voice shot. He let you brush his jacket off on the porch before you helped him out of it, and no sooner was it off than he turned away from you to muffle a volley of congested coughs in his sleeve.

“Sorry,” he said again. He sounded terrible, and you guessed he’d probably pushed his voice to the limit trying to keep pace with the boys in the studio.

“It’s alright, sweetheart,” you said gently. You hung up his jacket and were surprised to hear him give a hoarse laugh.

“What’s so funny?” you asked, unable to help a smile yourself.

He shook his head. “Nothing. I’m just waiting for you to say ‘I told you so’.”

“Aw, honey.” You gave him a hug, and he buried his face in the crook of your neck. “I wasn’t going to say that. I’m just sorry you’re sick.”

“I should have stayed home, like you said.”

“You didn’t get a lot done?” You hated the thought that he’d gone in when he felt bad and hadn’t even gotten done the things he’d been planning on.

He lifted his head. “Actually, we did a ton,” he said. His smile was lopsided. “You should have heard me sing, baby. My voice sounded fantastic with it all hoarse and deep like this.”

“I bet it did,” you said truthfully, a little wry. Though you wished he wasn’t sick, you couldn’t deny that the raspy edge to his voice was alluring; you’d heard him sing coming off a cold before, and you’d been surprised how much you’d liked it.

You gave him a quick kiss. “But you’re going to lose your voice if you’re not careful,” you reminded him. “Which means you’re on vocal rest until I say so.”

He chuckled, and the sound was warm and gravelly. “Yes ma’am.”

You led him into the kitchen, having him sit at the table while you fixed him a bowl of soup and a mug of tea.

“Thank you,” he said, looking up at you with a glassy, exhausted, completely devoted gaze. You couldn’t stop yourself from cradling his face in your hands and giving him a gentle kiss, and you felt his smile when you did.

“What was that for?” he asked.

You brushed his curls back. “No reason. I just love you lots, that’s all.”

“Aw, baby,” he said tenderly. “I love you lots too. Thank you for taking care of me.”

It was your pleasure to take care of him, and you showed it by showering him with the affection and care he always gave you when you were sick. You put his pajamas in the dryer to warm them up; you brought him medicine; while he got a shower, you put on another kettle and set up the couch with a nest of pillows and blankets so you could watch a movie together. You wished there was more you could do, but he was a good patient and really wanted nothing more than for you to be close.

“Where are you going?” he asked when he was settled. His curls were tight and damp, his cheeks rosy, his hands wrapped around the mug to get all the warmth he could; he looked up at you pitifully, worrying you weren’t going to join him on the couch.

“Just to get into my pajamas,” you said as he bottled a few coughs in his chest. “And to get you some Vick’s. Pick out what you want to watch, okay?”

You changed into sweatpants and an old tee of Josh’s, grabbing the vapor rub and the box of tissues from the bathroom before you came back to the living room. Josh looked a little sheepish as the movie started, and you smiled at the familiar jaunty banjo tune and the voice of Kermit the Frog that started Emmet Otter’s Jug-Band Christmas.

“Is this okay?” he asked.

“We can watch whatever you want,” you reminded him. “And you know I love this one anyway.”

He smiled up at you as you came close, and his cheeks took on an even deeper color as you straddled his lap.

“Um, baby...”

“Settle down, cowboy,” you said with an affectionate laugh. “I’m just putting your medicine on. Hold still.”

He was patient and pliant as you rubbed the Vick’s on his chest and neck, giving a contented little groan of relief when you massaged your fingers over his sore muscles. 

“That feels so good, baby,” he said when you pressed your fingers down the line from his neck to his shoulder.

“I'm glad it’s helping, my heart.”

He looked up at you with a dreamy smile. “Call me that again.”

You kissed him. “I love you, my heart. My sweet Joshua.”

His hands gripped your hips gently, and you both lost yourself for a few minutes until he had to pull away with stuttered breaths.

“Sorry, I — ”

He caught a sneeze in the crook of his arm and groaned. “Ugh, why does it hurt to sneeze?”

“You poor thing,” you said with a tender laugh. You climbed off of him and handed him a tissue from the box on the coffee table. “Bless you.”

“Thanks.” He sighed and pressed his free hand to his temple, warding off a headache. “I wish I didn’t feel terrible. I’d just kiss you all night if I didn’t feel like I was going to drop dead any second.”

“So dramatic,” you teased, pulling the blanket over both of you and snuggling close. “Let’s take a rain check for when you’re feeling better.”

You could tell he was tired, and you watched with mingled amusement and affection as he tried to stay awake as the movie played. He rested his head on your chest, and you played with his hair as you sang softly along with the movie — “Thus the winds of time will take us, with a sure and steady hand, when the river meets the sea.”

“I like it when you sing, baby,” he said, his voice soft and hoarse. 

You smiled. “I like singing for you, Josh.”

He cuddled closer to you, seeking warmth and comfort that you were only too happy to give.

“You know John Denver sings this song?” he asked, half asleep.

“I do,” you said. “You got me that album for Christmas last year.”

His smile was drowsy. “Maybe we should do a Christmas album with the Muppets.”

You gave a soft laugh. “Maybe you should.”

You pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and tucked it snugly around him. He snored softly as he dozed, congested and content to let his body rest and heal; you lay with him and held him, loving when he curled his arm around you to get as close as he could be.

“Thank you for taking care of me, baby,” he said just before he fell asleep. “I love you.”

You kissed his soft curls. “You’re welcome, Josh. I love you too.”   

josh taglist: @way-to-go-lad @prophetofthedune @stardustchxrds @bajabule69 @high-fidelity1 @grimm-gvf @gretnavannfleet @sunnykiszka

gvf taglist:@malany-gvf@spark-my-nature@eearevee@madneedshelp@demonrat444@josh-iamyour-mama@honeyandsweettae@mydarlingdanny@gretavandann@sacredjake@myleftsock@joshskittytickler21@hellowgoodbye@watchingovergvf2@fearfulspirit@mywaysoon@carbondancingthroughtime@caprisunsister@eraofstardustchords@sacredthefran@shesawomaninadream @serendipiti @demonrat444@wildflowerxx-x@tearsofdanny @iluvjoshkiszka @jordie-gvf-admin@demolitionndann@hi-hi-hello11@wildbluesorbit@nessie-glorpa@laneygvf

@gvfrry@ohhey1293@the-chaotic-cow@mountain-in-springtime@xserenax-13@stardustjtk @brooke-gvf@weightofdreams-gvf@jakeydoesit@gretasmokerising@hayley1623@doodle417@finestoflines@brokenbellz@bowievanfleet@s0livagant@strugglingtodoshit@s-u-t@kay-jordan@gretavanfleas@jakeyboiiiiiii@gretavansteph@gretavanbitches@myownparadise96@luverleaver@weightofdreamz@greatervanfleet@maedesculpaeusoubi@jakekiszkasbestie@pineapple-photographer@baguettejuliette@alexxavicry@levi-wants-ur-bones@carlybubs@cowboysamkiszka@dannyandthekiszkas@jordierama@slutforsteve@starshine-wagner@quartzzzzzzz@edgeofdreams@writingcold@lostoverseer@catharu77@mackalah@jaketlove @haileygvf @blacksoul-27 @ur-m0ms-blog@hi-hi-hello11@wildbluesorbit @nessie-glorpa @laneygvf@madneedshelp@dreamsingxld

#okay i actually really like this one and i hope you do too! <3 #josh kiszka fanfiction #josh kiszka fluff #gvf fanfiction #greta van fleet fanfiction #josh x baby #cabin fever fics #maddie writes stuff!

[moondirti]

i'm not even a fan of cod but your writing is so fucking good i read cabin fever and a whole bunch of your cod fics because i am now obsessed with ghost like what

slowly persuading the masses… we love to see it

THANK U! im so glad you’re enjoying my work especially since all my cod fics besides cabin fever are so old <3 isn’t ghost just so dreamy 🥹

if you want some other great cod writers i’d check out @yeyinde and @undercoverpena ! their fics are so good i consider injecting them into my blood regularly

#༄dee answers #darling anons #fic ༄ cabin fever

[usaonetwothree]

Cabin Fever (The Karate Kid 3/Cabin in the woods/only one bed AU) coming your way very very soon (hopefully today yet if I can string together the spoons).

#cabin fever #usa123 #my fic

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Cabin Fever 10

Warnings: this fic will include dark content including rape/noncon, age gap, drinking, and other potential triggering elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You come home from college for a family trip at your neighbour’s cabin, but not all is how you remember it. (a sampling of dad’s best friend and best friend’s dad in one)

Characters: dilf!Bucky Barnes

Note: Another unexpected update for this one.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. Thanks to everyone who reads this one and thank you for all your energy.<3

Love you all. Take care. 💖

A thin line of light glimmers along the edge of the trunk, the darkness around you consuming as you bounce with the motion of the tires. Thick bungee cords chafe the skin on ankle and wrist, your legs bent painfully in the confines of the space, your head fragile from the constant rattle. The engine whirs softly beneath the blare of Bucky’s classic rock, the oaky voice of Seger drifting through, muffling your struggles smothered behind a cloth wound around your mouth.

In the summertime Mmm, in the sweet summertim

We weren't in love, oh no, far from it We weren't searchin' for some pie in the sky summit We were just young and restless and bored Livin' by the sword

He's been driving for an hour at least. Time skews in the endless black that enshrines you, drifting with his out of key singalong. 

And we'd steal away every chance we could To the backroom, to the alley or the trusty woods I used her, she used me but neither one cared We were gettin' our share

He sings giddily and the lyrics make your insides churn. It's as if he actually believes the words. That the song speaks to some forbidden love affair. That's now what any of this is! You babysat his kid for three years. You're just the girl next door.

You feel the nerves cluster and ping off each other as your ribs ache with your heaving. You suck down air through your nose as the thoughts, the dread, winds you up. You close your eyes as they wet, dizzy as you struggle to take in a breath. The tight space grows warm with your panicked gulps.

You roll over as the car stops and you hit the wall behind the backseat. Your veins flood with terror and you shake uncontrollably. You feel the darkness seep through your eyelids and dull your senses. 

You can't breathe, you can't breathe, you can't–

🏡

You wake, not all at once. There's a sliver of noise, a car door, footsteps, a cough, a long pause, the car door again. The weight shifts at the other end of the vehicle and you grumble as you kick the wall, only then remembering where you are and what's happening. Not that you're sure of either.

You growl around the cloth in your mouth and kick harder, a feeble act of resistance. You lean awkwardly on your elbow and whimper, uncomfortable as your body remains bent with your constraints.

The engine turns but there's a delay as the volume on the radio dims. Bucky clears his throat, "hey, Seth, how's it going?"

You blink and wiggle as the response comes, a voice you know. Another neighbour, "thought you were up at the cottage."

"Was. Had to drive back Ray's girl. Just dropped her off."

"She back to school early?"

"Ah, you know girls and their mothers," Bucky chuckles, "can't say my own is much better with Jules."

You kick the trunk again, this time harder and squirm like an insect as you try to make noise. To draw attention.

"Shit, sounds rough," Seth comments.

"Yeah, I think it's the tailpipe," Bucky sighs, "but I gotta head back up. Not exactly how I planned my vacay, you know?"

"Well, you be careful, hopefully this thing doesn't fall apart. Thise country roads really do a number."

"Looks better than she is," Bucky agrees and twists up the volume before raising his voice over the music, "see ya."

The car shifts and suddenly reverses. The motion once more sets you off kilter and you can only let it slide you against the back end. He steers down the next block before he lowers the music. He exhales loudly and groans.

"Baby, you're a clever girl but you still got a lot to learn," he taunts, "really is a pity how so many girls your age make all the wrong choices."

You can only huff around the wet fabric as he turns a corner.

"They'll trace the cell towers first and find your phone in the dumpster… that is if the collectors don't get it first," he laughs, not that fake one he put on for Seth, "they'll see the text to Jake… you wanted to meet him at the bar, get a few drinks." He sucks his teeth, "dont you worry though, you'll still get to do all the fun stuff."

You begin to pant again, your fear building with each word, a thoroughly plotted ploy. As if he's thought of this longer than a few days. As if he dreamed of it for much much longer.

He lets the silence hang, only the drone of the radio in the dearth. You try to calm yours, trembling before the finality of his promises.

"I wonder if they'll care," he intone, "I mean your parents. Maybe your dad… but he doesn't seem to care about much– you still awake back there, sweetie? You didn't pass out on me again, did you?"

You whimper and sniffle as the tears flow hotly along your nose. The futility locks up your throat and chest. You stomp your feet against the side of the trunk in frustration, knowing know matter how much you do it that you’re stuck. Your world is in that tiny compartment. Your life is entirely in his ruthless hands.

🏡

“Shit, babe, I don’t know what happened,” Bucky’s voice comes from outside and the rear end of the car dips as he leans against it, jostling you on the inside. “Seth said something about the noise but I didn’t think it was a big deal. Yeah, no, I called a tow– Jules, please, yeah it’s gonna take a few hours– yeah, hit a motel or something.” He quiets and listens, “Jesus Christ, yes I know that’s money. And whose money is it?”

He snarls as his own lies rile him. He hits the trunk and the axel bounces. You hear his head slide along the metal.

“Not even gonna ask if I’m okay? I could’ve crashed– You know what, I’m done. Go have some wine and have fun without me. Like you do every day.”

The car shifts as he stands and you stare into the darkness. It’s all you can do. All you’ve done for hours. He has every base covered. Every end is so perfectly tied up that whatever you say after won’t make a difference. No one believed you before and they won’t believe you after.

“Hotel sounds good,” he talks to the exterior, “but I had something else in mind. A little secret of our own. Does that sound good, baby?” He laughs and slaps the metal, “you are so talkative. Let’s get back on the road, daddy’s tired.”

You bite down on your disgust. Daddy? 

“I’m kidding, baby,” he drags his fingers away from the trunk, “hold tight, alright? Maybe get some sleep…” his soles tread along the gravel, “you’ll need it.”

He gets back in the car. You languish in grim resignation. You blame him. You blame your parents. You blame yourself. It doesn’t matter who you blame, you can’t change it now.

Each time you manage to doze, a spike of anxiety wakes you again. You don’t know how long it’s been, it hardly matters. If anything, the waiting, the promise of what comes next is worse than the thought of the end itself.

Crickets chirp and the tires crush twigs and sticks, the uneven incline of a hill has you against the door. The car stops at last, rolling noisily into the wild dine of buzzing night creatures. The engine dies again and the door confirms Bucky’s exit. His feet kick pebbles as he comes around.

“Finally here, baby,” he speaks into a yawn, “all that driving’s got me stiff. In more ways than one.”

The trunk pops and the rush of cool air makes you shiver. His shadow looms black against the silky blue of the night sky, stars twinkling around the crescent moon. He lifts you out by your upper arm and sits you on the edge of the bumper.

“I think you’ll like this place. Buddy gave me a spare key for emergencies.”

You blink and look around. All you see are trees. He pulls you to your feet and you hop to keep from falling. He turns you as he shuts the lid of the trunk and leads you, leaping, around the car. A dark cabin stands beneath the canopy of leaves, the front deck on pillared stilts as the structure is built onto the hump of the land.

You take the steps one at a time, feeling as if you’ll fall back with each. Escape whispers in your mind but not for long. It’s dark, you don’t know where you are, and bound, you have little hope of doing more than pissing him off.

He stops at the front door and leans you against the wooden siding. He jingles some keys and pushes the door in after twisting them in the slot. He reaches around the doorframe and flicks on the outside light. You squint in the glare and he grabs your chin, looking at you as his thumb rubs along your cheek.

“Doesn’t matter if you scream out here,” he hooks his finger in the fabric and tugs it away from your mouth, “so if you feel like it–”

“Don’t,” you utter, not bothering to wail out to no one, “please, you don’t have to do this, Bucky. You have a wife, a daughter. My parents– please.”

His eyes fall and his lips thin as they straighten. His cheeks dimple and his hand rests on your collar bone. He pales and scratches his beard as he hums.

“You’re right,” he drags his hand away and shudders, “I don’t know… I guess I’m just lonely. You know, Jules is fucking someone else, my daughter wants nothing to do with me,” he steps away and hangs his head. You watch him uncertainly, “I guess I just built this all up in my head and got carried away.”

He swallows and lifts his face to the moonlight, “you’re so young, so sweet, so…beautiful, I couldn’t resist. And then I–” he covers his mouth and sniffs. He trembles and for a moment, it seems like he’s crying. Then he snorts and drops his hand, guffawing as he spins back to you. “Was it convincing?”

Your lips part. He’s psycho. Absolutely crazy.

“I gotta practice, you know? Once they notice you’re missing, I gotta really play that up.” He comes back to you and grabs your arm again, “‘I had no idea. She didn’t tell me she was meeting a boy. I just dropped her off and headed back. Yeah, I got the receipts for the brakes. Had to get those checked since I almost skidded into the other lane. Fuck, I can’t believe–”

He’s convincing. Very convincing. No wonder you fell for it. 

“Please stop,” you beg, “please, I get it.”

“Took you long enough,” his tone dulls as he turns on another light. It lights up the entryway, the walnut walls yellowed by the bulb’s tint.

You look down and wiggle your nose. You don’t want to cry, not in front of him.

“Baby, please, I’m gonna treat you right,” he grabs your wrists, hands around the thick cord, “you’re smart. If you run, I’ll catch you and even if I don’t, something worse would.”

“I won’t,” you gulp, “you know I won’t.”

“I know, baby,” there’s a patronizing tinge to his voice, “you’re such a good girl, aren’t you? You’re gonna real good for me.”

You nod and flick your lashes. Don’t cry. He slowly unwinds the cord then bends to remove the other from around your legs. Your feet and hands tingle from the sudden flow of blood and your bones ache from their former confinement. You rub your arms as you watch him peer around.

“If only…” he sighs as he puts his hands on his hips, “me and you could be real happy, huh? A cute little thing like you would look good in an apron. And a ring. I’d take care of you. We wouldn’t have to do the whole kid thing, too much work.”

You stay against the wall as his steps creak over the floor, “waking up to you everyday, how sweet. It’d be hard to get out of bed for a whole new reason.”

He shakes his head and tuts as he blows out whimsically, “but it’s gotta be this. Best I can do for you, baby.”

You pinch the inside of your lip with your teeth. It’s hard to fathom this is the same man who lived next door for all those years. That this was Mr. Barnes who always paid you on time and always a bit extra when he was late. Just another suburban dad in his khakis mowing the lawn with a smile, driving his daughter to her soccer games, and firing up the grill for the entire block.

“Well, we’re both tired,” he says as he turns to you. He offers his hand. You look at his thick fingers as you hesitantly part from the wall. “Aren’t you, baby?”

“Yes,” you answer, hoping to stave him off just a little longer. “And thirsty. Hungry, too. Is there a bathroom?”

He pauses and looks at you, “you’re right, it was a long drive. Well, I guess we can eat before we head to bed.”

“If it’s not too much trouble–”

“I’ll have to go grab the stuff out of the car,” he says, “the bathroom is behind the stairs. Why don’t you go and take care of that as I run out.”

“Sure,” you say, “thanks.”

He smiles before he leaves you. You wait until he’s at the door then tiptoe down the hall. You find the light switch as you enter and look around. A toilet and sink. There must be another bathroom. You shut the door and lock it.

You open the cabinet behind the sink. Ointments, mostly expired, some cotton swabs, some gauze. You close it and look under the sink. A few mini bottles of lotion and soap but mostly empty. This isn’t somewhere you stay, no it’s for those passing through.

You give up. Nothing sharp or heavy. You use the toilet, if only to ease some tension and wash your hands. As you emerge, you hear rustling. You follow the noise to the kitchen where Bucky unpacks paper bags on a large wooden island. Above is an iron chandelier with bulbs like flames.

He looks up as you enter and grins as he pulls out a box of marshmallows cookies, “I remembered you like these. There were always a few missing after you were over. They only had raspberry though.”

You let out a breath and go to the other side of the island. It’s a good distraction, the only one, and your stomach growls as you try to remember the last time you ate. The night before… before he did all this. Before…

Well, it’s now and you’re there. Forget about all that. Hindsight can do nothing for you but make it hurt more.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #fic #dark fic #series #dark!fic #mcu #marvel #au #dilf au #captain america #winter soldier #avengers #cabin fever

[the-lady-writes-what]

Ladies, Gents, and Non-binary Pals, I have an announcement:

I'll shortly be reopening the series I started last year (yikes). I edited the pinned post as I have discontinued my patreon (though donations to my ko-fi is still available if you're willing and able to). I've also, as you can tell, added a couple of names to the MHA section of the series. I'm going to take a nap and get started shortly afterwards. See ya later!

#the lady writes what #announcements #cabin fever series #fanfiction #smut #lemon scented goodness #reader fic #female reader #fem! reader #fem! reader smut #coming soon to a blog post near you #but first nap #i've literally been up since 6 AM and slept for about...3-4 hrs last night #healthy sleep schedule? never heard of her

[shutupdevvie]

crying thinking about thanksgiving josh

#time to reread maddie’s cabin fever thanksgiving fic

[littlemisshyperfixation]

Jungkook Fic Recommendations

a - angst f - fluff s - smut

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

Series

Home (f s a)

One Shots

forget me not (a f) ⊹₊⋆ The one where everytime you get dumped you pretend that you never met the guy before to mess with their heads. To the point that if you run into them somewhere you reintroduce yourself and act like you’ve never seen each other before. Enters fuckboy Jungkook who disappears after your night together, not knowing how much he was about to regret that choice.

champagne confetti (a s) ⊹₊⋆ You, a determined fashion designer, find yourself entangled in a collaboration with the irresistibly charming and egotistic heartthrob, Jeon Jungkook. Will this partnership remain strictly professional, or will he make the lines blur?

bottle up old love (a s f) ⊹₊⋆ Jungkook may have broken up with you a year ago, but that's not going to stop him from coming to your rescue when he sees you being cornered by a creep.

cabin fever (f s a) ⊹₊⋆ trapped in a cabin with your ex-best friend jungkook, you’re forced to overcome the fallout between you two. 

romantic dreams (s a) ⊹₊⋆ he’s always dreamt of finding his soulmate in some romantic way, bells ringing, birds chirping, maybe even a shine of light over their head. he never imagined to find them living next door to him with absolutely no clue to the extent of the growing infatuation he has toward you until it’s a little too late. hypnotized by your entire existence he finds his dreams and delusions of love to be a little too intense for anyone to bear.

Guilty Pleasures (a s) ⊹₊⋆ Three years of being Seoul's power couple earns you nothing but a big fat divorce settlement and your face plaster on every gossip column around town. You're angry, hurt, and desperately want to move on, but worst of all? You're still in love with the man who started the whole mess, even though the most he can ever see you as is a friend. The renowned actor you've hired to be your company's new endorser seems to have a soft spot for you though. He's easy on the eyes, you'll admit, but who actually wants a divorcee like yourself? It's unrealistic really.

Better Boyfriend Than Him (a s) ⊹₊⋆ jungkook makes it a mission to prove to you that he can be better than your boring boyfriend. when it comes to sex, at least.

strictly platonic (f a s) ⊹₊⋆ Sometimes, Jungkook can be a little selfish; and sometimes, the lengths you would go to for his happiness mean relinquishing your own.

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