#Overhead gate operators

[syoddeye]

deep end

price x transmasc!reader | 7.9k | AO3

cw: dubcon (power imbalance, price steamrolling reader), hints of daddy issues/mild daddy issues for those who want to see them, abrupt ending, age gap, alcohol, masturbation, praise kink, hand feeding, fingering, oral, anal sex a/n: clit, cock, and cunt are used to describe genitalia of reader's body. reader has top surgery scars.

There’s something to be said for the kind of work that doesn’t pretend to be anything it’s not. 

It’s not glamorous, but it’s yours—a modest business with your name on the side of a sun-faded van, stocked with gear, and enough regulars to keep the bills paid. That’s more than a lot of people can claim. It keeps the lights on. Affords you food and pride, both. Proof you’re getting by.

This little operation, humble as it is, at least gets you outside. And on days like this, that’s a gift. The cirrostratus looks like pulled strands of candy floss overhead, and the breeze takes the edge off.

You tip your head for a moment to admire the clouds, then tug the brim of your sunhat. It’s too big, like everything else you’re wearing. The clothes came out of the same catalog you order your gear from. A stiff, white button-up with your logo on the pocket and shapeless red shorts that skim your knees. Cheap. Chafes in all the wrong places, but expensable.

You scratch absentmindedly near your navel and guide the vacuum along the pool floor in methodic passes. The water is clear, the motion soothing. Slips you into a quiet headspace. 

It’s satisfying. Calming. The zen and predictability of a repetitive task cannot be understated. Lulls you into a lovely state of not-quite-daydreaming. 

So, you don’t hear Mr. Price the first time.

“You with me, lad?”

The vacuum handle nearly slips as you twist around too fast, your foot catching the edge of the pool. You wobble, free arm flailing for balance. Mr. Price steps forward instinctively—poised to surge across the yard. You manage to steady yourself, weight rocking back in time.

Both of you exhale at once.

He scrubs a hand over his face, dragging it across his beard.

“Sorry, sir. I didn’t hear you.”

“I gathered.”

You switch off the vacuum, the underwater hum fading. “Was there, uh, something you needed, sir?”

His sunglasses are too dark to tell, but you feel him sizing you up, same as he did when you arrived. He hadn’t said much then either, just opened the door, looked you over from head to toe, then gestured toward the side gate with a grunt.

You don’t know what to make of him. In truth, you rarely give your clients much thought beyond big house and lucky bastards. If you see them at all, it’s through the windows.

This is your first time at his place, and you’re still formulating an assessment. 

You don’t know if Mr. Price has a family, but his house is big enough to accommodate one. There’s a sporty car parked outside his garage. A sprawling garden, lined with hedges, mature trees, and a wrought-iron fence. No immediate neighbors butting the property line.

And, obviously, a pool.

What sets him apart is that you met him, and not a housekeeper or assistant. Clients typically let others handle the scheduling and small talk. It caught you off guard, putting a face to the voice, and matching the face to the owner’s name.

Still, your gut says to treat him the same as the others. Another man accustomed to obedience. So, you straighten and lift your chin.

Your change in posture seems to amuse. The corner of his mouth lifts.

“I asked if you needed water.”

Your eyes flick to your bag and your beat-up thermos, plain as day. He had to have seen it. Which means this isn’t really about concern. You’ve done this dance before. A casual, innocuous question preceding a snide comment or suspicion. Are you slacking off? Cutting corners?

Knew it, you think bitterly.

“No thank you, sir.”

His mouth twitches again, this time downward, then flattens. 

“Suit yourself.”

He retreats indoors, and the rest of the visit passes without incident. No more words exchanged. The clouds lift, sharing a rare, naked sky.

You pack your tools and log the time. As you pull out of the drive, you check the rearview.

Mr. Price stands at the back gate with a phone pressed to his ear.

You can’t read his face from this distance—but you feel the weight long after the house disappears from view.

You must’ve made an impression, because Price starts booking weekly. On your docket every Friday afternoon.

It mystifies. His pool is never particularly dirty. Maybe a thin film of grime at the most, a handful of leaves blown in from the hedges and bird cherry trees. No signs of children or pool toys. No evidence of parties. It’s clear he lives alone, and doesn’t host.

Far be it for you to question easy money.

It makes for a pleasant, if not boring, routine. Knock on the door. Head around back. With booking and billing handled online, there’s no need to see or speak to him at all.

For a couple weeks, it’s simple. Another lucky bastard with a big house who leaves blank five-star reviews. The best you could hope for.

Then he starts appearing poolside.

At first, you assume it’s a fluke. That he’s forgotten you’re scheduled. 

He’s the picture of leisure. Drink in one hand, cigar in the other, stretched out on the cushions. If he’s startled or annoyed by your presence, he doesn’t show it. He gives you a polite nod, then buries his nose in a magazine.

But then it happens again. And again. 

Like clockwork. The new fucking routine.

You unlatch the gate, and there he is, waiting. He makes himself comfortable—well, more comfortable, given it is his house—and watches. Or seems to. It’s hard to tell with the sunglasses.

He never interrupts, just smokes and reads. The magazines he cradles are dog-eared, covers curled over. Sometimes you catch glimpses of the topics: cars, golf, current events. None of it hints at what he does for money. If he’s retired or working from home. If he’s ever worked a day in his life.

It changes things.

The calm dissolves. You grow more aware of every little thing. The way your shirt sticks between your shoulder blades. The trickle of sweat down your spine. Every time you bend at the waist or kneel by the pool’s edge. 

You try to ignore it, but you feel his eyes brushing over the nape of your neck or small of your back. Yet every time you peek, he’s not looking. You can’t shake it anyway—the sense of being observed, possibly admired.

That’s when the shame creeps in.

What are you doing? What do you think this is, a slow-burn porno? Are you that vain?

This is just a job.

You scold yourself, cheeks burning hotter than the sun overhead. It’s mortifying. To even imagine that a man like him—older, composed, probably has a different watch and woman for each day of the week—would be watching you. You. You’re not special. You’re a line item on an invoice. Background noise.

The thought that you’ve spun some dumb fantasy makes your stomach knot.

You work faster. Keep your eyes down. Try not to think about it too hard.

But when the breeze shifts and carries his smoke toward you, heavy and spiced, and it curls around your ribs like a hook.

Your first real conversation, you’re in trouble.

“You’re late.”

“I know. I’m sorry, sir.”

Mr. Price’s fists sit on his hips, a cigar at the corner of his mouth held in place by a frown. Sunglasses hiding a glare.

“What kept you?”

You’re sweating from the mad rush, juggling the hose and skimmer, and running on fumes. A dull throb pulses in your skull, the tail end of a headache from your last client’s shrill tirade. His threats to leave bad reviews over a handful of rowan petals in his pool and a perceived lack of hustle.

A nutcase, you want to spit. You want to tell Price about how you skipped lunch and nearly got sideswiped on the drive. Complain about how your life depends on the goodwill of people who don’t remember your name and settle for obscenities or diminutives.

Instead, you drop your armful on the grass and lie. “Traffic.”

He cocks a brow. “Traffic got you worked up?”

“Yes,” you bristle, and slam the gate to storm back to collect the rest of your supplies.

When you return, he’s still at the gate, and this time, one long arm swings past. He slows the metal before it slams, guiding it shut with a quiet click. Suddenly, he’s too close, and you’re boxed in. A meld of tobacco, sweat, and body heat seeps into the space between. It’s toothsome. Heady on the tongue.

You form an apology—you can’t afford to lose business—but he doesn’t raise his voice.

“Whatever’s actually put you in a mood, you won’t be takin’ it out on my property.” He ducks his head to chase your eyes and you’re forced to stare at your reflection in the dark lenses. “We clear?”

The steel of his jaw, his arm flexing, the authority crackling in his tone like fire splitting wood—it shouldn’t make your stomach flip, but it does.

“Yes, sir.”

He smiles then. Not kindly. Smug, maybe. “Good lad.” 

The words hit a nerve you didn’t know you had. They sink in somewhere soft and sensitive. The same place that makes a dog’s hackles rise and puts butterflies in bellies.

“And you better not slack just because you’re behind.”

“I won’t, sir.”

He lets you pass, and follows when you do. It’s a struggle to not trip over your own feet.

This time, he makes no secret of watching. His cigar burns out untouched. The magazine flutters in the wind. He sits with his fingers laced over his middle, legs crossed at the ankles. 

Bent on all fours over the system compartment, a prickle at the back of your neck grows impossible to ignore. You glance over your shoulder. 

He appears asleep—utterly still—until the corner of his mouth lifts. A slow, knowing smirk.

You snap back to the task at hand. 

A chuckle follows, low and indulgent. It drapes over you like velvet and settles somewhere deep, where it can hum and hiss like a wasp caught under a jar.

On a night off, you go dancing. Three glasses of cheap vodka in your bloodstream, the taste coating your tongue. You considered ordering whiskey, but lost your nerve. 

Leaning against a wall outside with your friends, getting air between songs, someone asks if you’ve met anyone lately. 

Or are you all work, no play?

You answer without hesitation. Without thinking.

(It’s not until the next morning, hungover and rueing the sun itself, that you understand they meant someone from an app. A date. A one-night stand, maybe.)

But you’d already blabbed. Confessed.

Mr. Price. 

John.

Your mouth runs wild with the liquor in your blood.

He’s a bit odd, you admit. Hard to read. Just the other day, you’d walked in as he finished swimming laps, and he climbed out the moment he spotted you. You swear it happened in slow motion—water rolling off the hard lines of his chest, the softer spread of his belly, the pelt of hair. The treasure trail and fading farmer’s tan. You nearly keeled over at the sight. And it’s hard to guess his age. He’s fit, and the silver threads in his beard do something to you.

It isn’t until the laughter shifts into something sly, that you realize how long you’ve been going on. The teasing comes fast, merciless but fond. There’s no walking it back.

And when they ask—flat-out—if you’d fuck him, you can’t lie.

That gets them going.

“Do you think he’s—?”

You cut them off. “No. No way.”

Denial is easier than the fantasy of hope.

With an excuse, you peel yourself off the wall and flee back into the fray to shake the heat crawling up your neck.

You attempt to bury it all in the mouth of a stranger. Older, taller, dark hair curling damply at his temples. Broad enough shoulders. A cheap cologne that stings your nose. You let him kiss and paw at you against the sticky wall by the toilets, but it’s no good. He tastes like rum. Too sweet, no substance. Nothing like what you want. 

The night ends early, frustration simmering. Alone in your room, sprawled in the dark, you add one item to the shopping list on your phone:

Whiskey.

The weather turns fast one afternoon.

It starts with the trill of Mr. Price’s phone and a curse. He abandons his post, gritting out a clipped Yeah? before striding toward the house. The glass doors shut behind him, and though they muffle the sound, his voice climbs in volume as he disappears from view.

Almost in answer, the sky darkens. In minutes, clouds quicken and roll in, dragging the light with them and smothering it in a drab, gray sheet. The breeze kicks up and then your sunhat is gone, plucked clean off your head and hurled skyward.

You watch it spiral away helplessly.

Leaving your equipment where it sits, you duck beneath the umbrella between the chairs. It offers little protection. The raindrops fatten, splattering against the stone, and without giving it much thought, you scoop up his magazine and half-finished drink.

Clutching the snifter to your chest, the scent of whiskey rises. You’re more of a wine fan, really, but the smell settles you. Warms you, even as goosebumps sprout along your arms and shoulders. Reminds you of your dad.

You shift foot to foot, back turned to the wind and rain. The uniform clings in cold patches as it soaks through.

Then, from across the lawn—“Inside!”

Mr. Price stands in the doorway, motioning you in.

You hesitate. You have a policy: stay outdoors. Liability. Safety. If rain hits, you wait it out or move on. You know this.

Then a sheet of rainwater sluices off the umbrella as it topples sideways in the wind, sloshing down your back. Shuddering, you shove the magazine under your shirt to shield it and bolt.

The rain lashes your skin. Grass squishes beneath your feet. His drink sloshes over the rim with every step, drenching your fingers in liquor.

You slip through the doors, soaked, clothes plastered on. You produce the rumpled magazine and offer it to Mr. Price with his half-drained glass.

“I, uh, tried to—”

“You’re dripping,” he says flatly, his gaze dropping to the puddle forming at your feet.

You glance down at the water pooling at your feet and almost stumble back outside, stammering apologies, but he cuts you off.

“I’ll get you a towel. Shoes off.” He empties your hands, pivoting toward the kitchen to deposit them on the island. As he rounds a corner, he points at the floor. “Stay put.”

Outside, the rain picks up, and you gingerly remove your shoes and socks, not wanting to make more of a mess. Shivering, teeth clacking from the chill, you rub your arms and gawk. You’ve never been inside a client’s home before.

A polished, heavy table anchors the immediate area. Old wood floors stretch beneath it, the tile under your feet a practical addition. Meant for footprints. Framed photos are scattered throughout, on the walls and sideboard, family portraits old and new you assume.

A grand painting behind the grand table seizes your attention: a small fishing boat, crimson and white, nearly lost in a violent storm. The sea churns around it in deep greens and blacks, lightning tearing across a sickly sky. 

You admire the scene until you hear footfalls.

Mr. Price bears a towel and clothes. You accept the towel, pretending not to notice the second offering. When you peek out from beneath the cotton, he’s holding a shirt out.

Does he seriously think—

“Go on. You’ll catch your death if you stay in that.”

A laugh putters out. You shake your head. “You can’t—I can’t take that, sir.”

His chin dips. “You’re not taking anything. You’re borrowing. C’mon. Shirt off, son.”

An ember catching kindling. You struggle to tamp it down.

“Can’t I change in the–”

He scoffs dismissively. “I’m not moppin’ up a trail. Nothing I haven’t seen before. Transparent, anyway.”

Nothing I haven’t seen before. You doubt that. Your scars have faded into blurs, but they’re recognizable. Obvious in their purpose. 

He is right. Your shirt clings better than cellophane, sheer in all the worst places. You tug at the hem, flustered, burning up under his scrutiny.

Another look at his face says arguing only delays the inevitable. It’s fucked—whatever this is, however he keeps pushing and playing with you. Batting you around like a bored tomcat would a mouse. Worse is how easily you’re letting it happen. Part of you, perversely curious, wants to see where it’ll lead, if he’ll eat you whole or what. Another can’t stop replaying the memory of what he looks like, soaked and shirtless.

One-handed, you work the shirt free, and new goosebumps bloom across your skin. Your nipples stiffen. It shouldn’t be a big deal—but Mr. Price is staring.

Maybe your scars haven’t faded as much as you think. You take the shirt, refusing to shrink, and square your shoulders. Posture makes all the difference amongst men, you learned.

The borrowed shirt slips overhead, and you juggle the towel to thread both arms through. It’s loose in the shoulders, hitting the midpoint of your butt. Plain black, clean-smelling cotton.

Price clears his throat. “Better. Bottoms, now.”

If your cheeks weren’t already warm, they’re scorching now.

“Sir.”

He clicks his tongue and swings the spare shorts. “C’mon, these’ll do if you tie the string.”

“There’s no need!”

“You’d rather make more of a mess on my floor?”

You hold your ground, waiting for an indication he’ll back off, but he doesn’t. An unevenly matched game of chicken and you’re losing one concession at a time. You last all of ten seconds.

With a huff, you wrap the towel around your waist. Wiggling your hips, you coax the shorts down without revealing more than you already have. It takes a long, awkward minute. And when you think you’ve made it through with some shred of dignity intact, he kneels, and closing a hand around your ankle.

“Steady.”

You freeze as he lifts one foot, then the other, helping you step out. 

You snatch the shorts out of his hand and hurriedly shove them on, nearly combusting when the towel comes away in his hand seconds after you pull them over your bottom.

And then he’s up, moving, your wet clothes slung over his arm like nothing happened. Like he wasn’t—like he didn’t just—

“Back in a jiff.”

This is where your curiosity’s led you.

Barefoot, in his clothes, heart fluttering ridiculously. Breaths in short bursts, stifled little things, afraid to be too loud. Dumbstruck.

How ridiculous you must look.

Do you think he’s—?

Well.

You dry off as best you can and sidestep the puddle. Your boxers are likely see-through as well now, but you vow to not mention them. You wouldn’t survive Mr. Price insisting on a fresh pair with your ass on display.

You rinse the whiskey off in a haze and find the kitchen as orderly as the dining room. Together, they’re larger than your entire flat. Modernized, no-frills. 

Through the archway, the hum of a tumble dryer kicks up, and Price reappears.

“Some rain. Didn’t expect it, did you?”

You almost ask which part—the rain, or the forced striptease?

Instead, you mutter, “No, Mr. Price.”

“Think you can call me John now.”

Within minutes, he talks you into tea and a sandwich. While you nibble, he fills the silence with small talk. He doesn’t cook much himself—so if you don’t like it, s’not his fault—and arranges for a chef to deliver meals every Sunday. Nothing elaborate, enough for the week, with extras in case of company.

You work up the nerve to ask what he does for a living.

He’s unfazed. Says his parents passed, left him the house. He’s retired military, lives comfortably off a pension. Mentions he does some consulting now and then—vague, detached, the kind of answer meant to end the conversation, not invite it forward.

“But enough about me. Want to know more about you.”

You wash a bite down with a sip, uncertain that he’s serious. He’s being polite, you reason. A man like him—he doesn’t really want to know. You’re a half-drowned dog he brought in from a storm. A good deed.

“I’m not that interesting.”

“Says the kid with his own company.”

Fair play.

You relent. Share little things. Where you’re from how you started, and that most of your work is seasonal. You help out at a school in the off months, and teach swimming at the community pool when they’re short-staffed. He listens intently, attention never wavering. Probably finds it novel, working more than one job.

“Sounds like you have your hands full.”

You nod, swallowing the last sip of tea. “I keep busy.”

He hums. “You do alright on your own?”

The question is light, but it lands heavy. It’s simple, benign—but it isn’t neutral and it needles. He ducks his head when you look away, searching. Like he’s casting a line, hoping you’ll give something up.

Heat flares under your collar. Your throat constricts, shame blooming sharp and sudden.

You shrug, keeping it light. “I manage.”

When the rain finally stops, you’re overdue, and itching to escape Mr. Price—John’s—attention. There are only so many ways to dodge questions.

He meets you at the van once it’s packed.

“Be seeing you, kid.”

“Yeah,” you nod once. “Thanks again, John.”

You offer a cordial hand, business-like, and his palm is hot around yours. You bet it’d feel like a brand elsewhere.

At a light on the way home, you tug the collar of his shirt up over your nose and inhale. For a brief, blistering second, you imagine his hands around your ankles again. Pushing them up and up and up.

You don’t remember the rest of the drive home.

It’s only after you’ve kicked off your shoes and settled into the couch with a sip of your new whiskey, that it hits you—your uniform’s still in John’s laundry.

Shit.

You go back for it after the weekend, off schedule. Have to. 

Having rung ahead, he’s expecting you. He meets you at the door, phone tucked between his shoulder and cheek. You hand off the spare clothes; he passes yours back. He mouths sorry and squeezes your shoulder, before disappearing back inside like it never happened.

You’re already behind, so you change in the van before your first job. The moment you slide the shorts on, your eyebrows hit the ceiling. They sit higher now, snug around your thighs, hitting well above the knee. You assume they must’ve shrunk in the wash—until you pull on the shirt. It’s been hemmed. Clean, subtle stitching. Tighter at the sleeves, better at the waist.

You consider going back, but your schedule’s packed, and the day runs away from you.

When you see him next, he beats you to it.

“Fits better, doesn’t it?” John claps your shoulder, pinching and tugging the shoulder seam.

“Yes, but did you—?”

“Eyeball the size?” He grins. “Not bad, eh? I’ve got a good tailor.”

It’s not like you can undo it and you’re not about to shell out for a replacement. So you thank him, and receive a pleased, grumbled good lad in return, and a swat to the small of your back, a hair north of improper. 

A wordless dismissal. Back to work.

With every window flung wide, you wage a hopeless war against the stagnant heat. Your sheets are drenched in sweat. Restless doesn’t cover it—you’re strung tight and buzzing, sticky and half-mad with frustration.

Sleep’s not happening, not like this.

You groan and kick your boxers down your legs, then roll to your stomach, pushing up onto your knees. The air’s balmy, sticking in your lungs.

You’re not surprised to find yourself wet. Some of it’s sweat, sure, but the rest—that’s your own fault. The consequence of a wandering mind and no one around to check it.

You let your imagination take the reins.

Face mashed into the mattress, you imagine his foot on your back. Weight bearing down on you, pinning you in place. His cock rutting over your ass, one big hand grabbing himself at the base, slapping it against your hole, and the other digging into a fleshy cheek to spread it.

Your cock pulses between your rubbing fingers and a moan spills out. Your teeth scrape the sheets, eyes welding shut. It’s obscene and loud in your quiet room when you steal slick from your cunt to rub over your asshole.

He would work you open, push one finger in at a time. Get you to cry on two, render you incoherent on three. Your own aren’t enough to bring tears to your eyes, but thinking of what he’d say is.

He’d ask if you wanted it. Needed it. Deserved it. All in that frustratingly even timbre of his.

His voice comes out of nowhere, clear as a klaxon in your head.

Good boy.

You come hard and fast, bucking your cock into your palm, fingertips prodding at your rim. Didn’t even get far enough to slip them inside.

You lie there for ages, gasping, limp. Your muscles are too heavy, and you’re too far gone to care about the mess.

Sleep takes you like that—sticky and spent.

The next morning, you peel yourself out of bed and strip the sheets in silence, tossing everything into the wash, shame eating you alive.

You can’t look at John that week without that memory pumping blood south. Imagining him bending you over a chaise or pushing you into the clover until your uniform turns green.

It’s divine punishment when he decides you need feeding. Like he somehow knows what played out in the privacy of your bedroom, or caught the stench of desperation that only comes with a misplaced crush, and you need your nose rubbed in it.

John presents fruit under a mesh cloche and demands you take a break. Not like there’s much to do, anyway. The pool goes unused most of the time, the maintenance minimal at best. You put up little resistance, beckoned toward him by a crooked finger.

He moves his legs for you to sit as if there aren’t three other loungers ringing the pool. Gesturing for you to scooch closer when he uncovers the fruit, stabbing a cocktail fork into a pink cube dusted with tajin. He offers it handle first.

A drop of juice drips onto his shin, and you think, lick it. You could. You would, if he told you to.

The impulse grips you so intensely, it’s absurd. This whole thing is absurd. Here you are, with a client. Not a date, not a boyfriend. A man with at least ten years on you, casually bullying his way past all personal and professional boundaries, and you’re waving him through as if they don’t matter.

You know he expects you to take the fork from him, but that curious twitch stirs, and instead, your mouth falls open.

His eyes narrow, and he turns the fork, tucking the fruit into your mouth. Your lips close around the bite, tugging it off the tines with your teeth.

“Cheeky.” he murmurs.

A good little pet sitting at their master’s feet.

Your head spins.

You’re convinced now. There’s a tear in reality, one that opens every time you turn onto that private lane. You pass through it like Alice through the looking glass, crossing into another plane thrumming with heat and heavy air, a whole world that revolves around Mr. Price and his whims. 

A gravity all its own.

A special request from John arrives mid-week, close to the hottest day of the year.

Full-service. Deep clean, filter flush, system check—the kind of job that’ll eat your afternoon and keep you working well past quitting time. Two other clients will have to be bumped, but he offers triple your usual rate. Says he understands it’s last minute.

Says he’ll make it worth your while.

For the hundredth time, you’re unable to turn him down.

You tell yourself it’s the money, but that’s only half true. The other half keeps your hands tight on the wheel the whole drive over when Friday rolls around.

Nothing helps your nerves. You can’t stop thinking about eating from John’s hand. The weight of his stare. His attention. About that man at the bar—the cheap imitation whose tongue you sucked in a vain attempt to quiet what’s only gotten louder.

It’s all climbing to a fever-pitch, and you want it to break.

John greets you at the gate.

“Glad to see you.”

He lays a hand across the back of your neck, and you fall into step.

“Hosting a mate’s retirement party. Suspect his kids’ll want to swim.” He continues on about the details, but you’re stuck on how he directs your attention via squeeze.

You expect a mess, or evidence of a gathering on the horizon, but everything’s the same. Practically pristine. Swept and hosed down. You glance sidelong toward John when he sits, buzzing with something you don’t want to name. 

There’s no real reason you should be here.

No real work to do.

But he’s bought your time, so you give it, and it crawls. You move equally slow, checking the seals for wear, inspecting the heater, running tests. All of it busy work and theater.

You’re kneeling on a folded towel, bent over the open housing for the pool’s pump system. Focused until his shadow spills across the ground.

“Don’t mean to sneak up on you,” John says.

You twist to peer over your shoulder and almost swallow your tongue at the sight of his trunks at eye-level, and rise to your feet. “Everything alright?” You swipe your forehead with your wrist, willing yourself to relax.

His knuckles brush your cheek, featherlight. He frowns. “You look warm,” he taps one to your chin. “Come on. Enjoy the fruits of your labor with me, yeah?”

You barely put up a fuss when he cajoles you into a dip. Stripped to your boxers, you wade in, relief singing up your legs. Curling around your waist. You nearly groan from how good it feels.

At the other end, John dives in. He slices through the water, sleek and galeoid, surfacing within reach. Veins of water cut down his chest and stomach, disappearing at the elastic at his hips.

“Better?”

“Loads,” you say, hoarse.

He gives a faint smirk, then turns, launching into lazy laps. Says something about needing to stay limber, working out a knot in his back. You hopeless to watch. He puts those shoulders to use, pulling with long, fluid strokes.

You swallow hard, trailing him shamelessly: the sweep of his back, the bulk and muscles under freckled and scarred skin. You’re greedy. You want him. On you. Around you. Inside you. You want to bite down on that smirk and hear him swear your name.

You sit on the steps, draw your knees in, and press your thighs closed to hold yourself together. Your hands flex on the vinyl. They want to reach. Grab.

He pushes off the wall for another loop, and you stay right where you are, trying to think about anything that isn’t the throbbing pulse between your legs.

John doesn’t bother asking if you’re hungry, or if you’ll stay for dinner.

Haphazardly dressed, shirt half-buttoned and untucked, you stow the last of your gear. You’re in a daze, holding fast to denial. The spell will break, your van will revert into a pumpkin, and you’ll head home to scrub the day from your skin. Send the invoice, knock off a percentage, and you’ll do it all over again next week.

Then smoke hits the air.

John’s at the grill laying down strips of pork, the meat hissing on the grate. He halves peaches with a paring knife that’s tiny in his grip and sets them cut-side down beside the meat. The air turns lush with salt and charred sugars, rosemary and garlic.

You slink to his side, salivating, meaning to say goodbye and thank you. Polite and decisive.

Then he jerks his head to the door and tells you to fetch plates and cutlery, and you bound off. Retrieving them dutifully. Inwardly, a part of you raises the fact you didn’t agree to stay, that you shouldn’t stay—but that flicker of good sense snags on the barb of hunger and all your aching.

By the time the food’s ready, you’re ravenous. You never eat this well. Burnished pork glazed in its own fat and blistered peaches. You stop short of licking the plate.

After washing up, you peek at your phone.

“Stop that,” he scolds. “I know exactly how long I’ve got you for.”

And he does—he keeps you through golden hour.

Abendrot, painted in red and gold and soft indigo, bleeds over the sky. You’re boneless in the lounge chair. Content. Melting around the edges, the line between help and guest completely dissolved. Rendered.

John sprawls the next seat over, holding a lowball glass that catches the last of the light.

You lie on your side, head pillowed on your arm, watching the bob of his throat as he swallows.

“Can I have some?” you ask.

“Don’t think you’d like it. Picture you as more of the daiquiri type.”

“Not true,” you sit up. “I’ve got a bottle of that at home.”

That makes him glance your way. Then, he shifts, patting the cushion beside him.

He walks you through it, clearly doubting your tastes and experience: breathe in first, don’t take too much, let it roll. Savor it.

It burns, but it’s smooth. Honey folded in smoke. Leagues better than what you picked up on sale.

“Good?” he asks.

You wheeze, nodding. Emboldened, you try again twice more under his amused supervision. After a shallow fourth, you push the glass to his chest with a breathless laugh.

John chuckles, shoulders shaking. When the sound dies, you notice how close you’ve drifted.

“Well,” you murmur, easing upright. “This has been–well, I should...”

“That it?” he asks. “Off the clock now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, but, I should go, since–”

“Yeah?” he smooths a hand up your thigh. “Aren’t you the boss?”

Your brain stutters. Your mouth moves before your thoughts can catch up. “Aren’t you?”

It comes out soft. Sultry. Unfurls like a red flag in front of a bull.

His face blanks. Then, very quietly, “Careful.”

Panic punches through you. Words spilling fast. “I am so sorry, sir. That was—that was over the line. I didn’t mean—”

Storm clouds darken his blues and you brace for it—for the correction, the ending you walked yourself into.

But he moves.

The glass hits the table with a muted clink, forgotten. His hand shoots out, closing around your wrist, and the next thing you know, you’re hauled straight into his lap.

He’s kissing you.

“John–” you gasp against his mouth.

Devouring you.

His mouth slants hard over yours, tongue parting your lips, taking what he wants with a low sound—part growl, part groan.

You try to breathe through it, to think, but it’s useless. He tastes like smoke and whiskey and stone fruit. He grabs your waist and drags you closer, until you’re straddling him, knees framing his hips.

The lounger creaks.

“Christ,” he mutters against your jaw. His teeth scrape there, making you arch. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you to make that face again.”

“What face? A-again?” you moan, dizzy.

“That one,” he murmurs, mouth trailing lower, grazing your throat. “Like you’d let me wreck you right here, out in the open. You make it all the time.”

You shudder. He feels it—laughs under his breath.

His hand slips to your nape. His forehead presses to yours, thumb brushing your cheek.

“You want this, hm?” he asks.

You nod.

“Words, sweetheart.”

“Yes.”

“Good,” he says, and kisses you again. Rougher this time. Meaner. The decision’s final.

You belong here. On his lap. On his tongue.

“There’s a good boy, fuckin’ good boy.”

A head rush in two ways. The pulse of John’s cock on your tongue rewires your brain, resets it completely when he presses your nose into the steel wool of his hair. Dizzying, both the lack of air and the sheer size of his hand cradling your skull.

Right here, out in the open. Kneeling on a bunched-up shirt.

He had let you take charge to a point. Half-heartedly muttered about there being no need. Though as soon as you slid your tongue along the underside of his cock and hollowed your cheeks, he swore and took the reins.

He fucks your throat in slow, deep thrusts, and tells you what he thinks of your talent. What a nice surprise it is. He coos when tears well and spill, mistaking them, maybe, for strain. But it’s not that. It’s the way he looks at you. He means every word. That’s what’s undoing.

He catches your tears with a thumb, and drags them across his tongue to taste the salt. You could come like this, giving head to a man who calls you kid. When you slip a hand over your crotch he doesn’t stop you. In fact—

“Go on, do it. Show me how desperate you are.”

There’s not a shred of embarrassment when you cup yourself through your clothes, rubbing along the seam, chasing friction. You can’t do much of anything except rile yourself up. It works for John—a line of filthy encouragement streaming from him uninhibited. He grinds his hips up into the heat of your mouth, picking up speed.

John doesn’t give much warning before he comes. A stifled grunt gives it away—then his grip tightens, the pressure turning forceful, insistent, urging you to take more, to take all of him. You gag, sparks bursting in your vision when he spills in your throat. 

He gives another couple thrusts before allowing your retreat. You sputter and cough, lips slick with drool. You curl inward slightly, heels digging into your backside.

While you scrub at your eyes with the heels of your hands, still sniffing, he leans. Drags your lower lip down and hooks a thumb in your mouth to steal a look inside.

“Perfect.”

His bed could eat yours for breakfast.

That’s your first thought when John eases you into it.

Then his mouth finds yours, slower now, pacing himself. He’s got all the time in the world. You’re not going anywhere.

His kiss deepens as he crowds in close, tongue sliding against yours. You can feel every inch of him, chest to chest, the hard line of his thigh slotted between yours. His weight is a delicious trap, anchoring you down.

He shoves your shirt open, one rough palm skimming your waist, the other dragging its thumb across a scar. His mouth works a line down your neck, maw open and hungry.

“You’ve been driving me fucking mad,” he murmurs, gravel-thick. His teeth catch the shell of your ear as he toys with a nipple. “Teasin’ me for weeks.”

You twist your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, grinding between your thighs.

“I wasn’t trying to,” you gasp. “You—you made me—during the storm—”

“Never made you do a damn thing,” he grunts, tugging at your waistband. “Did I? Didn’t make you wear my clothes. Didn’t force you to eat my food.”

He yanks your shorts and boxers to your ankles, and there’s no hiding it. He finds you wet—slick and ready. His whole body stills to collect himself. Then he exhales slow, grinning.

“Christ,” he kisses your jaw, your cheekbone, your temple. “Don’t need to force a thing.”

John’s touch is as demanding as the rest of him. He learns you fast, using two fingers and his thumb to stroke your cock. His other hand slides under your back, kneading a globe to coax you into another filthy kiss.

He breaks to swipe through your cunt, and you moan into his neck, clinging to him. He groans at the way you flutter when he circles your hole, hips shifting so you feel the hard heat of him against your thigh.

“This alright?”

You nod, helpless.

“Speak.”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, John.”

He slicks his fingers and returns to your twitching cock, stirring you up into a fit of noise, hips mindlessly canting into his touch.

You’re right there—right on the edge—when he pulls away. A desperate sound tears from your lips as he stands, leaving you aching on the bed. You turn, watching him through bleary eyes as he looms.

“John,” you whimper, tilting up.

He doesn’t answer. Just reaches down, huffing through his nose, and rolls you onto your front. You scramble to get your knees set.

“Please, please—”

“Know what you need,” He grits, hauling you by the hips to the edge of the bed, swearing when you’re completely exposed. “Fuck, look at that. Could sink my teeth in right here and eat,” he swipes over your flesh, chuckling at your whimpering. “Another time, baby. Don’t worry.”

You hiss as he massages your rim using the mess from your cunt. Firm circles to ease you open. When he finally breaches, sinking to the first knuckle, you lose a little time, and come back to feel the prodding of a second digit. It’s a touch too soon, but you don’t stop him.

Don’t think you could. Not sure if you’d want to.

Soon enough, you’re tearing at the sheets. Tears roll over the bridge of your nose and slopes of your face, staining the cotton. You’re trembling, hiccuping, overwhelmed—barely able to keep up with him working you over on three of his spit-coated fingers.

Just a job, you told yourself, and now you’re crying into his bed. Listening to him purr your name. You sob once—high and cracked—and he hushes you, holding you still at the base of your spine.

“That’s it, sweet boy. Let it out.”

You cling harder to the sheets, the salt of your tears burning where they admix with sweat. You’re not sure what you’re crying for anymore—relief, need, shame. The staggering, unbearable pleasure of being wanted.

Again, he stops short of letting you come.

You’re too far gone to complain, every nerve lit up and raw. The last of your common sense, a final coherent thought raising the issue of a condom, is seared out of your mind when his cocks glides through your folds. When it slaps over the cleft of your ass. Once. Twice.

Then he’s pressing in.

It’s almost unceremonious—the weeks of simmering tension finally and suddenly boiling over—white-hot and unbearable. It ruptures, spills molten in your veins, and splits you wide open.

John’s belly brushes your lower back, then presses, cushioning when he curls over to push until he’s flush.

“Oh–oh fuck, John,” you choke out, grappling the pillow half-tucked under you.

“You’re alright.”

He keeps you close, anticipating the kick of your legs, the instinct to wriggle away. One hand smooths over your flank, gentle as breaking in a wild thing, until the worst of your shaking settles.

Then he hooks an arm snug across your chest and the other under your stomach. He finds your leaking dick, thumbing it with a hum while his own stretches you out.

“Kept this waiting, didn’t I? Sweet boy, such a mess.”

He saws in and out slowly, luxuriating in it. The rough scrape of his stubble drags over your shoulder and neck, the humid gust of his breath puffs in your ear. His fingers dip and trace your seam, circling your neglected hole. 

“Please,” you try to buck against him, but it’s impossible to move.

“Greedy,” He grunts derisively, though the eagerness with which he burrows a finger in your cunt, betrays him.

He stalls his thrusts to a grind as feeds your cunt his fingers until you cry and shake anew. They probe deep, the rub of his palm to your aching cock almost too much. You snake a hand under to push his wrist away, but his teeth find your shoulder.

“You begged for this,” he growls. “So you’re gonna let me.”

It’s not so much permission as surrender—inevitable, all-consuming. You don’t allow it so much as you yield, helpless but to drown.

The squelch of your cunt around his fingers is damning. Thicker than yours with a longer reach, he finds what makes you clench around him tight, earning a clipped curse. His wrist must be sore with the angle, but he doesn’t let it stop him. He picks up his pace again, keeping your cunt stuffed and smothered, hurtling you toward your release at last.

“John, I-I’m gonna…” you pant, breath choppy. Drool sticking to the corners of your lips.

“That’s it,” he growls. “Give it.”

Eyelids slipping shut, lightning splits the black and shoots through your nerves and muscles. You seize up with a shout then jerk, orgasm rolling through you in waves.

The rest blurs—distant. Muffled.

A guttural sound, John’s fingers retracting. Clenching around nothing and everything. Two sweat and cum-damp palms flitting over your hips and tugging, guiding you back to meet the erratic snap of his hips. 

Clarity returns with the first spurts of his cum. Mouth falling slack all over again around a feeble, surprised moan as it floods you. You can’t see him, but imagine it. Head thrown, a coat of sweat over his front and back, glutes flexing. Rooted in this deep, all-encompassing.

It’s a while before he pulls out. Seconds, minutes. Doesn’t matter. 

It beads out of you like a pearl, smeared under a thumb, then wiped by a towel.

You don’t fight him when he tucks you into his side. It’s far too hot to be this entangled in each other’s arms, but the musk of sex and sweat soothes. Easy to overlook discomforts when you’re so sated.

He sighs sweet dreams into your ear, but you’re already gone. Pulled under.

In the morning, you wake to a scorching quilt over your back. 

His chest fitted to your spine, cockhead nudging at your sore hole. He contorts you some when you rouse enough to sleepily relax for him, hooking a thick arm beneath both knees and drawing them up. They press toward your chest, folding you like a bug. Tight and close to him until there’s no room, until you’re just a precious thing for him to fuck awake.

Dozing anew in bed, you draw circles through the hair on his stomach, lazy and absent, while his fingers trace soft, idle patterns between your shoulder blades. You yawn, stretching a little into him.

“Shouldn’t you be decorating or something?”

He grunts, the movement of his fingers pausing to scratch his stubbled jaw. “Hm? Wha’s that now?”

“The party,” you murmur, eyes half-lidded.

John exhales, then folds you tighter against him, dragging the duvet higher.

“What party?”

[original-szajnie]

Klonnie Weekend Day 1: Forced Proximity

Bonnie Bennett knew this flight was going to be a mistake the moment her gate changed three times in under fifteen minutes.

Now, as she stood just inside the plane’s narrow entrance—shoulder bumped by a harried flight attendant, suitcase wheel dragging like a limp limb—she caught sight of 12B and froze.

“You have got to be kidding me.”

There he was. Reclined like the world owed him something. Which, knowing him, he probably believed it did.

Klaus Mikaelson.

Neat black button-up. Ridiculously tailored coat folded on his lap. Glass of sparkling water already in hand, as if this were his private cabin and not a commercial flight full of crying toddlers and stale air. He looked… amused.

“Witch.” His tone was pleasant in the way of someone who fully intended to enjoy watching you suffer. “What a surprise.”

Bonnie blinked. Looked at her boarding pass. Then at him. Then back at the pass.

No. No no no. The universe would not do this to her.

“Don’t you have a private jet or something?”

His expression remained unchanged, but an amused slant curved his mouth. He opened a book on his lap. “Or something,” he replied.

Bonnie turned. She wasn’t even subtle about it. She waved down the flight attendant. “Hi—yeah—there’s been a mistake. I can’t sit here. This seat’s taken by Satan.”

“I’m afraid this flight is full, ma’am,” the attendant said in that dead-eyed voice only retail and aviation could inspire. “If you could just take your seat so we can begin the safety demonstration—”

Bonnie was still standing. Still glaring. Still calculating how much magic it would take to teleport herself out of this hell-tube of recycled air and supernatural smugness.

Klaus didn’t even look up from whatever overpriced history book he was pretending to read. “There’s always your broom,” he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.

Her jaw twitched.

Bonnie Bennett did not slap people on airplanes. It was probably a federal offense. Probably.

With a tight smile (that promised murder), she shoved her bag into the overhead bin—aggressively, on purpose—and dropped into the seat beside him with all the grace of a guillotine.

Not looking at him. Not talking to him. Just existing beside him like they hadn’t attempted to kill each other multiple times.

“This is fine,” she muttered to herself. “I’m fine.”

Bonnie buckled in with unnecessary force.

Click. Yank. Set.

Klaus didn’t say a word. Just continued flipping a page every thirty seconds, clearly for show. She could feel the amusement radiating off him like heat. Of course he found this funny. Of course the universe thought this was character development.

The flight attendant began the safety demonstration. Klaus didn’t look up.

Bonnie, on the other hand, was suddenly very invested in the proper operation of a seatbelt.

“…in the unlikely event of a water landing—”

She swallowed. Hard.

Ocean crossings were always the worst.

Her fingers drummed lightly against the armrest. Not panicked. Not yet. Just… present. Just trying not to imagine a freefall.

She popped in her earbuds. Music on, volume high. Not loud enough to block everything—nothing ever was—but it gave her something else to focus on.

She could feel him watching her. Briefly. A flicker in her peripheral vision.

But he didn’t say a word.

The engines whined, the cabin rattled. The nose tipped up, pressed her back against the seat. She closed her eyes. Focused on breathing.

Klaus shifted beside her. Not a fidget—he didn’t fidget—but a subtle shift, like he was cataloging everything. Or maybe bracing for her to hex the oxygen masks.

Then the plane leveled out.

The seatbelt sign chimed off. People began talking, moving, laughing again. She exhaled through her nose.

It was fine. She was fine.

“You’re tense.”

She opened her eyes, barely tilting her head toward him. “I’m sitting next to a homicidal psychopath.”

He didn’t rise to the bait. Just looked at her for a moment longer than necessary.

“Let me guess—big, bad Bonnie Bennett prefers portals?”

She narrowed her eyes. “At least portals don’t shake.”

He leaned back, ever so slightly. “Mm. Shame. I never figured turbulence might be more powerful than you.”

She stared.

He smiled.

She turned away, muttering under her breath, “If we hit a sudden drop, I hope your ego cushions the fall.”

Fifteen minutes later, the drink cart rattled down the aisle like salvation on wheels.

Bonnie sat up straighter the moment she heard the squeaky roll of those little plastic tires. She yanked her earbuds out—not gently—and threw a look at the approaching flight attendant like a woman parched in the desert.

Klaus raised a brow. “Thirsty, love?”

“I’m being proactive,” she muttered. Then before he could speak again, a warning: “Don’t start.”

The attendant stopped beside them. “What can I get you?”

“Vodka. Two, please.” Bonnie held up two fingers, just in case.

The woman blinked. “A double?”

Bonnie smiled sweetly. “No, two bottles.”

Beside her, Klaus huffed a laugh under his breath.

“And for you, sir?”

Klaus offered his best impression of a civilized man. “Nothing for me, love, thank you.”

“Of course you’re abstaining,” Bonnie muttered as she unwrapped the world’s tiniest bottle like it owed her something.

He angled his head. “Some of us manage our existential dread with grace.”

She downed the first vodka mini-bottle like it was NyQuil. No chaser. Just burned it down.

“Some of us don’t have a hybrid metabolism,” she countered, opening the second bottle immediately.

The attendant, wisely, moved on.

Klaus said nothing for a beat. Then, with an almost amused curiosity: “Are you actually afraid of flying?”

Bonnie didn’t answer right away. Just sipped. Stared out the window like the endless blue of the ocean might offer a better conversation partner.

“It’s not flying… it’s the part where we drop out of the sky,” she said finally, voice low and edged with that rare thing he almost never got: honesty.

He didn’t smile this time. “Point taken.”

They resumed their mutual silence.

The cabin settled into its mid-flight lull. Lights dimmed. Window shades half-lowered. The couple across the aisle was snoring in unison. Klaus thumbed his book—not that he’d read more than five pages—while Bonnie stared out the window, jaw clenched so tightly her molars ached.

She hadn’t spoken since drink service — just drank her vodka, crossed her arms, and tried to pretend the sky wasn’t breathing weird around them.

Then came the shift.

The plane rocked, not violently, but enough that her empty plastic cup slid an inch along the tray table. Her hand shot out instinctively to stop it.

“Relax, love,” Klaus murmured beside her. “It’s just a little turbulence.”

She didn’t respond. Just focused on keeping her shoulders from rising too high.

A second tremor passed through the plane, stronger than the last. The overhead bins creaked. Someone let out a nervous laugh three rows back.

Bonnie’s fingers curled into her armrest.

Klaus cast her a sidelong glance. He was smiling. Barely. But it was there.

“Surely you’ve faced down worse things than a bit of weather.” His tone was low. Amused. Dangerously close to smug.

She glared at him. “That was the woods. On the ground. Not in a metal tube over the ocean.”

He chuckled, quiet, indulgent, like he couldn’t decide what was more entertaining: the storm, or her.

Then the plane dropped.

It was sudden and sharp, like the floor vanished. A collective gasp rose through the cabin—someone shouted, another screamed, a baby cried—and Bonnie…Bonnie clutched his arm.

Not lightly. She grabbed him, fingers digging in deep enough to bruise. Her breathing turned fast, shallow. One heartbeat away from cracking.

Klaus stiffened.

The amusement drained from his face in a breath.

He turned toward her, fully now. No smirk. No arrogance.

Just immediate focus.

“Bonnie,” he said, quiet but firm. “Look at me.”

She didn’t. Her eyes were locked on the back of the seat in front of her like she could burn a hole through it.

Given who she was, she probably could.

Another lurch. She flinched again.

“Bonnie,” he repeated, his hand rising—slow, deliberate—to cover hers. His palm was steady, anchoring.

She finally looked up, eyes wide and wrong.

That was fear.

Real fear.

Not frustration, not anger. Not even her usual simmering disdain for him.

This was her body betraying her. This was survival panic.

And Klaus, well, Klaus knew that feeling too well.

“Breathe in,” he said softly. “Through your nose.”

She tried. Failed.

Tried again.

He nodded at her. “Good. In. Hold it. That’s it.”

The plane shuddered, but she didn’t flinch this time. His hand tightened slightly over hers—just enough to say ‘you’re not alone’.

He could feel her magic humming under her skin, wild and scattered. Like a hive of bees. Not dangerous, not yet. But if she lost control…

“You’re fine,” he said. Low. Reassuring. Real. “The plane’s not crashing.”

“How do you know?” she managed to whisper.

“Because I’m on it,” he replied, with absolute certainty.

That startled something close to a breathless laugh out of her. She let her head fall back against the seat.

The plane dipped and shuddered for another ten minutes.

Her grip didn’t ease.

And Klaus didn’t move once.

After what felt like forever to Bonnie, the turbulence passed.

The plane steadied.

The engines hummed their usual white noise, the overhead bins stayed shut, and the flight attendants resumed pretending they weren’t two seconds from pressing the panic button.

Bonnie exhaled—finally. Slow. Unsteady.

Her fingers were still curled around Klaus’s arm, knuckles pale against his coat. She blinked, realized it, and drew back like she’d touched fire.

He didn’t move.

Didn’t comment.

Didn’t smirk or raise a smug eyebrow or say something infuriating like ‘Was that so bad?’

He just sat there. Quiet. Steady.

Bonnie shifted in her seat, brushing her hands against her jeans like it might scrub the moment off her skin. She reached blindly for her water bottle, took a too-long sip, then stared ahead as if the seatback TV held the secrets of the universe.

“I’m fine,” she said eventually when she could still feel his eyes on her. Her voice was rough. A little hoarse.

Klaus finally looked away from her. “I know.”

That was it. No teasing. No pity.

Just fact.

And somehow, that comforted her more than anything else.

She let out a breath—this time less shaky—and sank lower into her seat.

Silence stretched between them again. But it was different now. Not cold. Not sharp. Something slower. Easier.

Bonnie folded her arms, pulled her hood up, and let her eyes drift shut.

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

But she did.

Two bottles of vodka and an adrenaline rush would do that to you.

And Klaus? He didn’t move the entire time. Not even when she drifted sideways and her head found its way onto the curve of his shoulder.

Her breathing had evened out, arms tucked beneath her hoodie like she was hiding from the world.

Or maybe just from herself.

Klaus didn’t look directly at her, but he didn’t stop watching either.

Not in the obvious way. Not like she’d accuse him of. Just enough to note the faint twitch of her fingers as she slipped deeper into rest. The way her foot was still tapped faintly, like her body hadn’t quite gotten the message that the danger had passed.

She had been afraid. Genuinely.

And it shouldn’t have rattled him.

He knew that she could do impossible things. Snap necks with a thought. Tear open prison worlds. He’d watched her bleed and burn and rise again, over and over.

But this? A plane. A little turbulence. Something she couldn’t control?

That was the kind of fear that lived under the skin. Quiet. Deep-rooted. The kind that didn’t scream—it whispered.

The insidious kind of fear there was no defense against, and he found himself wanting to take it from her.

Even now, her head had drifted slightly to the side, resting on his shoulder. Close enough that if he breathed too deeply, her curls would stir against his sleeve.

He didn’t move.

Wouldn’t dare.

Because then she may wake and feel it again.

Instead, he returned to his book and stared at the same sentence for forty-five minutes.

Eventually, the captain’s voice crackled overhead, muffled by static and disinterest. Something about beginning their descent, local time, seatbacks upright.

Bonnie stirred.

Her brow twitched first, then her fingers, curling slightly as if remembering the shape of fear. Then her eyes opened, lashes fluttering before she blinked fully awake.

Still on the plane.

Still next to him.

Still alive.

For a second, she didn’t move. Just… assessed. The weight in her chest had dulled. The vodka was gone, the panic had passed, and her skin no longer felt two seconds from splitting open.

Then she caught the way her body had drifted—closer to his than she remembered.

Her spine straightened fast.

Klaus didn’t react.

Didn’t glance at her.

Didn’t so much as twitch.

Which, of course, made her feel even more watched.

She cleared her throat. Pushed a hand through her hair. “Did I drool?” she asked dryly, chin lifting just a little.

“Not even a snore,” he said, perfectly even.

She looked at him. He was staring out the window now, all serenity and civility like she hadn’t clutched his arm like a drowning woman a few hours ago.

It was… oddly generous.

A beat of silence passed. The kind that hummed with everything unsaid.

Then the plane gave a tiny lurch.

Not a drop. Not even a wobble. Just a mild nudge of turbulence as they descended through a bank of clouds.

Bonnie’s hand twitched, a reflex. Her fingers lifted slightly from her lap like they remembered the motion. Remembered reaching for him.

But she didn’t reach.

She breathed through it.

She kept her hands in her lap.

And Klaus? He saw it. She didn’t need to look to know.

He said nothing, but there was the faintest curve to his mouth now. Something… proud.

The plane dipped lower. The seatbelt light flared on.

She rolled her shoulders, re-snapping. “Tell me we’re almost there.”

“Landing gear’s down,” he told her, glancing toward the wing. “You’ll be kissing solid ground in under ten minutes.”

“Better than kissing some other things,” Bonnie muttered.

And Klaus—just barely—smiled.

The wheels hit tarmac with a dull thunk.

Bonnie let out the breath she’d been holding. Not a shaky one. Not this time. Just… measured. Intentional.

Klaus shifted in his seat, casual and composed as ever, coat folded neatly over one arm. If he was waiting for her to say something—acknowledge something—he didn’t show it.

Which was almost worse.

The seatbelt light blinked off. Everyone scrambled like the plane was sinking, but Bonnie took her time. She stood only when she was ready, tugging her carry-on from the overhead bin with a practiced yank.

Klaus stood behind her. Close, but not touching.

The jet bridge air was stale and humid. The terminal was louder than she would have liked. Too many voices, too many announcements. Too many fluorescent lights after the half-dark cocoon of the plane.

Still, she moved through it like nothing had happened.

Then—

“Bonnie.”

His voice stopped her just short of the exit.

She turned.

Klaus stood a few feet behind her, an expression on his face she didn’t quite recognize. Like he was weighing something in his head and had decided—just barely—to say it aloud.

“Have you ever seen the Belladonna Gallery? The one with the lost Rossetti?”

Her brow lifted. “That’s oddly specific.”

“Mm. It’s on loan to the museum here. Only for the next month.”

Bonnie crossed her arms, but felt her lips twitch. “That’s subtle,” she said. “Is this your idea of a post-panic pick-up line?”

His own mouth quirked. “Hardly. Consider it an educational opportunity. If you’re up for it.”

“You’re really gonna pretend this isn’t you asking me on a date?”

“I’m not pretending anything.” A pause.”You were brave up there.”

“I’m always brave,” she countered. Then, hardly believing the next words out of her own mouth, continued, “Which is why I’m accepting this not-date you’re pitching.” She turned, pulling her suitcase behind her, hair bouncing slightly across her shoulders as she moved, but she didn’t rush.

Klaus huffed, but fell into step beside her. “The Death of Breuze Sans Pitié has hardly ever been seen in public outside of the 1850’s…” he began.

Bonnie slanted him a look. “I’m going to at least need dinner and wine, too, if I have to actually listen to this.”

Klaus laughed.

And Bonnie, despite herself, decided she liked that sound.

[hapan-in-exile]

Volume 4 - Post #9: Lucid Dreams [M]

Another installment in this ongoing serialized fanfic

Genre: Mandalorian x Fem! Reader

Total word count: 6K (ninth post in Volume 4)

Rating: Explicit - smut, language, +18 *NSFW*

A/N: this post is ~90% smut (can be read as standalone) please proceed with caution 

_______________________________

IX. “Who are they?” the Mandalorian asks.

You peer out from the gap under his arm. Up on the slope above, you spot the hazy outline of several figures making their way through the scattered huts and dwellings clinging to the mountainside. 

“Guards,” you say, recognizing the bright patches sewn over their breast pockets. “But I don’t think they’re on patrol.” 

The figures sway and meander as though too drunk to walk straight. They keep bunching up together to pass something around—a bottle, maybe?—only to break apart again to avoid tripping over each other. 

“Tagge Corp?”

“Not officially. Most are Lakarani, but they’re trained and outfitted by Tagge security to ensure…order.”

Mando unholsters his blaster.

“Don’t,” you whisper, placing a cautionary hand over his fist. “Please! If you’re seen—it could jeopardize everything.” 

He ignores your hushed warnings. “Can you confirm how many?”

“Three,” you mutter, growing more frustrated by the second. The Mandalorian might be accustomed to doing whatever he feels like without worrying about the consequences, but shooting his way through the entire camp, will put your whole operation in danger. 

“Let’s not do anything rash, okay? They’re probably just making their way to the bonfire. That’s where everyone’s gathering for the solstice.”

“Weapons?”

Really? Okay. Yeah, stabbing him suddenly feels like a fantastic idea. 

“They usually take tasers on patrol. Some carry blasters.”

“Alright,” he says. “We hope they pass by. But if they make trouble for us…I’ll take care of the bodies.”

“Bodies?!” you groan.

“Leave the carcasses in the woods for predators. When the river washes up what’s left of them, it’ll look like an animal attack,” Mando shrugs. “An accident.”

You rub your hands over your face to prevent yourself from wrapping them around the Mandalorian’s throat. 

“Three missing guards is not going to look like an accident no matter what state they’re found in.” There’s a sharp edge to your words that only hinted at the rage building inside your chest. This isn’t some Outer Rim trading depot. Any sign of trouble would put the TaggeCo refinery on high alert. 

Sure, the Tagges liked to appear uninterested in the settlement right outside their gate. When it suited them. When they could claim ignorance about the appalling living conditions and environmental contamination. But they were, in fact, very interested in any signs of disorder. And three dead guards would certainly raise some eyebrows.   

Did they make the camp guards wear trackers? The guard Humia’s been sleeping with is the one who showed her how to block the signal. That didn’t necessarily mean—kriffing hell! If Mando leaves behind a bloody path that leads right back to your doorstep? Humia, Davik, and Serenio will all be fucked.

“Keep your head down,” the Mandalorian urges, angling his shoulders so the cloak hides you from view.

“Dammit, would you listen to me!” and you’re not the only one surprised to hear the fury in your voice. Mando’s head snaps up at attention. “Look,” you whisper softly, trying to regain some composure. “I know we haven’t spoken in weeks—”

“That was for your protection,” he says defensively. “You think I wanted—”

“Okay. That’s as may be,” you cut him off. “But my point is that you have no fucking clue how things work around here, or how close I am to—for you to just—you can’t just show up and—”

Mando’s hand closes firmly over your mouth, “They’re coming.” 

Light from the guard’s lantern splutters overhead, flickering against the steel and tin as it hovers aloft, illuminating their path down the slope.  

The Mandalorian’s hand slides up the back of your neck to press your forehead against his chest, completely obscuring your view of the approaching guards. You can only hear your breath and his, and the sound of footsteps coming closer.

While the criss-cross of shadows underneath the hut helps to conceal you, you aren’t totally hidden from sight. If they happen to look in your direction when they follow the path between the houses, the guards will see you under the lantern light. 

Or maybe the gods will be merciful? Most people never look further than the next foot in front of them, and these three are so drunk, they need all their concentration to stay upright. They might simply walk past and—   

But you hear from the crunch of gravel that they’ve already noticed the two indistinct figures huddled together amidst the pilings.  

They slow down. Suspicion? Voyeurism? You can’t be sure. 

But that last thought gives you sudden inspiration. “Grab me,” you whisper, looking into the Mandalorian’s viewplate. When he pauses to stare down at you in confusion, you explain, “Like you’re taking me up against the pylon.” 

There’s no time to run and even less time to think. You need to hide. Only there’s nowhere to hide—except exactly where you’re standing.

Mando catches on quick. He tucks the blaster into the bandolier strapped across his chest, and with two strong hands, grabs your ass in his wide palms and hauls you against his hips. The hard press of his body sends a wave of panic and desire coursing through you. He has you pushed up against the steel beam now. You hadn’t really thought this through. Yet, despite your anger and frustration from moments ago, instead of pulling back, you lean closer. Lean into him. 

Leather fingers glide down your thigh to grip your knee before he hoists your leg up, wrapping it around his back. He moves so fast and with such force that you have to throw your hands out behind you to brace yourself against the piling. The hem of your robe tugs open, the fabric falling aside to expose your leg from toe to hip, and the Beskar tasset scrapes against your bare skin. 

But the thrill of sensation when he presses his hips between your thighs, pinning you against the steel and concrete, is so good that you hardly notice. Suddenly, you don’t care about his ignoring you or the thoughtlessness of his actions. Pleasure arcs through you, and you gasp. 

The sound draws the guards’ attention. 

“Take a look at these two,” one of them guffaws. 

The beam from the lantern droid turns, casting a thin fluorescent glow over the pilings underneath your hut. With the Mandalorian’s hood draped over him, the cloak is just long enough to cover the Beskar, and his armor remains hidden. Hopefully, they won’t see the disintegration rounds strapped to his shin.  

“Remember,” Mando growls through clenched teeth. “This was your idea.” 

“I—” you have no idea what you planned to say in response—sorry?—but it doesn’t matter. 

Because that’s when his leather hand slips under the crease of your knee, lifting your leg up so high you have to wrap an arm around his shoulder to keep from falling. You barely regain your balance when his hips buck, shoving you back against the rigid steel so hard you feel the pressure of his straining erection rub against you through the flight suit.

Oh?! Oh. Interesting! 

Is one gasp of pleasure in the Mandalorian’s ear all it takes to get that kind of reaction? Knowing that Mando is just as aroused, just as helpless to resist the force of attraction between you, is such an exhilarating rush. 

You feel ungodly smug right now. Still got it, you think to yourself. 

Then his hips buck again, and you lose the ability to think about anything else at all. It only lasts a moment, but that’s long enough to send a surge of pleasure ricocheting through you. A jolt of aching desire throbs between your thighs, and the cry that escapes your lips isn’t performance. 

“Whoa-ho, brother!” another of the guards chuckles. “Careful not to break her.”

They all laugh at this, and one of them calls out, adding, “Your queen deserves a bed, brother.” 

“A bed of blossoms for Ehki’s daughter!”  

“It’s Honatoka, brother! Where are her flowers?” 

“A crown of flowers for your queen!”

They are very loud and very drunk. Yet, some part of your brain vaguely acknowledges the harmless nature of their taunting. You sense no ill will from any of them. They had slowed down to jeer but made no attempt to approach. 

“Come on, you perverts! He doesn’t need you shouting suggestions.”

“Ah, you’re right, ha ha! At that rate, he won’t last much longer.” 

“My back hurts just watching.”

They howl in a chorus of raucous laughter as the slow tread of their footsteps continues to carry them down the rocky path.

Which should come as a relief. However, most of your brain is consumed by whether you might actually orgasm from the stimulation of the Mandalorian rutting between your thighs. This might be an act, but the way he pretends to fuck you is merciless. The rhythm of his hips is slow and brutal. 

You feel precariously weightless. The rigid strength of Mando’s arms is the only thing bearing you upright. He’d slid a hand behind your back, bracing his elbow against the pylon next to your face to conceal you from view as the guards passed by. But his other hand remains cinched around your thigh, knee nearly pressed against your chin, using the leverage to hold you in place. Beneath the robe, you have only a thin pair of shorts you were wearing when you fell asleep, and with each thrust, you feel the hard press of his cock rubbing the fabric against your clit.

By now, the sensation is almost overwhelming. Each time, you have to gasp for breath, caught between the bursts of pleasure—reeling on the edge of climax. All the blood in your body rushes to your cunt, pulsing with his every thrust, over and over. 

And, Blessed Mother, the sound of his breathing coming shallow and fast is enough to bring you to the brink already. You’re so close. 

Is this what he's like with other women? The women who came before? Who fucked him in his armor and left afterward. Your time together had been so gentle and tender—Mando’s first time making love, being naked, sharing a bed in the aftermath. But you want this side of him, too. You want all of him. 

For some reason, the lantern droid had lingered to hover above the path, still casting its thin light overhead. You watch the undulation of his shadow while the Mandalorian rocks his hips against you. A jagged phantom looming over you, claiming you. You close your eyes and arch into his thrusts as the world goes black.

But even as you dance along the dizzying edge of orgasm, you can’t let go. Dammit, you can’t stop thinking about those faceless women. Ferocious mercenaries and cold-hearted bounty hunters, you imagine. Women of action, who did not sob under their blankets, wracked with indecision. 

Well, you may not be ruthless, but you can be shameless. Tonight, you want to erase everyone else who came before. Tonight, think only of me. 

The Mandalorian worships your tits, and from this angle, he must have a spectacular view of them bouncing with each clash of his hips. You know he must be watching, staring down at them, hypnotized and longing to touch them. So you reach for the hand on your thigh and press his palm over your breast.

Mando’s tenses in surprise. “Are they gone?” he asks in a low voice.

“Do you care?” you reply, letting all that urgency and desire fill your words. 

It takes him a minute to consider. Both the droid’s light and the guard’s boisterous laughter had finally faded away, leaving you behind in the quiet darkness. Still…maybe this was too reckless for him. Too impulsive. You don’t want to push his boundaries, but that’s exactly what makes it thrilling, right? That desire can make the rest of the world fade away, blurring out the periphery. 

Mando sighs, his fingers tracing the neckline of your robe, when he can’t find the words to answer.

The fabric is drapey enough for him to push aside, baring your breasts to the night air. The camisole you wore to bed is lace, so old and worn it's downy soft. And threadbare. Your nipples press against the gaping weave, visibly darkening with arousal. They pinch from the cold and anticipation. 

As his thumb brushes over your puckered skin, you suck in a sharp breath—“Mmph!”—then he squeezes. Hard. Then soft, then hard again. Arousal spirals through you, down to your core, as he kneads and caresses. The hand he had braced against the pylon, slips down to trail over the length of your neck, past your collarbone, and between your breasts until he presses them together tightly. The contrasting sensation of the soft leather and lace roughly teasing over your nipples is almost too much to bear. 

You bite your lip to keep from crying out.

“This is what you want?” Mando whispers. His hand lifts to cup your face, and you can feel his gaze boring into you, seeking out what’s hidden in the depths of your eyes. “Here? Now? In the armor?”

“Yes,” you moan. Sweet, merciful gods, yes! Your cunt is so tight and hot that it almost hurts. Tilting your hips at just the right angle, you rub yourself against his cock and feel the friction of the fabric glide across your clit again. You’re already soaking wet—so wet he must feel the dampness through his flight suit. 

“Hu-ungh,” the Mandalorian groans, before gripping you by the waist so he can meet the thrust of your hips and grind back against you. The hard press of his erection sends waves of pleasure coursing through your body. 

“I don’t know how much longer I can make it if you keep doing that,” his voice is gruff and hoarse. “But you’re angry…what if you regret this?”

You feel a frantic bubble of laughter rising in your throat. How did you manage to fuck each other in the first place? You are both far too honorable!

Of course, Mando’s not wrong. But all that anger from before has, by now, transformed into lust—igniting the heat of passion, so hot it warms the hollow places in your heart. And you want to feel the full force of that heat. Burning through desperate emotions like hurt and despair, and, yes—jealously—to reclaim your confidence the best way you know how. With sex.

You want to feel powerful, the way you do when the Mandalorian gasps your name, as though it was his last dying breath.

“It’s nothing to do with you,” you lie, and maybe he is right about you being a terrible liar. Because when he continues to hesitate, you grow downright incensed. How dare he change his mind now, after you’ve decided this is what you want?

“Please, Mando,” you moan. “I need you.”

Those pleading words wrench something within him. “Maker, help me,” he says, jaw tight, as he reaches to hold your face in his leather palms. “But, I fucking love hearing you say please.” 

Now you’ve got him swearing? Your mouth curves into a triumphant grin. 

“You love hearing me beg,” you correct him with a sly wink. “Now let go, so I can get my hands around your cock.”

He breathes out sharply as though you’d struck him. Okay. So the Mandalorian likes it when you talk dirty? Or perhaps it’s your confidence he enjoys. He’s drawn to strong women, after all. 

His hands pull away as he stands up straighter and takes a step back. The night air rushes in to fill the sudden gap between your bodies, and for a terrifying second, you feel the dreadful weight of rejection ready to crush you. But the next second, Mando’s fingers close around your wrist, guiding your hand downward to place your palm over his straining erection. 

“It’s already so hard for you,” he says, his grip is as firm as his tone is soft. And you love it. That despite the gallantry, your boldness makes him bold. He needs this as much as you do.

By now, you feel dizzy—hazy with lust. The guttural moan he gives when you curl your fingers around his cock and slowly stroke your palm over its length is intoxicating, like a drug. You don’t care who might see, and you don’t care how shameless it is. 

Tonight, think only of me. 

You bite your lip. “Last time we did this, you had me up against a wall,” you say, glancing at the closest pylon behind him, judging the distance. “Hmm, something something turnabout’s fair play?”

With that, you reach out to place your hands over his chest and push him back against the steel piling. Caught off-guard, he braces his hands wide behind him. As he stands there, mildly shocked, legs slightly spread, you kneel between his thighs and reach for his belt.

“What are you doing?” his voice is tight with strain.

You look up into the view plate, brow arched. “I should think it was obvious.”

It’s a strange logic that getting down on your knees can make you feel powerful, but there’s a thrill of satisfaction knowing the skills you’ve honed over years of practice will reduce this hardened warrior into a trembling state of incoherence. And you want to hear him shouting your name.

You aren’t especially flexible, nor are you totally free of inhibitions, but sucking dick is your one slutty superpower. 

“You don’t—haah,” his breath hitches when you open your mouth to trace your tongue over your lips, wetting them as you release the latch of his belt. “You don’t have to—”

“I know I don’t,” you say, holding his gaze. “But I want to. And so do you.” 

Your fingers fan wide, palms gliding up the inside of his thighs, trying to ease some of the nervous tension building in his muscles. “Relax,” you murmur teasingly. 

Your hands meet at his inseam, slipping beneath the vest to caress the outline of his stiff erection through the canvas. The purr of his zipper goes almost tooth by tooth. In the breathless, still silence, you can even hear the soft sound of your fingers reaching into his pants to take hold of his enormous cock. 

He’s already so hard that it slips free, jutting into your palm, supple and thick. No matter how many times you see it, it’s still ridiculous! 

Released from the confines of his pants, Mando throbs in your grip, swelling larger between your fingers. The base is a deep bronze, the head is pale pink, growing steadily darker as blood pumps through his veins. He feels feverishly hot against your cool skin, so full that he must ache.

And so caught up in the sight of you kneeling between his legs, that he’s breathless.

With one hand, you circle him in your grip, tightening and loosening your fist as you move up and down the length of his shaft, before brushing your thumb over the tip. You smile up at him when his hips jerk, and you feel the first beads of come slick over your fingers even as his muscles tense, trying to resist the pleasure of it. 

“Relax,” you say again, softer this time. Your voice is almost a whisper, “I’ll take good care of you.” 

And with that, you lift the head of his cock to your mouth and lick away the salty droplets with the tip of your tongue. Finally, you feel his body yield to a different kind of tension. 

“Nnngh!” he groans, gripping your shoulders before gasping something that might have been your name or just a general obscenity. Dirty talk isn’t covered in your Mando’a phrasebook—but it really should be! You make a mental note to download a more comprehensive dictionary, a little shocked that you hadn’t thought of it sooner.

His salty come is warm against your tongue. You trace the tip of his cock over your wet lips, slowly circling the circumference of your open mouth before drawing in just the first few inches, pleased to hear a sharp intake of breath sizzling through the modulator.

“Fuck,” he whispers, winding a hand through your hair as you open your mouth to take him in. You start sucking—soft, slow little swallows at first. “Fuck, that feels so good.”

You don’t give him everything right away. Sometimes, anticipation is the best part. You want him to slow down and enjoy the wait. So you run your tongue along the length of his shaft, lick him, tease the ridges of his crown with your lips, kiss the taut band of tissue underneath, and caress him against your cheeks.

Then, you press your lips against the tip to give him one swirl of your tongue, before sliding them down the length of his shaft. You take a strong, hard pull, hallowing your cheeks.

Mando throws his head back and releases another guttural moan, “Mmn-nngh!” The hand in your hair tightens, until his grip borders on pain. 

With the leather gloves on, he probably can’t tell. But you don’t mind. You like knowing you have this effect on him. And gods divine, the noises he’s making—

Come wells between your legs, so wet it’s drenching your shorts and slicking down your thighs. The urge to touch yourself, to slip a finger inside the wet folds of your cunt, is so unbearable it makes you feel weak. Instead, you grip his rock-hard thighs with both hands and take him in deeper. 

His girth forces you to open your jaw all the way, so big that you can barely use your tongue. It’s all you can do to get the full length of him inside your mouth. The head is almost to the back of your throat, and you feel like you might choke. You have to keep swallowing, faster and faster, just to catch your breath. Come wells against your mouth, trickling from your lips, stretched thin around his thick cock. 

You remember how much he loved your teeth last time, so you tense your jaw a little tighter before lightly dragging them under his shaft, grazing the ridges of his crown as you draw back.

“Aaah! Fuck, yes! That’s...” his fingers clench in your hair. His other hand cups the back of your head, but he can’t find the words to describe exactly what you're doing to him. 

Mando’s huge, but you feel confident you can take more of him down your throat. The trick is to still your breathing and swallow him. Which is where the ability to control your body on a cellular level elevates your dick-sucking abilities into the stratosphere.

But he’s not ready for that yet. You remind yourself to take it slow and luxuriate in the feel of him against your tongue, the taste of salt flooding your mouth. You can feel the tightness in his balls against your chin and wonder just how long it’s been since he’s had head this good. 

Placing your thumb and forefinger around the base of his sac, you gently tug downward to release some of the pressure while continuing to draw him into your mouth, alternating shallow, repetitious strokes and long, languorous pulls. Your other hand closes around the base of his cock so you can pump him in time with your movements.

The sticky come trickling from the corners of your mouth tells you that he’s getting close. You can feel him throb with every stroke. If you want to give him everything you’ve got, it has to be now. 

So you relax any muscle or reflex that might resist, before taking all of him in. You feel every swollen vein of his thick shaft sliding between your slick lips until he fills you all the way to your throat, until your nose touches his warm belly under a coarse thicket of black hair surrounding the base of his cock.  

Cheeks glistening with saliva, come running down your chin, you swallow around him, and the contraction of your throat is enough to make him thrust even deeper. Your mind empties of any thought beyond the pressure of each inch he squeezes further down your throat. 

“Fuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” his hands resting on your head squeeze into fists—you didn’t think he could grip you any tighter, but they do. The very real pain brings tears to your eyes, but it only sharpens your desire. The desperate, aching need, clenching the muscles inside your cunt, is so insistent you could probably come by just pressing your thighs together. 

"Oh, fuck," he gasps.

With your hands braced on his hips, you encourage him to thrust deeper into your mouth and throat in rhythm with each bob of your head. The squelching sound is driving you wild. He’s so close to finishing—so close you can feel his cock pulsing against your lips. His breath becomes shorter and sharper, each one just short of a moan.

Then, suddenly, Mando pulls out of your mouth. He takes a step back and shakes his head, catching himself right on the brink. 

“Did I—” your voice quavers. 

“No,” he looks up at you sharply. “That was perfect…so perfect that…” the Mandalorian stumbles on his next step before leaning back against the pylon.  

Holy crap! The widest, most delightful shit-eating grin spreads across your face. He doesn’t trust himself to stand. Yep, still got it!

“I wasn’t finished,” you say, wiping your chin clean with the back of your hand.

“I know,” he manages between ragged breaths. “But, another minute—aah— fuck, another second—and I would have shouted your name loud enough for the entire parsec to hear.”

Really?! “Then I definitely shouldn’t stop.”

That makes him laugh. 

Mando regains his equilibrium and steps forward, feet steadier now. His cock is still hard, jutting out from his pants, and you nuzzle it against your cheeks as he comes closer.

“Look at me,” he gasps, tilting your chin up. You lift your eyes to meet the jet-black line of his helmet, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip.

“I dreamed of this so many times,” he says, using one hand to gently brush the hair from your cheeks while the other guides his cock back into your mouth. His hips roll so slowly you can tell he’s determined to regain some measure of control. “What does it say about me…that I think you look perfect like this?”

“Mmmm,” your moan of satisfaction is genuine. The praise and validation, the sound of his hitched sighs and groans of pleasure—your entire body reacts—growing flushed, getting impossibly wetter. Your cunt begins to pulse so hard that, for a moment, you think you might come from simply listening to the hunger in his voice. 

The vibration of your lips against his cock sends a jolt through his body, and you remind yourself to dial it down. He doesn’t want to come yet. 

Sometime soon, you’ll need to mention that your abilities can assist with his…longevity. And recovery time. But for now, you can respect his need to slow down.   

You run your tongue underneath the length of his shaft, tease the ridge with your lips, and suck the head once or twice before pulling back. He slips from your mouth, dark and glistening. “Was it this good in your dreams?”

“Nothing feels as good as this,” Mando murmurs. 

You’re about to say something clever about that sounding like a challenge, but the words get lost in your throat when his hands slip under your arms, lifting you back onto your feet. One hand slides up your spine to grip the back of your neck, the other clings to your waist. You feel the length and hardness of his erection pressed against your soft belly. 

“Mmmph,” he sighs. “Nothing, except maybe the feeling of you clenching around my cock when you come.”

Oh gods, if you could orgasm from just listening to the Mandalorian’s voice, that would have done it.

“How do I make you ready?” he asks.

“That, aaah, won’t be a problem,” and since you’re so determined to prove what a shameless slut you are, you slip your hand between your bodies, down past your stomach, and into your shorts, wetting your fingers before holding them out for him to see. You fix him with what you hope is a smoldering look and drop into your most sultry tone, “See how wet I got with your cock in my mouth.” 

Grabbing you by the wrist, he pulls your hand up toward his face, lifts the steel jaw of his helmet over his mouth, and sucks the come from your fingers. 

Your entire body flushes with heat.

"Haaah," you gasp. The sensation of his warm, wet mouth, the press of his tongue between your fingers, sends the most powerful tidal wave of arousal coursing through your fingertips and down to your cunt. “That was…” but you’ve lost the capacity to speak, let alone describe what may be the hottest thing you’ve ever witnessed.  

Then, the helmet falls into place, and Mando pushes you back against the pylon. “Turnabout—” he starts to say—

“Yes,” you groan, arching into him. “Exactly,” and you wriggle the silky fabric of your robe against the rough concrete until your shorts slip over your hips and down to your ankles. 

Reaching out for him, you wrap your arms around his neck. He lifts you by the backs of your thighs and guides your legs around his waist, under the tassets. 

The blaster is still tucked against his chest plate, and it's all conflicting sensations—cold steel, warm body, sharp edges, and soft skin—but you can’t think about any of that. There’s nothing beyond the feeling of him between your thighs and the anticipation of sliding onto his waiting cock. 

The head is penetrating you, just barely, but slightly more with every roll of his hips. Mando is working you open as slowly and deliciously as possible. 

“So, you did miss me,” you throw your head back, smiling and breathless.

“Yes, cyar'ika, ” he moans, rolling his hips until he sinks the rest of the way inside you, groaning with bliss. “I missed the way you taste. I missed holding you in my arms. I thought about you every day, and when Arasuum heard my prayers, you found me in my dreams.” 

Then he thrusts harder, filling you completely, making you cry out, “Aaangh!” 

Hearing you, he growls in satisfaction and rocks his hips back so he can thrust inside you again. Mando’s width and length stretches you—your cunt burns as he forces you wider to take him in. It’s a pain so sweet, it makes your mouth water, and so, you lick the only part of him that’s exposed, the rough, stubbled skin under his jaw all the way to the tip of his chin. 

The Mandalorian responds by gasping what is definitely your name this time, along with some incomprehensible words that sound a lot more like prayers than obscenities. His hands grip you tighter, and that’s the moment when the pleasure eclipses the pain. His cock feels so good inside you, blurring out everything else.

Every time, he pulls almost all the way out, then plunges in deep. You glance down to see if you can watch him sliding in and out between your thighs. But all the crumpled folds of fabric, quilted leather, and armor are in the way. You can’t see. All you can do is feel.

“And what did you do to me in these dreams?” you whisper.

“Everything,” he sighs, the modulator vibrating next to your ear. “Slowing down to take my time, and I last forever. Speeding up until I’m fucking you senseless.”

Then he thrusts, so hard you have to clutch at his neck, your fingernails digging into the thick canvas. “We can go slow and hard like this. Or do you want me to fuck you faster? Tell me what you want.”

Merely hearing those words brings you back to the brink. You’re dizzy and flushed, entirely helpless to the feeling of him moving inside you. Your voice is hardly more than a whisper as you say, “Please...please, Mando, just fuck me as hard as you can.”

His hands go to your waist and grip you tightly as he starts to pump into you, each stroke more fierce as the last. You feel his powerful abdominals flexing against you, the muscles in his thighs tensing with each brutal thrust. He speeds up, and then the only sounds are his heavy breaths, grunting, and the whimper you release with each clash of his hips.

This angle makes it harder for you to get fully stimulated, but his cock feels so good inside you, filling you completely. You cry out—one long cry you can’t control—as the blood rushes to your cunt. The sensation spirals. Soars. Desire sharpens inside you. Peaks. You feel weightless in the rush of pure ecstasy, hips circling against him as every muscle of your body surrenders to the intensity of your orgasm.

Gravity turns upside down as you clench around Mando’s cock. The climax hits you so hard that, for a moment, you worry you might pass out.

“Nnngh, yes,” he grits his teeth, "just like that," and then he’s there with you. The Mandalorian reaches down, tilting your pelvis to thrust even deeper. How is that even possible? You feel him everywhere. Then he slides in slower, once, twice—then goes totally still, as a shudder of pleasure goes through him. "Haah, haah, aah."

His head collapses against your shoulder as you both struggle to catch your breath.

“Careful,” you murmur, barely able to hear yourself over the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. “You’re the only thing keeping me from collapsing and tumbling down the side of a mountain.”

Mando chuckles, the vibration of his laughter resonating against your ribs. “Was that what you wanted?” he asks, slipping a hand behind your back so you feel more secure.

“That was perfect,” you sigh. “You?”

“Perfect,” he agrees. “But next time, I’m tearing that robe off you.” 

You look down to see the neckline hanging open, with a solitary knot at your waist, holding on for dear life as the fabric gapes open over your thighs.

“I’m not sure there’s much left to do.”

Mando laughs, pinching one of the sleeves to rub the fabric between his leather fingers. “I’m glad you like it. It suits you.”

“It’s beautiful,” you say appreciatively. “Thank you.”

“It’s a piece of fabric. You make it beautiful.”

Heat rises in your cheeks, and your heart begins to race again. His cock is still half hard inside you. If you moved your hips—

“I missed seeing that look in your eyes,” he says.

“What look?”

“When you flirt, you usually have this…sort of smug look on your face.” You immediately roll your eyes, which just makes him laugh. “But one compliment and you blush, and your eyes go wide with this look of…something,” he breathes out sharply. “Need, maybe. I can see in your eyes how much you want me.”

Damn, he is observant. “I’m usually the one making people blush.”

“I know, that's why it’s so satisfying.”

You place a hand lightly over his helmet, relieved when he doesn’t flinch or pull away. “Feels like an unfair advantage. How am I supposed to know how bad you want me?”

Mando cocks his head.

“Alright, fine. The hard on is a reliable indicator. But—”

“Never worry about that,” he says wryly, and you feel his cock throb, flexing inside you. “I always want you.”

The flush in your cheeks gets even hotter, and you laugh to dispel the fluster of embarrassment.

“When you were gone, I couldn’t stop thinking about you. When you’re near, all I want to do is touch you. All I ever want to do is touch you and kiss—"

He stops himself, "I—”

“It’s okay,” you sigh. “I know you can’t take off the helmet. You don’t remove your armor on the job.”

You uncross your ankles and return both feet to the ground. Mando finally slips out, and you feel warm wetness sliding down your thighs.

The Mandalorian can sense your disappointment, but you have no intention of being thwarted so easily. You wrap your arms tighter around his neck, threading your fingers so he won’t pull away. Your head rests against his chest—the Beskar plate feels cool against your flushed cheek.  

“We have time,” he says. “We haven’t even made it inside yet.”

“Actually,” you look up at him. “There's something I want to show you that's going to make you very excited.”

*********

Continue reading - Volume 4 - Post #10: Never Knew I Needed You

Back to all posts for Volume 4

[everwhovian]

AU where In ho finds out his wife joined the games and neither of them realized the other joined until they woke up in the bunks

Aahhhhh! This is breaking me! I also jumped on the opportunity to have Yuna meet Young-il!!!

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

The last thing he remembered was the car.

The heavy scent of cheap leather filling his lungs as he slid into the back seat, the smooth black interior absorbing the dim streetlight outside, and the door closing behind him with a kind of finality that should have warned him more than it did.

There had been a faint sting in his nose – something chemical, something wrong – and a man’s voice beside him, smooth and practiced, offering him comfort or instruction or reassurance, though the words slipped past him like water.

He had been too tired, too desperate, and sleep had begun to pull at him before he even registered what was being said. He didn’t remember drifting off. He didn’t remember arriving.

Only the overwhelming need to try something, anything, that might buy them time.

And now –

Now he was waking up in a place that didn’t belong to the real world.

The light above him was white and loud, fluorescent and sterile in a way that reminded him of operating rooms and interrogation chambers, that too-clean buzz that stripped everything of warmth.

The floor beneath him – no, not floor, a bed – was hard, a thin mattress that offered close to no comfort and barely enough space for his legs.

His body protested as he shifted, as though he’d been lying there for hours or days, frozen in a position meant to render him docile. When he managed to sit up, the nausea was faint but immediate – the heaviness in his limbs, the fog in his brain, the unmistakable chemical thrum under his skin.

Sedation. Professionally administered.

Around him, the world came into focus in fragments: rows upon rows of identical beds stretching into the distance, stacked like scaffolding along the walls in crooked, uneven towers, some with figures still slumped on them, others already beginning to stir.

In-ho remained still. Watching.

Always watch first. Always find the exits.

But there were none.

He looked.

There were no windows. No vents. The ceiling was just as sealed and smooth as the walls. The only door – if it could even be called that – was a massive steel gate bolted shut at the far end of the room, and it looked like it hadn’t been opened in a long time. Or maybe it was built not to open at all.

The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed relentlessly. Cameras blinked quietly in each corner.

The walls were white. The floor was white. Everything felt scrubbed of personality, of warmth…

Everyone wore the same uniform: green tracksuits with white numbers printed neatly over the chest. No names. No individuality.

He looked down at his own.

132.

A number. Not a name. Not a man. Not a husband or a detective or a brother – just a number in a sea of them.

The sight of it sat wrong in his gut, not frightening exactly, but unsettling in a way he couldn’t yet name. Like this was a system, a machine, and he had willingly thrown himself into it without understanding what it would do to him.

He tried to remember how he’d justified this. What he told himself to make it sound reasonable. A game, they said – just a game. Children’s games, even. Silly, harmless things. And a cash prize. Enough to pay off the debts. Enough to buy time for treatment. Enough to buy hope.

Last night… was it only last night? He had sat beside Yuna in her hospital room and waited for her to fall asleep.

The machines had beeped quietly behind her. She was stable, for now. Still smiling. Still strong. Still trying to convince him not to do anything reckless.

Her fingers had curled gently in his, even as sleep claimed her, and when he was sure she wouldn’t wake, he had pressed a kiss to her forehead, stood carefully, and left a note on the nightstand.

He didn’t write much. Just: ‘Don’t worry. I love you.’

Afterward, he went home.

He hugged his stepmother in the kitchen without saying why. She didn’t ask. She never did, not when his silences came weighted like that. She only held him back, steady and quiet, the way she always had when words weren’t enough.

And then, he had walked down the hall and stepped into Jun-ho’s room one last time.

His brother was curled up on his side, deep asleep, one arm tucked beneath his pillow, the blankets half-kicked off in his usual restless way. He looked impossibly young like that. For a moment, In-ho had just stood there in the doorway, watching him breathe. Then he stepped forward, pulled the blanket gently up over his shoulders, and tucked him in one last time like he was still eight instead of twenty-three.

He hadn’t planned to leave forever. Just long enough to win. Just long enough to bring the money home. To buy them time. To fix what needed fixing.

And now –

Now he was here.

His mind was still trying to find logic, trying to sort the pieces into something that made sense, but none of it fit. There were too many people. Too much silence. Too much cold. And the players near him were whispering questions that only made things worse.

“Where are we?”

“Is this part of the game?”

“I don’t remember getting here…”

He should have stayed still. Should have watched longer. But old instincts were hard to fight, and his legs carried him slowly toward the crowd, toward whatever passed for answers. Blend in. Move quiet. Stay alert.

The crowd in the center of the room was thickening – people grouping together not out of strategy but out of fear. Like they knew something was coming. Like maybe it already had.

He took a step forward, hoping to hear something useful. Some clue. Something that would give him a reason not to feel the dread already gathering in the base of his spine.

It happened by accident, the way terrible things often did. A glance sideways. A shift in the crowd. The movement of a hand, a voice that sounded too familiar from too far away.

And then he saw her.

He almost told himself it was just someone else – someone who happened to carry herself the same way, with the same calm intensity, the same quiet certainty that steadied other people without even trying.

Just for a second – a familiar profile, dark hair pulled back, a line of her jaw he’d memorized long ago.

But he looked again.

And everything stopped.

Yuna.

Standing in the middle of the crowd, wearing the same green tracksuit. Her arms weren’t crossed, her shoulders weren’t hunched. She was speaking to someone – trying to soothe, maybe trying to organize – her voice too low for him to hear, but her presence as familiar to him as his own breath.

The number across her chest was 174.

For a moment, his body simply stopped.

His lungs didn’t draw air.

His legs rooted themselves where he stood.

His mind didn’t race – it collapsed into a quiet static that drowned out everything except the sight of her.

Yuna.

Not in the hospital bed he had just left her in. Not under the protection of doctors and nurses who knew what to do when her liver failed again.

She wasn’t supposed to be here.

The air felt thinner. The buzzing louder.

She shouldn’t be here.

There was no universe in which she was supposed to be here.

And yet here she was. Already in it. Already marked. Already counted.

In-ho swallowed, and it felt like gravel scraping down his throat.

He had come here because she was supposed to be safe. And now they were both inside something he didn’t understand, both trapped, both branded by a number.

And suddenly the promise of money, the idea of games, the sales pitch whispered into his ear by a man in a suit – all of it rang false, all of it burned away, leaving only the cold certainty that nothing about this was harmless.

He didn’t know what this place was.

But he knew now – the cost of being here wasn’t just his.

And whatever was coming, he’d let it swallow him whole before it touched her.

He just stood there, feet rooted to the floor like something in his body had forgotten how to function because she was here, and it didn’t just make sense.

She moved as she spoke, gentle gestures, the kind he knew so well – one hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a frightened boy beside her, the other tucked to her chest, her voice quiet but firm, soothing in its calm. She was trying to help. Of course she was. Even here.

And she hadn’t seen him.

For a moment, he just watched her – not because he wanted to, but because he didn’t know how to do anything else. Because walking toward her meant accepting what he was seeing.

It meant admitting that he had failed to protect her before this even began.

But then she shifted – stepped a little to the side – and the crowd behind her threatened to fold and close and swallow her up again. And the thought of losing sight of her, even for a second, made something snap loose inside him.

He moved.

Slow at first. Steady.

His legs felt stiff, like he was walking underwater, each step heavier than the last. But his focus was absolute – only her, only the space between them, only the unbearable need to reach her and confirm that she was real.

He approached her from behind, close now, close enough to feel the slight ripple in the air when she moved.

And when he was only an arm’s length away, he reached out – hesitant, trembling – and laid his hand gently on her arm.

She stiffened.

Then she turned.

And when her eyes found his, everything else fell away.

“In-ho?” she said, his name barely a whisper.

His throat clenched. His hand remained where it was, lightly gripping her sleeve like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

She blinked, and in that flicker of movement he saw it – the shock, the disbelief, the dawning realization of what this meant.

“What –” he started, but the words caught on something sharp. He swallowed, tried again. “What are you doing here?”

She stared at him like he was the one who shouldn’t be real. And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe this entire place wasn’t. But she didn’t pull away. Didn’t move. Only answered, quiet and low.

“I woke up and you were gone,” she said gently. “I saw your note.”

His breath stilled. He nodded once, guilt tightening in his chest.

“And then…” Her voice softened even more. “I found the card. It must’ve fallen out of your pocket. It was on the floor, next to the bed.”

“I found your note,” she went on, her voice careful now, threading between emotion and clarity. “And the card. You must’ve dropped it.”

His brows knit. “Card?”

“The one with the symbols,” she said. “No name, just a number…”

His heart lurched – a cold, sick weight pressing into his chest. He hadn’t even realized it was missing.

“I didn’t know what it was,” she said. “But I called it. I was worried. I thought… maybe I could help.”

He stared at her, heart beating slow and heavy, too much to process all at once. She hadn’t been recruited. She hadn’t been coerced. She’d followed a thread he hadn’t meant to leave behind – because she loved him. Because she worried. Because she couldn’t sit still, not when she thought he might be in danger.

“I’m sorry,” she added, quieter now. “I didn’t know it would lead here.”

“No,” he said quickly, shaking his head, voice thick. “Don’t be sorry.”

She looked at him again, and in that look was everything – fear, determination, sorrow, and something solid beneath it all.

The same strength that had gotten her through hospital rooms and test results and weeks of not knowing what tomorrow would look like.

His jaw tightened until it ached, every muscle pulled taut with the effort of holding himself together.

He didn’t know what part of this was worse – that she was here, that she had followed the trail he hadn’t meant to leave, or that no amount of logic or strength could undo it now.

His hands curled into fists at his sides before he forced them to release.

But Yuna noticed.

Of course she noticed.

She always did.

She studied him for half a second longer, her eyes narrowing just enough – not with judgment, but with that quiet, unwavering stubbornness he had fallen in love with before he ever knew what to call it.

That look she gave him when he thought he could carry the weight of everything alone and she refused to let him.

And then, wordlessly, she reached for him.

Her hand came up slowly, without hesitation. Fingers brushed along his cheek, the side of his jaw – a gesture so familiar, so simple, it made something inside him crack.

In-ho didn’t say anything, he just stepped forward.

He closed the space between them in one fluid motion and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and buried his face in her shoulder.

And Yuna folded into him like she’d been waiting.

She also didn’t say anything. She didn’t need to.

Her arms circled around his back, fingers twisting lightly in the fabric of his tracksuit, her body pressed fully to his, solid and warm, and here.

He let his eyes fall shut.

The noise of the room, the crowd, the sterile white light – all of it faded.

There was only this: her heartbeat against his chest. The way her hands stayed steady even now. The weight of her in his arms. Real. Alive.

He exhaled slowly, everything in him settling into one silent promise.

He couldn’t change how they got here.

But he would shape what came next.

And nothing – not the game, not the guards, not the numbered uniforms or the rules – would ever touch her without going through him first.

❛ ━━━━━━･❪ ○△□ ❫ ･━━━━━━ ❜

Yuna made it across first.

Her feet struck the ground just past the red line, knees trembling, lungs aching from the effort of stopping mid-stride. She barely remembered the last few steps, only the thundering pulse in her ears and the unbearable stillness that followed.

She didn’t look back – not right away. She couldn’t. Not with the weight of silence pressing down like a held breath.

Red light.

The voice echoed overhead, cheery and inhuman.

Yuna forced herself to stand still, even though she was already safe.

Her chest rose and fell once. Twice. The eyes of the doll scanned the field behind her.

And then, slowly – hesitantly – she turned.

Her eyes scanned the field instinctively, already searching for one face – and when she saw In-ho, several meters back, she nearly cursed out loud.

He was still out there, too far back, his figure unmistakable even in a crowd of green uniforms. Her stomach twisted sharply. He was supposed to be right behind her – not stuck in the middle of the field with less than thirty seconds left on the damn clock.

He was standing still now, half-turned, gaze focused on something in front of him. And then she saw it.

A young man – maybe twenty, maybe younger – a step too far ahead, balance off, feet shifting just enough to betray the panic.

She watched it unfold like a slow nightmare: the boy’s foot slipping forward, the fabric of his sleeve catching light, the beginning of a stumble –

In-ho moved fast.

His hand shot out, caught the front of the kid’s jacket, yanked him back with practiced force. The boy fell into his chest, arms flailing for balance, and then froze, body stiff, breath hitched.

Neither of them moved.

Yuna’s breath caught painfully. Her nails dug into her palm.

Somehow, by some miracle of timing and muscle memory and luck, they didn’t move.

Neither of them were shot.

The shot went somewhere else.

Yuna squeezed her eyes shut for half a second.

Then the silence held.

The doll’s head rotated again, slowly, mechanically.

She couldn’t breathe until the next “green light” sounded.

She just watched as In-ho slowly, carefully pulled himself out of the boy’s grasp and started moving again – silent, deliberate steps toward the finish line, as though none of it had touched him at all.

In-ho made it across the lines with only seconds to spare.

And Yuna was already moving.

She stormed toward In-ho, her footsteps quick and furious, the breath still tight in her chest – not from the game anymore, but from him.

She reached him in seconds.

Her hand came down sharply against his arm. Not hard, but firm.

“What the hell were you thinking?” she snapped. “You scared me half to death.”

In-ho didn’t say anything. He barely even turned. His expression was blank, the kind of blank she recognized too well – the one he wore when everything inside him was rattling too loud to speak.

She opened her mouth to say something else, but stopped when she caught movement from the corner of her eye.

The boy – 062 – had dropped to the ground just a few feet away, his back flat against the floor, staring up at the ceiling like he couldn’t quite believe he was still alive.

Yuna turned toward him, and something inside her shifted.

The slope of his shoulders. The tremble in his hands. The way he seemed suspended between collapse and disbelief.

God, he’s the same age as Jun-ho.

She turned back to In-ho, glared at him one last time – sharp and narrow – then crouched beside the boy without another word.

“Hey,” she said softly, brushing his shoulder. “You with me?”

The kid was still staring at the ceiling, chest rising too quickly, hands fisted in the fabric of his tracksuit like he didn’t trust the ground beneath him.

Yuna stayed crouched beside him, hand resting gently on his shoulder, giving him the space to breathe but not the room to drift too far.

For a moment, neither of them spoke.

And then, hoarse and soft, barely audible over the sound of shuffling feet and distant sobs, he whispered, “He saved me.”

Yuna blinked.

Then she let out a snort.

“Yeah,” she muttered, glancing back at In-ho where he stood with arms crossed, hovering nearby and doing an awful job of pretending he wasn’t. “He does that… without thinking about how much I’m going to strangle him for scaring the shit out of me.”

She didn’t raise her voice.

She didn’t need to.

Her glare found him perfectly.

In-ho didn’t react, but the tension in his jaw said plenty. Yuna rolled her eyes and turned back to the boy.

“Come on,” she said, patting his arm. “Up you go. We’re not lying on this floor forever.”

He blinked up at her, still stunned, but his limbs obeyed – slow, unsteady – until he was sitting upright, then gradually climbing to his feet.

She rose with him, steadying him with one hand as she brushed dust from his sleeve.

“I’m Yuna,” she said, simply. “And that idiot over there is In-ho.”

The kid looked between them, eyes still wide, but now more grounded. Real. His breathing steadied. His shoulders began to relax and he rubbed the back of his neck.

“Young-il,” he murmured. “I’m Young-il.”

Yuna gave a quiet nod of approval. “Nice to meet you, Young-il.”

He offered the barest hint of a smile – not quite there yet, but trying – then glanced over her shoulder at In-ho, still hovering a short distance away, stiff and silent, jaw set like he hadn’t relaxed a single muscle since the game began.

Yuna followed his gaze, then rolled her eyes with a sigh so practiced it might’ve been muscle memory.

In-ho stood a few steps away, arms crossed, shoulders squared, face carved from stone – the same way he always looked when the ground beneath him had shifted and he hadn’t found his balance yet.

Yuna exhaled, just loud enough for Young-il to hear.

“Don’t mind him,” she muttered. “He always looks a little grumpy at first.”

Young-il didn’t laugh. But something flickered – a twitch at the corner of his mouth, the briefest gleam in his eyes.

Yuna caught it instantly.

It reminded her of Jun-ho, again. That sharp little spark behind tired eyes – the kind of look he gave her when he was pretending not to be scared, pretending he had everything under control, even when he didn’t. When he was eleven, fifteen, twenty-three – it never really changed.

Young-ill had a tiny flicker of something underneath the shock. A glimmer of attitude buried beneath all the adrenaline. And in that moment, she knew.

They were going to get along just fine.

She nudged him lightly with her elbow, just enough to make him look at her again. “Come on” she said. “You’ll be trouble. I can tell already.”

Young-il looked at her sidelong, but then he gave her a little smirk. “Maybe.”

Yuna smiled to herself.

God. Jun-ho would’ve liked him.

And she was already starting to care, in the way that crept up behind you – not a decision, just a quiet inevitability. Just like it had been with Jun-ho. Just like it always was when she caught that flicker of something in someone too young and too brave for their own good.

She looked at In-ho again, still stoic, still watching.

Then she leaned a little closer to Young-il, her voice low but warm.

“Don’t let that stone face fool you,” she said. “He’s all soft underneath. Just does a terrible job hiding it.”

Young-il didn’t answer. But the corner of his mouth twitched – like he believed her.

And when she stepped forward, he didn’t hesitate to follow.

[hemoglobinjuicebox]

Bloodweave and Cyberpunk got me, so here's a teaser of a fic I'm writing

Warnings: Surgery, alluded to/implied Cazador-typical abuse

“I’m sorry, you want me to give you what kind of implant?”

Astarion sat up from the cushioned table, plucked a scalpel from the tray, and twirled it between his silver-plated fingers. It wove over and under his knuckles like a cold needle through hot skin. “Humor me for a minute, Gale. Don’t give yourself a heart attack. It can’t be as awful an idea as you’re making it sound like.”

All that Gale could do was stare slack-jawed and wide-eyed. The fan in his chest whirred like a jet engine, filling the clinic with its raucous rumble and clatter of metal on metal. The dim fluorescent lights shuddered overhead, their grey hues trading briefly with the dark. Perhaps he needed to tune his auditory processors or check his linguistics module. He tinkered with it last week to understand the manual of a new part he had acquired. For as well-educated as he was, Gale understood barely a word of anything but English, and the manual was entirely in Infernal. It was completely possible that he had crossed his wires and was receiving Astarion’s nonsense as words that formed a coherent sentence.

But that wasn’t the case. Gale knew it. “I just don’t believe you understand the severity of the operation you’re asking me to perform on your brain. I would have to cut a hole the size of a grapefruit through the front of your skull, dig through all of that lovely fat and nerve tissue—which could leave you completely paralyzed if I touch something I shouldn’t—then rip out all of the hardware and implant a brand new system that is compatible with your operating system that hasn’t been updated in thirty years. Thirty years, Astarion!”

“So? If Cazador could do it all by his horrid self, then you can, too.” He put the blade of the scalpel just over his left brow, slicing through a loose lock of snow-white hair. “Could you make the cut here? My right is my best side.”

“Give me that!” Gale pulled the scalpel away and dropped it back in the tray. “Astarion, be serious.”

Pallid lips pressed into a hard, thin line. Luminescent crimson eyes flickered under dark lashes. “I am serious. This is my only option, Gale. It’s you, or it’s back to the goddamn kennel.”

Gale didn’t want to know what the kennel was. He feared it would short circuit his circulatory system, destroy the resistor of the uranium battery series in his upper chambers, and blow up half of Baldur’s Gate. With a heavy breath and a trembling hand on his forehead, he gave his reply:

“I’ll do it. Lay back.”

[bullet-prooflove]

Bad Timing: Tim Gutterson x Reader

Tagging: @kmc1989

It’s always a case of bad timing between you and Tim, it’s been that way since Afghanistan. A couple of stolen nights here and there before one of you departs for greener pastures. For him it was Iraq, for you it was an honourable discharge before you took up a position in the FBI.

When he becomes a US Marshal he figures the two of you will find your way back to each other again at some point, he just doesn’t expect it to be in some backwater shithole near Harlan in the midst of a raid. He doesn’t expect it to come with a punch in the face as you escape through an open window. He chases you for almost two miles before he catches up and that’s only because you let him.

Distance running has always been your thing, just like intelligence work.

“Fuck Lucky.” He mutters, trying to catch his breath as you slow to a halt outside the abandoned Anderson house. “Did you really need to run me out this far?”

The reason they call you Lucky is because back in Afghanistan no matter what fucked up shit you  were caught up in you always made it out. It didn’t matter what the odds were, the one thing he could always bet on was on you.

It had started because of those five days you spent hiding out in the hills, evading the Taliban with nothing but your wits and a combat knife.

Lucky is what they called you when you came stumbling through those gates looking like you’d been dragged through hell.

Fierce and smart as fuck is what he thought when they’d headed back to the caves and found the mess you’d left there, along with the intelligence cache you’d secreted away. He’d fallen a little bit in love with you right there and then.

“You looked like you could use the exercise.” You say, putting your hands on your hips with that devil may care smile on your lips.

Christ you look beautiful, even in the light from the shitty streetlamp overhead. He remembers the last time he’d had his hands on you. It was during that law enforcement conference up in Louisiana a couple of months ago. You’ve always been a little wild, a little crazy and that translates into the bedroom. He’s asked you to come stay with him in Lexington, give this thing between the two of you a real shot.

“After this assignment.” You had promised him as you straddled his hips. “Let me get these next couple of months over and done with and then we can talk about playing house together.”

You’d meant it, he could tell from the look in your eyes before you rode him into oblivion.

“That eye is gonna turn a pretty colour in the morning.” You say interrupting his thoughts as you reach out to touch the place where you socked him. There’s a tenderness in your touch, one that he spends his nights craving. This is the other side to you, the part he misses more than anything. The part that loves him, the one that will always love him.

“I’d take any hit you can give me as long as it means you’re safe.” He murmurs, his lips brushing over the tattoo on your wrist, the one of a four leaf clover. “When are you gonna be done with this undercover bullshit and come home to me?”

“When redneck militias stop buying up rocket launchers to blow up churches.” You tell him and he sighs because he knows what that means.

It’s not easy dismantling an arms ring, especially one with ties to the military. There jurisdictional issues in play, different agencies get involved which means more risk on your part. It also means a bigger investigation because operations like this filter into different states depending on what the hook up is. Guns from Texas, grenades from Florida, body armour from Kansas, the list goes on.

The two of you are looking at a year maybe, instead of the months you’d both thought.

“I guess we still have a case of really bad timing don’t we darlin?” He says, his heart aching at the prospect of spending another year without you.

“Yea Tim.” You say softly. “We sure do.”

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Like My Work? - Why Not Buy Me A Coffee

[lightdancingwords]

Breaking The Wall - Part Five of ?

Pairings: Tim Bradford x Original Female Character

Series Summary: When Sergeant Tim Bradford is partnered with Officer Rachel Grace—a sharp, emotionally guarded transfer with a reputation for pushing the limits—tension ignites from day one. Rachel operates with cold precision, often disregarding protocol in the name of efficiency, while Tim, shaped by trauma and discipline, clings to order and control. Though their approaches clash, their results are undeniable, forcing them into a reluctant partnership that slowly deepens through shared pressure and unspoken understanding. As they navigate high-stakes calls, moral boundaries, and the weight of unresolved grief, what begins as friction evolves into trust—and eventually, something neither of them expected.

Word Count: 7,227

Tags/Warnings: Cop procedures, police work, angst (so much), tension, violence

A/N: Comments, Likes, Reblogs, Kind feedback are always highly appreciated. Please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list!

NOTE: Posting schedule will be 1 to 2 times a week for this series. We'll see how it goes!

Dividers: credit to @firefly-graphics

Chapter Five: Holding Space

Tuesday – 7:46 A.M. – Mid-Wilshire Division, Cruiser Bay

The morning light slanted in through the open bay doors, soft and pale. Patrol units were gearing up, voices low, equipment clinking faintly under the buzz of overhead lights.

Tim stood by the cruiser, coffee in one hand, checking the MDT screen.

Rachel walked up right on time.

No rush. No edge. No tension in her shoulders.

She had her hair back the same way she always did. Same uniform. Same clean lines.

But when she stopped beside him, something was different.

She didn’t look through him.

She looked at him.

“Morning,” she said.

Not an afterthought.

Not automatic.

Real.

Tim looked over at her, and whatever he expected… it wasn’t that.

“Morning,” he said back, matching her tone.

Then she held out a small, quiet offering—an extra protein bar from her pocket. The kind he kept in the glove box for long days.

He raised a brow. “You steal that from my stash?”

“No,” she said, dry. “I bought it. This one’s mine.”

He took it, eyes still on her.

She didn’t explain the gesture.

Didn’t deflect.

Just climbed into the cruiser and waited.

Tim followed, buckling in.

Radio chatter buzzed in the background, but the silence between them was easy now.

She was still quiet.

Still composed.

Still her.

But when she turned to ask what their first call was?

She didn’t look through him.

She looked at him.

And for Tim, that was everything.

Tuesday – 10:14 A.M. – Boyle Heights, Suspicious Circumstances

The radio call came through with vague details: “7-Adam-07, possible 459 in progress. Caller states people are coming and going from a vacant property. Address on record is foreclosed.”

Rachel tapped the address into the MDT, frowning. “That area’s a patchwork. Some streets half-occupied, others straight-up abandoned.”

Tim nodded. “Could be squatters. Could be worse.”

They rolled up on the house in question ten minutes later. Small, single-story. Front yard overgrown. Blinds drawn tight. The mailbox hung open, stuffed with weeks of flyers and coupons. No car in the driveway.

Tim cut the engine and scanned the perimeter.

Rachel unbuckled. “Side gate’s rusted open.”

They moved slow. Standard sweep.

Rachel took the rear. Tim approached the front door, knocking twice.

“LAPD. Anyone inside?”

No answer.

Then Rachel’s voice in his earpiece: “Window in the back’s broken. Entry possible.”

Tim moved around to join her. The back door creaked open beneath her hand—unlocked.

They stepped inside together.

The house was dark. Hot. Smelled like damp drywall and old wood. No immediate signs of activity—until they reached the living room.

Sleeping bags. Empty takeout containers. Piles of clothes. Someone had been staying here. Maybe still was.

Tim scanned the hallway. “Two doors left. I’ll take the one on the right.”

Rachel nodded, drawing her sidearm.

They split—just a few feet apart.

Tim opened the door to a gutted bathroom—nothing inside but a broken vanity and a few dusty footprints.

Then—

Rachel’s voice: sharp. “Hold.”

Tim froze.

He turned just in time to see her lean through the other doorway.

Her posture changed immediately.

Weapon still drawn, but arms soft. Not aggressive.

She spoke, calm but firm.

“It’s okay. Don’t move.”

Tim stepped beside her—and saw the boy.

Couldn’t have been older than sixteen. Skinny. Shaking. Backpack on the floor beside him, hands raised halfway.

But his eyes weren’t on them.

They were on something behind the door.

Tim moved in a half-step, scanning—

And there it was.

Another figure, older. Male. Early twenties. Hoodie. Face flushed.

Holding a gun.

Tim didn’t raise his voice. “Put it down.”

The man’s hands twitched. “I’m not going back to jail.”

“No one said you were,” Rachel replied. “This doesn’t have to go that way.”

Tim could see it—the wildness in the guy’s eyes. The edge.

He was going to break.

And in that moment, everything slowed.

Rachel shifted.

Not drawing tighter.

Not backing off.

Positioning.

Tim mirrored without a word.

No plan. No hand signals.

Just instinct.

Their rhythm, intact.

The man’s finger twitched.

And Rachel moved—fast, precise.

She got between the teenager and the gun without hesitation, weapon up.

Tim took the angle, sidestepped wide.

Gun pointed nowhere safe now—no chance for a clean shot from the suspect.

Rachel’s voice was cold now. “Put. It. Down.”

The man blinked. Looked at both of them.

Two different kinds of steel.

Then his arm dropped.

Gun clattered to the ground.

Tim moved. Cuffed. Secured.

Rachel lowered her weapon only once the boy was sitting on the bed, breathing hard.

She stood there a moment longer.

Then exhaled—slow and deep.

Tim looked at her. “You good?”

She nodded. “Yeah.”

And she was.

Because he was there.

And she’d moved like he would be.

Later, while writing the report in the cruiser, Rachel handed him his pen before he even asked for it.

Tim looked at her.

She didn’t look back.

Didn’t need to.

Because now?

They understood each other.

And that made all the difference.

Wednesday – 7:05 A.M. – Roll Call Room, Mid-Wilshire Division

Grey stood at the front, arms folded, eyes moving over the group as officers settled into the morning debrief. His voice was steady as always, giving updates on precinct-level alerts, recent case pushes, and new directives from downtown.

But as he scanned the room, his gaze paused—just for a moment—on Rachel and Tim seated near the back.

They weren’t whispering. Weren’t doing anything that stood out.

But they were in sync.

Rachel leaned back, arms folded loosely, her notes already on her lap.

Tim had one boot crossed over the other, flipping through the MDT summaries.

They didn’t glance at each other.

Didn’t have to.

Grey’s voice continued without a break, but there was a faint shift in tone when he hit the day’s assignments.

“Bradford and Grace—same sector. Same unit. Per usual.”

No one blinked.

But Grey’s eyes stayed on them half a second longer.

And he made a small, almost-smile as he added: “Don’t make it look too easy. You’re starting to make the rest of them look bad.”

A few quiet chuckles around the room.

Rachel didn’t react.

Tim did—just slightly. A small tilt of his head.

But Grey didn’t elaborate.

He just moved on.

Later – 8:21 A.M. – Grey’s Office, Open Door

Grey was standing behind his desk, scanning over a crime heat map. Tim knocked once and stepped in, nodding in quiet acknowledgment.

“Got a second?” Tim asked.

Grey looked up. “You already got the assignment.”

Tim held up a folder. “Need your signature on the report from yesterday’s call. The squatters, one with the firearm.”

Grey nodded, motioning for him to set it on the desk. Tim did, placing it neatly before stepping back.

Grey glanced at the report—just long enough.

Then looked back up at Tim.

“You know,” he said, voice quiet, “a few months ago, I wasn’t sure how that partnership was going to hold.”

Tim waited, still.

“I don’t pair people just to give them stability,” Grey continued. “That’s not the job. But I also don’t ignore when something works.”

He flipped the folder closed.

“And you two? You work.”

Tim nodded once. “Thanks.”

Grey watched him for a beat longer, then added, with more weight: “She doesn’t move like someone who’s alone out there anymore.”

Tim met his eyes.

Neither of them said it outright.

But both knew what it meant.

Grey signed the folder, handed it back.

“Just keep doing the job right.”

“We will,” Tim said.

He turned to go.

And before he reached the door, Grey added—almost offhand: “And Bradford?”

Tim paused.

Grey didn’t look up this time. Just said: “Don’t lose sight of what she’s giving you back.”

Tim nodded again, quieter now.

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Then he stepped out into the hallway, report in hand, and walked back toward the woman who—just a few months ago—wouldn’t let anyone near her.

And now?

She waited for him.

Not obviously.

Not intentionally.

But still—there.

And that mattered.

Wednesday – 11:23 A.M. – Mid-Wilshire Division, Brief Lull Between Calls

The bullpen was unusually quiet for midday. Phones buzzed now and then, officers walked in and out with reports and refills, and overhead lights hummed with a lazy fluorescent buzz. Tim and Rachel had just walked in from a call—simple B&E, no suspect on scene, report written clean.

Rachel peeled off toward the filing station with the report. Tim paused by the coffee machine, watching her move across the room—nothing dramatic. Just watching.

Lucy stood by the opposite wall, finishing off a protein bar, half-paying attention to her own screen.

Until she caught that look.

Not long.

Not intense.

But it wasn’t casual.

She crossed the room, tossing the wrapper into the bin, and slid up beside Tim.

“You know,” she said, tone light, “for someone who claims nothing’s happening, you look at her like there is.”

Tim didn’t even blink. “Hi, Lucy.”

She smirked, unfazed. “Hey, Tim.”

He poured coffee. Black. No hesitation.

Lucy leaned a hip against the counter, arms loosely crossed. “You two have a rhythm now. It’s subtle, but it’s there.”

Tim took a slow sip. “We’ve worked together long enough.”

“You’re synced,” she said. “Not just in the field. Everywhere.”

He didn’t answer.

She turned her head slightly, watching Rachel pass a report off at the admin desk, then pivot and head their direction. Calm. Smooth. Completely composed.

“She still doesn’t let anyone close,” Lucy said. “Except you.”

Tim didn’t look away from Rachel as she walked toward them.

“I didn’t ask for that,” he said.

“No,” Lucy said. “You earned it.”

Rachel slowed as she reached the edge of the table. “You ready?”

“Yeah,” Tim replied, finishing his coffee.

Rachel glanced once at Lucy. Gave a short, neutral nod. Then turned toward the door.

Tim fell into step beside her like it was second nature.

And Lucy watched them walk away, shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing.

But their silence was full.

And she knew Tim felt it too.

Angela stepped up beside her just then, catching Lucy’s look.

“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Angela asked, lifting an eyebrow.

Lucy didn’t answer right away. Then: “They don’t know it yet.”

Angela smirked. “She’s letting him in.”

Lucy nodded. “And he’s already there.”

They watched the door swing shut behind them.

Angela nudged her. “Five bucks says he’s the one who figures it out first.”

Lucy smiled faintly. “Ten says she doesn’t let him say it.”

Angela chuckled. “Twenty says he does anyway.”

And with that, they went back to their day.

But the feeling lingered.

Because everyone could see it now—

And it was only a matter of time before Tim and Rachel did too.

Thursday – 4:14 P.M. – Dispatch Call

Rachel sat in the cruiser’s passenger seat, fingers tapping lightly against her thigh. Tim was driving, calm behind the wheel, when the radio crackled to life.

“7-Adam-07, multiple 911 calls reporting a domestic incident escalating into shots fired. 4328 Carver Avenue. Possible hostages.”

Tim reached for the receiver. “7-Adam-07 responding. Requesting backup and SWAT.”

Rachel had already keyed the address into the MDT. “That’s residential. Tight street. Two-story house. Good lines of sight—but not a lot of cover.”

“Could be bad,” Tim said.

Rachel’s jaw was tight. “Already is.”

Thursday – 4:32 P.M. – Arrival at Carver Avenue

The street was chaos by the time they pulled up. Multiple units on site. Civilians gathered behind barricades. The pop of radio chatter layered with low shouting from the front yard. Yellow tape flapping. Officers crouched behind cruisers, weapons drawn.

A SWAT van had just arrived, team unloading fast.

Grey was already there, coordinating.

Tim pulled in behind the lead unit. He and Rachel stepped out fast, guns holstered but hands ready.

“Grey,” Tim called, making his way over.

Grey turned, scanning both of them. “Male suspect, armed, confirmed holding one hostage. Wife got out and called it in. Reports say he's unstable, threatening to kill himself and anyone who enters.”

Rachel’s eyes went to the house—a modest two-story. White siding. Small porch. Cracked steps. Blinds drawn.

Something about it—

Too familiar.

“SWAT’s preparing for breach,” Grey continued. “You’re perimeter backup.”

Tim nodded. “Copy that.”

Rachel didn’t respond. Just stared at the house.

Thursday – 4:44 P.M. – Tension Mounting

Rachel and Tim positioned across the side yard with a SWAT sniper covering their line. Everything felt sharp. Focused. Controlled.

But Rachel’s breath had started to change—barely.

Not fast.

Just shallow.

The porch.

The siding.

The angle of the window.

It was too close.

Tim caught the edge in her posture. “You good?”

She nodded once, sharp. “Fine.”

Then—

Gunfire.

Two shots.

Close.

Rachel dropped instantly into a crouch, weapon out, back tight against the wall.

Grey’s voice blasted through the comms.

“Officer down—front line. Medic up! Vest caught it. He’s breathing.”

Rachel froze.

Vest caught it.

He’s breathing.

But in her ears, she didn’t hear the comms anymore.

She heard a different voice.

Another street.

Another porch.

Another gunshot.

Jake’s body hitting the ground.

Thursday – 4:45 P.M. – Locked In

Rachel blinked—but she couldn’t see the present.

Couldn’t hear the voices around her.

The world was dull and far away. Her ears rang, sharp and uneven. Her pulse thundered. Her fingers clenched around her weapon without her realizing it.

She was crouched in the same position she’d been in the day Jake fell.

Same breath.

Same burn behind her eyes.

Same helplessness.

“Rachel!”

The shout was close—real—but muted.

Like underwater.

“Grace, you with me?!”

She couldn’t answer.

Couldn’t move.

Her mind had locked the moment in.

And all she could see—

Was blood on white siding.

Thursday – 4:47 P.M. – Carver Avenue, Side Yard

“Rachel!”

Tim’s voice cut sharp through the ringing.

She didn’t respond. Knees still bent, body crouched low against the side of the house, one hand gripping her sidearm so tightly her knuckles had gone white. Eyes fixed on something that wasn’t here.

Tim stepped in close.

Close enough to see the tremble in her jaw. The sweat on her temple despite the chill in the air.

He didn’t touch her. Just crouched beside her and said, low:

“Hey. You’re here. Right now. Look at me.”

Her breath hitched. But her eyes didn’t move.

“Rachel,” he repeated, voice gentler now. “The officer’s okay. It wasn’t—this isn’t—what you think it is.”

That broke something.

Her head snapped toward him, eyes suddenly wide—present.

But off.

Like she wasn’t sure where she’d just come from.

“I’m fine,” she said too fast, voice clipped. “It just caught me off guard.”

Tim didn’t say anything.

Didn’t agree.

Didn’t argue.

Because she wasn’t fine.

And she knew he knew it.

Grey arrived moments later, walking fast from the front yard. “Suspect’s in custody. Scene’s cleared.”

He looked at Rachel.

And everything in his expression softened—but only slightly.

“Grace. Stand down.”

Rachel straightened automatically. “I’m good to finish perimeter.”

Grey’s voice cut across hers. “You’re done for today.”

“I said I’m—”

“I’m not asking,” Grey said, calm and absolute. “You’re benched until psych clears you.”

Rachel’s mouth snapped shut.

Not because she agreed.

But because she knew it was over.

Grey took one step closer, voice low but firm. “You’ve held it together a long time. Too long. But you froze up today. I saw it. He saw it.”

He nodded toward Tim.

Rachel’s jaw clenched. “I didn’t—”

“You did,” Grey interrupted. Not cruel. Just clear. “And I’m not letting you carry it alone anymore.”

That landed harder than anything else.

Rachel’s shoulders lowered, just barely.

She nodded once.

Tight.

Grey looked to Tim. “Get her back to the station. I’ll handle command.”

Rachel didn’t speak again.

Didn’t protest.

Didn’t even look up as she holstered her weapon and turned toward the cruiser.

Tim walked beside her in silence.

And this time?

She didn’t pull away.

Friday – 5:18 P.M. – Rachel’s Apartment

The apartment was still.

The kind of still that seeped into the walls.

No music. No TV. No sound but the occasional groan of the building as it settled. Late afternoon sun spilled through the blinds in long, pale bars across the hardwood floor.

Rachel sat at the kitchen table, wearing an old black hoodie and sweatpants. Her hair was tied back loosely, not neatly. A mug of coffee sat untouched beside her, steam long since gone.

She wasn’t doing anything.

Just sitting.

Like if she stayed still enough, the weight pressing down on her chest might lift on its own.

It didn’t.

Her phone buzzed once.

She didn’t move.

Then—

A knock.

Soft. Not urgent.

She didn’t react at first.

Then another knock.

And a voice. Low. Familiar.

“Rachel.”

She blinked.

Slow.

Then stood, feet heavy against the floor, and crossed to the door. She looked through the peephole.

Tim.

In jeans, a dark shirt, jacket in hand. No uniform. No expectations.

Just him.

She hesitated.

Then opened the door.

Not all the way.

But enough.

They looked at each other.

Neither spoke.

Then Rachel stepped back.

Just a little.

But it was an answer.

Tim stepped inside without asking. Closed the door gently behind him. Took in the apartment—neat, sparse, untouched.

He didn’t say “How are you?”

Didn’t say “You okay?”

He walked into the kitchen, spotted the cold coffee, and poured it out in the sink.

Then he turned and asked, “Tea or something stronger?”

Rachel stared at him for a moment.

Then, soft: “Tea.”

He nodded, already opening the cabinet.

She sank onto the couch, watching him quietly from across the room. Watching him move in her space like he belonged there.

He didn’t ask what happened yesterday.

Didn’t press about Jake. Or the house. Or the porch.

He just handed her the cup when it was ready and sat on the opposite end of the couch.

Silence stretched.

But it wasn’t cold.

It was full.

Heavy with the thing she’d never said.

And the thing he already knew.

Rachel held the tea in both hands, fingers curled around the warmth.

She didn’t say thank you.

But when her shoulders dropped just a little—and her breath eased out slow—

Tim knew.

She wasn’t okay.

Not yet.

But she wasn’t alone.

Not anymore.

Friday – 6:03 P.M. – Rachel’s Apartment, Couch

The tea had gone warm in her hands. The cup sat untouched in her lap now, resting against her knees. Rachel stared at the far wall, eyes unfocused, posture still and sharp—but only because that’s how she kept herself from unraveling.

Tim hadn’t moved in fifteen minutes.

Still at the other end of the couch, legs stretched out, hands clasped loosely in his lap.

Waiting.

No pressure.

Just presence.

The silence had turned into something weighted and full. Not awkward. Just honest.

Rachel took a slow breath.

Then another.

And then, without looking at him, she said:

“It wasn’t the house.”

Tim didn’t move.

Didn’t speak.

Rachel’s voice stayed low. Measured. Barely there.

“It was the porch. The siding. The way the windows sat off-center. The moment I saw it, I was back there. Like my body knew before I did.”

She stared forward, eyes glassy but dry.

“I thought I’d locked that moment away. I know I did.”

Tim listened. Not interrupting. Just there.

Rachel swallowed hard. “It was supposed to be a clean call. Welfare check. Guy was known, flagged before. Jake took the lead.”

Her voice cracked on the name.

She didn’t stop.

“I was five steps behind. I watched it happen. The guy was in the hallway. Gun raised. Jake stepped left. I stepped right. He took the shot that was meant for me.”

Her hands tightened around the mug, shoulders straining under the weight of the memory.

“There was blood on the white siding,” she said, almost a whisper. “That’s what I remember most. Not his voice. Not the sound of the shot. Just the blood. Spattered like paint.”

She blinked once. Hard.

“I knelt beside him and tried to stop the bleeding, but it was—” Her jaw clenched. “It was already too much. Too fast.”

She didn’t cry.

Rachel Grace did not cry.

But her voice turned raw.

“I heard myself say his name. Over and over. And I remember thinking, ‘You don’t get to do this. You don’t get to leave me.’”

A pause.

Sharp.

Then: “I didn’t tell anyone that.”

Stillness settled.

Heavy. Final.

And then—

Tim’s voice, low and even: “Why now?”

Rachel turned to look at him.

And that was the most fragile thing she’d done all night.

Because she let him see her.

Not the officer.

Not the survivor.

Not the version that held it all together.

Just her.

“Because I knew you wouldn’t try to fix it,” she said.

Tim nodded once. “No.”

Rachel looked down at the cup again.

And then added, almost inaudibly: “He was the only one who ever really saw me.”

Tim’s voice was quieter now. “That’s not true.”

She looked up sharply.

He didn’t flinch.

“I see you.”

Simple.

Solid.

Rachel exhaled—slow and heavy.

And for the first time in two years, she didn’t feel like she was standing on the edge of a cliff waiting to fall.

Because this time, someone was there.

Someone who stayed.

Friday – 6:27 P.M. – Rachel’s Apartment, Couch

The quiet had stretched long after her voice fell away. The kind of quiet that felt alive—thick with everything they hadn’t said before and everything she’d just laid bare.

The mug of tea sat cooling in her lap, cradled in both hands, though she hadn’t taken a sip in over ten minutes. The room was dim now. Outside, the day was beginning to fold in on itself. Shadows crawled across the hardwood floor, catching on the edge of the rug, softening the corners of the room.

Rachel sat with her body curved inward just slightly—like someone not used to being off-balance but too tired to pretend otherwise.

She hadn’t meant to say it.

Not all of it.

But it had come out of her like a wound splitting open—slow and certain. And now it was there. Between them. Not to fix. Not to solve.

Just to sit with.

And Tim… still hadn’t moved.

He was exactly where he’d been for the past hour—on the opposite end of the couch, legs stretched in front of him, posture relaxed, as if stillness was the only way to meet her where she was.

He didn’t try to close the distance.

Didn’t reach for her.

Didn’t say anything.

Because somehow, he knew that silence meant more than comfort.

That staying was louder than any words could be.

Rachel shifted slightly. Her fingers loosened around the mug. She stared at it like it might still have answers, like if she focused hard enough, maybe the pressure in her chest would finally release.

It didn’t.

But the sharpness of it had dulled.

Or maybe… that was just him.

The silence between them had shifted—not empty, not tense, but full. Full of breath, and memory, and the weight of a name she hadn’t said out loud in a very long time.

She turned her head then. Looked at him.

Really looked.

Tim’s eyes met hers—calm, steady, unwavering.

She swallowed, throat tight.

Her voice, when it came, was barely there.

“Can you just… not go yet?”

There was no wobble in it.

No softness for sympathy’s sake.

Just truth.

Quiet. Honest. Exposed.

Tim didn’t blink.

Didn’t pause.

“I wasn’t planning to,” he said.

Simple.

Certain.

Rachel’s jaw shifted, and she nodded—just once.

Then she reached forward, set the untouched mug gently on the coffee table. Her fingers lingered there for a second too long, like she wasn’t sure what to do next.

And then she did something she hadn’t done in a long, long time:

She leaned back.

Not toward him.

Not into him.

Just back.

Like she could finally stop holding herself upright.

She sank into the cushion with a slow, controlled motion, exhaling in the same breath—shoulders lowering, face softening. The muscles in her body unclenched, piece by piece.

She didn’t close her eyes.

Didn’t drift.

She just let herself exist.

And Tim?

Tim didn’t shift a muscle.

He stayed at the far end of the couch, still and present.

No closer.

No further.

Just… there.

The room settled around them.

Outside, traffic passed like the world kept turning.

But inside, nothing moved.

And for the first time in a very long time, Rachel Grace didn’t feel like she had to be anywhere else.

Didn’t feel like she had to be anyone else.

Because he stayed.

Because he saw her.

Because he didn’t go.

Saturday – 7:12 A.M. – Rachel’s Apartment

The world was soft when she woke.

Muted. Dim. The kind of quiet that settles before the rest of the city remembers to stir.

For a moment, Rachel didn’t move. She lay there on the couch, one arm curled loosely against her chest, the throw blanket—when had that gotten there?—draped over her legs, warm from her own body heat. The blinds were still drawn. Faint morning light seeped in around the edges, streaking across the coffee table and highlighting the gentle dust that floated through the air.

Her eyes opened slowly, gaze tracing the edges of her living room like she needed to remember where she was.

And then it came back.

The porch. The shot. Jake.

The weight of last night. What she’d said.

What she hadn’t meant to.

She let the memory sit, cool and sharp—but not unbearable.

Because she’d said it.

And because… he’d stayed.

Her eyes flicked toward the far end of the couch.

Empty now.

The blanket had been moved—carefully. The pillow where he must’ve leaned back was slightly askew, indented.

Her stomach twisted—not from panic.

From something else.

She sat up slowly, stretching her back as she stood. Her limbs ached, but not from exhaustion. From release.

Barefoot, she padded across the floor to the kitchen, rubbing a hand across her face.

And that’s when she saw it:

A second mug on the counter.

Clean. Dry.

And next to it—a sticky note, scribbled in Tim’s careful, no-nonsense handwriting:

“Didn’t want to wake you. Didn’t want to leave, either.”

Underneath that, a second line:

“Call me. Or don’t. I’m still here either way.”

Rachel stood there, one hand still resting on the counter, eyes fixed on that note like it was a foreign object.

No pressure.

No push.

Just presence.

It wasn’t poetry. Wasn’t romantic.

But it was him.

And for her? It was everything.

She took the note carefully, like it might tear if she breathed wrong.

Then she set it on the fridge and stepped back.

The apartment felt different now.

Still quiet.

But not empty.

Because he’d stayed.

And he would again.

Saturday – 11:18 A.M. – Rachel’s Apartment

The sticky note still sat on the fridge.

Exactly where she’d left it.

Rachel moved around the apartment in slow, purposeful steps—cleaning surfaces that didn’t need cleaning, folding laundry that had already been folded, opening cabinets just to close them again. Everything in its place. Everything in control.

Except her thoughts.

They kept circling back.

Didn’t want to leave, either.

Call me. Or don’t. I’m still here either way.

The note echoed in her head with every quiet moment.

Her phone sat on the counter, charging. Lit up once with a news alert. Twice with spam. She didn’t touch it.

She poured herself a second cup of coffee and sat on the edge of the couch, legs tucked under her, thumb tapping absently against the ceramic.

The phone was within reach.

She glanced at it.

Then looked away.

Not yet.

1:42 P.M. – Grocery Store Parking Lot

She didn’t need to go.

But she went anyway.

The grocery store was quiet—weekend afternoon lull. She picked up almond milk, a bag of oranges, two things she didn’t need, and left without looking anyone in the eye.

When she got into the car, she sat for a moment before starting the engine. The bag rustled against the passenger seat. Sunlight burned through the windshield.

She picked up her phone.

Opened her contacts.

Scrolled to his name.

Paused.

Tim Bradford.

The call icon blinked at her, waiting.

Her thumb hovered above it.

Just press it.

Instead, she locked the screen and tossed the phone into the console.

Started the engine.

Backed out.

4:26 P.M. – Rachel’s Apartment, Kitchen

She leaned against the counter, staring at the fridge.

The note was still there.

The apartment was clean, too quiet again. She had music playing low through her phone just to fill the space.

She dried her hands on a dish towel and reached for the phone again. Unlocked it. Stared at his name.

Pressed it once.

Felt her pulse jump.

Then hit back.

What would she even say?

He’d stayed. He’d heard her at her worst.

And she couldn’t tell if that made calling him easier—or harder.

7:31 P.M. – Couch

She sat on the couch, legs tucked under her again, the same throw blanket pulled up to her waist.

Her phone was in her hand.

Not open.

Not dialing.

Just there.

Her thumb brushed over the screen.

What if he’s waiting?

What if he’s not?

She stared for a long time at his name. The message icon. The call button.

Then she set it on the coffee table.

Let it sit there.

And leaned back.

The ache in her chest hadn’t gone away. But neither had the memory of his voice.

“I wasn’t planning to.”

Sunday – 10:07 A.M. – Tim Bradford’s Truck, Parked Down the Block

He didn’t plan to drive over.

Didn’t decide in a flash of worry or impulse.

It was just there.

A low-level hum that had been building since the minute he stepped away from her apartment two nights ago. Since he left that note on the counter and walked out with the certainty that she needed space—but not too much.

And now it had been more than a day.

No call.

No text.

No sign.

Tim sat in his truck with the engine off, fingers resting lightly on the wheel, the early sun casting broken shadows through the windshield. The neighborhood was quiet. A runner passed by with earbuds in. A dog barked two doors down.

Still, he didn’t move.

Not right away.

He wasn’t worried she was in danger.

He was worried she was retreating.

Because that’s what Rachel Grace did when things got too real—she shut down quietly enough that nobody noticed until she was already gone.

And he wasn’t going to let that happen again.

Not now.

Not after what she’d told him.

What she let him see.

He stepped out of the truck and walked the rest of the way on foot, his pace easy, no pressure in his stride.

Just presence.

Sunday – 10:15 A.M. – Rachel’s Apartment Door

Rachel wasn’t expecting anyone.

She was in an old sweatshirt, leggings, hair half-dried from a shower she’d taken an hour ago out of obligation, not ritual.

The knock made her freeze halfway through drying a coffee mug.

Not sharp. Not loud.

But familiar.

She walked to the door, looked through the peephole.

And exhaled.

It was him.

She opened the door, just a crack at first.

Tim stood there in a t-shirt and jeans, coffee in a cardboard tray in one hand, expression calm.

He didn’t try to smile.

Didn’t pretend like this was casual.

He just lifted the tray slightly.

“Didn’t hear from you.”

Rachel’s fingers tightened on the doorframe.

“I almost called,” she admitted.

Tim nodded. “I figured.”

They stood like that for a moment.

Then she opened the door fully.

And stepped aside.

He walked in.

Not like he owned the space.

Like he’d earned being there.

And this time?

She didn’t try to control the silence.

She just let him stay.

Sunday – 10:27 A.M. – Rachel’s Apartment, Kitchen Table

The coffees were placed on the table between them—his black, hers with a dash of cream, the way she didn’t realize he’d remembered. Neither of them had spoken in a few minutes. The sun slipped in through the window above the sink, warming the pale tile floor. Somewhere outside, a sprinkler clicked on.

Rachel sat across from him, fingers curled around the warm cup.

She hadn’t touched it yet.

Neither had he.

And maybe that was why she said it.

Not out of fear.

Just out of the kind of vulnerability that didn’t need volume.

“Why did you come?”

Her voice was quiet. Open. Unsteady in a way that wasn’t weakness—but honesty.

She didn’t look up.

Just stared into her coffee, as though it might offer an easier answer than he could.

Tim didn’t answer right away.

When he finally spoke, his voice was steady. Low. Certain.

“Because you didn’t.”

That made her look at him.

His gaze was calm. Unflinching. Not pushing.

“You almost did,” he added. “I know you. You probably hovered over that call button a dozen times.”

Rachel said nothing.

Because he was right.

Tim leaned forward slightly, arms folded on the table.

“I didn’t come because I was worried something happened. I came because I know what it feels like to sit with something you’re not sure you’re ready to say out loud again. And I know how loud the silence can get.”

Rachel’s fingers tightened around her cup.

He didn’t move closer.

Didn’t reach for her hand.

Just kept his voice quiet.

“You didn’t have to call me. But I wanted to make sure you remembered you could.”

That was it.

No grand declarations.

No pressure.

Just that.

Rachel swallowed, hard.

And when she looked down again, this time she nodded.

Once.

Slow.

Because for once, someone had met her in the silence—

And hadn’t asked her to leave it behind.

They sat there a while longer.

Still.

But not alone.

Sunday – 4:42 P.M. – Rachel’s Apartment, Living Room

Tim hadn’t stayed all day. He’d left a little after noon, the same quiet way he’d arrived. No pressure. No hesitation. Just a calm nod and a quiet, “Let me know if you need anything.”

Rachel had stood at the door after he left, staring at it for a long while before locking it.

She’d gone through the motions after that—tidying the already-clean apartment, answering a text from her neighbor about mail, flipping through a book she wasn’t reading. Her movements were restless, her focus fractured.

But the silence in the apartment didn’t feel quite as sharp this time.

It felt... lived in.

Touched.

The coffee mug he left behind was still in the sink. Rinsed. Placed upside down to dry.

Something about that small act—quiet, responsible, familiar—sat heavier in her chest than anything he'd said.

By four o’clock, she had stopped pretending to focus on anything else.

She stood at the edge of her kitchen, staring down at her phone, thumb brushing absently over the screen. Her contact list was open. Tim’s name sat at the top. Not because she’d favorited him.

Because she kept coming back to it.

For the longest time, she just looked at it.

Then, with a slow breath, she set the phone down, turned, and opened the fridge.

It was nearly empty. A half-carton of eggs. An unopened bag of spinach. Nothing that resembled dinner.

Her eyes lingered on the shelves, mind spinning through the list of things she could make and the reasons why she wouldn’t.

Then—without really deciding—she reached for the fridge door and let it close.

Her hand went back to her phone.

And this time, she didn’t hesitate.

Sunday – 4:57 P.M. – Text Message Sent

RACHEL: I’m ordering Thai. If you’re not busy.

The moment she hit send, her stomach tightened. Not with regret.

With anticipation.

She didn’t follow it up. Didn’t add “no pressure” or “you don’t have to.” Because if she’d learned anything from him lately, it was that what you say without saying it is just as important.

She watched the screen light up a minute later.

TIM: Be there in 20. Pad Thai, no peanuts. Right?

She exhaled—slow, surprised by how much her chest eased at that.

RACHEL: Yeah. Still remember that?

TIM: I remember more than you think.

She stared at the reply for a long moment.

Then set the phone down.

Walked into the kitchen.

And opened the drawer where she kept two plates.

She never used both.

But tonight?

She pulled them both out.

And set them on the table.

Sunday – 5:38 P.M. – Rachel’s Apartment, Kitchen Table

The smell of takeout filled the room—faint lemongrass and heat, steamed rice mingling with fresh basil and chili. The food had arrived twenty minutes ago, and the conversation between then and now had been… light. Measured.

They talked about the restaurant—how Tim had forgotten they gave free mango sticky rice with every two entrées. Rachel had quirked a smile at that. Not a grin. Just the edge of something real.

But mostly, they ate.

Forks moved across plates.

Spoons scraped bowls.

Cups clinked softly against the wood.

And in between?

That silence again.

But this time, it didn’t carry grief or tension.

It felt… new.

Undecorated.

Honest.

Rachel sat with one leg tucked under the other, plate half-finished in front of her, chopsticks resting on the rim of her container. Her sweatshirt sleeves were pushed to the elbows, fingers absently curling against her cup of water.

She’d been quiet for the last few minutes—not guarded, but thoughtful. Her gaze flicked to him now and then, like she was trying to measure something inside herself before she spoke.

Tim had noticed.

He’d noticed everything.

The way she set the second plate without asking.

The way she left the door unlocked when she knew he was coming.

The way her shoulders weren’t tight like they usually were, even if her jaw still held tension.

And so when he spoke, it wasn’t to fill the silence.

It was to acknowledge it.

“You ever done this before?” he asked, voice low, easy.

Rachel blinked. “What?”

He set his chopsticks down, careful. “Let someone in like this. After… everything.”

She didn’t answer right away.

But she didn’t shut down either.

Her fingers tapped lightly against her cup.

Then: “No.”

Just that.

A breath.

Honest.

Then she added, voice softer now, “Not like this. Not with someone who wasn’t already inside before the worst of it happened.”

Tim nodded, accepting that without flinching.

“Jake,” he said—not asking. Not prying. Just acknowledging what was already in the room.

Rachel looked down at her plate, quiet.

Then, after a long pause: “He didn’t have to get through the walls. He was already there. I didn’t even realize how much until he was gone.”

She looked up at Tim, her expression unreadable—but not cold.

“But you…” Her voice wavered, just slightly. “You saw the wreckage first. And still came in.”

Tim met her gaze, calm and steady. “You didn’t make it easy.”

“I wasn’t supposed to,” she said, a whisper of dry humor in it. “I built the walls for a reason.”

“I know,” he said. “But I wasn’t trying to tear them down.”

Rachel blinked. “No?”

“I just kept showing up,” he said. “Figured if you wanted to let someone in, you’d open the door when you were ready.”

She looked at him for a long time.

And then—quietly—nodded.

“That’s why I texted you.”

Tim gave a soft half-smile. “I know.”

Neither of them said more for a moment.

And it wasn’t uncomfortable.

It was settled.

Rachel reached for the sticky rice, peeled back the lid, and wordlessly pushed the container toward him.

Tim picked up his spoon, let it brush hers.

And they passed the next few minutes in the simplest way two people could:

Sharing something sweet.

Something new.

Something just beginning.

Sunday – 7:13 P.M. – Rachel’s Apartment, Living Room

The takeout containers were gone, stacked neatly in the trash. Dishes rinsed and left to dry. The lights were dimmed now, just one lamp casting a soft, amber glow across the room. The kind of lighting that made silence feel warm instead of lonely.

Rachel sat at one end of the couch, legs pulled up loosely beneath her, a soft gray throw blanket over her knees. She was still in her sweatshirt and leggings, hair tucked behind one ear. Her posture was relaxed, but not unguarded.

Tim sat a cushion away, his body turned slightly toward her. He wasn’t leaning in. He wasn’t taking up space. Just there. Comfortable in the quiet.

Between them, on the coffee table, two fresh mugs of tea.

It was the kind of scene Rachel never let herself live in. Too quiet. Too safe. Too intimate.

But tonight?

She let it happen.

They talked.

Not in long, deep confessions—but in steady, simple reveals. Like peeling layers slowly, without urgency.

“I used to paint,” Rachel said, somewhere between conversation and memory.

Tim looked over. “Yeah?”

She nodded. “Back in college. I never had a steady hand for detail, but I loved big canvases. Messy. Unstructured. I haven’t touched a brush in years.”

“Why’d you stop?”

She gave a small, wry smile. “I think I thought if I gave it up, I’d stop missing it. Didn’t work.”

He didn’t press.

“I thought about it last week,” she admitted. “Just… getting something out. I think it scared me.”

Tim took a sip of his tea. “Not everything we give up stays gone. Some things just wait.”

Rachel glanced over at him, eyes soft but unsure.

“You say things like that,” she murmured, “and I forget you’re the guy who used to bark at rookies for parking two inches too close to fire hydrants.”

Tim smiled, faint but genuine. “Still do.”

That got a quiet laugh from her. Small. But real.

And then—

“What about you?” she asked. “What did you give up?”

Tim was quiet for a moment.

Then: “Control.”

She looked at him, surprised.

He nodded, eyes fixed on the tea in his hands. “I used to think I had to have everything locked down. The job. The plan. The future. I thought if I controlled all the pieces, I couldn’t be blindsided again.”

“Did it work?”

“No,” he said, voice low. “Not even close.”

Rachel exhaled softly. “Still trying to find the pieces?”

“Still trying to figure out if I even want them back.”

They fell into silence again—but this time, it wasn’t searching.

It was settled.

Rachel reached for her tea. Took a sip. Held it close.

Tim stayed where he was.

Not touching her.

Not pushing.

But closer than he had been.

And she didn’t move away.

Didn’t reset the space.

Didn’t pull the blanket tighter or shift the balance between them.

She just sat there.

Beside him.

Breathing.

Present.

And when their eyes met again across the space that no longer felt like distance—

Rachel gave the faintest nod.

Like this—this careful closeness—was okay.

For now.

And Tim?

He nodded back.

No words needed.

They just sat like that, quiet and warm in the low light—

Two people who didn’t need to be held,

Only understood.

Tag List: @immastealurkneecaps, @maybefanficting, @kmc1989, @fuckingsimp4azriel

Want to be a part of this tag list or others? Message me here!

[itsdappleagain]

48 for the spotify wrapped

48: My Dead Gay Son from Heathers the Musical

oh boy. this one might be a wild ride. highly recommend you listen to the whole song if you're unfamiliar.

here is a recording of the stage production with...erm...visuals and here is the cast recording with better audio!

They're up there disco dancing to the thump of angel wings! They grab a mate… And roller skate— While Judy Garland sings! They live a playful afterlife that's fancy-free and reckless! They swing upon the pearly gates— And wear a pearly necklace!

summary: jean paul and antonio fake their own deaths in order to escape the dangerous life VILE has put them on and must secretly watch their own "funeral" in order to make sure no one suspects they are still alive.

---

It starts with a note, slipped furtively into the hand of Carmen Sandiego in a fight both of them know is going too easily. Le Chevre holds her gaze and immediately makes good on his whispered promise to to leave right then and there without a fight, telling the Faculty she defeated him as always.

The note she opens says this:

Antonio and I need your help. We are defecting from VILE- we want to start a future together, but we don't have anywhere to go. We are afraid they will find us...you know what they would do if they found out. You are the only one to have ever left VILE and lived to see another day. Please help us. We know you don't have any reason to, so all we can do is beg. Antonio and Jean Paul

Carmen, of course, helps them. It is her nature. Together, secretly, the three begin to plan the deaths of Le Chevre and El Topo.

Tigress is the unwitting unlucky winner of the "who gets to witness their death" contest. Once everything is set in place and Antonio, Jean Paul, and Tigress are scheduled on the same mission again, Carmen makes arrangements for them and the plan goes into motion.

At 11:44pm Tigress sends the duo into their empty target building to scout it out. At 11:49 the building blows up in a ball of fire and ash and shrapnel, and Tigress must flee before the police arrive, streaked with soot and, against her will, crying.

She is the first one to see the news report that the police found the charred remains of two unidentified bodies in the wreckage of the building. She is the first to alert the faculty, and the one to begin arrangements for El Topo and Le Chevre's memorial.

Back in San Diego, Carmen sits with Antonio and Jean Paul, the air heavy as they watch the news report apparently announcing their own deaths.

"Tigress will be devastated." Antonio murmurs, eyes fixed on the circling overhead shot of the blackened building they'd snuck out of before Carmen had detonated the explosives. "She acts cold, but she will blame herself."

"It will make it all the more convincing." Carmen sighs, tracing her jaw with her fingers in contemplation. "If she knew..."

"Better that she does not." Jean Paul finishes, his hand squeezing Antonio's as they lean on one another. With Player messing with the police reports to make it seem as though their bodies had been found in the explosion, they are effectively invisible. Dead. Wiped off the map, and free to start their new lives together however they wanted.

Almost.

"I'm pulling up video and audio feed now." Player chimes from the base's speaker systems. "Good thing that I have the experience now to hack through VILE's 27 layers of encryption. Where did you set up those hidden cameras?"

"Where VILE always holds its memorials." Carmen says solemnly, her eyes just barely betraying a history of seeing more there than she cares now to admit. Her eyes flick to the two former operatives in her living room and they nod.

"The great hall. Last step," Jean Paul sighs, "see if they bought it."

The video feed flickers to life on their monitors- grainy and half-hidden where the two secretly set it up on VILE Island before their final mission. Everyone leans in, squinting as the fuzziness works itself out a little bit. The camera is hardly a centimeter in diameter, and, considering that, it is doing its best.

There, gathered in the grand hall, is a small crowd of operatives and the Faculty, gathered around the small table displaying their operative ID photos. Tigress, clearly wiping her eyes and trying not to show it, has just laid down a small bouquet by their photos.

Zack emerges from the kitchen and leans over the couch to where they're watching. Ivy hangs slightly behind, still suspicious of Antonio and Jean Paul. Zack whistles, oblivious to the tone in the room. "Too bad we can't have this camera on all the time. We shoulda got a man on the inside sooner!"

"Every minute that camera stays on in there is another minute it risks being discovered." Player explains briefly, his eyes still fixed on the feed on his own screen. "It'll self-destruct as soon as the ceremony is over, when I tell it to. We just need to confirm that El Topo and Le Chevre truly are dead to VILE and then we're out."

Zack hums noncommittally, attention drawn to the camera screen. Carmen's eyes are on the Faculty, watching for a sign of suspicion.

It's a second before Tigress's voice filters through their speakers. She stands at the front of the crowd, head bowed and fists clenched.

"Le Chevre and El Topo were part of my graduating class," she begins, a very un-Tigress-like hitch in her throat. "We spent the entire year training together and while- while we had our ups and downs they were some of my first friends here. There's something unbreakable about entering this life together. The two of them knew that better than anyone. I don't believe in any- any anything, really, but I hope that wherever they are now they're together, and-and that they're happy. You were some of the best, and I'm sorry that it wasn't me in that building instead of you. Rest well."

She finishes so quietly the camera's microphone almost doesn't pick it up, and she quickly wipes her eyes again and retreats back into the small crowd of operatives as they scatter some applause into the otherwise silent room.

When Carmen glances over at the two boys, they aren't making any effort to hide their own tears.

"Do you want to leave?" She asks quietly. "I can finish watching it. This might just get harder."

They both shake their heads. On the screen, Mime Bomb steps forward and mimes a flower, placing it on the table with little of his usual theatrics and retreats as well.

"They look convinced so far," Jean Paul says quietly.

Maelstrom is the first of the faculty to speak once the other operatives have finished paying their respects, and Team Red's base goes silent as he moves.

"While I don't want to spoil the evening-" he begins, and in unison Carmen, Jean Paul, Antonio, and Shadowsan (in the other room but listening in) mutter "here we go," all traces of mourning vanishing.

"-I think it must be acknowledged that El Topo and Le Chevre were two operatives whose passion was more often in each other than in their thieving work." Antonio and Jean Paul share a glance as the professor goes on with just the barest touch of disdain. "I would never stoop to say I celebrate their loss- we have lost two fine operatives in their deaths- but I must agree that I hope they are finding their lives after death more suited to the life they wished to live together."

"Cheers, Professor, we are." Antonio laughs wryly. Jean Paul isn't taking it as well, and his fists are clenched in his lap as he stares daggers at Maelstrom.

And then, suddenly-

"Now, you wait just a minute, Gunnar!"

The gasp in the VILE congregation is echoed across the world in San Diego as the group watches Dr. Bellum shoves her way forward, finger pointed directly at Maelstrom.

"You're skirting around your own prejudices, and I'm sick and tired of it. They were not dirty!" There's a glass of some drink in her hand, which seems to have given her a little courage. "They were not wrong!"

"I never said they were, Doctor, please-" Maelstrom hisses, bending with embarrassment towards his fellow faculty member. All five feet of her shoves him backwards and he stumbles, shocked.

"You have made your steady intolerance a part of our Academy's atmosphere for far too long, Gunnar!" Her voice climbs pitches like a roller coaster. "You're too afraid to say that those boys were-" she takes another sip of whatever she's drinking, "-gay as hell!"

"Doctor!" Maelstrom pleads, but Bellum is on a roll now, and the other two Faculty behind her seem to be finding this just as entertaining as Team Red is. Cleo, in particular, is red in the face and biting her lip in a way the three ex-operatives in the room have never seen before.

"Oh my God." Jean Paul stares in disbelief, all traces of anger gone as Antonio wheezes beside him. "This is going to be incredible."

"Those boys died as they lived- together! And I for one want to follow their example. I'd rather- rather live in happiness now than have to stay half hidden like they did here. Now they're up there- dancing to "disco" music and wearing beautiful necklaces like they never could have done while they were alive here!"

Maelstrom is melting into the floor as he tries and fails to do any sort of damage control, and before he can even open his mouth again, Bellum shouts, "We must carry on their legacy in VILE as we continue our work! It should never have taken their deaths to see it!"

With that, she turns, takes the hand of Countess Cleo, and sweeps her into the deepest, most passionate kiss the academy has ever seen. Antonio, in the middle of a sip of water, shoots it out of his nose.

"Shadowsan, get in here!" Carmen shrieks, cackling, as their room erupts into whoops and cheers. Shadowsan enters, sees what's happening, and has to leave again immediately to save face. In the periphery of their hidden camera, the chaos amongst the gathered operatives seems to be an even worse mixture of hilarity and horror. Tigress seems to have passed out cold onto the floor, and Cleo and Bellum are still going.

"Doctor! Countess!" They barely hear Maelstrom shriek over Brunt's roaring laughter. Zack, Ivy, and Player are in hysterics, which is a level more chill than whatever Carmen, Jean Paul, and Antonio are experiencing. Shadowsan isn't even in the room.

"If I got to witness my own funeral, I'm glad this is how it went," Antonio gasps in between howls of laughter as they watch Cleo and Bellum barely surface for air before they go back in, crashing into their memorial table and sending the two's pictures to the ground. Maelstrom has fled the great hall in a fit, and Brunt is literally crying. Someone gasps "disco!" in between laughs behind them. "Look at all the good our death did!"

"Our legacy will be felt around the academy for decades, mon amour!" Jean Paul wheezes in return, planting his own kiss on Antonio's lips. "I think we are in the clear!"

"What was in that drink, Saira?" Cleo gasps on the screen, voice husky, as they come up for air.

"It's plain Pepsi." Bellum responds, and the last thing they see before the camera self-destructs is the two Faculty members going in one more time as the Academy dissolves before their very eyes.

[doeeyeseddie]

Hii :) if I'm not too late for the soft prompts, I would love some buddie + "I missed you"

hello! sorry it took me over a month to write this but i hope you see and like it <3

[read on ao3]

Buck is pacing. He knows it’s stupid, knows it doesn’t make the minutes pass faster, but he braved the hellish drive to LAX and now he doesn’t have the patience to just stand here and stare at the board displaying the arrivals, waiting for the flight from ELP to switch from “On Approach” to “Arrived”.

He stops when it finally does, but then immediately starts pacing again. Eddie only traveled with hand luggage, but it’s still gonna be ages until he’s off the plane and stepping through the gates.

He’s glad no one here knows that it’s only been three days since he last saw Eddie, they’d probably call them co-dependent. But what they also don’t know is that Eddie kissed Buck for the first time right before he left for El Paso, and that Buck has been absolutely aching to do it again since then.

Three days of only seeing Eddie’s face through the screen of his phone, three days of holding back all of the questions he still has. It kind of feels like he should ask them in person, and anyway, it wasn’t the right time. Eddie flew out to help his parents after his mom had to undergo a minor operation, just for three days until Adriana could take over, so he had plenty of other things to think about. Buck, meanwhile, took care of Christopher and slept in Eddie’s bed every night, which did not help with the thoughts swirling through his head or the buzzing of his nerves.

And now he’s only minutes away from seeing Eddie in person, from being able to touch him, from maybe finally getting answers, and he doesn’t know what to do with himself.

So he paces.

With one eye constantly on the sliding doors, he walks back and forth, feeling jittery all over.

And yet, the second Eddie actually, finally steps through the doors, Buck is rooted to the spot.

He’s wearing jeans – of course he is, he says sweatpants are for the gym or for sleeping and rarely even wears them around the house – and a soft sweater, sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He’s carrying his duffle bag and his forearms look, frankly, indecent. His soft, product-less hair looks like it’s just waiting for Buck to run his hands through it, and he aches. But he can’t quite bring himself to move.

Three days ago, they were standing not far from here, Eddie with that same duffle bag and Buck tagging along all the way into the airport, even though there wasn’t really a reason to.

“You didn’t even remind me to call you if I have any questions,” Buck said, and Eddie shook his head with a smile.

“You know that anyway, Buck.”

“Yeah, but I know the lists you still write for Christopher’s sleepovers—”

“The same way you know all of mine and Chris’ routines,” Eddie interrupted him gently, and Buck felt himself flush. “Buck, I trust you. I know you don’t need any lists or instructions. You’ve done this before, even when there was no way to call me.”

“Maybe, but Carla was there to help,” Buck insisted, even though he’d rather not talk or even think about anything related to Eddie being shot.

“Buck,” Eddie said again, and reached up to squeeze Buck’s shoulder. His thumb brushed the bare skin of Buck’s throat, and Buck swallowed hard. “I’m not worried. You two will be fine.”

“We’ll still miss you,” Buck blurted out, and Eddie’s eyes got even softer.

“I’ll miss you too,” he murmured, and then he leaned in and kissed Buck.

It lasted only a couple of seconds and Eddie jerked back, wide-eyed. Buck opened his mouth to say…something, or maybe to beg Eddie to do it again, but he was interrupted by an announcement from the overhead speakers telling them that Eddie’s flight had started boarding.

“You’re not even through security yet,” he said instead of any of the other things he wanted to say, and Eddie blinked, his hand dropping from Buck’s shoulder.

“Shit, yeah, I–” He licked his lips. “Sorry, I– I have to go, but– we’ll talk when I get back?”

“Yeah,” Buck nodded. Somehow, at some point, his hands had made their way to Eddie’s waist, and he dropped them now. “Uh, safe flight, text– text me when you land?”

“Promise,” Eddie said over his shoulder, already a few steps away, and then he disappeared in the mass of people queuing for security.

Buck touched his lips almost absently. What the fuck had just happened?

Eddie’s walking towards him slowly, measuredly, and he’s smiling, but it looks a little bit nervous. Something about that makes Buck feel better, kind of.

“Hey,” Eddie says quietly when he reaches him, and Buck just throws his arms around him in a hug that’s probably too tight, especially considering that it’s only been three days.

But Eddie’s duffle drops to the ground by their feet with a thud and he hugs him back just as tightly, so maybe it doesn’t matter at all.

“Eddie,” Buck breathes, and they just stand there for way too long, holding each other.

“I missed you,” Eddie says eventually, his breath warm against the side of Buck’s neck, and Buck tries not to shiver.

“I missed you too,” he whispers, and Eddie laughs a little.

“It’s only been three days.”

“Yeah, but,” Buck loosens his hold a little and takes half a step back, just enough to look at Eddie. “Eddie, you– you kissed me and then you said we’d talk when you got back and for three days I couldn’t tell you– I had to wonder if it was a mistake–”

“It wasn’t a mistake,” Eddie interrupts him. “An accident, maybe, because the timing was fucking terrible, but. Not a mistake.”

Buck laughs, because he doesn’t know how else to deal with the amount of feelings rushing through him, and tentatively, the corners of Eddie’s mouth lift too until his adorable dimple appears, and Buck reaches out to touch it, then cups Eddie’s cheek, rosy now.

“For three days, I– I wanted to tell you that what I really wanted to say after you kissed me was,” he hesitates only for a second, the sparkle in Eddie’s eyes telling him everything he needs to know, “Can you please do that again?”

Eddie laughs, but he presses his cheek into Buck’s palm a little harder and pulls him in by the waist.

“I would’ve,” he confesses, and his nose nudges Buck’s.

“Many times,” Buck murmurs. “So many times, Eddie.”

“No objection from me.” Eddie’s lips are soft against Buck’s cheek, his chin, the corner of his mouth. “I’m happy to do this for the rest of my life.”

And when he kisses Buck, he knows that he means it.

[amenders93]

The Gang Go In

Molly didn't know that Ginger, all her chicken aunts and grandpa, and her two favorite rodent uncles were just outside the farm. And now the rescue gang had made an incredibly clever plan to blast their way inside and get her home safe and sound. After much discussion, a few arguments, a lot of equipment being packed and even the baking of a large, iced cake, the gang was finally ready. Our Wing Leader Ginger announces to her group that it's go time; dimwitted Wool Specialist Babs makes a comic reply that to relieve Ginger that she went before they left. Not that kind of 'go', Babs 🤣.

Phase 1 of the plan contained the element of surprise 😲. Ginger, Mac, Bunty and Babs hid behind the bushes and placed the iced cake on top of a clockwork trolley. The trolley was sent trundling up to the entrance gate. A patrolling guard noticed the trolley with the cake coming towards the gate and came up for a closer look. After the guard took one taste of the cake and blew out the candle, Ginger burst out the cake and handcuffed the guard to a bundle of fireworks. You heard of the Trojan Horse 🐴. Here's a Trojan Cake 🎂. The guard was dragged by the fireworks into the wooded area and slammed into a tree. Bunty cut the chain from the guard's wrist and the fireworks flew up into the air, exploding into a beautiful colorful display. The fireworks distracted another guard inside the facility who was in charge of the security cameras and screens.

Phase 2 of the operation was taking place overhead - the aerial invasion 🎈☁️. This was one of Fowler's specialties from his RAF days. After all, Fowler was the one who piloted the flying machine during the chickens' dramatic escape from Tweedy's Farm. Now he was flying something different - a balloon covered in cotton wool, disguised as a cloud. Fowler, Nick and Fetcher pedaled the balloon-cloud madly over the electric fence. As they floated along, they unwound a fishing line that they had attached to a tree outside. The crack team of cloud-pedallers landed on a security camera and Nick got out a Polaroid camera, taking a picture of the wooded area. It instantly printed out and Fetcher placed it in front of the camera lens. Now when the guard looked at the security screen, everything would look completely normal. The only problem was Fetcher had the photo the wrong way round. The guard stared at the screen in amazement and tapped it. Nick pointed out to Fetcher about the photo being upside down; Fetcher moved fast and turned it the right way up. The guard was happy again.

Ginger watched the whole thing down below. As soon as the picture was mounted, she signaled to the rest of the gang and they all rushed to the electric fence. Bunty pushed a rubber ring under the fence and pumped it up, opening up a chicken-sized gap. Ginger rushed them all through. She was the last one to dive under, then she punctured the ring to cover their tracks.

Next was Phase 3 - the underwater mission to cross the moat without being detected 🌊. The girls pulled on their scuba gear and did what the proper divers do - fall backwards into the water. Babs, however, didn't get it quite right. She fell backwards but in the wrong direction, landing on the bank instead 🤦‍♀️. A guard came past and almost spotted her, but the other chickens pulled Babs under the water in the nick of time. Together the girls swam underwater, avoiding the exploding robot ducks with laser eyes. Once out of the water on the other side of the moat, Mac and Bunty threw a grappling hook made from a coat hanger over a wall. Attached to the hook was a pair of elastic trouser braces. The chickens stretched the braces as far as they could and used them as a catapult to fling each of them over the wall. Everyone landed safely inside and hid behind a pillar. At the doorway, a guard was using the eye scanner to enter the building. Ginger watched him go inside, then led the way, skillfully parkouring to the doorway. The gang followed her, as stealthily as they could, across the courtyard.

Now Nick and Fetcher needed to take a photo for the eye scanner. They grabbed the camera and jumped out of the balloon, using an open umbrella as a parachute. They made a graceful landing right on the ground. Nick commented that it was a perfect landing, right on the button. On hearing the word "button", a confused Fetcher obediently pushed the umbrella button which snapped the umbrella shut on them both. The two blind rats stumbled around the courtyard, trying to get the closed umbrella off. Behind them a mechanical slot opened up and sucked the rats inside, just like what happened to Rocky the night before, leaving the camera on the ground in plain sight. Looks like the plan will have to be improvised.

Along came Mac and Ginger, their backs pressed against the wall. Mac saw the camera lying on the ground. Ginger dashed into the open courtyard and grabbed the camera just before a guard came around a corner. This was Ginger's chance! She hid in the shadows and whistled as the guard passed her. The guard stopped and peered into the darkness. Ginger took a flash picture of the guard's staring eyes, almost blinding him with the light and leaving him stumbling around. Ginger ran to the door and gave the photo to Mac. Mac fixed the photo to the end of an extendable tape measure and hoisted it up the reach the eye scanner.

Inside, the door guard looked at the eye picture through the scanner and checked it against her file labelled Staff Eye Pad. When she found the particular guard with the correct retina, she satisfyingly press a button to release the door and the chicken gang rushed in, too short for the camera to spot. The door guard looked puzzled; where was the guard? She went to the door and looked outside. Behind her, the gang sneaked through and hid behind as many cleaning supplies as they could carry. Finally, they had made it inside! 😄

Only Fowler was still outside. After Nick and Fetcher had floated down on the umbrella, the old sausage had continued to drift along in the cloud-balloon talking to himself. The balloon knocked against the mast where Fowler then attached it and landed. Our elderly rooster comments how this was a textbook landing. He steps onto the roof and spotting a nearby snail, settles down for a nice chat. Here we go again. More RAF stories from our favorite retired leading rooster 😒. What he doesn't see is that snail is trying to inch away from him while he goes on rambling 🐌.

[armgaragedoorsanfranciscoca]

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[tieflingkisser]

‘Deliberate massacre’ in Gaza as starving Palestinians seek Israeli-US aid

from the article:

In punishing midday heat on Tuesday, thousands of Palestinians clambered over fences and pushed through packed crowds to reach life-saving supplies brought by the Gaza Humanitarian Foundation (GHF), a controversial group brought in for the delivery of aid to Palestinians in the enclave.

With the buzz of military helicopters overhead, Israeli military gunfire rattled in the background as desperate crowds, including women and children, in southern Gaza’s Rafah area struggled to reach the food distribution point on its first day of operation.

At least three people died, nearly 50 injured, and several others went missing in the ensuing stampede, officials in Gaza said, with the incident coming amid widespread hunger and relentless bombing of Palestinian civilians, including children.

“The occupation forces, positioned in or around those areas, opened live fire on starving civilians who were lured to these locations under the pretence of receiving aid,” Gaza’s Government Media Office said in a statement, adding that the incident “provides undeniable evidence of the Israeli occupation’s total failure in managing the humanitarian catastrophe it has deliberately created”.

“What happened today in Rafah is a deliberate massacre and a full-fledged war crime, committed in cold blood against civilians weakened by over 90 days of siege-induced starvation.”

[...]

The aid by GHF, a foundation backed by the US and endorsed by Israel, arrived in Gaza despite allegations that the new group did not have the experience or capacity to bring relief to more than two million Palestinians in Gaza.

The United Nations and aid groups say the organisation does not abide by humanitarian principles and could serve to further displace people from their homes as Palestinians move to receive aid from a limited number of distribution sites.

[...]

“This is not how aid is done,” Ahmed Bayram, spokesperson for the Norwegian Refugee Council, told Al Jazeera, describing the scene in Rafah as the “inevitable consequence of a reckless and inhumane plan”.

“These are the scenes we have literally been warning about all month now. It spread chaos. It spread confusion. And this is the result,” he said.

“I think the best thing that can be done now is for this plan to be cancelled, to be reversed and for us professional humanitarians in the UN and NGOs to do our job. There are tonnes and tonnes of aid waiting across the border. [It’s a] very simple decision: open the gates and keep them open.”

[adrienneecross]

The Crossfire

She hadn’t even finished her lukewarm oat latte when a flying Avenger buzzed overhead and bypassed the TSA line at LaGuardia like it was a minor inconvenience—because for him, it was. And while the rest of the terminal collectively groaned and shuffled their boots off for screening, Adrienne Cross did what she always did when the world handed her hypocrisy on a silver platter: she opened her laptop.

Welcome back to The Crossfire.

Title: “Just Because You Can Fly Doesn’t Mean You Should Skip Security Lines”

Because when gods walk among us, someone still has to ask why they think the rules don’t apply.

Op-Ed: Just Because You Can Fly Doesn’t Mean You Should Skip Security Lines

Posted by Adrienne Cross

Let me set the scene. It’s 6:43 a.m., I’m running on three hours of sleep and half a protein bar, and the TSA agent has just confiscated my dry shampoo like it’s a homemade explosive. There’s a toddler screaming in stereo, someone behind me is arguing with a bin, and I’ve accepted that I may never see my laptop again.

Then—cue the dramatic wind gust—he arrives. Long blond hair, space cloak billowing like Beyoncé’s wind machine is on standby, and a hammer that definitely isn’t regulation carry-on.

Thor.

Yes, that Thor. God of Thunder, part-time Avenger, full-time walking exception to every rule the rest of us mere mortals are expected to follow. While the rest of us are untying our boots and praying our coffee doesn’t leak through our tote bags, he descends from the sky like it’s his birthright (it is), salutes someone vaguely official-looking, and struts through a private gate with the kind of confidence normally reserved for runway models and men who’ve never been told “no.”

Did he go through a metal detector? No. Did anyone pat down the literal god carrying a war hammer? Also no. Did I consider launching my now-useless dry shampoo at him? Briefly.

Also? Let’s just address the lightning-infused elephant in the room: why was he even at LaGuardia? He can literally fly. Not on a plane. Not in a plane. He is the plane. I mean, did Mjolnir break? Did the Bifrost call in sick? Was the air traffic too emotionally turbulent for the God of Thunder this morning?

Maybe he just wanted to remind us all that even when he’s slumming it with the commoners, he’s still not actually one of us. Which is cute, in the way that seeing your ex on a dating app with a verified checkmark is cute—deeply upsetting but ultimately unsurprising.

Look, I get it. He’s a god. He’s saved the world. Probably more than once. And sure, if I had a penny for every alien warlord he’s obliterated with dramatic flair and impeccable cheekbones, I’d have enough to afford the $14 airport latte I didn’t get to drink because someone summoned a wind tunnel through Terminal B.

But here’s the thing…. we’re living in a world where the extraordinary walk among us, and nobody seems to be asking what that actually means for the rest of us. We’ve got supers in boardrooms, enhanced beings running political campaigns, and literal gods bypassing basic airport protocol like they’re above it all. Because, apparently, they are.

And that’s what this is about. Not just Thor—and trust me, I’m thrilled he graced us with his leather-clad presence—but about the quiet normalization of exceptionalism. When the rules only apply to some, they stop being rules and start being suggestions. Suggestions that people like you and me can’t afford to ignore, but people like him never even have to hear.

So no, I don’t care if you can summon lightning or reverse time or shoot lasers out of your face—if you want to operate in public spaces, you should be held to public standards. Because if gods don’t answer to anyone, sooner or later, we’ll all forget they’re supposed to.

So until Thor starts carrying a boarding pass like the rest of us, I’ll keep asking the question no one seems brave—or petty—enough to ask:

If you’re really a hero, why are you so afraid of waiting in line?

— A. Cross

[runwayrunway]

A New England Planespotter In...England (And Scotland)

So I've just gotten back from two weeks in London, almost directly beneath one of the arrival paths to Heathrow. One weird thing about being in London was that...my home airport, Logan, is big, sure, lots of international flights, but it's weird in that it's only a hub for three airlines, one of which is domestic. Being sandwiched between NYC and Newark does that to a place. So we get a pretty small selection of airlines here, all things considered.

Heathrow? Literally while taxiing from the runway to the gate I saw us go past an Air Mauritius and a Royal Brunei Airlines plane (and I didn't have my camera out to take a picture!). On the way out on my way home I saw a RwandAir plane (and it was at an angle behind me where I couldn't get a picture of it either!). I saw multiple A380s a day from British Airways and Singapore Airlines, and even a 747 flying for Korean Air Cargo went overhead! (747s never fly to Logan.) I saw THAI, Air India, TAROM, Air Serbia, and the full complement of gulf carriers - which I expected - and China Southern Airlines, which I somehow didn't.

Hey, wait, is that tailfin...

There she is! (I was so happy to see her that I think I startled the person sitting next to me.)

There were of course the usual faces as well - Delta, American Airlines, and even JetBlue now flies to London. I didn't see any full-size FedEx planes, but I did see a FedEx Feeder ATR 72 (at least I think it's a 72) at Edinburgh Airport.

(she was quite far away and the image is inevitably very crunchy)

A few other cargo airlines more typical of Europe were parked nearby her - DHL, Maersk Air Cargo (in the old Star Air livery), West Atlantic, and whoever that is at the end - the livery feels so familiar, actually, but there's no wordmark and half of me thinks it's a wet lease that hasn't been painted. If anyone remembers what's on the tip of my tongue, please do tell me.

While entirely expected, I also enjoyed seeing little Loganair ERJs around in Edinburgh. They're so short! I was arriving in an A320 and even then I had to wait until I was on the ground to take a decent picture that wasn't half cut off by the plane I was actually in.

I don't know enough about Loganair's routes to know what they actually fly to Edinburgh, but a tiny part of me was sad I didn't see any of their littler prop planes. I have a huge soft spot for the Britten-Norman Islander, the first prop plane I ever got to fly on, which Loganair operates two of. Among their uses in the fleet is operating the shortest scheduled route in the world, which lasts around a minute and is about as long as the runway I landed on when I took all those pictures. I won't pretend it's not on my bucket list. (To be fair, I am also legitimately interested in the archaeological sites on Papa Westray...just maybe not interested enough to take a longer flight to see them.)

These aren't all the airlines I saw, but the rest I'm saving for other days and other posts. Still, there is one more type of airplane I saw which I think I have never actually seen in Massachusetts. When I was at Edinburgh I heard this bizarre loud thing that sounded like nothing I'd ever heard before and looked up and saw what I thought was a C-130. Then I realized it was actually an A400M with its weird scimitar propellers. As far as I'm aware this is the first airlift plane I've seen in person that wasn't a static display and it's definitely the first plane I've seen that sounds like that. I also got to see my first ever helicopter that wasn't a tiny little general aviation thing in the form of a Chinook going right over my head at...really not that high, but it didn't have its transponder on so I couldn't tell you more exactly. Is that a thing in London? Airplane-sized military helicopters at low heights over populated areas with their transponders off? I don't remember ever seeing that before but I suppose it has been a while. It was very, very strange.

And that's a non-exhaustive list of the things you just don't get to see in Boston! I will definitely talk about some of these airlines in full someday, but some of them I probably won't. I at least had a lot of fun pointing at airplanes and going "wow...".

[hereforthefanficsandromance]

Til the Cals Come Home (Mini Series) Chapter III: Semen

Read on AO3 Read on Blogger Read on Tumblr Master List: Mini Series

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Summary

You finally speak with the other cows.

Rating: 18+ Words: 3.4K

Trigger Warnings:  Dead Dove: Don't Eat, Non-Con, Drugging, Lactation, Hucow, Kidnapping, Physical Violence, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse, Beating, Abuse

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The guilt gnaws at you as you lie in your stall, waiting for your breakfast. You feel dirty, used, and disgusted at having enjoyed the milking; something must be horribly wrong with you. 

After a few minutes, a four-armed Latero man approaches your stall. He watches you, a frown on his face, before kneeling to push a metal tray under the stall door. He says nothing, but shakes his head as he walks away. 

You approach the gift, a bowl sits atop, filled with a white liquid, milk. You’re disgusted but starving, eagerly picking up and slurping from the edge of the bowl. It’s more filling than you expected, leaving you quite full and drowsy. 

You assume there are additives to the milk to sustain your nutritional needs. Sleepiness overtakes you, and you move to the piled hay to nap for an hour. 

You wake to Cal placing a rope around your neck, smiling at you. You don’t question it, instead climbing to your hands and knees and following him down the hall to an indoor pasture. Grow lights sit overhead, imitating the brightness of the sun, and nurturing the soft grass growing beneath. 

Cal unties you and shuts the gate behind him, leaving you alone in the decent sized field. It’s hard to believe this entire operation runs so easily in the belly of a yacht. There’s room for probably ten more women between the availability of stalls and milking accommodations. 

You crawl towards the center of the field, basking under the warmth of the lamps, enjoying the contrast of the stall’s cold metal. As you lay back in the grass, you hear footsteps approaching. Cal is walking behind the two other women you saw earlier. 

They crawl obediently, no rope attached to their necks, towards the pasture, avoiding your gaze. Cal opens the gate and they pass through before he closes it again and leaves. Your pulse quickens at the prospect of speaking with the women. Hopeful that they will work with you to escape this strange fate. 

You crawl towards them as they find a spot in the pasture, staying together. “Hey, I’m guessing you don’t want to be here anymore than me.” 

They ignore you, but you don’t give up, hoping they didn’t hear you. “Maybe we can help each other out.” 

The darker skinned woman looks at you and shakes her head, turning to follow the gray-skinned woman. You try to remember what race has gray skin and intricate tattoos, but it alludes you. Both women disregard your efforts, moving further from you. 

“No wait, please, I’m sorry.” They don’t acknowledge you, and desperation causes your voice to break. “Don’t go.” 

They keep their distance for the rest of the day. Every time you move near them, they move further away. It’s heartbreaking and you feel so incredibly alone, leaving you lying in the grass, missing the kindness of your friends at home. 

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Days pass slow and steady as you move through the motions without question. The women are frigid to you, refusing to engage with each nicety you offer, leaving you longing for your time with Cal. He is warm, always smiling and happy to see you. It makes you feel special, almost loved. 

Each day, he milks you, allowing you to pleasure yourself while he touches you gently, offering words of encouragement. Telling you how pretty you are, how good you are when he milks you, always making such a mess on your thighs. 

He still milks you separate from the other women, saying he’ll stop once you fully acclimate, but he’ll miss the time alone together. You aren’t sure what he means by “acclimate” but you assume it’s when the herd accepts you. He’s good to you, but something eats at your insides, a feeling of disgust and repulsion. 

You miss your freedom, when happiness was plentiful and not only found in the precious moments of one person. You hate that the other women won’t accept you, won’t support you with this terrible transition. At least Cal is kind and generous with his affection, making up for the missing safety of friends. 

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Days pass uneventfully and during pasture time, the women rest near you; easily within speaking distance, but you don’t push it. Cal enters the pasture, approaching the herd, leaving the gate open, a symbol of his trust. “Making friends?” 

He kneels, placing an affectionate hand on the tattooed woman’s back, and she flinches, causing you to furrow your eyebrows. “Glad to see it.” 

He shoots you a familiar and charming smile, easing your concern. “I’ve had these girls for a while now. I hope they’ve been showing you the ropes.” 

His hand strokes along her spine, almost looking lovesick. She grimaces, and he ignores her distaste of being touched until she pulls away entirely. Cal’s smile drops; a stern look on his face, turning quick to look at her. She drops her head, no longer resisting his touch. 

“Don’t be like that. There was a time you loved me.” 

There is an obvious aura of tension, and you and the bald woman leave, headed in opposite directions. Cal speaks low and threatening, and you crawl to sit by the open gate. 

You aren’t trying to escape, only wanting to be near the gate so that Cal will give you a special goodbye when he leaves. You’d rather not be a part of whatever disagreement is happening and hope the short walk to the gate will improve his mood enough to give you attention. 

Cal’s loud voice rings out in your direction. “Hey!” 

You turn in a panic to see Cal charging in your direction, your mouth open, trying to explain that you were waiting for him, but he speaks first. “You think you can outrun me? Please! I used to be a Jedi. I am stronger and faster than you.” 

You shake your head, eyes wide in terror, a deep fear of the wild look in his eyes as he closes the distance. He reaches out, grabbing you by your hair, dragging you far from the gate, back into the center of the field. A horrible tearing sensation stretches across your scalp as he drags you, your hands pathetically clawing at his one massive hand. You hear someone screaming but can’t discern who as white hot pain shoots through your body. 

Relief only comes when he throws you to the ground. You lie there, clutching your head, crying and mumbling an apology, trying to explain what your intentions were. 

He ignores you. “You would be wise to stay on my good side.” 

He isn’t listening; he doesn’t understand that you weren’t disobeying him. He’s so mad, and you did nothing wrong. The overwhelm of emotions and pain causes you to scream in his direction. 

“You’re a monster!” 

The moment the words are out, you wish you could take them back. His face makes you tremble, his eyes wide and furious, a sick smile plastered under the hateful expression. He balls his fist and you throw your arms up, trying to protect your face. 

The fist connects with your stomach, knocking the wind out of you. Your hands dropping guard, trying to find the ground to run from the attacker. 

Cal doesn’t hesitate. Another punch lands on the left side of your face, knocking you prone, stunning you. A sickening crack follows as his other hand swings at the right side of your face, splitting your lip. 

Your hands weakly raise to protect from further damage, so Cal releases his rage on your body. Repeatedly striking your stomach until you curl into a ball for more protection. It doesn’t deter him as he strikes your thighs and sides as you sob and scream, begging for him to stop. 

He doesn’t oblige, damaging your body until his fury has passed. Then he stops, looks at his hands, spits on you, and leaves. You lie there, sobbing, a panic attack overtaking you, but breathing so hard hurts and you try to calm your breath. 

Minutes pass after the sound of Cal’s footsteps fades. You don’t move from your spot on the ground, staring blankly at the bright lights overhead. 

Rustling sounds as two bodies near yours, the faces of the nameless women coming into your peripheral. The younger one speaks first. “That is why we do not try to escape.” 

The older woman looks disgusted. “Merrin…” 

“Cere! Do not chide me! She had to learn. We all did.” 

Merrin huffs and leaves the immediate area, taking an air of tension with her. You struggle to sit up, the pain of the beating making you ache everywhere. 

Cere speaks, still looking in Merrin’s direction. “Don’t mind her. This has been hard on us all. Cal did more damage to her than anyone.” 

She places a hand gently on your thigh, and you wince. “Let me check for broken bones. He’ll give you medical treatment if there are any. He always does.” 

You wipe the trickling blood and tears from your face. “He does this a lot?” 

She examines you carefully, taking care to avoid poking at the developing bruises. 

“No, just at the beginning, when our spirit was not yet broken.” 

You allow the examination, grateful for her gentle touch after facing the worst experience of your life. “How long have you been trapped here?” 

“I’m not sure anymore, at least a year, maybe longer.” 

You say nothing, wincing as she presses on your ribs. “Nothing appears broken, but you will have some painful bruising for a few weeks.” 

You nod, wiping your face again. “How did he capture you?”

“It’s a long story.” 

“I’ve got nothing else going on. It’s a distraction from the pain.” 

She sighs and presses her lips together before speaking. “We were like a family once. I brought him on board this ship, rescued him from one of the Inquisitors.” 

You scowl. 

“He dehumanized you and stole your ship?” 

“Yes and no, this isn’t my ship. It belongs to an old friend. The one who keeps our food full of tranquilizers.” 

Merrin’s back is turned, but her head is sideways, her ear aimed at the conversation. “So he turned on you, too?” 

“No, he’s just trying to stay alive.” 

“Oh.” 

There’s an awkward silence, but Cere continues speaking. “Cal brought Merrin on board a few months later. They were quite the pair.” 

Merrin interjects, spitting the words like a curse. “That was before he tricked me!” 

You turn to speak to her. 

“You were…with him?” 

“He did not deserve it. Another Jedi, lying and using my kind for his own benefit.” 

“Another?” 

She ignores your question and continues her story. “He pretended to love me-” 

Cere interrupts. 

“He did love you, Merrin.” 

“No! He did not! This is not love!” 

Cere looks at the all too green grass. “No, it’s not, he was consumed by the Dark Side. By power and greed. That mission was a mistake.” 

You turn back to Cere, trying to keep up with the story they both know. “You fought against the Empire?” 

“Yes, I have seen the allure of the Dark Side, and barely resisted. I understand why Cal fell.” 

Merrin laughs. “I don’t!” 

“You’re a Jedi?” 

Cere returns your eye contact. “Yes, and Merrin is a Nightsister. Our power put us in this position.” 

“How did he manage to overpower both of you?” 

Cere looks at Merrin, who shakes her head. The pair silently agreeing to not disclose the tale, leaving Cere to improvise. “It’s painful to discuss, but ultimately, the same way he overpowered you. Compliments and tranquilizers.” 

“But you have access to the Force, both of you!” 

“The tranquilizers dull our abilities. He had been feeding us small amounts for months before we realized we were losing power. By then, it took one big dose to bring us quite literally to our knees. We are no more powerful than you.” 

Merrin snarls. “He did more than just steal our access to the Force! He stole-” 

A surprising sob escapes her lips. “He put the gift of life in my body.” 

Cere puts a hand up. “Merrin… you don’t have to-” 

“It’s fine!” She takes a deep breath, steadying her breathing. “He sold my child. A few months back. A daughter, a Nightsister… auctioned to the highest bidder.” 

Your jaw falls open, blood running cold at the new information. “Oh! I- I’m so sorry! That’s horrible, it’s evil!” 

Cere nods, eyes glazing over. “It is…” 

“Why? How could he? It was his child, too?” 

“She was…it’s another disgusting way for him to exploit us for money.” 

“What happened to the baby?” 

“We don’t know exactly, but Cal had enough decency to ensure she went to a home. Giving the powerful and wealthy a child when they cannot conceive.” 

Merrin looks distressed, tears welling up in her eyes as she crawls to collapse into the grass, no longer conversing. “I can’t imagine what she’s been through…” 

“You won’t have to imagine much longer. He’ll do it to you, too.” 

“What? Why? She was his…they were…I’m not…” 

“At this point, your relationship with him means nothing. He will breed you.” 

You swallow hard. “Has he bred you?” 

“Ha! I am too old to safely carry a child. He won’t risk losing a cow for one sale.” 

Fury fills your belly at hearing this woman refer to herself as cattle. “We’re not cows!” 

She gives you a funny look, challenging your argument. “Aren’t we?” 

“We can fight back! There’s more of us than him!” 

“Wishful thinking. You’ll learn to let go of hope.” 

Cere also crawls away, leaving you alone, suffering with your fresh injuries. 

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Sleep is an impossible task when every position causes agony. The bruises are a reminder of Cal’s extensive cruelty, and Cere’s words providing a glimpse of your future. You almost cry when you fall asleep and immediately wake from a loud explosion, stealing relief from the pain. 

The ship rocks and tosses you sideways, damaging your aching body further. You rise to your knees, shaking, looking around in confusion, Cere and Merrin joining the search for answers. 

There is yelling from above, gunfire, forcing you to cover your ears. The yelling increases in volume as a slew of armored men descend the ladder at the rear. You can’t see, blinded by the flashlights strobing around the stalls. 

It’s difficult to understand the men, but you hear “daughter” and “found her” and your heart leaps. Your father sent someone to rescue you from this horrible fate. 

The stall doors are unlocked and a pair of muscular arms wrap around you, lifting you, careful to not hurt your delicate body. You see Cere and Merrin being saved as well, both crying tears of joy at being freed from this hell. 

The man jostles your body to climb the ladder with you, an irritating sensation. He keeps repositioning you, and you grow frustrated, hissing at him to stop. 

He doesn’t stop, instead forcing you back on all fours, not logical for climbing.You whine and he shushes you. 

Your eyes flutter open, a thin layer of hay separating you from the metal floor as your body positions against your will. The room is still dark, no flashlights, or yelling, or explosions, just the roar of the ship’s engine. 

Muscular arms still envelop you, mounting your body, holding you up. “Baby, I messed up. You didn’t deserve what happened earlier.” 

The sleep is fogging your brain, nothing makes sense. “What- Why are you here?” 

Cal’s low voice responds. “Shh, I felt so bad. I needed to see you.” 

You shake your head, trying to rationalize the dream. “I was free…” 

Cal rubs his nose in your hair at the back of your neck, his arms still holding you steady. “Gonna make you feel good, feel better.” 

The devastation of realizing it was all a dream hits you like a brick wall. “No-” 

A hand disappears from your body, and you feel him fidgeting with his clothes. “Yes, you’re so soft. So young.” 

The engines muffle the dull sound of vibrations and you jump as Cal presses the familiar vibrator to your clit. His arm wrapped tightly around your waist, forcing pleasure. Despite your resistance, your body responds, remembering how much it enjoys this device, how you always feel good when it is on. 

“Cal…” 

His other hand holds you steady, his nose digging into your hair to inhale your scent as he mounts you. “Good girl. Always so wet for me. I wanna make you feel so good.” 

He continues to nuzzle your neck, whispering desperately into your ear. “This night and many nights to come. Do you want that?” 

He rhythmically rubs the vibrator on you, just as he has seen you do while being milked. You let out a low moan, trying to remember what he did to you earlier. But the pleasure shoots through your body, begging you to forget. 

Cal interrupts the war in your head. “Let me hear you, baby.” 

Your body wins. “Yes.” 

Cal lets out a soft chuckle, grinding against your rear, his movements needy. “Good…good…fuck,…good girl. I need you to forgive me for earlier. Do you think you can do that for me? Please, baby.” 

You freeze at the request. Forgive him? Not possible. What he did was absolutely unforgivable. 

He continues to rub the vibrator against you, humping your body against it. You whimper at the heat of the moment, reveling in his touch and desire. “Please, I need to hear you say you forgive me. I won’t do it again. I promise.” 

He needs you; he wants you; he feels bad for the mistake. It was a misunderstanding, your fault for moving too close to the gate. You’re still so new here. No wonder he thought you were trying to escape. 

You need to build more trust with him, then he won’t accuse you of betraying him. He even came to you tonight to apologize. He didn’t wait until tomorrow, allowing you to wake afraid of him. This is an attempt to do better. If you can’t forgive him for this, how can you expect forgiveness for what you did to Allory? It’s the right thing to do.

“I forgive you.” 

Cal lets out a sigh of relief, his humping becoming more tender as he places a series of kisses onto your shoulder blade. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’m gonna fuck you tonight. I want you to hold my cum for me.” 

A lump forms in your throat, remembering Cere’s words, that Call will breed you. His pants slip down and his firm erection presses against your ass. 

“Cal…I don’t know.” 

You can forgive him for earlier, but you don’t want to lose a baby. His desperation makes you feel drunk, and you want to hear him praise you more by being obedient. 

Cal breathes heavily, his low voice rumbling in your ear. “You can do it, gonna take my seed so good, make us a baby. I know you can do it. I want to see you all swollen because of me.” 

You feel the tip of his cock press at your entrance. Your soaking hole allows him to press forward, stretching your cunt until he takes up every inch. “Yeah, fuck, that’s it baby, tell me you want this. Tell me you want to be full of my cum. Doesn’t it feel good?” 

You whine, the fullness exposing your clit to the vibrator, shooting sparks of pleasure through your body. “Yeah…” 

He ruts into you, claiming your body under his. “Say it again baby, I need to hear that you wanna be full of my seed.” 

You are struggling to resist, high on the sensation of being fucked after weeks of cumming around nothing. He’s so big and you’ve never had a fucking like this. The stretch is perfect and you want more, knowing that if you say yes, he’ll fill you like this every night while trying to get you pregnant. An orgasm builds in your belly and you want to squeeze the cum from his cock. 

“Cal, please, fuck me, fill me.” 

His thrusts become harder, slamming into your cervix and breathing heavy in your ear. “Fuck. Good girl. Gonna get you pregnant.” 

It’s animalistic, the way he takes you, fucking you hard against the vibrator. Pressure builds and you cum, squeezing everything tight, pain leaving your body from the earlier beating. Your tight pussy sends Cal over the edge. He cums deep into your womb, filling you, praising you. Once he collects himself, he lays you down in the hay and leaves, locking the stall door behind him. 

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[chinatownstreetscape]

“An Opium Den, Chinatown, San Francisco, California, U.S.A.” copyright 1896. Photograph by Strohmeyer & Wyman (from the Robert Dennis collection at the New York Public Library).

Old Chinatown: Proving Ground for the US War on Drugs

The opium trade and its use in San Francisco's pre-1906 Chinatown played a significant role in shaping enduring negative perceptions of Chinese Americans, casting a shadow that persists to this day. During the late 19th and early 20th centuries, opium dens became a visible symbol of vice in Chinatown, fueling stereotypes of Chinese immigrants as criminals and corrupters of moral society. These harmful narratives were often amplified by sensationalized media stories and racist propaganda, painting Chinese Americans as dangerous outsiders who threatened public health and safety.

“Underground Opium Den in San Francisco” no date. Drawn Henri F. Farny for Harper’s Weekly (from the collection of the California Historical Society).

The legacy of these biases has made the topic of opium’s place in Chinatown's history particularly sensitive, even for the first wave of Chinese American historians during the 20th century. Many community historians are reluctant to explore this dark chapter, concerned that revisiting it might perpetuate harmful stereotypes rather than provide a fuller understanding of the complex socio-economic forces that shaped early Chinese immigrant communities in America.

Opium dens had operated openly in Chinatown almost since its founding. “If Ross Alley was the focal point of gambling activity in the pre-Manion days,” police historian Kevin Mullen wrote in his book Chinatown Squad, “and Sullivan's Alley filled the same role for prostitution, Duncombe Alley—the little street off Jackson Street just below Stockton— had the highest concentration of Nineteenth-Century opium dens.”

Duncombe Alley, 1885. Detail from July 1885 map commissioner by the San Francisco Board of Supervisors (from the collection of the Chinese Historical Society of America). The alleyway, named Duncombe Ct. after 1906, still exists, but access from its southern end at Jackson Street is controlled by a private security gate.

In Chinatown’s early years, opium was legal and could be easily purchased at any drugstore, with little enforcement or violence associated with its use. As former Chief of Police Jesse B. Cook recalled in his unpublished memoir Tiger Eye of Chinatown (written in collaboration with Lydia Kingsley), opium usage became a greater law enforcement issue during his years with the Chinatown Squad as addiction spread beyond the Chinese population:

“We had cleaned up gambling in Chinatown but the opium dens were still giving us trouble. There was nothing against a Chinaman’s smoking the drugs, but the Whites were prohibited from the dens. We had to keep a sharp watch for offenders for the use of opium was spreading rapidly and doing a deadly work.

“Approach to an underground Opium Den: Chinaman astonished at the Flash-light. No. 7 5835.” Photograph by Isaiah West Taber.

“There were hundreds of joints in the underground passages of the section before the earthquake drove them out. I never did like going down into those dens; the low rooms were so full of smoke that we couldn’t see the globes of the lamps overhead, and the sweetish smell clung to our clothing for hours after we were in the open air. Men on the picked narcotic squad at headquarters knew what a tough job it was to hold out against the frenzied pleading of drug addicts. “Along with my study of the Chinese language and the history of the tongs in Chinatown, I was to learn a lot about narcotics which stood me in good stead later on in my work as Chief of Police and Commissioner.

“Opium Den underground. By Flash-light, showing double row of smokers: some broke out through the door, others concealed their heads. The lights were blown out as the Photographer entered. No. 5 5833" no date. Photograph by Isaiah West Taber (from a private collection).

“Opium began coming into San Francisco in 1850 from China. It was packed in five tael tins containing six and two-thirds ounces of potential dynamite and the government collected a tax on these boxes which could be resold for from fifteen to twenty dollars and purchased at almost any shop. “Up to 1903, there was practically no law in this country, Federal, State, or Municipal, requiring that opium and its derivatives, heroin and morphine, be sold on prescription. Anyone could buy any quantity. That year 202,140 pounds of opium prepared for smoking and 486,613 pounds for other ways of consumption were imported into the country, and people woke up to the danger of a nation of drug addicts. “The use of opium dates back as far as the memory of man. It was taken back to Europe by the Crusaders who learned of its medical properties through the Arabs, and the Arabs carried it into India and China through their route caravans. The Chinese brought it with them into this country, and it has been here ever since, a problem for law enforcement. “The poppy is known as the “flower of the sleep”. In its seed pods it is a white milky juice which coagulates when the seed capsules are opened to the air. In the poppy fields of China this coagulated juice was scraped off into solid cakes and packed in tins. In this state it was raw opium and had to be cooked before it could be smoked.

"Chinese opium joint in San Francisco. This cat is addicted to the fumes of opium. This den visited in company with Dr. Rupert Blue, Mrs. Victor Blue, Mrs. G. Stoner, E. L. Sampson" -- handwritten caption. Photographer unknown (from the collection of the California State Library).

“The underground opium dens in Chinatown were all provided with cooking and smoking outfits consisting of a tray containing a small lamp, a dipper with a sharp end, a long slender pipe with a little bowl near the center, and a lump of raw opium. “Along the walls of the dens were tiers of shelves filled with Chinamen in all stages of preparation and smoking. They lay in full length on their sides never looking up from their occupation. Each bed had a wooden pillow and a tray containing a lump of raw, sticky opium, a metal dipper with sharp point, a lamp, and a long slender pipe with a small bowl with a small bowl near the center.

“Chinese Opium Smokers at San Francisco” no date. Artist unknown (from a private collection).

“The men preparing to smoke speared a morsel of the cake with the pointed end of the dipper and held it over the flame of the lamp, twirling it around and around between their yellow fingers until it was roasted and shaping it into a pellet against the heated side of the pipe bowl. When the pill looked like burnt wool it was ready to smoke and was twisted off on top of the little opening in the bowl. This operation took about ten minutes and gave- about thirty seconds of bliss. “Domestic opium was made by boiling the scrapings from the pipes in water. The Chinese steamed the appraiser’s government stamps off the imported tins and pasted them on cans packed with domestic opium and made a huge profit. After the appraisers got onto the racket they used a five bladed knife in cutting the stamps and that stopped them. I used to see little lichee nuts filled with opium pills selling for twenty dollars in the bazaars along the streets. … * * * “White men in the opium dens were generally derelicts forth and not worth saving, but we had to herd them out and take them to headquarters night after night. It always went across the grain to see a white face among those yellow faces on the pillows. When white men got that low there wasn’t much hope for them.”

“The Chinaman’s Paradise” no date. Artist unknown (from a private collection). A group of non-Chinese, either “slumming” tourists or missionaries can be seen at left.

The push for anti-drug laws was driven by sensational stories of respectable white women being seduced into opium dens by Chinese operators, never to be seen again. There was some truth to these claims. Many patent medicines, marketed as cures for "female complaints," were laced with opium, leading unsuspecting middle-class white women to develop addictions, with some ultimately ending up in Chinatown opium dens to sustain their habits.

“5965 White women in Opium Den, Chinatown. S.F.” Photograph copyrighted by Isaiah West Taber, May 31, 1892 (from the collection of the Bancroft Library). The veracity of this photo has been questioned as being staged for the photographer, as the individual appearing in the upper left-hand corner appears to be a non-Chinese.

In 1875, San Francisco passed the Opium Den Ordinance, the nation’s first anti-drug law, targeting Chinese opium smoking amid rising anti-Chinese sentiment. This ordinance, spearheaded by Dr. George Hewston during his brief tenure as mayor, aimed to suppress public opium dens, which were increasingly attracting white patrons.

"White Opium 'Joints' of San Francisco," The San Francisco Call, August 5, 1895, reported that increased use by white users of opium and the increasing number of “dope fiends” had “spread beyond the limits of Chinatown” to such an extent that the police had failed to realize “[t]he City is infested with the haunts and dens of opium-smokers.”

The city’s 1875 ordinance, however, it did not ban private use or sales of opium, and Chinese dealers and apothecary businesses frequently evaded the imposed license fees or, if assessed, appealed such impositions. Tourist travelogues confirmed Chinatown Squad member Cook’s observation that city officials and law enforcement did not disrupt Chinese use of opium during this period.

“Opium smokers” c. 1886. Photograph attributed to Isaiah West Taber (from the collection of the California State Library).

In an article titled “The Chinese in San Francisco,” for The Pacific Tourist (Henry T. Williams pub., 1878 p. 323) F.E. Shearer described opium smoking as follows:

“A block serves for a pillow. The opium, pipe, lamp and a five-inch steel needle are all that is necessary to bind the victim in fatal fascination. The poisonous drug is boiled into a thick jelly-like mass, and with the needle a small portion is scraped from the vessel containing it, rolled into a pill on the end of the needle, and placed in the flame until it swells like a soap-bubble, half an inch in diameter. “The pipe has an inverted bowl with a flat, circular top, two inches in diameter, in the center of which is a small opening, in which the heated paste is placed, and as the smoker reclines on his side he places the pipe to the flame and takes two or three short whiffs, removes the pipe, and lies back motionless, while the smoke is blown slowly through his pallid nostrils. He repeats the process till he falls back in a state of silly stupefaction, alike pitiable and disgusting. Once formed, the habit is never given up, and only three or five years will wreck the strongest constitution and noblest manhood.

“Chinese Opium Palace, San Francisco” no date. Artist unknown (frm a private collection).

“Exaggerated stories are told of visits to these dens by youth and women of American descent, tor indulging in this vice, but they are rare and only by the lowest classes of the women.”

By the late 19th century, smuggling opium to avoid import taxes became an issue, mainly affecting the federal Treasury Department. It wasn’t until the early 20th century, when opium and other drugs were outright banned, that the public began to view drug use as a serious problem.

Despite local bans, opium dens persisted, often operating underground and fueling corruption similar to other vices like gambling and prostitution. While Chinese dens were generally left alone, those serving whites were frequently targeted by law enforcement. In 1881, the California Legislature enacted a statewide ban, yet Chinese opium dens continued to thrive and feed anti-Chinese animus.

Opium den and lodge house. Photographer unknown (from the collection of the Library of Congress). The suggested date of 1921 is probably incorrect, particularly in view of the pre-1911 queues worn by the men in the photo.

Such sentiment remained strong, prompting stricter measures, including state Senator George Perry’s 1885 bill to prohibit opium sales without a prescription. Critics argued the bill aimed at extorting bribes from opium dealers, and it was vetoed amid accusations of corruption. Local efforts continued, such as San Francisco’s 1889 law prompted by the San Francisco Medical Society’s concerns about the impact of Chinese opium on youth. This ordinance restricted sales to pharmacies and for medical use only.

Sergeant John Donovan’s Chinatown Squad in 1889. Photographer unknown (from the collection of the Bancroft Library). L. to R. standing - Phil Herrin - D. Campbell - D. Lyons - A. Say - M. Griffin. The squad under Donovan (seated) brandishes the standard axes and sledgehammers. In the foreground, a tray full of an opium pipe and paraphernalia appears, along with ropes used to rappel down from skylights to overcome barricaded doors. The Chinese man is Dong Gong (or “Dong Tying”) the interpreter. “Not surprisingly,” police historian Kevin Mullen wrote about Dong that -- one of the first Chinese auxiliaries to the San Francisco Police Department -- “he was not too popular in some Chinatown quarters and he had a bounty placed on his head.”

Police Commissioner Jesse B. Cook, a former chief of SFPD and a sergeant of the “Chinatown Squad” before the 1906 earthquake, wrote in 1931 about his experience with opium in the city at the turn of the century as follows:

“These kinds of dramatic clampdowns came after decades of San Francisco mostly turning a blind eye to the opium boom. What started with the arrival of 52 boxes of opium in 1861 had created around 300 opium dens by the end of the 1880s. While the city served as the primary American gateway for drug imports from China, law enforcement was slow to do anything about it. … “… At that time nearly every store in Chinatown had an opium layout in the rear for their customers. In those days the Chinese were allowed to smoke opium, provided they did not do so in the presence of a white man. If a white man was present it meant the arrest of all who were in the room at the time. … [S]ome dens could accommodate as many as 100 opium smokers. The opium smoke was sometimes so thick in those dens that the gas jets looked like small matches burning. Opium has a peculiar, sweet smell, not at all distasteful, and many times when coming home from Chinatown after going through dens, people in the cars sitting near me, would be sniffing, smelling the opium in my clothes and wondering what it was. When I got home it would be necessary to undress in an outer room and air my clothes to get the opium fumes out of them.”

“Picturesque San Francisco. Scenes in Chinatown – Opium Den Underground, by flashlight,” April 24, 1897. Photographer unknown (from the collection of the California Historical Society).

Despite these regulations, enforcement was inconsistent, with San Francisco’s law largely becoming ineffective by the early 1890s. By 1893, however, The Chronicle declared the ordinance a "dead letter."

As Dale Gieringer, the California director of NORML, observed in his 2007 op-ed’s recounting of California's then-century-old war on drugs in the Chronicle:

"California’s war on drugs began in earnest with the 1907 amendments. The Board of Pharmacy launched an aggressive campaign and pioneered the modern tactics of drug enforcement. The board hired undercover agents who posed as suffering patients, wheedling drugs from unsuspecting pharmacists, then arresting them. The board swept down on the Chinatown dens, busting down doors and arresting hundreds. It strategically expanded its powers through new legislation. In the crucial move, possession was outlawed in 1909. This set the stage for the criminalization of users . . .”

Two men watch a third prepare to light an opium pipe from a tray in Chinatown, 1903. Photograph by J. M. Williamson M.D. Board of Health (from the collection of the San Francisco Public Library).

The more aggressive and punitive drug enforcement policies often disproportionately impacted Chinese communities involved in the opium trade and use. “The board also moved to ban possession of opium pipes,” Gieringer wrote. “It then garnered headlines by staging gigantic public bonfires of confiscated paraphernalia and drugs in the heart of Chinatown.”

"Opium Fiend, Chinatown - San Francisco." Photograph by Charles Weidner, postcard produced by Goeggel & Weidner, San Francisco, postmarked 1903.

As I write here (https://demospectator.tumblr.com/post/184728580203/up-in-smoke-the-drug-wars-big-day-in-chinatown), the Board of Pharmacy staged the best known bonfire in the middle of Washington Street between Ross Alley and Dupont in the heart of Chinatown on May 9, 1912.

The incineration of seized opium and drug paraphrenalia organized by the California Board of Pharmacy on May 9, 1912, occurred on Washington Street just below Ross Alley. Photographer unknown (from the collection of the Bancroft Library). This street was rebuilt after the 1906 earthquake and fire and retained its designation as the 800 block of Washington. In the left side of the frame, the ideogram 押 (‘aap3") denoting a pawnshop operation can be seen.

After Chinatown was destroyed in 1906, Cook wrote in his 1931 memoir as follows:

“After the 1906 earthquake decimated much of Chinatown,” many of the city’s opium dens disappeared literally overnight. And by 1914, public attitudes to narcotics entered a major shift on a national level. In 1908, Hamilton Wright had become United States Opium Commissioner and launched a passionate and concerted campaign to stamp out opium… .” * * * "… America tip-toed into the war on drugs via the Harrison Narcotics Tax Act of 1914. The legislation imposed “a special tax on all persons who produce, import, manufacture, compound, deal in, dispense, sell, distribute, or give away opium or coca leaves, their salts, derivatives, or preparations, and for other purposes.’ “The act quickly reduced the amount of opium in circulation—without anyone having to publicly set it on fire.”

By the 1950s, police historian Kevin Mullen observed, “a few old Chinese men still smoked their pipes in sealed rooms to avoid the attention of the Chinatown Squad. But they were dying off as well. Some of the younger residents took to the harder drugs, in keeping with the changing drug habits of society at large.”

By the late 20th century, however, the damage had already been done long ago. The opium trade and its use in early Chinese communities in North America left a lasting imprint not only on Chinatown’s historical narrative but also on the broader perceptions of Chinese Americans. What began as a legal and accessible substance became a flashpoint for racial tension, moral panic, and discriminatory policies. The demonization of Chinese immigrants, tied closely to opium use, fueled anti-Chinese sentiment and contributed to exclusionary laws that further marginalized the community.

Today, the reluctance to fully examine this history reflects the fear of reviving damaging stereotypes, but understanding the complex factors behind the opium trade and its role in the micro political economy of Chinatown is crucial for a more nuanced and empathetic view of the challenges faced by pioneer Chinese throughout North America. By confronting these uncomfortable truths, Chinese Americans and the broader culture can move beyond stigma and gain deeper insight into the resilience and survival of these early communities amidst widespread prejudice and exclusion.

[updated 2024-12-11]