#its very on the nose considering the curse and how it operated. painfully

[qoldenskies]

My mind kind of went into places when talking about Leo olytalking about having ADHD. But Donnie not mentioning he has autism.

Mainly, I am thinking of it maybe being it like Donnie not trying to using his autism as an “excuse.”

Which maybe could be interpreted as internalized ableism.

i think its just because it feels like such a fundamental aspect of how donnie is as a person that i just forgot to make note of it, because he is aware of it-- he repeatedly brings up the accommodations they made for him even pre-curse and its not really delved too deeply into, but they also know sign when he has verbal shutdowns and etc. there's no way he wouldn't know. i just kind of ended up treating it like the show does lmao

i think its kind of funny because in any other situation i think donnie would feel comfortable pathologizing himself like that, especially because he's 14 and still figuring himself out. "i am acting this way because it is a behavior common with autism" would likely be something that he would find comforting, even if he would be frustrated with himself for not being able to "fix" it because i think donnie would struggle with the idea of like,,, wanting to make self-improvement a linear path with a clear beginning and end, instead of something you constantly have to work on and think about your whole life. i definitely think that would be a big part of his particular brand of internalized ableism-- he knows the source, and he knows how to avoid things that cause problems, but he's frustrated that he cant just. do the right amount of things and make it go away. he doesn't want to cope, he wants to stop.

cc!donnie in particular will probably be like this especially about his bpd once he figures that out, because i do think he will inevitably lmao. if i'd realized this earlier i might have put more emphasis on donnie's awareness of his autism, but i actually think it not being spelled out might make the ableism in caged lungs hurt worse-- like it's not any disorder that he has, not something he was born with, it's just him. his personality, a disease. it makes "no curing whatever you have" from leo in CL hit even harder. he has no reason to see it as ableism because he struggles to connect these things he believes are controllable with his neurodivergence, which makes him painfully susceptible to being hurt.

because yes, he can technically force himself to stop stimming, and he can technically force himself to speak through verbal shutdowns, and he can technically pay attention to his volume and how often he talks when he's excited, but all of these things are actively hurtful to him. and when he starts to actually try and control it, he's constantly in pain in some way. the way they gave him the illusion of being able to control these things made his perception of them worse.

maybe its better that it was never said. he was essentially conditioned to see acknowledging it as an excuse.

maybe there's even a small part of cc!donnie that fears he was faking it the whole time, too afraid to express it because he doesn't want to be right. which is stupid because its glaring and its defined his whole life and will continue to, but with how little he trusts himself, wouldn't that hurt?

[tk-duveraun]

Title: Millenia 2/? Fandom: SWTOR/Dragon Age Crossover Rating: T for rating consistent violence and dark themes Genre: Drama, Romance Summary: Green Jedi are allowed their familial and romantic attachments, but even they won’t accept one of their own caring for a Sith. Parts: One Notes:  (below the readmore)

Anders has a slave brand in the shape of the Sunburst. Because I’m a terrible person. (But he’s not tranquil)

Harboring a Force user in the Empire warrants execution.

This particular war started when the Sith retook Korriban from the Republic.

A nexu is similar to a very stocky cougar.

Words like Senses or Intuition capitalized seemingly randomly are referring to Force Senses or Force Intuition.

“Ah, there we are. Waking up nicely. How do you feel?” asked a tall, blond doctor with kind eyes, an old slave brand on his forehead and a somewhat ratty labcoat.

Ela opened her mouth to speak, but it was dry and sore. She swallowed at the dryness and flinched from how much it stung. She frowned at the doctor and held her hand out horizontally before wiggling it. The last thing she remembered was laying paralyzed while two Sith argued over her fate. Medical treatment was the last thing she’d expected to wake up to.

“Ah, yes, that happens sometimes. Here’s a glass of water,” the doctor said. In addition to handing her the cup, he tilted the back of her bed up so she was in a sitting position. “I’m Anders; I’ve been seeing to your care ever since Isabela brought you in.”

The water burned on its way down Ela’s throat from how cold it was, but it was still better than the dryness. She handed the plasteel cup back to the doctor and rubbed her eyes with closed fists. “Where am I? Who’s Isabela?”

“Olkin II. We’re a mid-rim colony - Imperial though,” the doctor said. The way he raised his eyebrows as he stared down at her made Ela think he suspected what she was.

After biting her tongue, Ela looked down at herself, but she was dressed only in a thin hospital gown, not her obviously-Jedi combat robes. “I see.”

“You had severe curse damage; you’re lucky Isabela got you here so quickly,” Anders said. He looked down at a datapad that presumably had her medical chart.

“I… The last thing I remember was a- It was Lord Faximil, um, claiming me,” Ela said. She was betting a lot on the doctor’s lack of an Imperial accent. A loyalist would return her to the Sith because there was no way the infamous Sa’alle’s ‘gentle mercies’ included actual gentle mercies.

“Indeed. You’re very lucky. Isabela has a man inside of Faximil’s operations that told her about your condition. He managed to convince the Sith that you died in your holding cell. I don’t know the exact details of how they smuggled you out, but I’m sure we’re both safer not knowing.” The doctor chuckled. “He couldn’t recover your lightsaber, but I’m sure you’ll consider that a fair trade for your life.”

A jolt of pain struck Ela right in the heart at the word life. She was alive, yes, but her friends, her comrades, even Sornier who’d joined the Jedi with her, were dead. Tears welled in her eyes and Ela was too weak to hold back her emotions.

Anders passed her a soft handkerchief. “Balmorra, right? Bad business, that, but everything’s been bad business since the Sith retook Korriban. At least it’s slowed down a bit.”

Ela wiped her face and nodded.

“Alright, I’d like you to try to use the Force. Just a little telekinesis. Nothing fancy, just want to make sure it still works.” Ander pulled a tiny toy nexu out of his coat pocket and set it on the bed next to Ela.

After taking a moment to calm herself, Ela raised her right hand and waved it forward and slightly up. The toy didn’t so much as twitch. With a frown creasing her mouth and between her eyebrows, Ela tried again, but the toy stubbornly refused to move.

“Ah. Well, we were afraid of that. You won’t be out of bed for another day, at least, so we’ll check tomorrow. I have to go see to my other patients, but I’ll let Isabela know you’re awake. She’ll want to discuss your plans.”

“Thank you, doctor. Is it- That is- Could I be permanently Blind? My Senses were never very good, but-”

“It’s too early to say anything definite. Like I said, we’ll try again tomorrow. Try not to let it bother you. You have Force exhaustion on top of everything else. It could be only temporary.”

Ela nodded and watched the doctor until he turned down the hallway outside of door. The toy was still sitting on the soft, blue hospital blanket. Even though she knew it was a bad idea, Ela kept trying to move it until there was a knock on her open door. 

A curvy, dark-skinned woman that looked like she had at least a little zabrak blood stood in the doorframe with a tight-fitting, white leatheris jacket and… no trousers. “Hey there, Sweet Thing. How’re you feeling?”

“Are you Isabela?” Ela asked. At the woman’s nod, Ela said, “I’m… good, considering the last thing I remember.”

Isabela grabbed the back of a hospital chair and pulled it next to Ela’s bed before sitting on it backwards. “And what’s the last thing you remember?”

“I was on Balmorra. And these two Sith were arguing over which one… owned me.” Ela flinched at her own words and raised a hand up to check her ears for an electronic tag, but they were unblemished.

“Ouch, you lost a whole week, seems like. Well, you were feverish, so I guess we couldn’t hope for anything better. To catch you up: Faximil won and his Sithiness left you to die in a holding cell. I stole you off his ship and brought you here.” Isabela said it all so casually, as if she stole people out from under Sith noses all of the time.

“I don’t know how to thank you,” Ela said.

“Just keep doing you, Sweet Thing,” Isabela replied, winking. “I don’t sit back and let people be property. And the treatment here’s all free, so you don’t have to worry about that.”

“Oh. That’s… Wow. I know the Order used to run a small, free clinic out of Coruscant, but this is…” Ela gestured to the top-of-the-line equipment in the large, private hospital room.

Isabela just winked again. “It’s not just people I steal from Sith. And let’s just say the hospital has a lot of wealthy, if unwilling, donors.”

Ela laughed, but it shook her chest painfully and she clutched her side in pain. She couldn’t remember where the Sith’s curse hit her, so it was probably where her ribs felt fragile and tender. “Thank you, Isabela, really.”

Isabela waved the thanks away. “That’s enough of that. What do you want to do now? I don’t imagine you want to stay in the Empire, even in such a nice part of it.”

“Not really, no,” Ela said, “But I don’t… I don’t know how to go back. Everyone else is dead. I mean, the Order still exists, but-”

“None of that, now. They’ll be happy to have you back. Especially since you’re the only one who made it out,” Isabela interrupted. She patted Ela’s shoulder. “Survivor’s guilt is a bitch, but they’ll take good care of you.”

Ela wanted to correct her. Wanted to tell Isabela that she wasn’t looking forward to the lecture from her master or the crying family members at the funerals that would never, ever forgive her for living when their loved one didn’t, but she said nothing. Things had been… tense under Master Lavellan. Ela wanted nothing more than her parents back, them and her original master and her friend Varga’lidan who was set to take over the Jedi Enclave from her father, but there was nothing to be gained from musing.

Isabela didn’t ask. The downward tilt of her mouth, the firm set of her jaw, they made it clear the other woman could relate. “Did Anders tell you when you’d be ready to leave?”

After a calming breath, Ela shook her head. “No, he didn’t. My Force is acting up - exhaustion and the curse. But the healers at the enclave can fix it when I get back either way.”

“Where’s your enclave?” Isabela laughed after she asked the question. “I can get you anywhere, but certain planets in the Republic can be a little tricky.

“Corellia. I’m a Green Jedi.”

Isabela leered. “A Green, hmm? Well, if you want to show me what you’ve got under your robes on the way back, my cabin’s always open to a pretty thing like you.”

With a laugh, Ela returned the leer, only half-serious. “We’ll see. If I have my gift back, well, let’s just say not too many can keep up with a Jedi.”

“Oh honey, I can keep up with Sith. I’ll teach you all kinds of tricks.

[asflowersfade]

Ficlet: Since I’m Already Here

A MacGyver ficlet. For once, Murdoc comes across Mac and Jack by complete accident. But it wouldn’t be Murdoc if he didn’t play his games with them...

(What can I say, I love Murdoc being a creepy creep. And Mac suffers so nicely.)

They’re captured. Again. How embarrassing. And this time, it’s just some drug cartel flunkies, not even someone important. And the really tragic thing? They weren’t even there because of this bunch, he and Jack, they stumbled across this operation by complete accident. Yeah, that will go over well with Matty…

So, they’re in a hot, dusty cell, bound to sturdy wooden chairs, back to back, with Mac facing the door and Jack facing the wall with a window high up, and Mac’s still considering this just a nuisance, not a real problem. Give him some time to think and he’ll get them out of here, he always does. But then…

Then he hears voices out there, in the hallway, talking, shouting, arguing back and forth - and he hears their names. Dammit. Damn it to hell and back. They know who Mac and Jack are and from what they’re saying... Mac’s a little rusty in this particular dialect but he understands enough to gather the head honcho here ordered them killed. Right now. No more waiting.

And Mac still has no plan how to get them out!

But then, then the shooting starts and Mac and Jack both freeze. Because they recognize the chatter of the smugglers’ semi-automatics easily - but there’s no returning fire. What are they shooting at? At whom? The other party’s obviously not--

Oh. There, right behind the door of their cell, a quiet pft-pft-pft of a gun with a mounted silencer. One, two, three bodies hit the ground, utter silence follows. Nothing moves, there’re no more shots. The whole compound’s deadly silent. Mac has a very uncomfortable feeling that that’s not good.

Turns out he’s right because when the door screeches open…

“Well, well, well, look who’s here? All trapped and bound, like a present for yours truly…”

Mac clenches his jaw while Jack keeps twisting this way and that to see. “Who is it? Mac? Who--”

“Murdoc,” Mac utters, angry yet afraid. Because there’s nobody in the whole wide world who can rattle him more than this man.

“Son of a bitch,” Jack curses and starts tugging at his bonds even harder.

Smiling, Murdoc leans against the door frame, looking very pleased. “Now, isn’t this a surprise? When I told you we would see each other soon, I really did not think it would happen so soon or in a hole like this, MacGyver.”

“What do you want?” Mac grits out. Unlike Jack, he’s not struggling because there’s no slack in the ropes, he checked, he knows it would be useless. And painful sores will not help them escape.

Murdoc waves his gun around; the silencer gleams in the light coming in through the grimy window. “From you? Nothing at the moment, I assure you. I’m not here because of you, see? This time,” he adds in a more menacing tone of voice.

“Then why are you here?” Mac asks, wincing a little because all that Jack’s struggling managed to achieve so far is tighten his own bonds almost painfully. He wishes Jack would stop it! 

“I got paid to take out these inept fools,” Murdoc explains and points over his shoulder at the bodies sprawled on the ground in the hallway, partially visible through the open door. “Really, the whole thing wasn’t even worth my time. They were like sitting ducks. I almost felt sorry for them. But money’s money and for a couple of hours of work…” He shrugs.

Then Murdoc grins and pushes away from the door frame. Slowly, he walks up to Mac. “But since I’m already here…” he says. He leaves his words hanging in the air as he lifts his gun and presses the silencer - still warm from recent shooting - against Mac’s forehead.

“Mac?” Jack yells, trying to look and see what’s going on. “Talk to me!”

But Mac doesn’t move. He doesn’t even blink. He keeps staring straight at Murdoc, unflinching, though his heart’s hammering so violently he can hear it pulsing in his ears. He’s scared, God knows he is, but he’ll damned if he gives this lunatic the satisfaction of seeing him squirm.

Slowly, Murdoc runs the gun down his forehead and his nose and over his lips, down his chin and still lower... only to push the muzzle hard into the hollow at the base of Mac’s throat, making it difficult for Mac to swallow. His smile widens when he notices the artery in Mac’s throat pulsing visibly. He’s enjoying Mac’s fear, savoring it - and Mac hates him for that.

“Mac!” Jack shouts, his voice raw with anxiety now.

Murdoc rolls his eyes. “Now really. If that pet of yours doesn’t stop barking, I’ll shoot you on principle, MacGyver!” He moves the gun away from Mac’s throat and taps it against Mac’s shoulder playfully, as if it were a game. “Maybe here. Or...” He lets the muzzle drop slowly, drawing out the moment, then he digs it hard into Mac’s thigh. “Maybe here… I wonder,” he whispers and as he moves closer, he licks his lips, “would you scream?”

“Mac--”

“Jack, please, stop talking!” Mac cuts his friend off sharply.

When silence settles over the room, Murdoc almost pouts. Almost. “Oh well... “ He shrugs philosophically as he straightens up. “I can always shoot you later. I’m sure I will hear you scream, eventually.”

Fury radiates off Jack in waves but he doesn’t make another sound, he doesn’t let himself be provoked into speaking up again, he even stops struggling against his bonds - something in Mac’s voice warned him that he needed to listen - and after a moment, Murdoc sighs and puts his gun away.

“But if I don’t shoot you… what shall I do with you? Understand, I can’t just let you go,” Murdoc points out reasonably. “You would try to stop me, then I would have to hurt you - which I would enjoy immensely, believe me,” he whispers and his eyes glitter, “but I would prefer a more... civilized place for a venture like that. Besides, I would like to take my time with you - which I unfortunately lack at the moment.”

Mac tightens his jaw. Never before has he felt a real desire to kill anyone. Not once. Until now. And that… that’s what really scares Mac, what this man can reduce him to, the base instincts Murdoc rouses in him. And the pleasure this lunatic takes in that knowledge.

“But then, I can’t leave you here bound either. I mean,” Murdoc waves his hand, “I cleaned out the place, there’s not a living soul left here, true, but who knows who could just wander in. And I would be very... upset if someone took out my prize. So…”

Whipping out a knife, Murdoc leans closer to Mac with a malicious smile on his face - and this time, Mac flinches away. He can’t help it. And he hates himself for it. But his nerves are starting to fray. It’s the not knowing what Murdoc might do, simply on a whim, that’s taking its toll on Mac.

Murdoc lowers his knife and taps the blade against the inner side of Mac’s left knee. Mac jerks his leg away. Then Murdoc taps the blade against Mac’s right knee - and once again Mac pulls his leg aside. It’s instinctual, ever fiber of his being is screaming at him to get away, get away, get away from this man.

Grinning widely, Murdoc pauses for a moment, staring Mac straight in the eyes. Then he twists the knife in his hand lighting fast and rams it point down into the seat of the chair, right between Mac’s spread legs. Mac gasps and freezes. He can feel the knife’s vibrations through the seat.

“There,” Murdoc states, patting Mac on the knee. “A prop. More than enough to help anyone escape, let alone you, MacGyver. But I couldn’t just hand it over to you. That would be too easy, unworthy of a man of your qualities. Besides, it’ll be much safer for both of us if I’m long gone before you free yourself. I would be careful, though,” he adds, and leaning closer, he whispers in Mac’s ear, “the blade’s very sharp.”

With that Murdoc turns and strolls out of the room unhurriedly, almost lazily. Jack doesn’t move, he doesn’t say anything until Murdoc’s footsteps fade away in the hallway. And Mac... Mac doesn’t even breathe.

[shadowslinkercowboy]

I'd like a ficlet based on 'An accidental adventure', please~ =D

Spider swears virulently under his breath as he ducks a buster shot, before twisting away from a vicious slash that would have bisected him, and risked a glance behind him for the public teleport hub he'd noted on his arrival.

Irregular Hunters are sure some ungrateful bastards, and X and Zero are the most ungrateful of all. At least the kid seems to have some sense, still hanging back where he'd been dropped when Spider had hauled his ass out of trouble. Again.

Of course, considering that whole Redips shitstorm, Spider logically can't blame the Hunters for their reactions.

But Spider isn't feeling very logical at the moment.

Hissing another curse, he spins away from another shot, the plasma passing close enough he can feel the heat scorch the outermost layer of paint on his armor. He dances back a few steps as Zero charges him, trying to get enough clear space so he can make a dash for the teleport hub, when he sees Axl's pistols raising.

Swearing viciously, the bounty hunter raises an arm, cards fanned in his hand, to defend himself from the newest attack.

Sees the kid's brief conspiratorial grin before he fires.

Spider only has enough time to yelp as the teleport hub at his back is struck and it explodes, before the world fades to white.

That ceiling is depressingly, alarmingly familiar. He sees it so often in his nightmares, he almost expects to wake up at any moment.

Spider stares up at it, almost feeling his vision starting to tunnel and darken, wavering like he's underwater. Are sounds really starting to echo in his ears, or is his head just ringing that loudly? He can almost swear he hears the ghost of heavy footsteps approaching, sees that hated face leaning over him with a sick grin...

He jerks up with a gasp, lurching to his feet as he tears free of the memories. Locking his joints against the overwhelming urge to run- run anywhere or nowhere as long as it was away from here- he takes a long, slow breath to calm himself.

He staggers a moment later, as a powerful wave of vertigo assaults him, curses streaming from his mouth in a vitriolic hiss.

Fuck, that wild teleport screwed with his synchronization! Well, isn't that just the fucking cherry on top of a shit sundae.

Regaining his balance- though he's sure he's swaying like a punch-drunk monkey- he lifts a hand to run his fingers through his hair and...wait. He frowns, looks around, then grunts and bends down to retrieve his hat- nearly stumbling onto his face in the process- and plants it firmly back on his head.

Now to get out of this empty room too full of nightmares.

Staggering forward, he passes through the door, ignoring the sensor-ghosts of hands grabbing frantically at him, of explosive heat and searing pain, and slowly makes his way down the tunnel outside.

Gimialla mine isn't a pleasant location on the best of days. It's even worse when one's synchro is off, leaving one staggering and exhausted, fighting vertigo with nearly every step.

Spider sags against a wall, frame heaving with his panting, too exhausted to muster up even a weak curse. He's going to get Axl back for this, even if the kid had been trying to help him. An explosive card or two, right in the face...

...okay, maybe just a swirly or something. The old man would have his head if he did anything more drastic to the kid.

Groaning quietly, the bounty hunter straightens the best he can to continue his trek through the tunnels, destination set firmly in mind. If he can just reach it before his systems shut down into stasis...!

It isn't much longer- or it could have been hours longer, even his internal chronometer is screwed up- before he sees the teleport hub.

Letting out a quiet cry of relief, he stumbles toward it, collapsing to his knees beside it. He grits his teeth as his vision swims, head feeling like a balloon filled with too much helium, before he's finally able to check the teleporter's coordinates. They're (still?) set to the Resistance's base, and he grunts, jabbing a finger at the control panel, until it finally cooperates.

Slowly, painfully slowly, he enters the coordinates he wants, then he hauls himself upright, staggers onto the hub, and closes his eyes as the teleportation takes hold.

Spider nearly collapses once he is substantial enough, almost missing the startled gasp from somewhere nearby. His vision is swimming alarmingly, and he lands on his face as he tries to stumble off the teleport hub. His head keeps trying to float away, making the room spin, and he has to fight against the very strong urge to purge his tanks.

Abruptly he realizes someone is beside him, speaking to him, and he turns his head to try to focus on whoever it is. He registers a blurry wash of cream-white and pink, and smiles vaguely as he recognizes Nana.

"Hey," he rasps, voice bleeding static. Too much static. He clears his throat and tries speaking again. "Need a favor. Call Sig?"

He doesn't hear her response, vision tunneling and darkening for real this time, and his systems send him into an emergency shutdown.

"-ider?...Spider? Hey."

Spider grunts as his shoulder is gently prodded, eyes reluctantly peeling themselves open to try to focus on the blur of black and white leaning over him. "Hn?" He blinks once, twice, and the blur resolves itself into Signas. "What took you so long, Sig?"

The Hunter High Commander smiles. "I could ask you the same, shadow slinker."

Spider chuckles wryly for the nickname as he stretches, pleased to note his synchro is nearly back to normal. He isn't on the floor anymore, either; Nana must have either moved him to a recharge berth, or gotten someone to help her. "This shadow slinker here's gonna have a few words about your two wonder-boys," he retorts as he relaxes again, lacing his fingers together and resting his hands on his stomach.

"What on Earth did you think would happen, showing up like you did?" Signas chuckles, one corner of his mouth quirking up further in a subtle teasing smirk.

"A little less shootin' and slicin', for one thing. Especially after I rescued the kid."

"Um...excuse me?"

Both Spider and Signas turn their heads at the same time to see a bewildered Nana watching them.

Signas straightens as he turns to face her. "It's a long story. Suffice to say, this is the real Spider."

She blinks. "The real...? But they said he died when Ancientus..."

"I did," Spider replies, smile vanishing. "That's apparently when Redips decided to play body snatcher." His mouth twists in a frown, mildly displeased once again that he won't be able to get revenge on the fucker. He'll have to settle for the fact his brother got it for him, even if Axl did it unknowingly.

"Then how...?"

The Hunter High Commander glances at Spider, one eyebrow raising slightly in a silent question.

Spider shrugs. "The eternal meddler meddled. Apparently my old man didn't want me to go quietly into that dark night."

"Your...? Oh." Nana's eyes widens. "Oh! Then you ended up back in the mine...?"

"X and Zero apparently didn't take too kindly to my showin' up draggin' Axl by the scruff, and while they were tryin' to make sushi outta me, the kid decided the best way to save me was to shoot my teleporter and trigger a random teleport that threw me into that damn mine. Screwed up my synchro somthin' fierce in the process."

The system operator smiles faintly. "I can imagine. You gave me quite a fright when you stumbled in like you did. I thought I was seeing a ghost for a moment."

Signas casts a smirk at Spider. "No, merely a cat who's used up one of its nine lives."

"Oh, don't start, or I'll punch you in the fuckin' nose, y'damned bastard!" the bounty hunter snarls, waving a fist in the air and knowing how ineffective- and ridiculous- the threat will be in his current position.

Nana covers her mouth to stifle a giggle. "I guess you'll both be leaving then?" she asks, knowing that with Aile gone, there is nothing holding Spider to Gigantis.

Spider hums quietly, scratching his jaw as he gazes up at the ceiling. Signas is silent, watching him, waiting.

"...no," the bounty hunter finally decides. "I know at least a few of the Troubleshooters escaped the Rebellion's grasp, and if I can get them back together...well, Aile'd want me to help put things right here."

Signas smiles, inclining his head almost imperceptibly in an approving nod. "Perhaps they'll even promote you to Chief R's position."

"Oh hell no, not a chance in fuckin’ hell, I'd rather kiss Crystal Horn!"

Signas throws his head back and laughs at the irate bounty hunter, turning to leave. "I'll keep that in mind when they do," he tosses over his shoulder, grinning at Spider's frustrated "RAUGH!" behind him as the bounty hunter waves his fists over his head, looking like an angry toddler.

[mrsmon]

Nightfall [4]

Characters: JungkookxReader Length: 3454 words Genre: Mythology AU Warnings: Graphic violence

Prologue | Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 5 |

Jungkook found Namjoon sitting in an armchair by the window in the study. His apartment was furnished very similarly to the backroom of the restaurant – black leather, heavy oak, very little light. Namjoon had completely embraced his existence in the darkness, feeling most comfortable when his surroundings were dim and silent. Much like his restaurant, his apartment was also on a very high floor.

Even in darkness, Namjoon liked to have a good view.

Kim Namjoon was smart, his mind and words sharp like knives, leaving wounds that were not immediately noticeable. He got into people's heads and hearts and left his mark, and in return he took everything he wanted.

And they wouldn't even notice until the cuts started bleeding.

The longer Jungkook stayed with Namjoon, the more he learned to fear him – or at least why other people did.

To Jungkook, Namjoon had been nothing but nice. On a business trip to Busan, he had laid eyes on the boy who had been working as a bartender to keep himself afloat. His adoptive parents had died two years prior, and the grief had made the already introverted Jungkook a complete social recluse. He had known for a long time that something was wrong with him, or at least different. He was stronger than most kids his age, yet playing in the sun for too long made him sick and he had spent many summers in his room playing video games or reading. At eighteen, shortly before his parents' death, he had experienced a spurt in both height and size, and outgrown his peers in more ways than one. The money he had inherited from his parents wasn't going to last him forever, so he had taken on a job in a dingy bar where all he had to do was make drinks and listen. One night, Namjoon had walked in and seen something in Jungkook that nobody before had.

Or maybe he had known it was there all along.

“What is your name?” he had asked in a low voice the second he had sat down. Jungkook hadn't even looked up.

“Jeon Jungkook.”

“Have you noticed anything strange, Jungkook?”

“No,” Jungkook had lied. Of course he had noticed the men – they had been subtle, but not subtle enough to escape detection by Jungkook. They had started frequenting the bar when he had just begun working there, and soon enough he had noticed them whenever he had left the house, although that hadn't been often. When they hadn't been following him around, they had been lurking in the shadows of neighboring houses or on the roof across the street. Nobody had seemed to notice them, but Jungkook had spotted them easily.

His eyes had always been able to see through the veil of darkness.

“They're here for you,” Namjoon had said. Jungkook had shrugged in response.

“I have nothing to give them.”

“They don't want anything, kid,” Namjoon had replied with an unsettling smile, “except you dead.”

That night at the bar had been the first time he had heard of Tsukuyomi and their ancient history. He had learned about the clan's curse and destiny, its wars and struggles, the rage and sins, all relayed by this stranger who had the threatening confidence and calmness of someone who was always in control and enjoyed holding people by invisible strings. His words were concise but eloquent, and Jungkook had been able to feel them tying around his joints like rope.

The next day, he had followed Namjoon to Seoul.

It had opened more than just Jungkook's eyes

“Hey kid.” Slowly, Namjoon got up from his chair and stretched his back. He was tall and lean, but under the cotton of his shirt Jungkook could see the outline of a muscular frame that had not been neglected, even after Namjoon had settled into a less aggressive lifestyle. In his teens and early twenties, Namjoon had always been the first one to volunteer for operations that involved fighting the Amaterasu, and oftentimes Namjoon had raised hell just for the – well – hell of it. But then something had changed, something Namjoon did not seem willing to talk about and Jungkook knew better than to ask about.

“We don't have much time, Namjoon.”

“I know.”

Still calm, Namjoon pulled his phone from the back pocket of his pants and his thumb raced over the screen until he found what he was looking for. He pressed the speaker button and held the device at chest level, the sound of the dial tone cutting through the silence of the darkened room.

After five seconds, Min Yoongi's tinny voice replaced the monotonous noise.

“We're on the way.”

If Yoongi knew that you were awake, he didn't let on. Maybe he was just glad that you weren't giving him any trouble as he drove the Lexus away from Sinchon and to the southeast. It was still dark outside and the empty roads gave you reason to believe that it would stay this way for a few more hours. Your head was leaning against the window on the passenger side, and when you dared to crack open your right eye again, you could see the Han river coming closer and closer.

Although, of course, in reality it was the other way around.

Your skull ached where Yoongi had efficiently punched you in the temple. It had rattled your brain and knocked you out just long enough for him to carry you downstairs and into the car that had been waiting.

Evidently, your vision of him running had only been a dream, after all.

You had come to your senses not much after you had started your nightly excursion. Feeling the secure restraint of the seatbelt against your shoulder and chest, you wondered why Yoongi had chosen to put you in the passenger seat. At first thought, it had seemed like a risky move on his part; after all, he was now very much within your reach. But then you had considered the other options – if he had seated you right behind him, he couldn't have kept a good eye on you and he would be vulnerable to your attacks, and even diagonally behind the driver's seat, it would be considerably easy for you to assault him, cause an accident, and potentially get away fairly unscathed.

If you made him lose control of the car while in the front seat, you would be just as dead as him.

Yoongi was a good driver. There were very few bumps or harsh motions as you crossed the river and the gigantic skyscrapers of Gangnam started lining the streets. You had closed your eyes again, but when the car slowed down and turned onto a ramp leading down into a parking garage, you risked another glance. There were no ads or descriptive signs other than what you assumed was the number of the level you were on. This was definitely not a public space.

This was an apartment building.

The thought had barely finished crossing your mind when Yoongi pulled into a parking spot near one of the doors that had an elevator sign above them. You almost flinched when a figure appeared behind one of the glass doors and pulled it open. Trying to control your breathing, you closed your eyes again and listened to the engine of the car until it finally stopped.

Kim Namjoon still made your heart race and your palms sweat.

The driver’s door opened and closed, and then you heard footsteps rounding the car and the door handle on your side click. Deciding to stick to your act, you let yourself drop to the side when the passenger door was opened, but you didn’t fall far: a large hand caught your shoulder and pushed you back into a seating position.

“Holy hell, Yoongi, how hard did you clock her?”

The sound of a lighter wheel and someone inhaling deeply filled the otherwise silent parking garage.

“She’s awake.” Yoongi let out a long breath. “She’s been good, though.”

You wrinkled your nose at the cigarette smell that had started to fill the air and opened your eyes. Namjoon was leaning down to look into the car, grinning, one arm casually draped over the open passenger door. A little embarrassed, you met his gaze and shrugged.

“Worth a try.”

Namjoon’s brown eyes turned positively black as he stared you down for a moment. Then the condescending smile was gone and he took a step back

“Get out.”

“And no funny business, missy,” Yoongi added, his voice dripping with mockery. You wanted to throw him a nasty look, but Namjoon’s long fingers had already wrapped around your arm, pulling you unceremoniously out of the parked car. His grip didn’t get any lighter when he started dragging you towards the glass doors behind which the elevators were waiting for you. All you could do was stumble along next to him awkwardly in your pajamas, your naked feet cold on the worn concrete. Yoongi hadn’t thought to grab any shoes for you, and Namjoon seemed to have no regard for your vulnerable state.

It made you furious.

“Slow down!” You painfully ripped your arm from Namjoon’s hand but froze when his dark gaze pierced right through your resolve. “It hurts.”

Namjoon looked down at your loose clothing and bare feet as if noticing your attire for the first time, and then directed his cold stare at Yoongi. The latter was leaning against his car, phone in hand, and the cigarette dancing haphazardly between his lips as he spoke.

“You said to bring her here. I did. You didn’t mention a dress code.”

“No wonder you’re single,” Namjoon mumbled, and if you hadn’t known better, you could have sworn Yoongi looked just the slightest bit hurt.

“Do you still need me?” he hissed, spitting out the cigarette butt and stepping on it with the heel of his heavy boots.

“I might need your help with this,” Namjoon replied with a curt nod in your direction. “The kid is out.”

Your head jolted up. He must have been talking about Jungkook. A strange tightness started to spread in your chest and make breathing hard. The moment you had realized that a Tsukuyomi was trying to abduct you, you had thought that you might get some information on Jungkook if you let him take you. The second you saw Namjoon through the glass door, you had hoped that him being behind this meant that you would be able to see Jungkook, speak to him, and that it would bring you closer to finding answers to the questions polluting your mind and soul. Ever since you had met him, since he had first laid hand on you, you had been changing. At first you had felt silly, thinking you may have been afflicted by something as ridiculous and dangerous as a crush on your enemy. But then you had looked at yourself in the mirror and finally seen what everybody else had been seeing. And in that moment, you had known.

This was deeper.

You didn’t know if he knew what was going on with you – and him, because you were convinced he had changed too – but nevertheless, you needed Jungkook. You needed to be with him. It had hit you the instant you had seen the black ring circling your light brown pupils.

He was your answer.

And if he wasn’t here, then there was no reason for you to be here, either.

With the element of surprise on your side, you bent your knees and kicked Namjoon’s legs out from under him. His hard fall onto the concrete stunned him long enough for you to kick him in the ribs with as much strength as possible. He coughed and writhed, the full force of your attack leaving him gasping for air. You weren’t worried about weapons he may have been carrying – the parking garage was lit by harsh neon lights that diminished any possible threat to your life, so long as you stayed conscious.

You felt the attack coming before you could even turn around – or rather, look up. Yoongi was suspended in mid-air, his knees up against his chest to protect his body from counter-attacks as his hands gripped the two throwing knives pointing in your direction. It had been several years since you had encountered a Tsukuyomi who still fought in the style of the ancient shinobi teachings – apparently, Min Yoongi was an old soul. His aura had completely changed. He had entirely shed his sloppy and dismissive demeanor; his body and mind were engaged, his jaw tense, his eyes wide and clear, and focused on you as he prepared to strike. He knew that he couldn’t kill you in this environment.

Which meant that there was no reason for him to hold back.

It was easy to anticipate the criss-cross motion of his arms, the objective of which was to carve a bloody X into your chest. You pushed yourself off of the concrete and caught Yoongi's wrists while they were still crossed in front of his head. It took all the strength you had in you to keep his hands in place when he started resisting; your hold on his wrists so tight that you thought his bones must break any second. His momentum forced you back down onto your feet, but you managed to use it to throw him backwards over your head and towards the ground.

He landed on his feet effortlessly.

Then he dropped his weapons.

In petrified disbelief, Min Yoongi was staring at his arms before raising his head to look at you. At your feet, Namjoon was stirring, and you started backing off slowly. Yoongi's arms were now hanging at his sides limply, and you frowned.

Had you actually broken his wrists?

Unwilling to find out whether or not Yoongi – or Namjoon – would recover, you threw one glance at your bare feet and then all hesitation to the wind. You had to get out of here before they could get their wits about them enough to stop underestimating you.

“Amaterasu,” you heard Namjoon's voice when you turned to leave. “Don’t go back.”

Without sparing him so much as a look, you started running.

There was no logical explanation to why the taxi driver had decided to stop for a shoeless girl in pajamas sprinting down the sidewalk, but he had. You had explained that you had money at home and would pay him once he got you there. Maybe it was your pathetic state of undress, the swelling next to your eye that was growing in size and pain by the minute, or the sheer exhaustion written all over your face – maybe it was all of those things – but he had taken pity on you and agreed to drive you back to Sinchon. The sunrise was now near; you could feel it. Neither Namjoon nor Yoongi had taken pursuit when you had dashed through the parking garage and out onto the street. And now, with the return of the light of day imminent, you were finally able to relax.

Everything would be okay.

Once the taxi stopped in front of your apartment building, you jumped out of the idling car and ran up the stairs. You found your door unlocked – an occurrence that wasn't nearly as uncommon as you'd wished it was – and slipped into the dark and quiet apartment. You switched on the light in the hallway and reached for your purse that was sitting on a dresser near the entrance. Slipping into a pair of Taehyung's sneakers, you hurried back downstairs to pay the patient driver before returning to your apartment.

Inside, it was dark again.

“Taehyung?” you yelled into the hallway. Carelessly, you kicked off his shoes and walked further into your shared home. It was absolutely silent as you walked over the wooden floor, your steps getting slower and more insecure with every foot you got closer to the closed door of Taehyung's room. You took a deep breath. You were probably just being crazy. Taehyung was an incredibly heavy sleeper – more often than not you had to physically jump onto his sleeping self to make sure he got up in time for class. You were probably just paranoid and high-strung from the events of the past days, and, for that matter, this very night.

“Taehyung?” You were whispering now as you reluctantly pushed open the door in front of you and found the light switch.

Then everything happened in slow motion.

You could swear you were able to hear the subtle buzzing sound as a shock of electricity was sent into the filament and started to generate heat in the old-fashioned light bulb. There was a tentative flicker, sprinkling light onto the red of the walls, then it turned dark again for a split second, a fraction of an instant that was filled with Namjoon's words;

Don’t go back.

When the light turned on completely, it revealed the blood-covered walls, the bright, wet stains on the floor, the overturned furniture; relics of a cruel and merciless fight.

And in the middle of the room, limbs twisted and eyes staring emptily at the once-white ceiling, lay Taehyung's body.  

The world seemed to collapse around you as you tip-toed into the room, ignoring the sticky warmth that clung to your naked feet at every step. Your eyes were focused on the lifeless form on the floor that used to be your friend. There was a gash in his throat reaching from ear to ear and almost deep enough to sever his head. His face, chest, everything was covered in Taehyung’s blood. It was easy to tell that his life had ended in painful agony as he had slowly bled out.

And yet his face looked like death had taken him by surprise.

“Taehyung?” Your voice was weak, cracking under the weight of despair. Carefully, you put a hand on his warm cheek and brushed a blood-crusted strand of hair out of his face. You had seen death before. It was, without exception, ugly, cruel, tragic. Every death of a friend or ally seemed so senseless to you and the loss would always chip away at your heart.

But now it was in pieces.

Tears were streaming down your face as you leaned down to kiss Taehyung on the forehead and gently close his eyes in the same motion. You were not ready to say goodbye to your best friend, not ready to let go. You wanted to force yourself to say a silent prayer for him, like you did for every clan member you had lost. But words of forgiveness and serenity eluded you. Instead, your mind was filled with ancient lines from a time when violence beseeched violence and peace was but a fleeting whisper in a country torn apart by war.

But mourn not the dead For they are with Her And She is with us

And She will care for them in Heaven And bring Hell upon our enemies For we are with Her And She is with us And revenge Shall be Hers

You sat up, never taking your eyes off of Taehyung’s face. His blood was on your hands and clothes, and you could taste it on your lips. He looked more peaceful now, and the harsh redness that stained his pale skin was starting to settle into a muted auburn. The initial shock that had clouded your senses was turning into an overwhelming sadness, and you were finally becoming aware of your surroundings again.

And the shadow falling in from the hallway through the open door.

Your chest was burning with both sorrow and hatred as you turned towards the unforgiving, unrelenting darkness. You wiped your face with your sleeve without getting up, choosing to remain kneeled next to Taehyung’s body as you spoke your simple command.

“Come out.”

The shadows moved, and heavy steps announced his movements before you could see them. As always, he spilled from the darkness seamlessly like water flowing over a riverbank, and his presence seemed to consume the space around him. Once again, he was standing between you and your escape route, but you did not mind. There was no way in hell you would run. You no longer cared about answers, changes, or clans. All you wanted was revenge for Taehyung.

This time, you would kill Jungkook.

[doomsteady]

Look Again - ch1

WIP! bi!John/ace!Sherlock, Friends to Lovers. Explicit. Will be posted on AO3 when it’s done.

This is what I’ve been writing to get over my writer’s block. Sort of a different take on my old Spotlights series. Less blatantly smutty (but still: there is smut). A more mature, developed look at the sexual/asexual relationship dynamic.

I am enjoying this one SO much right now! :D Not sure how long it’ll be in the end, but I’m at about 5k words currently and I think I’ve got about another 5k left to go.

Enjoy!

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Ch 1

A heavy boot smeared a muddy print on the back of John’s shirt as the brute jerked the rope back. The coils tightened at once, his and Sherlock’s bodies squeezing even closer and forcing a rough grunt out of John’s lungs.

Typical, John thought, his nose squashed against the front of Sherlock’s pristine shirt. Bloody typical, this.

The boot on his back shoved them away, sending their bound feet scuffing a clumsy tango against the tarmac. Grit scattering underfoot. Dark suited goons jeered at them from all sides, drunk on power and victory.

They’d been caught out. An unexpected patrol had stumbled upon their hiding spot out of blind, dumb luck. On all other counts, they had been meticulously careful; John’s army training being just as useful in situations like these as Sherlock’s route-finding and planning often was, but the result of their discovery was the same either way: They’d been captured. Their plan to eavesdrop on the clandestine money exchange was scuppered. Sherlock had been so furious with himself as to curse aloud.

The ringleader of the group stepped forward, an older man in a bespoke suit. Bald, gruff in both voice and appearance, his expensive attire did little to pretty up his image; John couldn’t help but think he looked like a dressed-up boar, for all the good it did him.

The man — Salvatore, because of course he’d be Italian — leaned in close to Sherlock’s ear. His breath stank of cigar ash, bitter and rotten. He was so close to John’s face that John had to fight the urge to headbutt the smarmy wanker, but one warning glance from Sherlock’s sharp, oceanic eyes put paid to the idea. They would get him eventually, but not now. Right now, survival and escape were paramount.

“Nearly had us all figured out, didn’t you?” The man’s thin lips pulled into a mocking grin. “So close,” he crooned. “The great Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Pain-in-the-Arse. Got cocky, eh? It’s just as well. We can’t have you ballsing our whole operation up, now can we?”

Sherlock’s face, mere inches from John’s own, remained passive and unimpressed by the man’s taunts. To look at him, one might assume the whole affair was a minor inconvenience. He looked bored, only mildly irritated to have been stripped of his coat, his hands bound behind his back and the rest of him tied to his friend, ankles to sternum.

His was a look that gave no applause to their captors, no acknowledgement of their having outwitted their opponent. It was an air of arrogant confidence, as if their eventual escape was a foregone conclusion. Child’s play.

Knowing him as well as John did, that was very likely the truth of it.

But pressed together as they were, chest-to-chest, John could clearly feel the thrum of Sherlock’s elevated heartbeat against his own. The man wasn’t impervious to the effects of adrenaline. It matched John’s own heavy pulse, the noise of which hissed in his ears and throbbed in his wrists where the thin rope dug painfully into his skin.

“I had rather hoped to put a damper on your day, yes. Nevermind, though. You’re a slippery fish, Salvatore, but even you can’t hope to slip the net every time.”

Salvatore’s grin widened until he broke into a rattling, sickly laugh. His goons joined in, right on cue. “Oh, Mr Holmes! You forget your current predicament. What nets should I need to slip, now that the fisherman himself has been hooked?”

The clunk of a car boot unlocking echoed through the underground level. Two things kept circling in John’s mind: One, that these thugs probably intended to kill them and dump their bodies somewhere they were unlikely to be discovered. And two, how much he wished it didn’t require the excuse of a hostage situation to be this physically close to his flatmate.

Because God, he’d been an idiot, hadn’t he? How many months had it been since that night at Angelo’s? Their first case together; chasing a serial killer through the streets of London. And John, already so infatuated by Sherlock’s strange charms, unable to contain himself any longer.

He just had to ask. Could they? Was he…?

He’d surprised even himself with his forwardness, but poor Sherlock had looked downright panicked by the advance. It was so sudden, so unexpected, that Sherlock had been forced to let him down in no uncertain terms.

While I’m flattered by your interest…

John Watson: Blogger, Flatmate, Monumental Idiot. And now this was it: This was the last time he would experience the two of them sharing each other’s body heat, and not once had it ever been under more pleasant circumstances. Was it possible to mourn the loss of something he’d never had? Because he was pretty sure this is how it feels.

In hindsight, it was even more of a shock that Sherlock had managed to reject him in a manner that was surprisingly gentle for the ‘high-functioning sociopath’. But, well, they both knew that label didn’t entirely apply. Though Sherlock preferred to maintain the myth for his public image, given their living arrangements, it was impossible to hide his true nature from John for long.

Everyone they knew now considered John the foremost expert on Sherlock Holmes, and not without good reason: They had grown thick as thieves in no time at all. And one thing he knew for sure about his strange, brilliant flatmate? He was no sociopath. His major problem seemed to be his difficulty to connect with and express his emotions. But hell, even John himself struggled with that, and most people considered him a perfectly normal bloke.

After Angelo’s, John hadn’t asked again. He respected his friend’s feelings and didn’t question their status in each other’s lives. But part of him always wondered if things might have developed differently, if only he hadn’t jumped the gun like a giddy teenager.

Trying to get into the man’s pants after only a day of knowing him? God, he must have seemed a right prat.

Breaking through John’s thoughts, two goons stepped forward, grabbing their arms and shoving them towards the car. John felt Sherlock’s body stiffen the moment his calves touched the bumper, and a moment later they were toppling awkwardly over and down into the cramped space.

“Shall we go for a swim, Mr Holmes?” he heard behind them, amidst the heckling of the thugs. Someone picked up their bound legs and swung them inside, hauling their dead-weight bodies into a position that could allow the boot to close over their heads. With a slam, the light was shut out. External sounds dulled to a muffled whisper of voices and the soft tread of boots. Inside, only their breaths were loud and clear.

“You alright?” John asked against Sherlock’s head, tasting for a moment the thick curls brushing the corner of his mouth. He winced at how the combined weight of himself and Sherlock lying over him was crushing his hands against the upholstery. “Felt you knock your head a bit on the way in. Does it hurt?”

John felt Sherlock’s low reply rumble like nightclub bass through both of their chests. “Mm,” he said. “It’ll bruise. It’s fine. What about you, can you breathe well enough? I’d get off if I could, but…”

“I’m fine,” John said, his eyes blindly seeking detail in the pitch black of the boot. He thanked his lucky stars neither of them were claustrophobic.

Outside, he could hear people approaching the car. A door opened, then another, and the suspension bounced and sank as their captors boarded. He dropped his voice to a strained whisper. “So, what’s the plan?”

Sherlock’s words were a tickling heat against John’s neck. “We have to loosen the ropes first. Can’t do anything with my hands tied like this.”

The engine roared to life, sending its vibrations through the chassis. It sunk into John’s bones and rattled his teeth. It was louder here than in the cabin, and a moment later, Sherlock began shifting his shoulders and hips in a serpentine movement. It forced John’s body to rock right along with him.

His breath caught in his throat as his brain momentarily whited-out.

“Move, John,” Sherlock ordered. “It’ll loosen quicker if we’re both working at it. They won’t hear over the engine.”

In the dark, John nodded and started mimicking Sherlock’s movements. Stopped a moment later. Actually, that wasn’t such a good idea.

“Um, Sherlock…” he began. Sherlock, still moving, didn’t reply. His whole weight was on top of John as he rhythmically worked his limbs against the ropes. He shifted them up and down, up and down, flexing and relaxing his muscles. His breath started coming in shallow pants that made John’s skin raise in goosebumps. Worse still, the motion was causing their hips to rub together in a way that simply couldn’t be ignored.

“Sherlock,” John hissed, barely able to prevent his body from twitching at every bolt of pleasure that was skittering up his spine. “Could you… Stop. Sherlock, stop, please.”

“Why?” Sherlock paused over him, their chests constricting with every laboured breath. The air had turned humid, a little stifling. John could feel the sweat beading on his forehead.

“Because it’s killing my wrists,” John said, because that was true, technically. He wasn’t about to admit that what was really concerning him was the reaction happening between his legs. Mercifully, it seemed Sherlock hadn’t yet caught on.

“A lot more than your wrists will end up dead if we don’t get out of here, John.” He strained his arms outward, tested the limits of the rope again. “I think it’s working, but it needs more. Look, just hold still, alright? I’ll try to make this quick.”

“Alright…”

As Sherlock began shifting again, John tried to think of anything other than the myriad fantasies he’d had over the years about the man currently writhing like a lover on top of him.

He thought of cold showers.

Of mutilated corpses.

Of Mycroft in women’s lingerie.

That last one, unexpected but horrifically detailed in his mind, caused him to break into a giggle.

“Glad you’re in such a giddy mood,” Sherlock’s voice came out rough from the exertion, his breath hitching between the words. “You could help, you know.”

“Sorry,” John shook his head, still grinning at the mental image. At this entire situation. This was ridiculous; here they were, trapped in a car boot, tied together with Sherlock frotting against him as if his life depended on it, because it actually did. John’s mind stuck picturing Mycroft in a brassier and lacy panties. Ripples of laughter ran through him, made unsteady by Sherlock’s movements.

This couldn’t really be happening, could it? John felt a little hysterical. “It’s nothing, just— Ohhh.”

A bump in the road shifted their position by a degree, causing Sherlock’s hips to grind directly along John’s half-hard cock, and a helpless moan escaped John’s throat before he could prevent it.

Sherlock went still at that. John’s erection throbbed between them, as obvious as the nose on his face.

Oh, indeed.

“S-Sorry,” John stammered. “Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“It’s um. It’s fine.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Perfectly natural response.”

“Yeah, it’s just… The friction, it’s…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Right.”

“But I have to…”

“Yeah, it’s fine. Just… Ignore.”

Sherlock hesitated for a moment before he started tentatively moving again. John could tell he was trying to avoid it, but there was no room to manoeuvre. Plus, if anything, it was having an even greater effect on him now that they had acknowledged it. That he knew Sherlock was aware that his shimmying was arousing him only made John’s cock twitch in perverted glee.

God, what the hell was wrong with him?!

And Sherlock kept going, because he had to, delivering an inexorable rhythm of frottage against John’s crotch that soon had him breathing hard through his nose. Every brush sent heavy drags of pleasure up his spine and down into his bollocks, bringing him rock-solid and building into a serious threat of something more, something with a very definite climax.

“Sherlock, for real…” John bit his lip. This had to stop soon, or else he was going to lose it entirely, but he couldn’t think of a way to say ‘I’m about to come in my pants’ that wouldn’t leave him mortally humiliated for the rest of his life. He eventually settled on a breathless, “Surely they’re loose enough by now?”

“Not quite. Just a few more minutes.”

“Sherlock—” His voice rasped, more a rush of air than sound. This couldn’t be happening to him. This wasn’t fair.

“Grit your teeth, man!”

John clenched his jaw and squeezed his eyes shut, but nothing could block out the sensation of Sherlock rubbing against him, dragging over his cock, increasing in speed and pressure as the binds around them gradually loosened. John was losing himself to the pleasure, the world narrowing down to the tightening of his muscles and the bubbling fire preparing to erupt in his groin. The urge to rut up and finish it was becoming an almost unbearable temptation.

The sounds Sherlock was making in his ear— grunting, panting with effort, certainly weren’t helping. His lips were brushing against him occasionally, accidentally, just beneath his earlobe. It was all so painfully intimate. Almost indistinguishable from the real thing. And combined with the see-saw swaying of his slender hips as they ground against John in just the right way…

John was fast approaching his limit.

“Sherlock,” he tried again, desperation keening in his voice even as he tried to stay quiet, lest their captors overhear. “Sherlock, please…”

“Hold on, John.”

“Fuck… I don’t… Don’t think I…” John’s mind clouded over. The smell of Sherlock’s skin, the press of his body, the heat of it. The hammering rhythm of his heart. The sound of his voice in his ear, deep, thick as dark chocolate and smooth as velvet. Luxurious. John’s every sense: Sherlock. Sherlock. Everywhere, inside his mind and out of it. Every thrust dragging him ever closer, closer, closer. Behind closed eyelids, John gazed into Sherlock’s eyes and saw those pupils blown wide with pleasure, and it was enough. It all was too much.

“Please, please… Oh, please… Sher… Please, please, please—!”

Once it began, he couldn’t stop it. The air was forced out of his lungs as he came, groaning helplessly into Sherlock’s shirt collar. His hips jerked up, hard, meeting the solid resistance of Sherlock’s thigh as his whole body tried to curl against Sherlock’s pinning weight. His fists clenched tight behind his back and his toes curled in the confines of their shoes. A litany of ‘pleases’ and ‘Sherlocks’ spilled from his lips as his cock pulsed between them, thick and hot.

It seemed to go on for an embarrassingly long time.

The waves gradually abated, and his muscles unwound themselves, relaxing enough to allow him to lay down flat again, mortified and gasping for air. For a moment, neither of them moved or spoke. The moment was frozen between them, undefined and fuzzy at the edges. But there was no need to spell it out. If his moaning hadn’t given it away, his frenzied rutting certainly had.

John’s heart was still pounding in his chest when Sherlock pulled at the ropes again. John could feel the difference in the tension, but it still amazed him when Sherlock’s right arm slipped up and out of the coils, followed by his left. Then, having created enough extra slack in the rope by freeing his limbs, Sherlock slid his torso down through the coils around their chests. Honestly, the man was like a god damned contortionist.

Panic momentarily gripped him when Sherlock was forced to rub his face along John’s crotch, because God knows what it smelled like down there. He froze, not daring to move an inch, until at last Sherlock’s upper-half was freed of its binds. John shuffled over to allow Sherlock to settle on the floor of the boot beside him, and together they made short work of the rope tying their legs.

“What now?” John asked, shoving aside his shame and anxiety and focusing on the problem at hand. There would be time to examine the fallout from this later. Pale light flooded the cramped space when Sherlock switched on his phone, and both of them squinted while their eyes got used to the glare.

Sherlock was already reaching for something hidden in his sock when the car rolled to a halt.

“Shit. Are we too late?” John whispered, his body tensing despite the post-orgasmic lethargy weighing heavy in his limbs.

“Traffic light,” Sherlock replied, leaning forward to mess with the boot lid. He had something slim in his hand; its smooth edge reflected the icy blue of the phone screen as he swivelled it into the lock’s mechanism. A few quick jiggles and the lid popped open, allowing a rush of cold London air into the space and revealing a sliver of damp road beyond.

John moved to clamber his way out, but Sherlock gripped his arm. “Not yet,” he said. “Wait until the car starts moving. They’ll notice the weight let up if we get out now.” They sat poised like stone statues, waiting for the moment. Then, the lurch of the engine. “Now!”

John rolled out of the boot first, gripping the lid to stop it raising too far. Sherlock slipped out behind him almost immediately. The car was away from them before he had a chance to shut the lid and hide the evidence of their escape. It would only be seconds before someone would notice it.

“Forget it, John. Run!”

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